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luvteyams · 9 months ago

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NATURE FEELS

Characters: Neteyam Sully (26) x Fem Omaticaya Reader (22)

Warnings: Smutttttt

Authors Note: Listen to Frank Ocean- Nature Feels to get the vibe, I wrote with this song playing in the background at 2am

Synopsis: A wet dream keeps you up at night and Neteyam is always there to help you out

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The night was cool at this time, silence blanketing high camp as you laid within your bundle of blankets. Your tent was especially quiet as you laid awake in the dead of the night. The only accompanying sound being the harsh thump of your heart against your chest and the small stream that trickled down through the cracks of High Camp.

Many hours had passed since you bid him farewell, in need of a true bath and a coma like sleep. Your tired bones ached as you tossed and turned, your body burning in the same places he had kissed and caressed all day.

“My love…yawne…pls”, he begged as you pushed and pressed against him within the clearing of the flowering meadow.

The slick sweat from earlier today building once again as you touched yourself to the memory of him. Him all over you, at the bottom of your toes, at the center of the inside of your thighs, up towards your navel, and at the very tips of your slightly swollen breasts. His fingers pressing against your bud softly, contrasting the harsh feel of roots pressing into your back.

In the bright glow of day, the sun warm against both your skin, Neteyam had prodded, persuading you to leave High Camp for a bit of fun. His amber eyes pressing yours to look at him, his strong arms pulling you flush against him so he could whisper softly into your ear. The heat of his breath against your ear, “ you know, I’ve been meaning to fuck you in the garden”, he rasped. A small giggle filling the space between you both as you pictured him atop you in the place you first met.

Many moons ago you had found yourself kneeled within the growing foliage, plucking through the fragrant plants, many usable for the healing pastes the Tsahik had requested. That day too was a blistering heat that left you slick with sweat and against your better judgement had led you to the clearing with a deep pond. Your legs splashing against the water, cooling your skin being your only priority. You had missed the gasp leaving the future Olo’eyktan’s lips, his large bow in hand as he caught fish for the day. He was quiet, a silent presence that had gone unnoticed until you rolled yourself over onto your stomach. His large body coming into view as you pressed yourself further into the grass.

Eyes wide, you could feel your bones jolt, startling your heart as you took in his taller form. He was now a bit closer, and you jolted up standing in front of him.

“I-i’m so sorry Neteyam”, a formal greeting stumbling from your hands as you rushed to leave. He was quick to grasp your wrist pulling you back into the clearing. His gentle hand was warm against your own now, pulling you to the spot he had been fishing.

“Would you maybe want to help me catch some fish?”, his confident voice sounded out into the clearing, his smile bright as he persuaded you. He was sweet in all forms and had captured your beating heart, taking it for his own. And well you had unknowingly always had his, him only waiting for the perfect moment to position and take aim.

That day had now been a distant memory until his sweet lips pressed against your own and so you obliged because fun with Neteyam almost always meant tired limbs, swollen lips, slick skin, and euphoria in the Garden.

You sighed, your fingers now rough against your bud, pressing to get yourself close to where he had you much faster. The soft covers, caressing every part of your exposed skin, your sleep mat scratching against your toes. Long sighs slip past your lips, quiet but deliberate as you worked yourself up.

Your accumulating slick was a pungent smell in the air as it trickled down, begging you to touch your most intimate place and you did, slipping two fingers between the soft folds and pumping into yourself at a desperately slow pace.

Neteyam made a habit of teasing you and although you lacked patience in most things in life, he was something you could wait for. He always took care of you, whispering sweet nothings as you begged and pleaded, and then mercilessly giving you exactly what you wanted as you keeled over into oblivion.

You knew you could hold out much longer with just your own touch and so your other hand began to rub and pinch against your bud in tandem with the now steady pump of your fingers.

Your desperate sighs had become deliberate moans that slipped past your lips before you could hold them and you could faintly hear his voice, “you sound so beautiful ma yawne. My sweet girl, we’re almost there”, he’d muttered and you called out to him in the silence of your tent as you did out in the ample space of the Garden.

His name being the only words that you could form through your hoarse throat.

You were so very close, your body pleading with your hands to be his, he would have you there by now, spasming against his body as your third orgasm was pulled from you, your measly fingers now not being enough to push you over the edge, even once.

As your fingers worked faster, quite harshly against your walls, so close to that spongy dip, shuttering breaths pushing past your lips, your voice softly began to beg and plead for Neteyam.

He was much farther away, across High Camp, in his family tent that sat almost at the heart of the cavern, right next to the healing hut for the Tsahik. Your tent being on the outskirts, hidden from view for most and only visible to the ikrans that fly past.

In due time you both planned to move him into the tent, weaving together new space to forge the home you’d share until you both parted to Eywa, except your time had recently been spent catching up on teachings in the healing hut, and Neteyam taking on the overflowing needs of The People.

He gave himself entirely to The People when he was in their presence, but he always gave his everything and more when he was just with you.

You could smell him now, his lingering scent of sunkissed grass and tree bark waft from his blanket pushed far off to the side of the hut. Your now sporadic body edging over to any sense of comfort, and as your long limbs began to spread apart, uncoiling, desperately looking for a new angle, you could still feel the way his hands gripped roughly against your hips, crescent moons sinking deep into your skin, forever claiming your body as his.

Your body had bounced , slamming down back into his hips, melodic slaps snapping through the songs of nature nearby. His body jolting up into yours as you both chased each others high. His groans sounded out, against your ear as he pressed you fully against his chest.

“I need you… more, please..just a little more”, you gasped pressing your swollen lips against his, pulling his bottom lip until it snapped back into place.

That set his pace to a harsh pound, barreling up into your burning hips as a sore ache began to form on the underside of your thighs. Your body sobbed as you both reached your peak together, crying out to each other for more.

The shade of the cherry tree above you cooled your heated skin as your palpitating heart synced to a slow rhythm with his. The soft grass below danced across your toes as the cool breeze whisked through the bright garden.

His heavy breathes above you steadied and you could feel his strong arms tighten, pulling you flush against him.

“How did that feel my love”, he’d whispered, your sensitive ears flicking against the warm gusts of air.

You all but whined back, the scratchy part of your throat refusing to cooperate as you tried to respond. Always a bit whiny after cumming, you couldn’t help but sag into his strong arms, head tucked between his moist neck and purple bruised collarbone.

A sly smile appearing as you began to skim your lips against the protruding bone, spontaneous kisses and slight sucks, causing the purple bruises to double in size.

Soft moans glided from his lips, his callused hands gliding down your back, a harsh grip onto your ass as the other made its way to your front for another round of fun.

That sudden burn that coiled like a tightly wound bow had come again. The ache of your fingers spurring you on, faster, deeper, until you were spasming harshly, arched back high in the air as you pushed your body over the edge. You were delirious now, stuttering moans slipping unceremoniously from your lips as your fingers twitched, pushing against your walls.

Your bleary unfocused eyes, crossed as you peaked, your head lolling over to face the door of your hut as the flap slid open. A cold gust of air had pushed past the incoming figure and it further stimulated your soaked core and peaked nipples.

Your sharp gasps pierced the now deep silence, your chest rising and falling harshly as you aimed to catch your breath.

His deep voice reached your dazed ears a moment later causing a soft whine to seep from your pursed lips “my sweet sweet girl, you didn’t get enough today”. His sharp canines peeked from his smiling lips and his body naturally bowed into a crouch as if he was stalking his prey.

Large hands began to trace your legs, a mind numbingly slow pace that made them shake harshly against his light touch. He was so close to your core, grasping onto your thighs with a vice grip, pulling your eyes to meet his eyes.

Amber eyes piercing your own as you began to beg. Another desperate whine “Ma teyam pls, I-i need it, I n-need you-u”, soft whimpers slipping from your lips as you clawed at your now damp hair.

You could barely focus in on your surroundings, hands twisting against the bunched covers beneath you. He was hovering over your entire body, slotting your legs up against the top of his thighs, folding you in half.

“I know babygirl…” he muttered softly against your fluttering ears. You could feel your tail wrap tightly around his thigh, holding him in place against your slick skin.

Soft nips of his canines dug harshly into your neck and you moaned at the sensual sting that persisted after as he kissed down, nipping against your chest.

“I won’t make you wait long, love. I’ll give you what you need, but first… “ he whispered against your lips, devouring the very breath pressing to escape.

He was kissing down your chest, a soft suckle on one of your nipples before he was shifting down past your navel. Soft, wet kisses, paired with dark purple bruises from earlier todays fun.

“just a little taste”, he whined, sniffing the strong air of your cunt right in front of him. Animalistic grunts sounded out into the air as he took your supple form in.

Your long body glowed pink in the dark night , warm to the touch and a slight sheen from your sweat and the accumulating slick of your arousal.

He was slow, teasing you once again as feather light kisses pressed against your light pink folds. The urge to shift your legs, holding him against your core had you slowly casing his freshly braided hair in. But he was strong, his grip tightening against your wet thighs, pushing you wide open for him to admire.

“Be patient yawne , I got you”, he mumbled, resuming his soft exploration of kisses against your folds, your pulsing bud, and your desperate hole that twitched with need.

“Fingers, Ma teyam!! I need you…NOW”, you sobbed, your hoarse voice clashing against the nights silence. You needed him desperately, your aching hips twitching against his flat tongue licks.

He was entranced now, pleasing you with his tongue, setting a teasing pace against your sweet spot. You could feel the burn of his bright eyes watching you. Your supple breasts rising with shaky breaths, pebbled nipples hard as he pinched and rubbed against them.

He felt everywhere, hot against your skin, burning within your core. Sticky fingers now lovingly pressing against your overstimulated bud.

You were wrecked, a jumbled mind that desperately wanted release, but was already far too gone over the cliff to handle the euphoria.

Teetering off the new edge, Neteyam was making love to your core, slurping up your cum as you shook harshly against his form. Your incessant sobs barreled out of you at the same pace his long fingers pumped against your gummy walls.

Neteyam couldn’t focus, your plea for him to stop pushing him to give more. He couldn’t stop, he wanted you to whine for him, weakly run away as you did within the garden. He needed you to be drunk off him and only him.

“you’re gonna look so pretty with my cum leaking from you”, he rasped. Forcing himself from your core, his hot breaths dancing against your center, causing you to whine from the overstimulating pleasure again.

You were pudding in his hands, molding yourself to the floor as he flipped you over to your front. This was your favorite position to have him, second only to facing him, chest to chest as he moaned loving phrases into your lips, neck, and chest.

Your pliable form moved wherever he desired, your plump ass being pushed into the air, spreading yourself for him to see in the seemingly bright glow of the moon.

You could feel his warmth leave you, a tiny whimper escaping as you inch your body back to contact. He could only admire your gorgeous form so open for him. Your glossed eyes watched him, shaking your ass in a sensual sway, calling him back to you.

“your gorgeous, yawne”, “I can’t wait to have you, fully”, “ oh eywa I need you “, he was delirious now, mumbling into your scattered braids all his inner thoughts. He couldn’t wait till you were his. In every form that nature intended, that Eywa would bless, so he could have a direct stream to your thoughts and you to his. He could give you everything, his babies, him, naturally.

You could feel him, large and warm, pressed roughly against your core. Gliding between your folds as you moaned, gripping harshly for the scattered remains of your disheveled bedding. Pressing your bruised chest into your rough sleep mat for grounding.

“Nete- ahh baby”, you gasped as you felt him push slowly.

Your body tossed, restless as he wrestled against your tight walls, pulsing against his own urgent need to be deep within you.

Delirious pleasure hit when he began to thrust roughly against your body, jerking you harshly against the ground as he had against the cherry tree in the garden.

He couldn’t wait, the powerful need to give in to your eyes silent pleas to give you his cum, over and over again.

“this feels like our first time all over again” you gasped. Within that same garden, he had been soft at first, a little lost in the act, nervous even. But eager to please and a quick leaner. He had become desperate to get you to cum and by the end of it, your were drunk off him, his mouth, his dick, everything.

His breath was stifling as he hid within your neck, his freshly done braids tangling within your own.

“ooooo over. and. over. again”, he moaned into you. He couldn’t believe that he had you. He had you whenever he needed you, and whenever you sauntered over to him, naturally claiming him for the taking, you’d have him.

He was barreling over the edge now, your head craned back as you pressed back into his hard chest. Your tightly wound body working in tandem with his tempo, milking his coming climax to the very edge of his breaking point.

Your begging sounded out between harsh gasps “ Nete- tey…ah….ahh…oouu ”, your voice drifted, succumbing to your own pleasure first.

His abdomen tightened, hips deliriously pumping into you as you reached back stroking the base of his kuru. Whimpers floating out his lips, and into your skin as you squeezed against him. His heaven was cracking as the familiar coil wound to its breaking point. The collapse causing his rhythm to stutter and spasm recklessly in you, his body weight pressing heavily against your own heated form.

Coming down from both your highs, you could feel his harsh breaths beating against your shoulder. His hard body pressing further into you as he slumped over on top of you.

And as usual he was the first to speak.

“Tell me h-how my nature feels.”

Authors Note: I really hope you enjoyed this, I finished this Drabble first and was so excited to post it but didn’t want smut to be my first story post. Hopefully it’s not to confusing that she floats in and out of the present. Overall I really enjoyed writing it and hope you all like it too. Let me know😉

#neteyam smut #neteyam sully #avatar series #Neteyam #avatar smut #neteyam x omaticaya reader #navi x reader #navi smut #neteyam x fem reader #navi avatar smut

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space-cowboys-and-aliens · 2 years ago

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seeing you in a sundress for the first time

Joel Miller x gn!reader *Reader is described as wearing a dress, with hair that can be swept to the side.

At Bill and Frank’s

Rating: G for general

Word Count: 550

Frank could not contain himself with the excitement of someone new to dressing up. He saved a box or two full of dresses just in case anyone came to claim them and now, was shoving aside space on the bed for them.

A sea of lilacs and rubies, sable, azure, topaz, olive, and chestnut stared back.

“Oh Frank, it’s gorgeous!”

Standing in front of the hall mirror, the dress was the nicest piece of clothing you had worn in a long time, even if relatively simple.

Joel’s gait slowed as he neared the bottom of the stairs, and the sight of you in a sundress, scarlet littered with tiny white flowers danced in front of his vision. With your hair freshly washed and swept over one shoulder, it felt like he was seeing your face for the first time in years. His lungs could not figure out how to draw any more air in. Your body on display felt like a sin in this world. And your smile, blistering his soul. His knees felt weaker. He fought to keep his ass from sinking down to the bottom stair. Never seen you in a dress. God, he’d forgotten they existed.

To you, Joel looked like he almost ran a red light on an empty street.

“Joel?”

you asked again.

He remained immobile at the bottom of the staircase.

If he could just walk away, down the rest of the hall.

But your eyes, and their line of questioning.

Something in him was not going to let him leave if you kept looking at him like that.

He shut his eyes as he nodded. And then opened them back up to your smile reaching the corners of your eyes.

A nervous laugh left you as you brushed past him. He watched the last of your hair disappear behind the door frame. God, you looked so young. His hands stretched at his sides, feeling trapped in their sweaty state.

Was that… lavender? And honey?

Joel rested his head down and quietly inhaled as much sweetness as possible. He could not find it in him to stop himself from imagining how it would smell from the crook of your neck, resting in your hairline, behind your ear. How it would feel beneath his hands. What you would say? Would you make any noise for him?

“Right, Joel?”

His mind froze. He snapped his head back up, eyes finding Frank still standing in front of the mirror.

“I said, dinner will be ready in five. You should start heading outside,” Frank added, failing to hide a smirk. “Would you like something to drink, some water?”

Joel nodded again. Jesus, he needed to stop thinking.

“Yeah, that’d be great. Thank you.”

Some ice water would help.

Frank came up on him slowly and slid an expectant look over at Joel. As he turned the corner, he let a small giggle slip from witnessing the magic he helped create.

Leaning back through the door,

“You know, you’re welcome to spend the night, Joel. Take one of the houses next door. Or down the street. Could be nice to get off your feet for a little while,” daring to sneak a wink at a smoking gun Joel.

more Joel Miller Headcanons

main masterlist

#joel the last of us #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller the last of us #tlou #tlou joel #the last of us hbo #joel miller drabble #joel last of us #joel tlou #tv tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou hbo #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction

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thatone-brightstar · 1 year ago

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Before You (Carmen Berzatto X Fem!OC)

It was Isaac before Carmy, and it was Ross before you.

Part I: December.

Part II: January.

Part III: February.

words: 3.4k

a/n: Welcome all to the second part of my TB & TF series!! This is a prequel to the first part, so if you haven't read that, you can either read this first then the other one or vise versa. Also, this is me kinda just adding personal experience to her story because as a hostess, I think we don't get credit enough for having to deal with some people's shit (sigh) however, she's her own character so feel free to relate however you please. Another thing, I wrote this before S2 came out, so any coincidence with the firework scene in Ep5 is just me being ✨psychic✨ Enjoy! XX

No amount of deep breaths could calm the blistering anger circulating through her system. Her quickening steps move across the dining hall of the stupidly ostentatious restaurant she has the misfortune of working at. From the elegant decorum and the expensive menu, she can pinpoint the exact type of diners the place hosts: terrible, horrible, shitty people. And while she’s completely against placing anyone under any category, New York socialites seemed to never want to leave the rooted stereotype of being pompous, rude and extremely annoying.

Her theory had been proven correct once more after spending the last 10 minutes getting berated for not seating a walk-in on one of the busiest nights of the month.

“You should save a table of that size for these situations…” The insufferable trust fund baby spat at her and all the self composure in the world could not stop the words from leaving her mouth.

“Maybe send us a heads up by telepathy next time and I’ll try and catch it…” She had mumbled sarcastically, hoping that the background noise would drown it out as she tapped meaninglessly around the tablet.

It did not. And now her mouth was coated with the metal taste of blood that had oozed from her bitten tongue. She usually wasn’t this easy to frustrate, it took more than a pretentious jackass to destabilize her mood- especially in her line of work- but the weight of the day crashed on tiresome shoulders and the little manbitch past the podium had just been the spoiled cherry on top.

The smooth Jazz is replaced by the sharp sounds of metal clinging against each other once she pushes past the service doors, in direction to the back alley. Her presence pulls a few looks from the chefs, but with a hardened scowl and a rigid stance, only an idiot would be aloof to the irritation detaching off her in not so subtle waves.

“Yo Ross, baby-” One of the cooks shouts, but is soon silenced by a threatening look and pointed finger.

“Fuck you Frank- not now.” She spits back, without even stopping or wasting any more time.

The frigid winter air finds a worthy opponent in the heat cursing through her veins as she crosses the emergency exit and drops against the brick wall with hands around her face, fully embracing the cold. A muffled groan vibrates through her fingers and blends in seamlessly with the usual sirens and horns blaring from the street ahead. It doesn’t take long for the dropping temperature to catch up to her- numbing the balls of her fingers and painting the tip of her nose red- but her manager told her to take five to calm down and she would not oppose to stealing company time, even if it meant freezing her ass off.

Ross pushes herself off the grimy wall and begins to tread along the small alley to warm up while she tries to talk herself out of quitting for what feels like the fifth time that month.

“Chill, okay? You’ll find shitty people everywhere-” Her voice swims around the reduced space, comfortable in the privacy of her own company. “Besides, next one’s the good one and you can say goodbye to this shithole wrapped in a Gucci sweater…”

The noise of the busy kitchen pierces her bubble when the door opens again, blinding her with the white light while a body passes through, then closing back again and leaving them with the dim yellow bulb fighting to stay lit.

“Ross.” He greets with a single nod of his head as his eyes spot her in the darkness, pulling a beaten up package from his pocket and lighting the thin tube with one of those long kitchen lighters he always seems to carry.

“Chef.” She answers back with a similar nod.

Her cheeks carry a crimson that goes beyond the freezing cold, embarrassed to think that he might have heard her little self pep talk and she’s thankful for the lack of lighting in the space. The sound of his steady exhales and the lingering scent of tobacco slowly make their way to her as she keeps her eyes on the ground, uncomfortable shoes rubbing away over the pavement in distraction.

“You, uh, you good?” He clears his throat and shuffles against the wall, switching from one overworked foot to another.

They’ve probably only ever crossed a couple sentences despite her working there for almost a year, but she tries to hide the doubt behind a nod.

“Uh… y-yeah. Another day, another shitty customer.” She jokes in hopes to break the barrier of ice, though it seems to be thicker than she expected, because all she gets is another nod that has her wanting to scurry back inside.

“What’d they tell you now?” He asks through another smoky exhale.

“That he’s friends with the head chef and that he’d have my head if I didn’t give ‘em a table…”

“That’s bull-“ He says, sucking in his cheeks and making the ember tip glow bright orange. “I don’t have any friends.”

“Yeah that’s what I told him too.” Ross adds and receives the wisp of a snigger in return.

It’s small and almost unnoticeable- so tiny it could be confused with a cough- but it’s there. And the ice wall doesn’t seem as thick as she thought now.

“So did you?” The chef asks again, cigarette halfway finished while she tries to keep her teeth from chattering. “Let ‘em in, I mean..”

“Like hell I did.” She responds before rolling her eyes. “But fucking Martin probably did…”

He nods his head slowly in acknowledgement, then lets another soft breath blow through his nose, smoke and vapor invisible in the low light. “I can send ‘em a shitty stake if you want.”

Ross knows it’s a joke, no respectable chef in the building would ever ruin a $300 Kobe beef just to spite a shitty client, but the solidarity in his offer grants him her own smile.

“Nah, I’ll just ask the bartender to pour ‘em the cheap stuff so they get a hangover tomorrow.”

Despite wanting to continue the unforeseen interaction- mostly out of scientific curiosity- the cold seeping through the thin material of her uniform finally triggers her feet in direction of the door, a few feet away from where he’s finishing his cigarette. Her fingers stay curled over the handle, contemplating the words and if they have any space in the situation, but before she can convince herself otherwise, she calls out to the chef.

“I know it’s a shitty day to work ‘n all… but Merry Christmas… I guess.”

He nods again, brows raised and eyes wide seems to be the default expression on his face, then a ghost of something she can assume is a barely visible smile hides behind the dying tube.

“Yeah… you too.”

**********

“Have a good night guys, happy new year!” She recites with a wave to the departing guests, the phrase already lacking meaning after constant repetition.

New Year’s dinner rush is a blatant copy of the week before, with the exception of the nice vibes that many seem to carry, influenced by the faux restart. However, it does move painfully slow, between kind guests and uncomfortable offers from the Wall Street wannabe bros who couldn’t take a hint. Every advance had to be deflected with a kind smile and by the end of the night her cheeks had grown tired from all the tension they were forced to endure. Thankfully, there were only a few tables left and she could finally switch the uncomfortable heels for her sneakers, which facilitated finishing her last tasks in record time.

“Hey, Ross-”

“Yeah” She turns to Meg- one of the waitresses and her friend- while shuffling through the menus, but stops as she sets a small plate with an even smaller dessert over the wooden desk. “What’s this?”

“From the kitchen…” She answers with a teasing tone and a smile that makes her roll her eyes.

“Take it back and tell Frank to fuck off- I’m not sucking his dick for an eclair-”

“It’s not from him, idiot! Chef Carmen sent it…” Meg whispers leaning in as if sharing some long kept secret.

“What? Why?”

Meg shrugs and pulls a tiny spoon from one of the pockets on her apron. “Probably heard you bitchin’ about some guest again.” Then she scoops a piece of the dessert and pops it in her mouth, groaning in delight. “Say what you want about that man, but god is he good with his hands.”

“Dude that sounds so wrong.” Ross chuckles before taking a piece for herself and can’t help but agree with the delicious taste of the pastry. “We’re still on for drinks, right?”

“Can’t-” Meg mumbles between spoonfuls. “Mom’s making me meet them at grandma’s after this. She says this is probably her last new year so…”

“Shit- I don’t wanna go just with Frank.”

“Why don’t you ask your chef.” She suggests teasingly, before picking up the empty plate. “‘New year, new you’ ‘n all that. He already sent you food ‘n plus you’ve had the hots for him for a while now-”

“I do not!” She bickers a bit too defensively, rolling her eyes at the disbelief in Meg’s expression. “I’m nice to everyone, not just him.”

With a sarcastic ‘Sure, kid’ and an exaggerated nod, Meg turns on her shoes and heads deep into the emptying dining room.

By the time she’s finally done, it’s an hour to midnight and almost everyone has gone home except Frank, who sits wrapped up in his own coat and sharing a cigarette with another cook. Her steps lose power past the door and stop altogether once she notices the lonely man leaning on the wall a few feet in front of her.

“Hey, chef-” The girl calls towards him, his head immediately snapping up in her direction, unlit cig hanging loosely from his lips. “You got any plans?”

Ross doesn’t wait for an answer, steps moving closer towards him. There’s a thin nervous expression harboring his normally closed off features as his eyes dart around her face and the two men ahead of them, slowly putting the smoke back in the box.

“So?” She asks again. “You got anywhere to be?”

“Uh… no but-”

“Great, c’mon. Let's go grab some drinks.” She doesn’t wait for a response before linking her arm around his and walking closer to the waiting men.

She can see the tightness locked over Frank's jaw but tries her best to ignore it, pulling the chef in the opposite direction from where they’re standing.

“Night boys.” She calls out before turning the corner and out of their view.

Ross lets go of his arm once they’re a few blocks away, the warmth of her touch immediately escaping through the frigid wind.

“Sorry ‘bout that… Frank’s just a little too much and I don’t wanna deal with that right now.” She says while growing the space between them.

“Yeah-no I get it- he gets on my nerves sometimes… too.”

They can hear the faint noise that the wind carries from a few blocks away, the celebrating multitude that has crowded Times Square in anticipation of the ball drop only growing thicker by the minute.

“So, um, you really don’t have anywhere to be?” She asks, nervous fists inside her coat pockets.

“Just home.” He shrugs.

“Cool- so, what do you say to that drink?”

He shrugs again, not in an ‘I’m too cool to care’ way but more of an ‘I suck with words’ kind of way, that triggers a soft smile over her freezing features.

“Thanks for the dessert… by the way.” She thanks with a slow step so he can catch up beside her once they’ve renewed their destination.

“Oh-uh- yeah, sure.” He stammers, hands tightly in his pockets. “Anyone piss you off tonight?”

“Someone pisses me off every night-” She jokes, the lightheartedness growing with each step further away from work. “Curse of the trade, I guess.” She adds with a shrug.

They can hear the music emanating from the bar before even seeing it. The regular spot sits at the end of the curve, seemingly untouched by the masses, though the dusty windows show the movement of bodies inside. After maneuvering their way through the dispersed crowd, they’re still able to find an empty spot by the corner of the bar where it’s easier to reach the bartender. Every screen in their view covers the transmission of the infamous ball drop- as if the event wasn’t occurring a few blocks away- but she figures it’s more comfortable seeing it from the inside of a heated bar than in the crushing crowd of bodies freezing outside.

It takes her five minutes to grab the barman’s attention and another two to get their drinks, but when he pats down his pants in search of his wallet, she’s already pocketing down the change the man’s given her.

“I asked you, remember?” She says to him while passing his drink, noticing a soft tint over his cheeks that hadn’t been there at their arrival and her brows raise slightly, before choosing to ignore it.

Ross can feel the man shuffling and clearing his throat beside her and the anxious actions pull a thin lipped smile over her face. He seems very different from the person she has observed behind the kitchen- a baby deer almost- careful not to trip over his own legs. It’s kind of endearing to her, how the confidence he carries in the confinements of a kitchen switches off the second he’s outside of one, replacing it with silence and the constant cracking of his knuckles that has her asking:

“You don’t go out much, do you?”

He exhales in the form of a small laugh, then takes a drink from his emptying mug. “That obvious?”

She nods and turns to him. “Well we’ve been here for almost twenty minutes and you’ve said three words… max.”

“Five now…” He jokes and a grin forms on her face at the dumb joke.

Ross turns to him, shifting her body in the stool to face him completely, bare knee brushing against his clothed one. “Tell me the thing you hate most about your job.”

He takes a few seconds to respond, gaze lost in the multitude as a terrible rendition of ‘Sweet Caroline’ from the karaoke machine flows through the speakers. “I don’t- think I have one…”

“Nothing?” He shakes his head. “At all?” Another shake and a thin unnoticeable smile. “Chef Carmen-”

“-Carmy.” He corrects and the grin on her face grows a few inches wide.

“Okay Carmy, tell me you don’t hate people messing up your dishes or modifying your recipes?”

A grin slowly spreads across his static features as he looks down at his empty jug of beer and scratches over his brow out of habit. Then he nods in agreement. “I really fuckin’ hate that shit.”

“Right!?” Ross’ excitement pulls a snicker that has him agreeing to another drink, which he insists on paying for. “Like, I get it when it’s an allergy, right? You don’t wanna kill anyone. But Meg was telling me about some guy that wanted the ‘blanc’ but not the ‘beurre’ on his fish- and if 8th grade French doesn’t fail me- that literally translates to ‘white butter’!”

Carmy’s warm chuckle blends in nicely with the buzzing surroundings, causing a slight tint to graze her cheeks and hold a smile on the edge of her glass as she watches him.

“One of the waiters once asked me if I could just send ‘em a rack of ribs cause they didn’t like anything on the menu…”

“Jesus! As if you had a rack to spare behind that aged ham you got hanging in the walk-in…”

“You- you’ve been inside the walk-in?” He asks in surprise while she takes another sip off her second drink.

“That’s where I go to vent.” Ross shrugs with a soft grin. “Plus it’s soundproof so no one can hear me cry or lose my shit.”

He knew it wasn’t. He’s seen her barely hold her composure many times as she crosses down the hallway- hands tightly in fists- before hearing a muffled shriek from somewhere in the back; but he always assumed it came from the depot or the alley, never his walk-in. He wasn’t gonna tell her that, though.

Their drinks slowly drain while their attention falls heavy on the transmission from the TVs. With only ten minutes to spare, she can feel the growing excitement buzzing around the room as many inch closer to their loved ones, arms over shoulders and complicit kisses galore. For a second her eyes flicker over the rim of her glass towards Carmy’s profile, drinking in the strong shape of his nose and the many little scars she hadn’t noticed from a distance.

“I don't get it…” Ross says suddenly, turning back to him again.

“Uh… context?”

“Right- sorry-” She clears her throat -as a way to order her ideas- and places the mug back on the bar, but doesn’t notice how her body leans in closer to him when she turns back around. “So, you’re like… the shit, right?” She starts, pulling a nervous chuckle from the man.

“Solid start.”

“Shut up-” She groans. “I mean it as in… anyone who knows anything about the culinary world knows who you are. These people, they pay big bucks for your food and they always leave boasting about how great it is-”

“No they don’t-” He tries to argue with a shake of his head.

“Yes they do!” She reassures, voice a little higher and eyes a little glossier. “They do. You have the skill- the reputation to open your own place, make it however you want it to be… why stay here?”

There’s a look behind his eyes that makes her throat run dry, brows sunken over a concentrated gaze as he settles all his attention on her and everything seems to just vanish into white noise. It could be the confidence the alcohol carries that’s made her so vocal about her thoughts, but the rational part in her head warns that it’s not her place to comment on what she doesn’t know.

Ross shakes her head lightly and mumbles a soft ‘Sorry, nevermind it's stupid.’ before gulping her drink and redirecting her attention and posture back to the screens.

‘1 Minute to Midnight!’ flashes over every screen, bathing the room in an emerald green glow that bounces perfectly off her profile and catches Carmy’s attention. The playlist of 80s anthems and the growing excitement packed in the small room are loud enough to drown out the constant nagging voice in the back of his head. He sucks in a breath and moves impossibly slow in her direction.

“I’ve thought about it.” Carmy confesses loud enough so she can hear him over the chanting crowd.

Ten. She doesn’t expect him to be so close when she turns towards him. Specks of silver rim the outer edges of his eyes, wide enough that she can almost see her reflection staring back, stealing the breath from her lungs.

Nine. Betrayal in her body flicks her eyes down to his lips only for a brief moment and it has him questioning if he might have imagined it, before a teasing smile rounds at the edges of hers.

Eight. “Well when you decide to do it, call me if you ever need a bitchy hostess…” Ross whispers.

Seven. The air from his laugh blows softly over her cheeks, growing hot with the small distance. With a quickened pulse, she tries to settle her gaze on any other part of his face.

Six. ‘Just look at his eyes- shit no, not the eyes!’ ‘The mouth? No, that's even worse!’ ‘Jesus, you’ve kissed people before, why are you so fucking nervous?!’

Five. The turmoil in her head doesn’t bleed through to her calm expression, keeping a gentle smile that has Carmen letting out his own.

“Okay… ”

Four. The bundle of words hangs from his lips, swinging in her direction and hooking around her neck to pull her closer.

Three. There’s a prevalent pulsing rippling from her chest that drowns out any other sound around her, as if a fish bowl had fallen over the two, blocking out any exterior sound.

Two. “D’you mind if I kiss you?” She asks, gently.

One. The TV behind him explodes in multicolored lights as the ball finally drops. Fireworks reflect back to him from the shimmer of her eyes and all he can do is swallow hard, nod and let her gravity pull him forward.

A soft “Happy New Year, Carmy” brushes over his lower lip.

Then the last thing he remembers is the sweet taste of coconut gloss followed by the smooth movements of velvet lips above his bumbling ones.

**********

Part II

Taglist: @pearlstiare @teteminne, @beebslebobs, @harrysmatcha, @yum-yahgurt, @pussy-f41ry, @kirakombat, @redsakura101 , @hobisunshine13 and that’s it lmao

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shesey · 1 year ago

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Excerpts from The Summer Without Men by Siri Hustvedt

What IS does not HAVE TO BE

I had to get out of the apartment because being there hurt. The rooms and furniture, the sounds from the street, the light that shone into my study, the toothbrushes in the small rack, the bedroom closet with its missing knob-- each had becomes like a bone that ached, a joint or rib or vertebrae in an articulated anatomy of shared memory, and each familiar thing, leaden with the accumulated meanings of time, seemed to weigh in my own bod, and I found I could not bear them.

Some people just take the room they need, elbowing out intruders to take possession of a space.

Loss A known absence If you did not know it, It would be nothing, which it is, of course a nothing of another kind, as acutely felt as a blister, but a tumult, too, in the region of the heart and lungs, an emptiness with a name: You.

Insanity is a state of profound self-absorption. An extreme effort is required just to keep track of one's self, and the turn toward wellness happens the moment a bit of the world is allowed back in, when a person or thing passes through the gate.

But it was my mother herself who I had come home to. There is no living without a ground, without a sense of space that is not only external but internal -- mental loci. For me, madness had been suspension. When Boris abruptly took his body and his voice away, I began to float. Blowing up is not the same as breaking down, and as we've said before, even breaking down can have its purpose, its meanings. You held yourself together for a long time, but tolerating cracks is part of being well and alive.

We find ourselves in the faces of others, and so for a time every mirror reflected a foreigner, a despised outsider unworthy of being alive.

Indifference was the cure, but I couldn't find it in myself. The actual cure was escape. It is impossible to divine a story while you are living it; it is shsapeless; an inchoate procession of words and things, and let us be frank: We never recover what was. Most of it vanishes.

Nothing is repeated exactly, even words, because something has changed in the speaker and in the listener, because once said and then said again and again, the repetition itself alters the words.

Then I said that sometimes a small thing, even a bit of debris, can come to signify a whole world of feeling.

Had I been clinging to an idea of wretchedness while I was secretly enjoying myself?

You think if your anger had power, paternal power, you could shape things in your life more to your liking.

Is it perhaps that you felt your father's emotions had power in the family, power over your mother, your sister, and you, and you were always stepping around his feelings, trying not to upset him. And you've felt the same thing in your marriage, perhaps you've reproduced the same story, and all the while you've gotten angrier and angrier?

I never thought it was right to turn people into paragons of virtue after their deaths either.

Rejection accumulates.

After all, dear reader, I ask you how many men have thanked their wives for this or that service.

Widowers marry again because it makes their lives easier. Widows often don't, because it makes their lives harder.

Hypersensitivity to the atmospheric nuances around the table.

Perception is never passive. We are not only receivers of the world; we also actively produce it.

Shorn of intimacy and seen from a considerable distance, we are all comic characters, farcical buffoons who bumble through our lives, making fine messes as we go, but when you get close, the ridiculous quickly fades into the sordid or the tragic or the merely sad... the merely sad business about me was that I wanted to be admired.

I wondered why I wanted him myself. Had Boris left me after two years or even ten, the damage would have been considerably less. Thirty years is a long time, and a marriage acquires an ingrown, almost incestuous quality, with complex rhythms of feeling, dialogue, and associations. We had come to the point where listening to a story or anecdote at a dinner party would simultaneously prompt the same thought in our two heads, and it was simply a matter of which one of us would articulate it aloud.

I will write myself elsewhere, I thought, reinvent the story in a new light. I am better off without him. Did he ever do a domestic chore in his life besides the dishes? Did he or did he not tune you out regularly as if you were a radio? Did he not interrupt you in mid-sentence countless times as if you were an airy nothing, a Ms. Nobody, a Missing Person at the table? Are you not "still beautiful" in the words of your mother? Are you not still capable of great things?

She was right. We cannot wish our worlds into being. Much depends on chance, on what we can't control, on others.

I meditated for a moment on the imaginary and the real, on wish fulfillment, on fantasy, on stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. The fictive is an enormous territory, it turns out, its boundaries vague, and there is little certainty about where it beings and ends. We chart delusions through collective agreement. The man who believes he's emitting toxic rays while nobody around him seems to be the least bit affected can be safely said to be suffering from one pathology or another and put away in a locked ward. But let us say that same man's fantasy is so vivid, it affects his neighbor, who then begins to suffer from headaches and vomiting spells, and a contagious hysteria ensues, and the whole town retching -- isn't there some AMBIGUITY here? The vomit is real.

There are times when the fragility of all living things is so apparent that one begins to wait for a shock, a fall, or a break at any moment.

There is no future without a past because what is to be cannot be imagined except as a form of repetition. I had begun to expect calamities.

Yes, it would have been nice if he had been a little different, but he wasn't, and there were so many good days along with the bad days and sometimes the very thing I wanted to change about him one day was the thing that made another thing possible another day that was good, mot bad, if you see what I mean.

It is wrong that it has become prevalent through custom that these changes are called growth and diminution. It would be appropriate that they should instead be called creation and destruction, because they oust a thing from its established character into a different one, whereas growth and diminution happen to a body that underlies the change and remains throughout it.

When I was mad, was I myself or not myself? When does one person become another?

Not telling is as interesting as telling, I have found. Why speech, that short verbal journey from inside to outside, can be so excruciating under certain circumstances is fascinating.

The lesson here is that extreme relaxation promotes pleasure and extreme relaxation is a state of nearly complete openness to whatever comes along. It is also thoughtlessness.

And who is to measure suffering? Which one of you will calculate the magnitude of pain to be found inside a human being at any given moment.

I thought of her mother; it is worse to have a cruel child than one whose vulnerability allows attack.

Having little to divert attention or diversify thought, they find themselves uneasy when they are apart, and therefore conclude that they shall be happy together.

This is not the voluntary blindness of new attraction; it is the blindness of an intimacy wrought from years of parallel living, both from its bruises and its balms.

Commentary: the instruments of darkness tell us truths. What are they? Boys will be boys: rambunctious, wild, kicking, hanging from the trees. But girls will be girls? Gentle, nurturing, sweet, passive, conniving, stealthy, mean?

If I were carrying my reproductive organs on the outside, I'd be pretty damned nervous about that delicate little package, too.

Maybe that was my problem. I read too much, and my brain exploded.

It is not that there is no difference between men and women; it is how much difference that difference makes, and how we choose to frame it. Every era has its science of difference and sameness, its biology, its ideology, and its ideological biology, which brings us, at last, back to the naughty girls, their escapades, and the instruments of darkness.

The entire letter turns on three sentences: It has been a black period for me. I even called bob. I have missed you.

If a man opens a novel, he likes to have a masculine name on the cover; it's reassuring somehow. You never know what might happen to that external genitalia if you immerse yourself in imaginary doings concocted by someone with the goods on the inside.

A book is a collaboration between the one who reads and what is read and, at its best, that coming together is a love story like any other.

Yes, we (women) certainly do not forget you so soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions.

For months, I had drowned in anger and grief, but over the summer my mind had unconsciously, incrementally begun to change. Dr. S had seen it. Reading Daisy's letter, I felt those subliminal, not yet articulated thoughts rise upward, form sentences, and lodge themselves securely somewhere between my temples: Some part of me had been getting used to the idea that Boris was gone forever. No one could have been more shocked than I by this revelation.

After all, we, none of us, can ever untangle the knot of fictions that make up that wobbly thing we call a self.

But there is nowhere for us to go, nowhere in the world because no one will have us as we are, and there is nothing to do except to embrace the secret pleasures of our subliminations, the arc of a sentence, the kiss of a rhyme...

A comedy depends on stopping the story at exactly the right moment.

#summer without men #siri hustvedt #feminist books #feminist quotes

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the-leader-in-blue · 2 years ago

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Ooc// songs that remind me of the gang ™️ part three

King and lion heart by Of monsters and men: yes this is a song I found in my warrior cats phase but it continues to be a banger,it reminds me of Orpheus and Leo,some of the lyrics are so them, like “And as the world comes to an end,I’ll be here to hold your hand,cause you’re my king and I’m your lion heart” and “howling ghosts they reappear,mountains that are stacked with fear but you’re a king and I’m a lion heart” just EOUGH this song <3

The greatest day by Frank Turner: this reminds me a lot of just them as a family,it’s a simple acoustic song and it is so comforting, and the lyrics are reparative, some of my favorite are “can you see it? Can you see it in my eyes? Can you feel it? Can you hold it in your arms tonight?” And “today this could be the greatest day of our lives,before It all ends,before we run out of time” I love Frank turner

Glourious you by Frank turner: this song has a special place in my heart because I remeber seeing it live. It reminds me of jay and Orpheus+Leo and the support they need, the chorus is “come on now if we all pull together,we can lift up the weight of the world from your shoulders” and another banger lyric is “Woth your mixed up metaphors,your messed up makeup,you’re glorious you, with your young tied tragedies,your too tight tee shirts,you’re glorious you” and that feelings of admiration and love dispite their flaws

Paper bag by Fiona Apple: this is one that has recently gone on jays playlist,and the sort of bitterness of survival and the apathy that follows, some banger lyrics that really sold it “Hunger hurts but starving works when it costs too much to love” related to jays apathy to relationships,spicificly romantic ones,and the way he is self distructove to a fault. Another one “I said honey I don’t feel so good,I don’t feel justified, come on and put a little love here in my void,he said it’s all in your head, and I said so is everything else,but he didn’t get it” this song is so him

I was an island by John alison Weiss:this song is literally Orpheus and Leo, they fr wrote “I was a fighter,and I was so brave,but I Lowered my sword when you heald we and swore you’d stay” THATS IS LITERALLY THEM !!! And the chorus “I can’t do this alone anymore, cause I’m no good on my own anymore,what did I do to deserve this? What did you do to me, baby,coem baxk,no I don’t wanna be free” shut up it’s them

Fix me by frank Turner:yeah this is jay , and the emotions they feel after everything,I was reminded of them “someday,I’ll feel no pain,someday I won’t have a brain,they’ll take away the part that hurts and let the rest remain” + “fix me,fix my head,fix me,please I don’t want to be dead”

Gb eating Gb while listning to Gb but the Kylie v cover: it reminds me of Orpheus,the soft spoken voice and the lyrics remind me of his attachment, “well if you don’t want me,we’ll that’s just tough luck,I think about but I know I’m not good enough” is her talking about Leo,spicificly during the whole lonley thing, another one for post lonley “would it be cruel,be cruel, be cruel to let my eyes return to you? Would it be cruel ,be cruel,cruel to give my thoughts,my thoughts to you?” Shows the shame of getting lonlied

Oh brither by Frank Turner:another Orpheus and Leo song, the opening lyrics are “I never had a brother,old friend you had three,you always said if you had another one,than it would be me” SHUT IP ITS THEM, and “this ain’t where it ends,the world will keep on turninf, we’ll all make mistakes, we’ll all have time to make amends,we’ll carry different loads, we’ll all get different blisters, even so you know we’ll miss them when we’re finally out of road” THIS SONG MAKES ME EMOTIONALLLLL

Add any more but I’m plagued by the family

-🦭🦭🦭

ooc omg

#ooc #someone to talk to

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razorblade180 · 3 years ago

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They deserve a break

Zhongli:*walks in*

Ningguang:Ah, you’re back. How was the exploration? Find any-

Zhongli:*falls onto bed* Zzzzzz

Ningguang:Heh…*rubs head* I suppose catching up can wait a little longer.

xxxx

[ship]

Kokomi:Zzzzzz

Beidou:Apparently Zhongli carried her to the port. She’s been asleep ever since.

Gorou:*lifts her* I’ll be sure to give my thanks to him when I see him. *walks off*

Kokomi:Zzzz….!? Hmm? Hi Gorou~

Gorou:Hi, did you have fun?

Kokomi:Yeah. Things were…fascinating…I wouldn’t change a…a…Zzzzzz~

Gorou:Hehe, rest well.

xxxxx

Barbara:You should really learn to be more careful.

Venti:*bandaged* It was fine! What’s a little dangerous rock climbing and poison?

Barbara:Very dangerous! You need to thank Zhongli and Kokomi properly later.

Venti:It’s not like I wasn’t pulling my weight. We would’ve been gone for a least another week without me! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again-

Barbara:Gliding is faster, I know. Just be careful not to fall or get shot out of the air. You take unnecessary risks.

Venti:Ehe.

Barbara:*squints* Sigh…may Lord Barbatos watch after your health since you don’t.

Venti:I’d rather have you do it. *lays in lap*

Barbara:*red* Wh…What!? You can’t just…I mean-

Venti:Zzzzzz

Barbara:…..*smiles*

xxxxx

[Amakane Island]

Kazuha:Figured I find you here.

Yoimiya:*under a tree* Hmm? Oh hey!

Kazuha:You seem pretty energized all things considering. I thought even you would be tuckered out.

Yoimiya:You’re not too far off. To be frank my legs got tired of walking and the blisters on my fingers have their own blisters. I might actually be in trouble if I bumped into some Ronin or even treasure hoarders, so I’m taking a break.

Kazuha:Want me to walk you home?

Yoimiya:That’ll definitely help. Still, I never mind this view. I’m in no rush.

Kazuha:*sits* How was The Chasm?

Yoimiya:Huge! Just when you think you’ve reached the bottom, boom! Another passageway. Leading an exploration team was a first for me. It’s rough.

Kazuha:Imagine being on an island surrounded by fog and rift hounds?

Yoimiya:Oof. Yeah I never envied you when you told me about that. We did pretty good work though. I made some dumb mistakes but thankfully I wasn’t alone. So glad I picked who I did. Fighting was easy, but all the climbing and swimming and more climbing, not to mention the poison and low light. *leans on him* I think I hate climbing.

Kazuha:Haha, I would too if that’s all I did for days in your shoes. Any real close calls?

Yoimiya:Nah, we had things handled. Even if we didn’t, knowing Aether was somewhere in there too made things feel less tense. Hopefully he didn’t see us do anything too embarrassing.

Kazuha:I’m glad things worked out. I think you all earned a well deserved break. I bet your feet are killing you.

Yoimiya:Mainly the ankles. Kazuha, could I possibly bug you t-

Kazuha:*lifts her* No problem.

Yoimiya:Hehe my hero. *kisses cheek*

xxxxx

[Favonius HQ]

Amber:Aether! You’re back! It’s been awhile. How have-

Aether:*hugs her*

Amber:Ae…Aether? What’s wrong? Are you okay?

Aether:I will be, later.

Amber:…..*hugs tightly* Take your time. I’ll be here.

#zhongli #ninggaung #kokomi sangonomiya #gi gorou #venti the bard #barbara gunnhildr #genshin impact #gi aether #gi amber #yoimiya naganohara #kazuha kaedehara #venbara #kazumiya

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palbabor-writes · 3 years ago

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Lá Bealtaine

Pairing: Choso x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of blood, cunnilingus, SMUT, NSFW/18+only, loss of virginity - if you squint, using sex to mask feelings & trauma, mild JJK manga spoilers; but if you’ve seen the anime you’re pretty caught up on this stuff

Word Count: 4732

“Why do you let them––us, stay?”

You lift your head, blinking at his obsidian surveyance. “What am I supposed to do? Say no? Not like I put an advertisement on the door: seeking dangerous men and nefarious spirits, inquire within. I’m not wanting to die, you know? Besides, it’s not all bad.”

“Name one thing that’s not bad about this,” Choso demands, his tone clipped.

Why? Why does he care? You’re not someone he can save. There’s no room for you. You aren’t family.

“Only one thing? Well, that’s easy,” you continue, the steady lull of your voice jerking him out of his musings. “You.”

Notes: hehe, when i said i had Choso brain rot i was not joking. this dude has been on my mind for weeks, ya’ll. WEEKS. special thanks to @libiraki & @kugutsuu for beta editing! if you haven’t checked out their works please stop what you are doing & scuttle yourself over there bc you are missing out.

Lá Bealtaine [l̪ˠaː ˈbʲal̪ˠt̪ˠənʲə] 'the bright or yellow day of Beltane' - a time of fire and fertility.

It started with a touch. A simple interaction; but it sticks to the back of his mind and the heat of your hand lingers, a remembrance that he can’t shake.

He’d returned to the dingy bowels of the hideout, boots echoing over the well-worn floor as he made his way to his customary seat; unaware of the blood that oozed from the strip above his nose. Legs and arms are heavy as he slots himself into the chair, his eyes drooping closed as he leans his dark head against the cushions.

Two weeks.

Choso’s younger brothers were killed two weeks ago. Leaving him alone; adrift in his loss, his failure as an elder brother. The remembrance of them stung in the morning and was an ache by afternoon, but in the night’s darkness it burned.

He will have his chance, he reminds himself, furrowing his brow; seeking the faint traces of the other six who need him to press on, and the hollow twinge of the two who need vengeance. The 31st is only fourteen days away; he can wait. He can–

The pressure of the sudden touch makes him jerk; coal-dark eyes snapping open, searching for the source. You’re standing above him, hand outstretched, the pad of your thumb delicately catching the long forgotten drip of blood against his cheek.

“You shouldn’t touch that,” he says, voice gruff in the vacant emptiness of the space; but he doesn’t shift, meeting your frank gaze unblinkingly.

“Oh?” you question, swiping the sullied digit across your pants, tacking the deep crimson into the material of your jeans.

“It’s poison,” Choso clarifies. The spot you’d stroked your thumb down is tingling. Exhaustion, he muses, itching his nails into the thick fabric of his loose pants. He’s imagining it; there’s no other explanation.

“You’re not going with the others?”

What? How can he? They’re dead. Ah, no. He’s not thinking clearly. You don’t mean his brothers; you mean Getō.

“No,” he quips, lifting the back of his hand to his cheek, wanting to quell that spreading warmth that you’ve left him with.

“Then you don’t need this, right?” You gesture to the mess of game pieces and the forgotten board that is scattered across the low table in front of him. He shakes his head and you begin the steady process of tidying up, collecting the mismatched jumble into your arms, folding the rest into the tattered box before you step away.

Choso closes his eyes again, steadying his breaths, finding the pulse of the blood that thrums within him. Nothing is out of place. So why does his cheek feel like it’s on fire? There’s no reason for it. Is he this starved for a connection that he’s latching onto the first interaction he receives?

His onyx eyes follow you as you walk across the matted flooring. You own this space; have struck some kind of deal with Getō and the others, permitting them to come and go, quietly cleaning up their messes, and ducking out of sight when they gather within the confines of the darkness; talking through the plans, the ins and outs of the sealing and the massacre that they hope to spread throughout the underground station of the pre-ordained prefecture.

In the grand scheme of things you’re nothing. Why waste energy focusing on you? It won’t matter in fourteen days.

The clink of the cup on the table rattles him out of his thoughts and Choso peers into the depths of your clear gaze once more. “What is it?” he queries, running a broad hand down his face, hoping the pull will make him forget the persistent warmth that’s radiating from the spot you’d touched.

“You look tired. Drink that and get some rest.”

“Giving orders now?”

“Sure,” you grin, cocking your head at Choso’s curled lips and wrinkled nose. “That’s a good one. Like any of you would ever listen to me.”

What’s this called? Self deprecating humor? Well, whatever it is, Choso doesn’t enjoy the brittle tone your voice has drifted into. It doesn’t suit you and that low annoyance that’s been brewing under his skin is coming closer and closer to the surface. His fingers are on the cup before he can properly sort through his mismatched emotions, but he doesn’t miss the lift of your lips when he gulps the scalding tea down his throat.

Why does he care? You don’t matter. You’re no one to him.

“Easy,” you tut, shaking your head at his sharp gaze. “You’ll burn yourself.”

So? He’d rather feel something burn than linger into the uneasy pull of an ache.

Choso looks for you when he enters, shifting past the others. You’re tucked toward the back, brows creased and head down. It’s a smart move, but the frightened hunch you’ve adopted bothers him more than it used to.

“We have a few minutes,” Getō announces to the gathering, dark eyes bright as they fall on his impassive face. “And Mahito is always late.”

There’s an implication behind it, but Choso opts to ignore that uneasy instinct, already turning. He’s just going to ask you for tea; that’s all. When you spy him, you smile and that spot on his cheek flares, remembering the sweep of your thumb.

“Lucky you caught me,” you tell him, hands busy with the rattling cups. “I was about to go.”

He narrows his eyes, watching the curve of your neck, the stretch of your fingers, and the uneasy twitch of your shoulders. This sort of existence doesn’t suit you. You’re the antithesis of this; normal, kind, unabashedly human. So why do you…

“Why do you let them––us, stay?”

“Name one thing that’s not bad about this,” Choso demands, his tone clipped.

Why? Why does he care? You’re not someone he can save. There’s no room for you. You aren’t family.

“Only one thing? Well, that’s easy,” you continue, the steady lull of your voice jerking him out of his musings. “You.”

Choso shakes his head, openly scowling at your answer. “Me?” he sputters, sucking his teeth and pressing his clenched fists into the long table that you stand behind.

“Yeah,” you confirm, pouring the steaming water over the leaves, wafting the fragrant essence of the tea between his clenched jaw and your ducked head.

“I don’t… that is...I...” Choso begins, but fumbles into silence when he catches sight of your eyes, half hidden behind the sweep of your lashes. It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. “You’re strange,” he finishes, huffing a belabored sigh between his pursed lips, but when you laugh he can’t help a faint smile.

It will feel disloyal later, that burst of momentary happiness, but right now he doesn’t mind the distraction; cupping the yunomi between his palms, catching your fingers before they can pull away, enjoying the warmth you transude into his chilled hands.

Nothing holds. Choso knows this better than most. All things, given time, change. It is an inevitability. Something he’s known intrinsically, and clung to, all those years; when the only constant was the beating of his brother’s hearts beside him. But change rarely announces itself, content in its own emergence; the omnipotence of its bite.

Something has shifted.

“You didn’t go again?” You ask one night, sitting beside him, a cooling mug between your fingertips.

“Didn’t see the need,” he tells you, an outstretched legs brushing against yours.

“You’re different… you know that?” A smile hidden within your words.

“So are you.” He likes that, he thinks. He likes it more than he should.

“Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

You bite your lip and he watches the press of your teeth, hoping you’ll split the skin.

“Come closer and I’ll tell you.” You bargain, coyly shaking your head.

“I’m close enough and I don’t like games,” he grumbles, hoping you won’t leave it at that, because while it’s true that he doesn’t like games, he’s enjoying this give and take.

“Please?”

There’s something intoxicating about that gentle sound and he turns, wordlessly following your crooked finger. He towers over your seated form, but you don’t let that imbalance hang, hands tugging against the white of his shirt, urging him to kneel between your spread legs. When he settles, you curl your fingers against his jaw, smoothing that blistering heat over his icy skin until he’s pressing forward, resting his heavy forehead against yours.

You’re so warm, he inwardly gasps, his breaths coming in pants. So warm he fears he might grow addicted to this heady intimacy. “What do you want?” Choso asks, the deep timbre of his voice quaking.

“You.” It’s such a simple answer; how like you.

“I am here,” he replies, half drunk on the feel of your skin.

“Yes, but what if I told you I want more?”

That question casts him into the darkness. He’s unused to this; doesn’t know what to do, what to say; he’s been sealed for so long, too long, and he feels wobbly, lightheaded, but he tries to reach, his fingers grasping at the base of your neck, pulling you toward... toward…

The clatter of the front door startles you both, and he’s on his feet, eyes wild as they look down on your parted lips, and the furrowed confusion of your brow. Your hands are still upturned, waiting for his.

The others step into the space and when he blinks again you’re already gone; your chair vacant, the warmth you’d shared evaporating into the unfeeling cruelty of the chilled air. Shit, Choso curses, grinding his teeth.

Something has shifted; it will be impossible to tear himself away from you now.

It’s only been a day, but he can’t stop staring at you. He doesn’t hide his blatant gaze, obsidian eyes tracking each step, hungrily snapping to yours each time you come near. You do nothing to lessen this itching want that’s raging within him, leaning close, pressing your hand against his shoulder as you gather the discarded cups that are scattered between them, asking him if there’s anything else he needs, your breath hot against his ear.

He’s unsure if he likes this.

But each time you shift away he wants to drag you back.

When they leave, used to his excuses, and his protestations that as long as the mission doesn’t involve Itadori Yuji or Kugisaki Nobara he’s uninterested, he stands; head turning, searching for you.

Ah. There you are.

He’s against you in an instant, stiff hands cupping you, greedy to touch, to hold. You squirm, a laugh bubbling from your lips, swatting his wide palms from the tempting swell of your hips. “What’s gotten into you?” As if you don’t know.

“Tch,” he scolds, “you’ve been toying with me all evening. You said you wanted more yesterday, so show me.”

You breathe out a chuckle, bemused by his enthusiasm and take his hand in yours, leading him down a hallway. He’s never been back here, but he follows, trying to steady the thudding of his heart. Controlling his life’s blood is second nature to him, so why does this feel like it’s a losing battle?

The room you open is dark, but he can make out the shape of a futon, stark against the mats, and his eyelids flutter, too overwhelmed by the realness of this befuddling situation to look. To distract himself, he pulls you against the slope of his chest, splaying his fingers against the sweep of your collarbone. You twist in his loose hold, folding your arms around his powerful neck.

“Do you still want this?”

Choso unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth, gulping down a wavering breath. “I already told you,” he begins, his voice gravel, “show me more. Show me what else you want to do with me.”

“Can I kiss you?” you inquire, dipping your head enticingly, catching his wandering attention, urging him nearer. He doesn’t answer, electing to tap his lips against yours, clumsily pressing until the tip of his nose digs into your cheek. It’s easy to feel your heartbeat like this, and he wraps his arms around your lower back, eliminating the meager distance that was trapped between your heaving chests.

You let him steady himself, careful to keep your movements slow, but the squish of his face and the jerk of his hands tugs a bated humph of discomfort from you and he breaks away, elegant brows crumpled as he searches for the source of your discontent.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you amend, smiling at his obvious pout. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Hmm?” Choso questions, stroking a palm up your spine, a smirk quirking the corner of his mouth when you draw in a gasp.

You cup your hands beside his ears, fingers sinking into the dark tangles of his hair as you lure him back to your parted lips. “Open your mouth.”

He does as he’s told and you mold him against you, lapping your tongue over his, earning a shuddering moan and a sharp caress as he coils his hand around your throat. It’s easier this way and Choso steadily follows your lead, mimicking your sucks and teasing bites. Teeth clash when he reaches for more but he eases the sting with a flick of his tongue, and you nibble his lower lip in retaliation, pleased he’s so malleable.

Your fingers fall to the sash that rests above his stomach and he grunts when you pull at it, easing it away with a stable unwinding. His breaths are heavy against your kiss shined lips, but he keeps perfecting his new found techniques, sweeping chapped skin until it’s worn smooth by the wetness of your tongue. His own hands are preoccupied with your neck and the gentle underside of your jaw, fingertips pressing until you can sense the pound of your heart within his grasp.

“What are you trying to do?” you ask between his frantic presses. “It’s like you wanna match my pulse, or something.”

“Worry about yourself,” he grouses, ill-pleased with your answering laugh. “It’s going to take forever if you go that slow.”

You shove your palms against his chest and he stumbles backwards, his booted feet loud against the heavy mats, dark eyes flashing up at yours as his face falls into a deep-seated glower. “What?! What was... why did you…”

His angry retorts melt into nothingness when you fling your shirt over your head, sending the thin fabric fluttering to the ground. The sudden exposure leaves him gaping, unsure of himself once more, but you ease the shock, grasping his limp hand in yours, guiding it over the dip of your stomach, and up the flow of your side.

“Let’s play fair, huh?” you tease, tapping a kiss to his cheek, careful to land it in the same spot your thumb had touched weeks ago. Choso nods, obsidian eyes wide as his fingers trace over your goose-prickled skin. “Alright, well, it’s your turn.”

His gaze snaps back to yours, whisking over your face; as if he’s searching for some kind of answer in the lift of your nose, or the plushness of your lips. Whatever it is, he seems to have found it because he ducks his head to yours, resting his brow against the crown of your temple, hands lifting to his own clothing, making quick work of the intricate knots and folds of the fabric.

The gleam of his skin in the moonlight takes your breath away, and you reach for him as he eases the black off of the white, sliding your warmth over the coldness of his bared pectorals. He’s smooth; skin as soft as freshly cleaved talc, or a scattering of downy feathers, and you keep stroking until he’s shaking under your touch, his exhales unsteady against your face.

“I think I have more blemishes on my fingers and arms than you do on your entire body. You’re so soft,” you tell him, tracing an outspread hand against his muscled abdomen.

“I’m... this is a new manifestation,” he answers, hoping the strangeness of him, of his half human, half cursed being, won’t drive you away.

“Hmm,” you nod, pulling him down for another kiss. “It feels nice.”

He’s slow to undress. Not because he doesn’t want to see more of you, he’s simply distracted, too focused on touching what bits of you are revealed; the arc of your hips, the tipped buds of your breasts, and the line of your legs. But you’re like water; slipping through the gaps of his fingers, leaving him wanting, unsatisfied with his fragile hold.

When the last scrap of clothing is off, he waits, his cheeks flushed and mouth dry. “Now what?”

“Do you want me to touch you first?” you ask, that tantalizing smile lifting your lips.

“No,” he asserts, shaking his dark head. “I want to learn you before that...so show me.”

“You’re very unusual.” Tilting your head as you take his hand, leading him to your futon. “You know that?” you continue, tumbling him over you as you splay across the crisp sheets.

“Says the woman who is letting me between her legs,” Choso smarts, finding your lips in the gathering darkness. “Stop stalling; show me.”

With a pleased sigh, you reach for his hand again, looping your fingers around his as you guide him to the juncture of your thighs. You work one away from the others, gliding it along the ridges of your folds, showing him how you like to be touched. After his initial gawping and mystified rumblings of, ‘so wet,’ and half croaked, ‘fucks,’ he shifts closer, easing onto his haunches as he curiously follows your lessons.

“There,” he hisses, onyx gaze catching your twitching stomach and jerking hips. “Teach me how to do that.”

You work him to that apex, using your other hand to lift the slippery hood of your clit, showing him how to press and tap against the spongy nub. He’s a quick learner, his eyes falling from yours to watch the flutter and quaver of your cunt.

“Move your hand,” he tells you, resting his lips against the hollow of your neck, his tongue lapping over your pulse. When you untwine your fingers from his he waits, lips too busy sucking a bruise into your skin; reaching for that unsteady thump of your heart.

Bump-bump-ba-bump.

Yes. This will do. He’s caught the rhythm; can almost sense the flow of your blood, and see the surge of your clit under his touch.

The next frig of his digit has you gasping out his name, legs unfurling, knees shaking beside his ribs, your head flopping back onto the futon with a dull thump as you arch into his hold. Choso reapplies the pressure, adding the pad of his thumb, leaving it opposite his seeking forefinger, squeezing until you’re clawing your blunt nails down the sheets.

“You look good like this,” he smirks, looming over your heaving figure, licking his wet tongue along the valley of your breasts. “What else can you show me?”

Your fingers’ grip into his hair and you yank him from you, one brow delicately arched as you take in his irascible scowl. “You could put your mouth to better use…”

There’s no need to elaborate, and he’s wedged between your thighs before you can fully blink, ravenous lips slurping kisses and bites into the tender skin; he’s asking another question, but you can’t hear when he’s touching you like that, his fingers doggedly pressing at your clit, jerking more moans from your throat.

“Wh-what?” you ask, breath stolen before it’s past your quivering mouth.

“I said,” Choso pants, lifting his inky head and fixing you with a dazed stare. “I can feel your heartbeat.”

“Does that matter?” you laugh, popping onto your elbows to regard him inquisitively.

“It helps,” he answers cryptically and you jab your toes against his arm.

“Helps with what?”

“You’ll see. Do you care if I experiment?” He lifts his fingers from you, sucking the dripping pads into his mouth as he waits for your answer.

“Knock yourself out,” you gape, biting your lip between your teeth.

His dark eyes glaze before he averts them, an appreciative smile gentling his sharp features. “Good,” he replies, easing one bent leg over his broad shoulder, sparing you a last glance before sealing his lips to your throbbing folds.

It starts slowly; a deep shudder that seems to radiate from your core before pooling against your extremities, making your fingers twitch and your muscles spasm incrementally. But Choso is mindful of the power that he’s found, and he eases you onto his tongue, helping you to relax with steady sucks, avoiding that all important button that is distending above his nose. He can almost hear the rush of your blood, can sense where to press with each swell of your slick folds, and he follows unquestionably; pleased he can lose himself in this, in you.

He taps his thumb against your entrance, eyes opening, searching over the curve of your breasts to see you, to watch what kind of expression you’ll make when he finally breaches this boundary. The sheer heat of you takes him aback, and he groans, his low voice vibrating over your twitching cunt, and you reward his elation with another moan, his name falling from your lips.

What is this?

He’s drowning and all he’s done is taste you. Will he die if this goes further? Or will it burn? Lapping away the remnants of his regret until there’s nothing left of him but splintered bone.

“Choso,” you breathe, fingers latching into his wayward hair. “More, please… it’s not enough.”

He rotates his thumb before easing it out, making room for the wide push of his index finger, tongue lifting to swirl around the pulsing nub of your clit, and teeth grazing until you’re squirming.

“There!” you cry out, bucking into his open mouth. “Oh, god… I... I can’t––”

Something inside you shudders. He can feel it in the comforting thump of your heart and it makes him clutch you to him, his own hips rutting against the edge of the futon as he finds himself awash in the sheer intoxication of you.

Fuck. Is it supposed to feel like this? Like he’s half himself and half you? Or is he simply drunk on the rush of your blood?

Your cunt sucks his finger deeper, gummy walls pulsing in time with your heart as he gulps down your essence, tongue greedily catching it before it has time to drip onto his upturned wrist. It’s good. It tastes so fucking good.

He’s so winded by the sensations that he barely notices you pulling from him, his dark head lolling over the crinkled sheets, an inaudible moan slipping between his clenched teeth. Choso doesn’t resist when you ease him upward, warm fingers tracing up his heaving body as you press him onto his back. Only when you press a kiss to his fevered temple does he find himself, eyes bleary in the darkness.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, straddling his hips, your hand reaching for his straining cock, palming some of the leaking pre-cum over your fingers as you stroke him. “I can’t wait… I want you… can I? Choso?”

This part will burn, he thinks, helping you to hold yourself steady, eyes slipping closed when he feels the slick heat of you gliding teasingly over his tip. When you sink down, his back arches, and he hopes that the whispering shadows, the lingering remnants of his guilt, will be tossed onto this fire you’re stoking. Your hips still when they reach his base, legs twitching around him, your nails catching against his smooth skin, working nicks into the clean slate.

You’re clutching onto him like he’s the only thing tethering you down, and he opens his shuttered eyes to watch, hoping he can glimpse you past the smoldering of his want. You’re beautiful, he thinks, hand lifting from your hips to fiddle with the necklace that sits around your neck, admiring the glint of metal in the gloom.

He wishes he could see more, that he could wait a little longer, but he wants to put an end to this ache; he wants to burn.

The lift of your knees leaves both of you gasping, and Choso stifles a moan, legs tensing restlessly under the steady push and pull you’re establishing over him. It’s so warm inside you, and he can feel the thrum of your blood again, so he tries to match his to yours, controlling his pulse, right down to the multiplicity of his cells, eager to feel that potent tug of release once more.

“Does it feel good?” you ask, leaning back so he can admire his engorged cock as it plunges in and out of your sodden pussy.

“Do you have to ask?” he grunts, lifting a hand to your breast, tweaking the tender bud of your peaked nipple between the knuckles of his fingers.

When you call out his name again, he snatches you to him, dragging you to his parted lips as he digs his heels into the futon, rutting into you until you’re squelching lewdly around his pistoning cock. The world feels like it’s narrowing; the shadows lessening as he engulfs himself in you, his teeth working bruises into your neck, your shoulder, the tops of your breasts, anywhere he can reach; but it’s not enough.

With a huffed groan he’s gathering you into his arms, robust thighs helping him to flip you onto your back, hands splitting your legs as he drives himself back into your welcoming heat. It’s deeper in this position. He can feel more of your twitches and pulsations as he steadies his arms beside your ears, bracing himself over your prostrate form.

“You want me to touch you again, don’t you?” he asks, voice broken. “Do you want me to touch your clit? Will that make you cum for me? Will it?”

“I-I can do it,” you gasp, easing your fingers between your grinding bodies, knees spreading so he can watch. “Tell me when,” you murmur, head dropping as you arch, slipping him further.

“Now,” he moans, grabbing your jaw, forcing your lips to his as he slams his cock into you, setting himself alight; easing the incessant tug of his guilt until it’s a blunted thrum resting close to his heart.

When you shatter around him, he follows, wholly caught in the ebb and flow of his release; lost in the depths of this unsteady solution.

He stays with you through the night, eyes following the line of your body as you sleep. His hands are cold, he thinks, easing them beside you, but not for much longer.

The 31st is only four days away.

“Did he question you? Ask you for anything?” Getō’s words are lanced with care, his voice honey sweet as he steeples his fingers, peering at you with an avariciousness that makes you shake.

“He didn’t. I doubt it will happen again. I didn’t...I don’t want to...to… hurt––”

“What? Hurt him? He’s a half-breed monster. His feelings don’t come into this. Nor should yours; you have a family to think of, a mother who’s an invalid, a younger brother who can’t be depended upon, a father who’s a drunkard; too far gone to notice, or care, his eldest is missing; hasn’t attended her college classes in weeks... and your sister. Well, she’s still a child... much too young to suffer from your mistakes, don’t you think?”

“You’re the monster,” you grit, hands folded into your lap, nails pressing until blood wells under your fingertips.

“Perhaps,” he smiles. “We’ll be out of your way soon enough. Let me know if you show any signs of impregnation, would you? Any spawn you whelp will be useful; very useful indeed.”

notes: i was gonna name this something else, and i know the dates i am describing don’t match with the sabbat, but Beltane felt like a smoother fit.

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frankcastleissoft · 4 years ago

Text

Lover

Frank Castle x reader

Word Count: 4,431

Warnings: angst, attempted rape, conflict/tension, and fluff (( but that’s not a bad thing :) ))

This new life with Frank was very simple. Not much else to be said about it. You both went to work and came home. Day after day, week after week. Simple.

It had been almost five months since Frank had finished off the last of the people responsible for his late family’s death. You could tell it still hurt though. It stung deep in his core. Like there was a ton of bricks inside of his chest, weighing him down. It hurt you too, to see him like that. Work for him was just a way to let out everything he was holding deep inside of him. He worked at a construction site, tearing down an old building. Sometimes he didn’t come home till dark and that scared you.

You worked at a catering company. You would go to the companies and help cook and keep the food refreshed. Cooking was something you really loved to do, so when you were able to get this job it really helped the situation.

The situation:

Frank was dead. And technically you were too. Not really anyone knew about you, but you had to be dead too. Now you both were living in a small, one room apartment.

You would come home around 5:00pm every day. Frank never beat you home. The last five months had been rough to say the least. Your marriage felt like it was hanging by a thread. You hardly talked and there was always this tension between you two. Some days you wouldn’t see Frank at all. He would come home after you were asleep, take a quick shower, find the plate of dinner in the fridge, then go to bed. You always made him dinner. Without fail. Frank loved your cooking. He was always starving when he got home.

And by the time you woke up in the morning, he’d be gone. It gave you this ache in your heart when you woke up and he wasn’t beside you in the bed that was much too small for the two of you.

So you would get ready for the day, then head out the door for work. It was always the same. Unless on the rare occasion, Frank would be dead asleep next to you, breathing heavily. He slept so hard sometimes it made you worry about how intensely he worked.

Work was long today. It felt like everything was ten times harder than it usually was, so you were looking forward to getting off your feet and sipping some tea, while reading a book. The little things meant the most living like this. The air was cool as you walked along the busy, Brooklyn streets toward home. You pulled your coat collar up against your neck, attempting to warm yourself.

After a few flights of stairs, you pulled your keys out of your bag and unlocked the door. You set your things on the table in the middle of the room and put your coat in the wardrobe that was just small enough to fit in the room. You looked around the apartment. The bed was facing you, across from the door and the wardrobe. In the middle a table sat there with two chairs on each side. To the left was a door that led to the smallest bathroom in history. Then a doorway beside the bathroom led to the narrow kitchen. The cabinet space was limited and there was a small oven and only a little bit of counter space. The Fridge seemed to take up the most room. It wasn’t much, but you did your best to make it feel like a home. Flowers on the table— they were dried up and dead now. A rug in the kitchen, a knitted quilt on the bed, and a few books on the nightstands.

You made your tea, then made dinner soon after. Just like always, saving a plate for Frank. You had finished dinner, avoiding the mess, now sitting at the table, reading and indulging in another cup of tea to help you sleep well tonight. Then you heard a key slide into the lock and the door opened. Frank’s heavy boots stepped in, the weight of his feet sounded like he had had a long day too. He placed his metal lunch box on the table, and sat down to take off his shoes.

“Hey,” his deep voice whispered.

“Hey,” you said just as quietly.

He put his shoes by the door, then went to the bathroom to wash his hands. You watched him from where you sat. His dark hair was getting longer and his beard made him look so different. You didn’t mind it though. Your eyes traveled down to his hands. They were so calloused with so many welts and blistered. More proof he worked so hard.

“I wish you wouldn’t work so hard,” you said without even thinking about it.

Frank turned off the water and patted his hands dry. You knew he had heard you, but he pretended not to.

“I’ll heat up your dinner,” you said, setting down your book and heading for the fridge, avoiding eye contact.

As his plate made its way around the microwave, you stared at it intensely, lost in a jungle of thoughts.

You and Frank had met during his massacre in Hell’s Kitchen. One night (or early morning) you were walking home from your dead-end job at a crappy diner, when a strange man came up behind you, sticking a gun against your side. He casually told you under his breath to stay quiet or you were dead. You felt fear spread through your entire body, not one finger left without terror. You continued to walk, the panic making it hard to put one foot in front of the other. But the man helped you out by shoving you along.

“Wha-What do you want?” you managed to crack out.

“I haven’t quite decided yet,” his voice sounded evil and cold.

Your stomach fell through, your heart pounded even harder. You had hoped he had just wanted your wallet, but now it seemed he wanted more from you.

“Come here,” he growled, shoving you into an alley, no one around to possibly help you.

You let out a cry as he shoved you against the wall, your head felt like it could have split against the brick. You sobbed out little pleases and cries.

“Shut up!” the man yelled in your face.

You finally saw what he looked like and you almost wished you hadn’t. He began to pull off your coat with one hand, the other holding the gun at your stomach. You felt paralyzed. You wanted to fight back, to never let this man take this from you, but you just couldn’t. Once your coat was off, he started on your shirt, a white button down, your diner uniform.

“Oh, hello, Y/N,” he sneered, noticing your name tag. “It’s nice to meet you.” His voice echo through your head. You knew it would haunt you if you made it out of this alive.

At that moment, you heard heavy feet scuffing against the sidewalk outside of the alley.

“Please,” you said a little louder, hoping the person would hear you.

“Shut up!” the man yelled again, shoving the barrel of the gun into your stomach harder. And just then, a large man shoved into the man who had half unbuttoned your shirt, knocking him to the ground. You cried harder, relief washing over you. The big man got the gun from the criminal and began beating him with it. Repeatedly and with so much force, you couldn’t help but stare. When his head was much too beat in to be alive, the big man stood up, looking down at his work. You just stood, melting into the brick wall. Both of your breath was rapid and heavy.

“You okay, ma’am?” the big man’s raspy voice echoed in the alley.

You just nodded quickly, almost scared of your hero too. He turned to look at you, his face splattered with blood. This was all too much. You were just coming home from work, looking forward to sleeping for twelve hours. But there was something in his eyes. They were dark, but full of something you couldn’t quite place. Your mind began to fog up and you felt yourself lose control. Then your legs gave out and you began to lose consciousness. You felt strong hands catch you around your waist, then you were out.

It was dark and quiet except for the faint sounds of cars and sirens. You were laying down and staring up at the darkness, a small light illuminated the space around you. When you were fully awake, you shot up, looking around. For a second you thought you had been taken somewhere, kidnapped, but when you saw the man who had saved you, your fear subsided some; but still wary of your safety.

“Hey,” his voice just as gravelly as in the alley. “You’re safe.” He added, noticing your nervous eyes.

“Where are we?” you asked, looking around.

“An old building,” he replied. “You’re safe here.” He assured again.

You took in your surroundings again, lost in your fuzzy brain. Then something struck you, and you looked back at the man sitting on the floor. His face was stained with bruises. Dark ones around his eyes and lighter ones on his cheeks.

“Wait…” you spoke softly. “You’re Frank Castle. You’re The-The Punisher.”

“That’s what they’re calling me.” he said, almost pissed off at the mention of it.

You felt a bit of fear stir up inside of you again, but it quickly settled. He saved you.

“Why did you save me?” you asked.

“I wasn’t going to just keep walking when I heard you were in trouble.” his gruff voice replied.

You gave a slight smile, thinking.

“You’re not like what the news makes you out to be.” you started. “I mean, what you did to that man was pretty… intense, but you saved me. They make it seem like you’ll just kill anyone.”

“I only take out the ones that deserve it.” he said matter of factly.

You grimaced a little at that; you didn’t know how you felt about his morals. But you watched him from where you laid. There was something about him that was comforting. Maybe it was the fact that he had just saved you from something that would have stuck with you forever, or maybe it was that he seemed like he genuinely cared about your well being.

“Where’s my coat?” you sat up, feeling a little frantic. It was something that felt so important in the moment that it made you anxious.

“Oh, I- I didn’t get it. I didn’t see it,” Frank said, noticing your frazzled state.

“It’s okay,” you sighed. It was just a coat.

“Can I go home?” you asked, slightly pulling the blanket off of you.

“Yeah,” he stood up, a grunt of pain leaving his lips. “I’ll walk you back.”

At first you were going to decline for some reason, but then you realized that was the stupidest thing you could do. You stood up slowly, your head still fuzzy from the passing out.

“Here. You can use this.” Frank laid a big coat over your shoulders.

“Oh- thank you.” you said, caught off guard. You slipped your arms in the sleeves that were too long for your hands to poke through.

“Yeah,” he said under his breath.

As you walked home there was silence between you. You wanted to talk to him though. This all felt so surreal.

Then a loud noise, probably a motorcycle backfiring, came out of nowhere. You were still shaken up by what had happened maybe an hour before, so this sent fear through your body. You let out a fearful cry and grabbed onto Frank walking beside you.

“Hey, it’s okay.” He said calmly. “It’s nothing.” He held your wrists, taking your hands off of his arm.

“I’m sorry,” you let out a nervous laugh. “I’m so on edge. This isn’t my average night.”

Frank gave you a smile. His smiles were magic, his eyes smiled too.

“This isn’t too unusual for me,” he snickered. “Except for you.”

That made you smile a little wider. There was something about him. Had you known him for twenty seconds, or twenty years?

“Well, this is it.” You said, taking a step up to your apartment building, now more level with Frank’s eyes.

He stood there, stocky frame, both hands in his pockets.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked, a slight smile on his lips.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you said quietly, almost blushing at the care in his voice. “Do you want your coat back?” You began pulling your arms out of the sleeves.

“No- you keep it,” he put a hand out in front of you in rejection. “I lost yours, so.”

You smiled again, putting your arms back in all the way. It was quiet for a little while, just standing in front of each other. The city was mild tonight- well, this morning. It had to be 3am by now.

“Thank you.. Frank.” You said his name, really felt the word, nervous what he would think that you used it. Names are weird to say sometimes… when you don’t know the person very well.

He didn’t respond right away, maybe you were overthinking and it hadn’t really been that long.

“—For the coat.” You giggled, holding the front of the coat with one hand like a model.

Frank snickered, shaking his head. “No problem.” He grinned.

The joke hung in the air for a while as an excuse to not leave each other. But then it left and you both stood there in the silence again.

“Good night… uh.” Frank said.

“Y/N,” you replied.

Frank had seen your name tag, but he didn’t want to sound creepy by knowing your name.

“Y/N.” He said back.

The way his voice carried your name gave you this feeling deep in your stomach.

“Good night.” You replied.

He took a step back and you took another step up.

“Be safe.” He said quickly, then turned away, walking back to where you both came from.

The next night, you were walking home from work again. This time with your pepper spray in hand. As you walked, you felt like someone was following you. You became very aware and walked a little quicker. Then you slightly turned your head and caught a glance of the person. You stopped in your tracks. That frame you knew anywhere.

“Are you trying to get pepper sprayed in the face?” You chuckled.

“Not what I was wanting to happen, but worth it just to know you’re taking safety precautions.” You heard a gruff voice say behind you.

You let yourself laugh out loud, turning around to see Frank in a baseball cap and coat. He was grinning from ear to ear too.

It continued like that. He would walk you home every night. “Just for his peace of mind” he would tell you. That made the butterflies in your stomach fly higher. Those butterflies wouldn’t calm down. Even when you were just at home or at work. Frank was all you could think about.

One night you were at the diner, pulling another graveyard shift. You were in the back filling up the salt and pepper shakers. It had been a slow night. The bell sounded, telling you someone had come in.

“One second!” You called, screwing the top back on a salt shaker. Then you went to the front and saw Frank. You both gave each other bright smiles.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, coming out from behind the counter.

“Had the night off, thought I’d pop by.” He shrugged.

“Oh, okay,” you replied, shrugging too, joking like this was a normal thing he did. “Coffee?” You asked, but already started pouring a mug.

“Thank you.” He nodded. “I’ll just wait over here till you get off.” He went over to a corner booth.

“Okay,” you ducked your head, smiling like a fool.

As things progressed in The Kitchen, Frank walked you home less and less. You knew what he was. You knew what he did. It scared you to think about sometimes. There was something so mysterious about him, but there was something rooted so deeply in him that was just simply good. That’s what you saw every time you looked at him. His goodness.

Frank didn’t tell you much about what was going on, he said he didn’t want you getting in the middle of it; you had a couple fights about that. But you knew about Karen and how she was trying to help him. You were thankful for her. That she was helping him in ways you couldn’t.

He told you about his family. You cried. It broke your heart to hear the way he talked about them. His eyes glossy, his voice growing raspier.

Then he got arrested. You were shocked as you watched the news on the tv in the diner.

As the days dragged along, you felt yourself start to think it wasn’t ever going to be what you wanted it to be with Frank. It was hard to come to that conclusion, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to stop caring about him.

One day, you tracked down Karen Page and told her who you were and you both talked for hours. She told you about how she was investigating his case. You told her what you knew about him, it wasn’t much at all, though.

She told you as much as she could about his case. It was nice to have her, you both got along so well.

You kept up with the trial through the news, it hurt to see the way he was handling it.

Then he broke out of jail. That scared you. You didn’t know what he was doing.

Then all of the shootings happened. Everyone was blaming him, and you didn’t know what to believe. Karen was quick to tell you that it wasn’t him and that he had saved her. Those few days you were a nervous wreck. Karen wasn’t answering your calls and you didn’t know what to do.

Then the next night— or very early morning, you were coming home from work. You dumped your coat (the one that was really Frank’s) and purse on your couch and headed for the fridge; you were starving. Then you heard a sound in the corner of your living room, causing your stomach to flip. You slammed the fridge door in fear. Then a figure stepping forward, into the moonlight coming through the window.

“Frank?” you dropped the apple, tears immediately flooding your eyes. “Wha-What is going on?” Your voice quivered with emotion. You noticed is bruised and bloody face.

“I gotta disappear for a while,” he said slowly.

“Frank,” you said again, running forward, into his arms.

This was the first time you two had had any physical contact like this. His arms wrapped around your waist so tightly, you thought he could break your ribs if he wanted to. Your arms were around his neck, your face in his shoulder. Blood was probably staining your shirt, but you didn’t care.

“Do you mind if I wash up a bit?” He asked after you had parted.

“No, of course,” you led him to the bathroom.

That was the last time you saw him. The news said he was dead. Some explosion. It broke your heart.

A few days after the news, you learned it wasn’t true. The experience in your living room when he showed up was heart stopping. You woke up around 11am after another late shift. You shuffled into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

“Can I get some of that?” You heard the familiar, gravelly voice say behind you.

You gave him the what-for for scaring you out of your skin. But it ended in tears and gratefulness that he was alive. You had to admit, you had a feeling he was.

He left the next day, saying he had to finish what he had started. You tried to convince him not to, but he was too stubborn.

About a week later, he came back. He told you he had to disappear, go underground. He had changed his name to Pete Castiglione and he said he couldn’t see you anymore since he was technically dead. It stung. It hurt him too, you could see it in his eyes. There was something about his eyes that always had you captivated.

“Frank,” you said quickly as he stood up to leave, after telling you all of this.

He froze.

“What if I came with you?” You knew it sounded crazy, but you felt like Frank was someone you couldn’t live without. You’d known each other maybe a month, but it felt like years. You had a feeling he felt the same way.

He didn’t move, holding his hat with both hands in front of him. You stood up from the couch, turning to face him.

“Tell me you don’t feel like you’ve known me for years, like we were meant to meet.” You said, your face burning with embarrassment as you spoke. “Tell me you want to leave and never see me again. That you could just leave and never look back.” Your voice got caught in your throat.

“Y/N…” Frank whispered, taking a step forward.

“Cause if you tell me that, I’ll let you go. It’ll break my heart, but… I’ll let you go.” You bowed your head, closing your eyes, tears streaming silently down your cheeks. You felt a warm hand grasp your face, so gently. You looked up and was met with those eyes. They were glossy and sad.

“Frank,” You said so quietly.

“I can’t tell you those things, Y/N,” he replied. “I can’t lie to you.”

Your heart sped up as you looked up at him, his thumb grazing your cheek, wiping away fallen tears. You leaned forward, your head resting on his, both of you holding onto the moment with everything you had inside of you.

“I can’t let you go.” You whispered.

“You don’t deserve to live like a dead woman.”

“I’ll be with you.”

“What about your life? Your friends and family?”

“I don’t have any of that.” You told him that your parents were both dead and you didn’t have any other family. And friends were never your strong suit.

“But I—“ Frank continued. “I can’t put you in danger and you deserve so much better than—“

“You deserve to be happy, Frank.” You interrupted. “I know you don’t think you do, but you do.”

He was quiet. Standing there, you in front of him, your hands now intertwined in between you, he was in awe of you. He never thought he would feel like this again about someone. To him, you were perfect in every sense of the word.

“Please, Frank,” You stood on your toes and place a kiss on his cheek. Your lips felt the tear that had run down his lightly bruised face.

“You’re gonna have to start calling me, Pete,” he said, and both of you broke into the biggest smiles.

You jumped up into his arms in the tightest hug. Then you pulled away, looking at his sweet face. You both dove in at the same time with a deep kiss. It was full of so much love you both felt like you could burst into a million pieces.

“You are everything, Frank Castle.”

A few weeks passed and you both decided to get married. It was scary and something that was difficult for Frank, you could tell, and you didn’t blame him. But he loved you, simply and hard, so he knew it was right.

You changed your last name and quit your job and began to live a different life. A life away from the internet and the outside world. It was difficult to have to forget about your old life. More difficult than you thought it was going to be. You moved into a much smaller apartment and left everything of yours behind. You were dead after all, and you can’t take your things with you when you die.

You had contacted Karen before everything. She was the only person Frank trusted and you wanted to make sure she knew that you were both okay. She was so happy for you both.

Now here you were, months later, that honestly felt like years. Frank had distanced himself from you and you had curled in on yourself too. Things were rough. The routine was the same and everything was stuck in a time loop.

Frank had cleared his plate, now taking a shower. You turned on the clock radio for some music while you tackled the messy kitchen. Music was a safe place for you and it was nice to at least have the radio to keep you company. Then a love song came on that you adored. It was one of those songs that you can’t help but sway to. Frank came out of the bathroom soon after it started, but you hardly noticed as you were lost in the tune. You were standing over the sink, washing a plate, swaying to the slow beat. You did notice Frank enter the small, kitchen area, but you were caught off guard when he slowly wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. You were stiff for a moment, but quickly softened into his embrace. You laid your head back against his shoulder as you both swayed from side to side, lost in the lyrics.

“You’re my, my, my, my… Lover.”

You felt Frank’s warm breath against your neck. It was so comforting. His arms tightened around you and you dropped the plate in the dish water, moving your soapy hands to on top of Frank’s. This was everything.

The song ended, it wasn’t long enough. You turned to face Frank, looking into his eyes. His eyes. You hadn’t looked at them and gotten that feeling in so long.

“Frank,” you said with your breath, your hand grasping his bearded cheeks.

You felt his hands grasp your hips tightly, and you both leaned in, your lips pressing firmly against each other. Things got a little brighter as the night went on.

...

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briarpatch-kids · 3 years ago

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hi I have another question. in my ask earlier you said something about some people needing to be able to move to prevent pressure sores and it made me think of a question I've thought about asking but never did. When I sit in I guess whats "classic" wheelchair position (straight down back, straight across thighs, straight down shins, straight across feet) after a little while there's pain in my thigh muscles. So I was wondering if this would also be a problem that people who regularly use wheelchairs and still have sensation in their legs would have?

You might need a better cushion under your butt! I used to get more pain in my butt and thighs from having to use those muscles to stabilize myself. I got a Jay Basic Pro (basically a regular foam cushion but with a butt shaped impression in it, sized for my wheelchair seat pan)

(content warning: frank description of wounds below)

Pressure injuries start out as like, a hard sore spot of skin in places where your bones poke through the most. (A lot of people get them in the tailbone, I got them where the "ball" of my right hip presses down when I was getting them.) They're basically a combo of lack of blood flow, pressure, friction, and "shear" meaning like, the force from dragging your butt and thighs across your cushion and drag from your clothes. Two forces moving in opposite directions.

They usually start as hard, sore spots but they're different feeling than like, acne. I could grab the piece of hard skin and it was about 2 inches across.

Depending on the way your skin breaks down, you can get a fluid filled "blister" sort of thing under the skin that tunnels into and through the places where your skin has broken down and will eventually need to break the skin and drain, hopefully by a doctor. Or an open wound that can slowly grow in "stages" all the way down to the bone if left untreated. I only have experience with the first kind. You *should* go to the doctor and get it looked at staged, and all that, but other things you can do are be more vigilant about keeping pressure off that area, making sure to change position every few hours, making sure your chair is properly fitted, and using the right kind of cushion. If I start to get more or deeper pressure sores, I'm going to switch from visco foam cushions to something with different support.

There's gel, air, fancy computer controlled air, there's even bed overlays that will change which side of your body has the most pressure on it if you can't turn in bed. It's all pretty cool and space age nowadays. Pressure injuries are a HUGE killer of disabled people still though and those space age materials are only useful if you can get them and use them. If it's something you consistently deal with, please talk to your doctor about it and let them treat and stage the wounds so you can get it covered by insurance.

#tay dont look

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yhwhsdaughter · 3 years ago

Text

Teeth

art source

promptober masterlist

child levi x fem reader

content: familial-platonic relationship, forced vampirism, child vampire, mentions of blood, murder/death

Ring, ring, ring!

“Uurghh..” head buried in pillow, a hand stretched out towards the sound. After a few tries, you managed to answer in a groggy-like state. The voice on the other side though, wasn’t so mellow, “[Surname]! Why aren’t you in the office?!”

On cue, you shot up from bed, immediately looking at the clock.

9:45 a.m.

A string of silent curses left your mouth. Untangling your body from the sheets, you staggered towards the wall. Your leg must’ve hit something because next thing you knew, you were on the ground.

Shoot!

Standing exasperatedly, you flicked the switch, squinting as the lights blinded you momentarily. “Sorry boss, I-uh overslept. I will be there soon.”

Ending the call, you headed towards the restroom. Upon passing the mirror you froze. There was an alarming amount of blood all over your neck and shirt. You couldn’t have gotten this from a simple nosebleed. Discarding your sweater and shirt, you found no wound.

“…I don’t have time for this.”

Taking the quickest shower of your life, you threw the first decent clothes you found. The colors probably clashed but you figured the boss cared more about your presence than your fashion sense.

Nearly out the door, a meow stopped you. The neighbors had a cat that always managed to escape; she seemed to be fond of your apartment so you would let her in on occasions. Part of you wanted to ignore it and leave to work but on the third meow, you decided it was best to open the window lest the cat fall to her death from the seventh floor.

Moving the curtain aside, an intense burning feeling spread through your hand as sunlight hit your skin. Hissing in pain, you let the material fall. “Ow..!”

Blisters formed on the exposed area. Whimpering, you tried to open the window again. Once more, you cried as the sun practically burned your flesh. The wound had worsened, turning reddish.

You stood there for a few minutes, cradling your arm whilst the pain subsided. Heading to the bathroom, you washed it and put ointment on before dressing it. Staring at some painkillers, you took several.

11:00 p.m.

Phone drowned in angry voicemails from the boss, each worse than the last, you stopped listening and assumed that you were effectively fired. Still, that seemed like the least of your problems.

With hesitation, you left bed and approached the covered windows.

This time, there was no searing pain. Throwing the curtains aside, you were merely bathed in moonlight. “Weird..” perhaps you’d developed a sudden allergy to the sun.

Deeming it safe to exit, you headed downstairs. Onyakopon was there; he worked as the building’s manager. “Hey [Name], didn’t see you come in last night.” You smiled awkwardly. To be frank, your memory was hazy. You’d no idea how you even made it home. “Oh, I went drinking with friends. Guess I had too much fun huh..”

He said something but you paid no mind, opting to stare at his carotid. It pulsed so nicely. Your tongue ran across your lips. “….okay?”

“Hm? Yeah. I’m just gonna take a walk. Get some air.”

Onyakopon felt your behavior was odd but he thought it best not to mention it, “Be careful. There’s been attacks recently. Lots of weirdos out there.” You nodded, already out the door. For some reason, Onyakopon’s words resonated in your head. Something about that… could the blood on your clothes be connected?

Despite the brisk wind that flapped open your coat, you walked ahead, boots crunching on the snow, completely unbothered by the cold.

Trying to retrace your steps, you did your best to focus. After leaving the karaoke, you bid goodbye to your friends, turning down their invitation to sleepover because there was work in the morning.

Lost in your thoughts, your feet led you underneath a bridge. This location was familiar; though you passed by it every morning on your way to the office, it triggered a sense of awareness. “Here..” using your phone to illuminate, you looked around for any sign that could give you a clue onto what was happening.

Shining the light on the ground, you found a puddle of dried blood. A couple of drops splattered the surrounded area but nothing else. Squatting, you inspected it—

“Took you long enough.”

Swiveling, you shined the light onto the voice, startled because you never heard them approach. A child raised their hand, covering their eyes from the sudden blindness. “Put that down.” His tone was so commanding that you did as told, even muttering a ‘sorry’

Looking around, you saw no sign of adults. “Um are you lost? Where are your parents?” The kid chuckled dryly like you’d just told a joke. “You said that last time too.”

Although he was smaller than most kids, and had a skinny frame, your blood ran cold at his words. His presence was that of a predator. You felt ridiculous for even thinking it. “Pardon?”

The sound of a bottle being kicked caught both your attention. Standing quickly, you stood in front of the kid as a group of three men came into view.

“Look what we have here~”

They circled you in, too close for comfort. Pushing you towards the wall, you grasped the hand of the boy. He looked unamused, annoyed if anything. One of the men pressed his body on yours. “You’re cute.” You could hear the excitement in his blood, his heart pumping faster. You gulped.

“Should we have some fun—aaah!!”

Your mouth was attached to his neck, biting furiously. As blood filled your mouth, a feeling of renewal overtook your senses. He fought against you but it was futile, doing nothing to deter you.

To the side, another scream erupted. Glancing briefly, you saw of tiny blur mounting one of the men. A pair of hands pushed you off. His strength felt like a gentle breeze but because you were so distracted feeding, it took you by surprised.

Rolling into a squatting position, you hissed at him with a mouthful of blood. Launching at the man, you did the same as you’d done with his friend. You sucked from him until your stomach felt full.

Still on your knees, you let out a sigh of relief. The discomfort that you’d been feeling all day was gone. In the struggle, the bandage around your arm had come undone. As you moved to fix it, you were shocked to discover that the blisters which covered your skin were gone.

A kick to your back brought you to reality. The child’s mouth was stained red. “You made a mess, brat.”

Who is this kid calling brat?

You opened your mouth to speak but he shut you up, “Help me clean.” Glancing around, there lay three unmoving bodies. It was late, so the chances of people showing up were slim but if anyone found the corpses, you’d be in trouble. “Fine. But I want an explanation after this.”

—

“Over 200 hundred years old? You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“Why me?”

“It was an accident. I’d no idea you survived. My feeding was interrupted and when I came back, you were gone. I assumed you died.”

Arms crossed, you processed this entirely new information. The two of you had returned to your apartment; you’d proposed to wait until Onyakopon left to bed in order to avoid questioning. He was kindhearted so of course he’d ask where this random child appeared from, since you had no nephews or kids. “No need. I’ll climb, just tell me what floor.”

“We can do that?”

“….”

“Seventh.”

You had no clue how much time had passed but both of you yawned simultaneously. “Last question.” Levi was a child of few words but he must’ve understood your curiosity because he stared patiently.

“Why do you suddenly need me?”

He sighed, “My previous caretaker, Erwin, died of a heart attack. He got old..”

A trace of sadness lingered in Levi’s eyes. If what he said was true, then he must’ve lost many caretakers. “When I saw you, I thought.. an immortal one might be better.” Seeing the question in your features, Levi explained that he never bothered to turn others because it was too much hassle.

“How were you so sure I would help you?”

“I wasn’t.”

It was upsetting, being given an immortality without consent. You didn’t have a perfect life but it was a good one and this sudden change was…

“…Are you gonna call me mother?��

“Hell no.”

Such a potty mouth..

This wasn’t how you imagined motherhood to be, but Levi promised to guide you. He would lean on you to pose as his guardian; in exchange, Levi would teach you the vampiric ways. From what he said, the two of you would be together for a while.

An eternity of it, to be exact.

#𐐪𐑂 — earl grey #levi x you #levi x reader #levi x y/n #levi ackerman #levi aot #levi attack on titan #snk levi #levi shingeki no kyojin

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flowercrown-bard · 4 years ago

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I'm just thinking about the first time Jaskier learns that Geralt names every horse he gets Roach. Does this amuse Jaskier? Does he realise the abandonment issues involved? Is Geralt nervous or embarrassed to tell him? Does this count as a prompt? I'm not sure if it does but I hope your day gets better!

that absolutely counts as a prompt! thank you :)

A Horse by Any Other Name

The insistent strumming of the lute was starting to get on Geralt’s nerves. One would think by now he’d be able to tune it out, but no. It was like everything the bard did was demanding Geralt’s full attention. The bard would probably let it get to his head if he knew, insisting that Geralt liked having him near or some such nonsense.

“The mighty steed by the name of Roach

Loyal even when a monster approach…es.”

The notes faltered as the bard stumbled over the words of his new song for the umpteenth time. “Damn it.”

Geralt’s lips twitched upwards, when the bard picked up the tune again, trying in vain to find a decent rhyme.

Eventually he gave up. Finally, some silence. Though not for long.

“Really, Geralt. Roach? How am I supposed to fit that into any song? She deserves to be sung about, but nothing makes a decent rhyme for that name and if I change the syntax it doesn’t fit the metre anymore.” He scoffed and put the lute onto his back. “Sometimes I think you only named her that to spite me. Roach! You couldn’t have picked literally any other name, could you? Something that would sound good in a ballad about heroism and adventure maybe?”

Geralt grunted. “No.”

His jaw clenched. The bard had no right to demand such a thing. It was none of his business what Geralt called his horse. Roach wasn’t here to be a shining accessory to the bard’s songs. She was his companion.

Despite his time at the theatre, the bard didn’t know how to take a cue. Geralt’s frown and obvious dismissal must not have been obvious enough for him.

The bard skipped some steps ahead, until he was walking backwards, looking at him with an impish grin.

“Oh…that almost sounds like it has a story behind it.” He spread his arms widely. “The great tale of why Roach is the only acceptable name for this valiant mare.”

“There isn’t one.” None that the bard would get to hear any time soon, at least.

Geralt guided Roach around the bard and urged her on to walk faster.

“Come on!” He ignored the bard calling after him. “Tell me!”

“Fuck off, bard.”

Geralt didn’t look back, but after a few seconds he heard an indignant huff and the sound of hurried footsteps.

The bard didn’t broach the subject again. Almost a week had passed and Geralt was starting to relax, hoping against his better judgement that the bard had lost interest. Experience should have told him that this hope was stupid.

As per usual Geralt was riding on horse while the bard walked behind him like a stone stuck in one’s shoe, annoying and likely to still be there, even when one thought they had finally gotten rid of it for good. And as per usual the bard was talking.

“My feet are killing me, Geralt! Don’t ever let me put on these shoes when we are going for a long walk again. Gorgeous as they are, they are not made for adventuring.”

Geralt grunted and damn it, he was unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

The bard must have picked up on it, because he doubled down, sighing overdramatically.

“You could save me from my misery, you know? You are supposed to be my hero. My knight in shining armour. So, if we keep travelling together for much longer, you could just let me ride –“

“No,” Geralt said, though at this point it was more to see the bard’s reaction than anything else. He was loath to admit it, but the bard had a point. If he were to stick around, it would be better if he didn’t have to walk everywhere. It was slowing them down and it would do no good for the bard to get blisters. If for some reason the bard would ever get in danger, being exhausted from a long walk would prove fatal.

Geralt ground his teeth together. He shouldn’t be thinking such things. There would be no travelling together. Soon enough the bard would get tired of trailing after Geralt and find someone else to latch onto, probably some pretty woman who openly showered him in adoration.

The bard’s huff brought him back to the here and now, in which the bard was still very much by his side.

“Fine then. Maybe in the next town I will just buy my own horse. And I will give it a truly beautiful name, one that can actually be used in my poetry. Like Pegasus. That is a name worthy of ballads.”

Geralt tensed. He didn’t mean to, but his heels must have dug into Roach’s sides, for she made a disgruntled sound.

The bard chuckled. “Don’t worry, Roach, my dear.” The bard came closer and gently stroked her nostrils. Geralt couldn’t help the relief he felt when Roach didn’t snap at the bard, biting the fingers that he so dearly needed for his playing. “You are still my one and only Roach.”

“She isn’t.”

The words were out before Geralt could stop himself.

The way the bard rolled his eyes was far too exaggerated for him to be truly annoyed. “Oh hush, you can stop it with your boorishness. I know you get touchy about her, but you can’t deny that Roach and I have become friends.” He paused. “Just like you can’t deny that we have become friends.”

Geralt could and very much would deny that as often as he must until the bard finally saw reason. Geralt’s jaw worked while the bard looked up at him challengingly.

Ah fuck it.

“That’s not what I meant. She isn’t the only Roach.” He paused, trying to find the right words. “Not the first one anyway.”

“The first one?” Despite Geralt avoiding the bard’s eyes, he could see his expression turn confused. “You mean there were others before her? And there will be Roaches after her?”

Geralt nodded curtly. And that was that. At least as far as Geralt was concerned. The bard obviously had a different view on things.

“So that’s why you didn’t want to talk about her name!” There was a smile in his voice that had no business being there. “It’s alright, you know. I won’t judge you for not being creative with names. Happens to the best of us. To be frank, I think it’s quite endearing.”

Geralt snapped around sharply. “Stop talking about things you know nothing about.”

He was about to spurn Roach on, just to get away from the conversation and the uncomfortably tight feeling in his chest, when he noticed that the bard had fallen eerily quiet.

Geralt risked a glance over his shoulder to find the bard staring at the ground, where he was kicking a stone in front of him, apparently lost in thought. Geralt didn’t know what to make of it. He knew he was gruff and just overall not good company, but he hadn’t thought that he would actually manage to get the bard to shut up. Somehow it didn’t sit right with him. As much as the constant chatter could be annoying, it was part of the bard and losing it felt a step closer to the inevitable. Still, he didn’t know what to do about it. He had never been good at keeping things close.

He almost slumped in relief, when the bard spoke up again, quieter this time and with none of the dramatics and exaggerated emotion of a performance. “What was the first Roach like?”

Geralt’s breath hitched. It had been so long since he had taken the time to think back to the first one, even though the memory never left him.

When Geralt didn’t immediately answer, the bard swallowed and averted his eyes. “Sorry. Ignore my question. I don’t actually want you to talk about things you don’t want to talk about.”

“He wasn’t mine,” Geralt said, unsure how much the bard was willing to hear, but feeling the strange need to tell him anyway. “When I became a witcher, I didn’t have a horse. I was quite disappointed about that actually.” His lips twitched. “It would have fit into the ridiculous idea I had about being some heroic defender of mankind.”

The bard started fidgeting and pressed his lips together, like he was burning to say something, but holding back to let Geralt talk. Geralt wouldn’t admit it, but he was grateful for it.

“The first monster I killed…. let’s just say the one I saved didn’t exactly see me as a defender.” His brows drew together at the memory. “After she regained consciousness, she ran away as fast as she could. Didn’t care that she had left her horse behind. I didn’t want him either. I was no hero and I was too bitter to think of how useful a horse would be.

“But he kept following me around.” A smile stole itself onto Geralt’s face. “Just wouldn’t leave me behind, that stubborn horse. For a week or so I didn’t give him a name. I wasn’t planning on keeping him. It was only when I had to choose between spending my coin on food for him or for myself that I decided to name him. I caught my own food that day – a roach – and figured it was a good enough name. It wasn’t the best, but I wasn’t going to keep the horse for long anyway. He didn’t leave though. Stayed with me until he wasn’t able to run fast enough when a griffin got away from me.”

There was that silence again. It was what Geralt had wanted, wasn’t it? For the bard to be quiet. But this silence was heavy, filled with something Geralt didn’t dare name, lest he would have to admit to himself that the bard wasn’t just some idiot who only followed him because he hadn’t yet realised the foolishness of it.

He scoffed, filled with the unexpected need to hear the bard react in some way.

“You satisfied?” Geralt’s voice sounded bitter even in his own ears. “Is that something you can make a song out of?”

“No. I don’t think I will,” the bard said quietly, thoughtfully. So unlike the way Geralt was used to hearing him speak. He wasn’t sure if he minded it. “Thank you for telling me.”

Geralt grunted, his throat suddenly dry. For a terrifying moment, he had come so close to making a fool of himself by thanking the bard for listening.

When he looked at the bard out of the corner of his eye, he had a tiny smile dancing on his lips.

“It’s good to finally know that she is named after the fish.” Something loosened inside Geralt at the bard’s light-hearted words. “For the longest time I thought our dearest Roach was named after a cockroach and that would have just been a strange name.”

Geralt huffed, but didn’t hide the tiny smile that tugged at his lips. “Says someone named after a flower.”

The hearty laugh was enough to vanquish the last of the heaviness around Geralt’s chest that made it hard to breathe.

“So you do know my name after all.” The bard cocked his head to the side, smile still in place. “I had begun to wonder if you just didn’t know and reached a point where it would have been embarrassing to ask.”

“Hard to miss the name people shout when they chase you out of their rooms.”

The bard grinned. “Not to mention the multitude of adoring fans shouting my name. As they will yours once I make you famous.”

Geralt snorted.

“Actually, could you halt Roach for a moment? There’s been a pebble stuck inside my shoe for forever now and I really need to get rid of it.”

Geralt lifted a brow, but did as the bard had said. His breathe got stuck in his throat when the bard placed a hand on his leg for balance, as he took one boot off.

The smile on the bard’s face when he had finally managed to shake the pebble out of it was incredibly smug.

“Alright then, onwards!”

Geralt hesitated. “Come here.”

“What?”

“I said come here. Onto Roach. I want to reach town before nightfall and I can’t do that when stones keep getting stuck in your shoes.”

For a heartbeat, the bard looked at Geralt with an unreadable expression, before a grin spread across his face.

It was only when he was sat behind Geralt with his arms slung around him, that the bard spoke again. “Just in case you were worried. I am not going to leave you, Geralt.”

Geralt sighed, but somehow the annoyance he had come to expect at such a declaration didn’t come.

“I am afraid you’re right, Jaskier.”

#Geraskier #The Witcher #Roach #Bad Shakespeare references #Subtlety? Never heard of her #Jaskier #Geralt #fic #My writing #ask and you shall receive

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magnoliasinbloom · 4 years ago

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Lie To Me - 9

AO3 :: Previously

Claire blinks, visibly baffled. For a moment, she doesn’t even know what to say, processing what Jamie’s revelation means for their own relationship. She shakes her head to clear it. “You say that having children is one way for your uncles to take the land. How do you manage to not… you know?” Claire blushes.

“Och, Sassenach, I’ve told them that the burns may have made me… unable to sire children. Nerve damage and such.” Jamie matches her reddening cheeks. They both know he is perfectly capable of performing.

“The other way they win is if you—you die. Does this mean that they’ve tried that?”

“Not yet. I agreed to marry as well because Jenny has bairns of her own, including boys. They can inherit too, but I dinna wish my uncles to harm them in their pursuit of wealth and power.” Jamie’s voice is hard. “There was the fire, but that was merely a happy accident that didna turn out as well as they would have hoped.”

“The fire? Your scars?” Claire asks, and Jamie and Murtagh exchange glances.

“Start at the beginning, a bhalaich. Dinna confuse the puir lassie.” Murtagh pours them another tumblerful. Claire is still nursing the first drink, her mind reeling with the information regarding Jamie’s marriage.

“A few years ago, I was working late at night at the Leoch office building. I was still inexperienced, tryin’ to prove meself at the job. I had a colleague; his name was Alexander McGregor.” Jamie’s eyes are full of shame, but his voice is steady. “He had stayed that night too. When I was finally leaving, I noticed he was in a private conference room, with the blinds drawn. That was smart, for Alex knew there were cameras in there. I thought it might be something serious, for their talk grew so heated I could hear the argument coming from the room. I thought I’d knock and defuse the situation.” Jamie paused to take a deep draught. Claire is tempted to reach for his hand and comfort him, but senses this is a story he has to tell for himself.

“Before I could turn the doorknob, I heard a muffled gunshot and I broke into the room. I could only see Alex for a second, slumped in a chair, blood pouring from a hole in his stomach. The man struck me in the heid wi’ the gun, and I dropped like a stone.” Claire gasps softly.

Jamie plows ahead resolutely. “I woke up a few minutes later when I smelled the smoke, the gun in my own hand, and it was already too late. Alex was dead, and the room was up in flames. The man had rigged the wiring on the overhead lights when he left and caused the fire, disabling the sprinklers too. Wi’ the closed door, it was an inferno. My back was seared and blistered, the skin peeling off as I tried to get Alex’s body out. Or so the doctors told me. ‘Twas a miracle I survived at all.”

Murtagh clears his throat. “He was in the hospital for a month. Jenny and I were terribly worried, thinking he might not pull through.”

“But why?” Claire bursts out, bewildered. “Why kill Alex?”

“Alex discovered internal documents that implicated men in power, links to bank accounts of several police officers, judges, and politicians on Leoch Holdings’ payroll. My uncles were—are—trading money for favors, overturning convictions, and legislating in the company’s interests.”

“During the investigations, we found no trace of any document in the room, most everything had burned up,” Murtagh says. “There was also no CCTV footage available. Someone had tampered with the video.” With this, the old man stood up, and unlocked a metal filing cabinet next to his desk. Claire watched in fascination as he manipulated a false bottom and extracted a fat manila envelope. “But then we got these.”

“Murtagh took care of my dingy flat while I was in hospital. Alex had messengered over copies of the documents in secret—wise of him, to leave no digital trace. There was a letter explaining what it all meant, and who the man was—Stephen Bonnet, he’s a commander in the force. Murtagh saw it, and could verify that my name was not on the records. Therefore, I was unlikely to be involved in my uncles’ dirty business.”

“Why did he not tell you from the start?” Dread was settling into Claire’s very bones, as she grasped the magnitude of the situation.

“He didna trust me, I imagine. Upon his discovery, he assumed I was in cahoots with my uncles, bein’ family and all. But I made certain comments to him that probably convinced him I was unaware of their dealings.”

“What did you tell him?”

“At the time, when I started at Leoch, my uncles were pressuring me to date and marry Laoghaire. I told Alex this, and said that it was wrong and I plain didna want to, and if they fired me for it, they could go fuck themselves and I’d work bagging groceries at Tesco before I’d let them bully me like that.” Claire almost smiles at this vehement outburst. “I lost on that account.”

“And Bonnet?”

“He was listed under an assumed name on the documents. That’s why Alex, poor lad, didna think he might be involved either. Bonnet fixed it so Alex’s body was not autopsied, so no one could ken of the gunshot wound that killed him. The McGregors were told there were no real remains, and they had only ashes to mourn. My uncles—”

“Threatened your life if you exposed them and forced you to marry,” Claire finishes for him. “But there is no proof of you doing any wrong!”

Murtagh sighed. “We thought so as weel. But Colum and Dougal’s reach is much longer than ye ken.”

“They had tech experts alter images and deep fake a video that pin Alexander’s death on me,” Jamie says. Claire shakes her head.

“But surely anyone—”

“’Tis my word against theirs. With their endless resources and contacts in law enforcement and the courts, who would believe me?” Jamie’s tone is final and resigned.

Silence weighs heavy in the air; Murtagh collects their empty glasses and sets them on his desk. “I’ve used my position in the force to continue to gather evidence, more papers, whatever I can use to help bring Colum and Dougal MacKenzie to justice, and absolve Jamie from any blame. I’ve involved Chief John Grey from the SCD, Specialist Crime Division, who works with organized crime, and it’s taken us years to be able to discern who to trust and who is in Leoch’s pockets.”

Claire is stunned at this turn of events. She had expected a godfather who at best, might cajole her into believing that Jamie’s marriage was a lie, an economic convenience of sorts, and that had been true after a fashion. But she had not predicted that this was an issue involving crime, illegal activities, and the death of an innocent man. Jamie appears to read her thoughts.

“That is the truth, Sassenach, and I trust ye enough that I ken well ye willna expose the ongoing investigation, or speak to anyone about what happens at Leoch. I’ve endangered yer very life by making ye privy to my story, and for that I am truly sorry.”

“Jamie, I—” Claire’s voice breaks. She casts about for what she wants to say. “Thank you for trusting me. I won’t say anything, not even to Geillis,”—at this she remembers G is still waiting in the lobby— “and… and I want you to understand, we are what we make ourselves, we use what we have, and we decide what we are. You, James Fraser, are an honorable man.”

X-x-X

Jamie remains behind to spend time going over new evidence with Murtagh. Claire assures him Geillis and she will head straight to their flat, and he asks if she would call him tomorrow. He doesn’t want to assume, he doesn’t want to lie anymore; he will give her time to think, to decide if this is something she also wants, if she feels as he does, their short acquaintance be damned. Can Claire risk her heart?

There is an unbearable weight of sorrow pressing upon Claire’s spirit; as she rides the elevator, descending numbers flashing in the display, she racks her brain trying to figure out if there is anything, anything at all she can do to ease his burden.

When she spots Geillis waiting for her, she realizes how lucky she is to have a friend like her—unconditional, constant, a forever kind of friend. G had been there for her in her darkest times, even when…

Suddenly it hits Claire. Without a word, Geillis follows her out into the rainy Glasgow night.

“What’s happened? Are ye convinced? Was he telling the truth?”

“Oh, G. I can’t even tell you. He’s for real, and he’s just been so unlucky in life… I have to help him.”

“What do you mean? Help him how?”

“I’m going to call Frank.”

#outlander #outlander fanfic #jamie and claire #ltm9

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swanlake1998 · 4 years ago

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Article: Julie Felix: the brilliant Black ballerina who was forced to leave Britain

Date: March 3, 2021

By: Steve Rose

(CW: racism, anti black racism, police brutality, violence, murder mention)

She was told there was no room for a ‘brown swan’ in the London Festival Ballet, so she went to the US. There she found enormous success, dancing for everyone from Michael Jackson to Prince

The turning point in Julie Felix’s career came in 1975. A student at Rambert ballet school in London, she was selected to dance in Rudolf Nureyev’s production of Sleeping Beauty with the London Festival Ballet (now the English National Ballet). Nureyev was the god of British ballet – and he lived up to his reputation on the first day of rehearsal, Felix recalls. “He was late, but everybody said he was always late. All of a sudden, the doors flew open and in he came. He was well renowned for these big boots he used to wear, and a big fur coat. He took the coat off like a matador and threw it so it slid across the dance studio floor. Everybody jumped up and stood to attention. He was there for probably about half an hour.” At the time, 17-year-old Felix was awestruck. In hindsight, half a century later, she is less impressed: “Talk about unprofessional.”

In the fairytale version of Felix’s life, having acquitted herself on stage with Nureyev, she would have joined the London Festival Ballet and become the first Black British dancer to begin her ascent through the ranks of a British ballet company. Instead, she was told she was a “lovely dancer”, but was not going to be given a contract, “because of the colour of my skin. I would mess up the line of the corps de ballet, because you can’t have a whole row of white swans and then there’s a brown one at the end.”

Felix was stunned: “It hit me like a thunderbolt.” Her mother was white British and her father African-Caribbean, from Saint Lucia. She had never thought of the refined world of ballet as being what we might now describe as institutionally racist. “It sounds ridiculous, but because I didn’t experience any racial issues or difficulties before that, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with the colour of my skin. I thought that I was talented and that would be enough.”

Having grown up in Ealing, west London, in the 60s, Felix certainly knew about racial difference. She rarely saw any faces that were not white in the neighbourhood or at school, she says. After her parents had met on a bench in Hyde Park, her mother’s family disapproved. “They said: ‘If you marry that man, we’re going to disown you.’ And my mum just said: ‘Well, fair enough, I still want to marry him.’”

Her father, who worked as a foreman at the Hoover factory, was quite the charmer, says Felix. “He was the proudest man. He would paint the front door a different colour every year. He was always up the ladder washing his windows. He would grow fruits and vegetables in the back garden. But I would say my dad had a big chip on his shoulder.”

She describes how he would dress like a dandy, in 40s suits and spats, even if he was just going to do the shopping. “He would always berate the grocers and say: ‘You’re picking the bruised fruit and vegetables because I’m Black. You think I can’t see this?’” She laughs. “Why would you move somewhere if you’re going to spend your life being concerned about the way other people look at you and your colour?”

There was an incident when she was eight or nine, when her father returned from work very late, his shirt ripped and covered in blood. A colleague had attacked him outside the factory gates with a meat cleaver on a chain. “He didn’t like, one, the way my dad spoke to him and, two, because my dad was Black,” she says.

Culturally, the Felix household was “100% British”, she says. She had no connection to her Saint Lucian family, although she would see her British grandparents in Essex regularly (relations had thawed when Felix’s elder sister and she were born). Musically, her father liked American crooners such as Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole; her mother preferred classical music and had once aspired to be an opera singer. “So, when it came to my wanting to dance, there was a local ballet school around the corner in Ealing that I would go to, and Mum said: ‘Well, as long as you keep working hard and you’re enjoying it, I will fund it for you.’ She wasn’t a pushy, stereotypical ballet mother, but she knew that I loved it. And because she’d been stopped doing what she wanted to do, she was there 100% for me.” When she passed the audition for the Rambert, her parents could not afford the fees; Felix won a grant from the Inner London Education Authority, which paid 75%.

Felix says no one is “born to dance”, but, as a student, her passion for ballet was boundless. “I can remember the feeling of waking up in the morning, earlier than I needed to, getting on the underground and going into Notting Hill Gate, where the school was. I was the first one in the door. The cleaner was still there.

“I could not get enough of it. My friend and me would stretch and practise our fouettés in the lunch break. We’d be the last ones out of the building. Get back on the train, go home. My feet would be bleeding. I’d have blisters all over my toes. And I didn’t care. I just knew this was what was required. I soaked my feet in salt water, dabbed surgical spirit on them to get the skin to heal and get them dried out so that I could get up the next morning and get on that train again.”

After all her dedication, being rejected for her colour was devastating. “It didn’t last long, mind you,” she says. “Part of my personality is: sink or swim. And I thought: ‘I am not going to sink here.’ So I just flipped it around and just said: ‘Watch me. I’m going to show you I can do it.’”

She didn’t have to wait too long. The previous summer, the Dance Theatre of Harlem (DTH) had come to perform in London. This was a pioneering Black ballet company founded in 1969 by Arthur Mitchell, the first top-flight Black dancer in US ballet. While they were in town, Felix went along, auditioned for Mitchell and was immediately offered a contract. She declined. When her teacher at Rambert found out, “she absolutely hit the roof��, Felix recalls. “She said: ‘You can’t pick and choose. You’ve been offered a job!’” Fortunately, the DTH returned to London a few months after her Nureyev experience. Felix auditioned and was offered a job a second time. She did not turn it down.

This time, Felix’s skin colour was to her advantage, although working with an all-Black company in the US was a curious reversal: “I’d gone from all of my ballet training, and growing up not really being aware of anything to do with Black people, to going to New York and there’s no white people.” Before relocating to New York, Felix had never had a passport, left the UK or flown in an aeroplane.

“Within two weeks of being there, Arthur Mitchell said to me: ‘We’ve got to knock the British out of you.’ And I took umbrage, because I’m really proud of being British,” Felix says. In retrospect, she knows what he meant: “It was the wishy-washy way I approached my technique and my ballet training. But it wasn’t just about that; it was everything that Arthur Mitchell taught and portrayed and wanted us to portray within our work. He wanted to show that Black people really can do this.”

DTH’s sense of purpose aligned with Felix’s own. She stayed with the company for 10 years, earning her place as a soloist and touring the US and beyond (including a satisfying return to the Royal Opera House). Life in the US put British racism into perspective, says Felix. In her first week in New York, she witnessed a young Black man being shot dead in the street by two white police officers for shoplifting. A touring performance in Mississippi in 1978 had to be cancelled because the Ku Klux Klan staged a protest outside the theatre, in white hoods, burning cross and all. “No words can describe that feeling,” she says.

There were more good times than bad, though. Felix shared the stage with, and danced for, luminaries from Ronald Reagan to her hero, Luciano Pavarotti. She danced with Lionel Richie to All Night Long at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics closing ceremony; visitors to her shows included Michael Jackson and Prince. Jackson wanted to cast the dancers in his ill-fated Peter Pan movie, she says. He came to a matinee in Pasadena, California, supposedly incognito, but in full Jackson regalia: black sunglasses, Jheri curl and military-style outfit, with a complement of bodyguards. “I was annoyed, because I was there to deliver the performance, but you had all these girls screaming in the audience,” says Felix. “Anyway, after it finished, he came backstage and said to us, very, very quietly: ‘I really enjoyed your performance. I just think you’re fantastic.’ What a humble man.”

A year later, Prince came to a show, by coincidence at the same theatre. He was similarly “incognito”, in a sequined, hooded purple cape. He never took the hood down. “At the end of the performance, he got back in his limo and left and didn’t say thank you, hello, anything. Really quite rude.”

By 1986, aged 30, Felix was beginning to feel the physical toll of ballet life. She also missed home. She returned to the UK and became a teacher and remedial coach for Sadler’s Wells Royal Ballet, first in London, then in Birmingham, where the company relocated when it became Birmingham Royal Ballet, in 1990. She married and had three daughters (none of whom followed in their mother’s footsteps).

She then became head of dance at a local school. Now it was her turn to “knock the British out” of her students. “They don’t seem to know how to really push themselves,” she says. “Ballet is really painful. If you don’t feel that, then you’re not doing it properly.” Ballet has also always required a highly specific form of physicality, Felix points out. “It needs very arched feet, it requires good natural rotation of your hip sockets, a slender body, long, lithe muscles, long neck, small head.” Regardless of talent or musicality, she says, dancers who do not conform to this body type will struggle. Perhaps it is this inherent discrimination that has made other forms of prejudice easier to disguise.

British ballet has made some progress since the 70s, but it could do more. Birmingham Royal Ballet, for example, had a successful workshop programme with local schools, whose pupils were often from Black, Asian or minority ethnic backgrounds, but such programmes seem to have “fizzled out” as a result of local authority budget cuts, Felix says. On the other hand, there are institutions such as Ballet Black, which advocates for diversity in professional ballet. At the time of its founding in 2001, there were still no women of colour performing in any British company. The Royal Ballet recruited its first Black, British-born male dancer, Solomon Golding, only in 2013.

Felix is not convinced British ballet has turned the corner: “I still believe that we’ve got ballet companies who will take a few people of colour just to be politically correct.” However, she was heartened by the appointment of the Cuban-British dancer Carlos Acosta as director of Birmingham Royal Ballet in 2020, although the pandemic has so far curtailed its activities. While all British arts are vulnerable at the moment, ballet – with its high demands for time, labour, space and personnel – is especially so. Now based in Cornwall, Felix has made do teaching over Zoom for the past year. She is not complaining: “It really is a lovely place to be locked down.”

Felix’s skin colour began as a factor that counted against her, but it became an animating force in her career and led to a wealth of experiences and successes she might otherwise not have had. With that satisfaction, the anger she feels for her 17-year-old self being told her brownness would “mess up the line” has mellowed a little. “Their choice of not accepting me enabled me to find something within myself that I probably would never have known was there,” she says. “And then to open up this whole world for me. So I can say that hatred was turned to gratitude.”

#article #julie felix #ballet #anti black racism #racism #murder mention #police brutality mention #antiblackness tw #violence tw

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myhauntedsalem · 4 years ago

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14 Firefighters Share Their Scariest Paranormal Encounters

The weirdest part of the fire was the 911 call. The callers wife was in the background screaming, “you f**ked him off now, look he’s gone and burned the place down”.

With grit and determination, every day firefighters bravely put their lives on the lines for us, but it seems it’s not just the flames these brave men and women face; from haunted firehouses to ghostly apparitions. Here are 14 of the most chilling paranormal encounters and ghost stories shared by firefighters from across the United States.

1. Guardian Angel

Our firehouse isn’t haunted, at least not on a regular basis, but one of our engines is.

Two examples I have personally seen and experienced are; first, we were responding to a call in a dark, secluded, industrial area one night when the engine suddenly sputtered, stalled, and coasted to a stop right in front of a railroad crossing with no gates. Just as we stopped, a freight train came through. The engine started right up and ran fine after the train passed.

The second example happened one blazing hot summer afternoon when we were called to a highway construction site for a burning shanty. We pulled up and began advancing the handline when it suddenly seemed like the hose became tangled up in the hosebed. We went back to the engine to check, and just then the shanty blew up into thousands of tiny pieces. There were NO tangles in the hose, and it wasn’t caught or hung up anywhere.

2. Mr Jones

Our fire department is haunted by a man named Mr. Jones. The story dates back many years before we built a new station. Mr. Jones died at the old firehouse from a heart attack after battling a house fire.

A chief told me a story once: ‘I went to the restroom which was off the hallway. On my way in, I sat my brand new pack of cigarettes on the file cabinet outside of the doorway. When I came out, the cigarettes were lined end-to-end down the hallway.’

Another firefighter about a year later also had a ‘Mr. Jones Experience.’ He and another guy were watching TV one night when the clock above the TV flew off the wall, landed in the center of the room, spun around a few times, then landed on a book shelf.

All of the ‘haunted firehouse’ stories never really had me believing until Mr. Jones gave me a story of my own. I have this thing about open shower curtains. I notice when they are open and I have to close them. I had walked into the restroom to clean it but forgot a trash bag. The shower curtain was open. When I walked back in, about 30 seconds later, the curtain was closed. That is the only story that is personal. Other than that, we have doors that open and close by themselves, lights that go on and off, stuff like that. So that’s my story and I’m stickin to it.

3. Jesus Christ

About seven or eight years ago, we arrived at a townhouse with heavy fire from the first floor on side one. After making entry, locating the fire in the kitchen, and extinguishing, we set about taking out a few windows for ventilation.

After the smoke had risen, we noticed that the living area to the rear of the kitchen (which was on the right hand side as we entered) had taken significant smoke and heat damage. On the wall was a picture of Jesus Christ, and it was the only object in the room that appeared untouched. Even the wall BEHIND the picture was smoke-stained and blistered.

There was evidence of two streams of water that had trickled from the lower corners of the picture to a point in the middle of the wall where they met and continued down to the floor. The odd thing was that the line had been pulled through this room and was flowing into the kitchen to push the fire out the front, through a large vented window. No water had been flowing in the room, and the steam produced had been pushed out the window. Even the FM was amazed, and we haven’t seen anything like it since. It kinda makes one wonder.

4. Steve

We have a protector. We had a member, Steve that was killed in the line of duty during a helicopter operation. Ever since he died, members swear they can hear him in the building at night. Doors close, open, etc. without explanation. Then one night we figured out why he was there.

One of our members who has been here about 15 years now was on duty. We have bullet proof vests we keep on the units, but in a back compartment. He heard that compartment open and close. He went out into the bay and looked at it, and for some reason he took the vest out and put it in the front seat. He’d never done that before.

Next thing you know, he’s toned out to a ‘sick call’ that after his arrival was deemed a shooting. Nothing happened to him, but the point was made.

Several such incidents have occurred. Whenever something big is about to happen, a unit door opens and shuts or a bay door opens etc. We always know.

5. The Phantom Handprint

On April 18, 1924, a firefighter named Frank Leavy was washing a window at the fire station. For some reason, he paused in his work, his hand resting against the pane of glass, and he told a friend who was standing nearby that he had the strangest feeling he was going to die that day. Just then, the station received an alarm call and the fire fighters were sent to a fire that had broken out at Curran Hall, an office building in Chicago. While fighting the fire, a wall collapsed and killed eight of the firemen… Frank Leavy was one of those killed.

The next day, one of the firemen noticed something strange about the window that Frank had been washing the day before. There seemed to be an unusual stain on the glass…. and it appeared to be the imprint of Frank’s hand at the same spot where he had been leaning the day before.

They tried everything that they could, but they could find no way to erase the strange handprint. It seemed to be etched into the glass!

An expert from the Pittsburgh Plate Glass company brought a special solution to the fire house, guaranteeing that it would remove the print, but it didn’t work. Over the years, there were suggestions that the pane of glass be removed, but many of the firemen argued, saying that it was not right to fool with the unknown. Besides that, it was a reminder, albeit a grim one, of their dead friend. And there was no doubt that the handprint belonged to Frank Leavy! An official from the city had come down with a fingerprint comparison and the prints matched those of Frank’s. For the next twenty years, the handprint defied all explanation and was a common attraction to visitors and other firemen from around the city.

Finally, on the morning of April 18, 1944 a careless paper boy tossed the morning edition at the fire house and shattered the window where Frank’s handprint had been.

It happened exactly twenty years to the date of when Frank Leavy died!

6. “You F**ked Him Off Now”

There was a fire about 6-7yrs ago. The call was weird from the start, the 1st due engine didn’t want to start (it was out on a run bout 20mins before) they get there, the house was fully involved. When they got there, the fire was burning in strange ways… at one point flames were shooting out a window, and taking a ninety degree turn upward. The investigator pictures show the face of the devil in the smoke and flames. I know it sounds BS, but I have seen a few of these pics, and have talked with some of the investigators. They were saying that the basement was rocking, when they went back the next day it looked as though nothing burned downstairs.

The weirdest part of the fire was the 911 call. The dispatcher said the callers wife was in the back ground screaming, “you f**ked him off now, look he’s gone and burned the place down”. These people were said to have been Satan worshipers, everyone in the Dept. is afraid to even go on that road for calls. Incidentally the name of the road is “Angel Hill” hmmm, pretty weird.

7. Footsteps

I worked for a department that had lost a few members in its time. Over the course of the first few months I was there, I noticed strange noises in the bay. Once, I walked in the front door only to hear the back door slam. I walked back to see who it was, and when I opened the back door, no one was there. There was fresh snow on the ground and no tracks.

Another time I went down to the bay in the middle of the night. I heard distinct footsteps walking around one of the rigs on the other side of the bay. I called out but no one answered. I got spooked and crept around the bay with an axe trying to find the intruder. No one there! I also got a really spooky feeling a few times when I was alone in the bay by the back door. Later, I happened to mention to the chief that I had heard some weird stuff in the station at night. He got a strange look on his face and said ‘Let me guess… footsteps behind Engine 3 and a creepy feeling by the back door!’ I got the same story from one of the captains, about hearing footsteps and all that. Guess someone’s still hanging around…

8. The Station in The Woods

Back at my old department before I moved to my current one I was assigned to the farthest southern station by myself with a single engine. The area was in a heavily wooded area of the district. At night it got extremely dark in that area, more so than the other areas of the dist. There were a lot of one lane dirt and paved roads as well as a few meth labs, and no police coverage.

I had had several occasions that I would hear dogs barking at a house near the station, and hear sounds outside the station like thumping noises, usually after 1 AM. I would go outside to look and no one would be there. These noises went on for about a week. Once I had a friend from another station come down to visit me but I was gone, he got scared off when he heard five loud bangs on the wall near the kitchen, of course he failed to tell me this. Another night I was in bed and saw a shadow outside my window walking in the flower bed. The shadow passed my window and then the person kicked the door near the bay. I crawled out of bed and called 911, while I was on the phone the person busted out the bedroom window, half scared shitless I ran to the engine and bailed north to another station with a higher staffing level. The PD responded and 45 minutes later searched and deemed the station safe.

I soon after moved from that station and it is no longer staffed even now 3 years later. I found out from a B/C later on that a previous FF had been attacked in the parking lot washing an engine, and that the station had had several other weird occurrences happen since it was built.

9. The Hose Tower Hanging

I too have heard of the strange noises that occur inside many of our firehouses.

We have a firehouse that late at night, you can hear chains rattling at the top of the hose tower. When you turn on the light and climb the ladder to the platform at the top of the tower, nothing is there. The rumor has it that back in the 50’s a probationer hung himself in the hose tower and wasn’t discovered for a week.

10. The Old Capt.

The oldest station in Lex., KY, is haunted, according to some of the old heads, by an old Capt. who died while on duty in his sleep on Christmas Eve in the 1940’s. He is said to have sat in an old cane bottomed rocking chair, that chair was put in the attic of the station after his death, where it is still heard to be rocking on occasion.

Chiefs have gotten calls from neighbors who were mad because they could see a fireman looking out of the upstairs window, but no one would answer the door. This usually happens when the engine company was out on a fire run or training. Engine started by itself and backed in to the wall one night (std. trans.). Some of the guys who have worked there would not even go in the house alone on payday to pick up their pay checks if the co. was out.

11. The Ouija Board

A fire company that I used to belong to is quartered in a building built in the 1930’s and it is unquestionably haunted. Odd things happen regularly such as bathroom stall doors being locked from the inside, tv and lights turning on and off, footsteps across the floor, yelling when nobody else is there, etc… A few members decided to bring in an Ouija board one night and see what they could find. It turns out that there are two ghosts, one is a past chief and the other is a small boy that used to live in a row of miner’s houses that has long since been torn down.

The chief confirmed his identity by naming other long dead members (so long dead that we had to dig back 50 years in the company’s records to even find their names!). The chief generally drags chairs around the meeting room at night and yells at members while the boy is constantly bouncing his ball on the upstairs floor. All of this only happens at night.

12. The Indian Arrowheads

My father’s volunteer fire company also found Indian arrowheads while they were digging for an addition to the firehouse back in the 50s, but they also unearthed cannonballs and buttons. If my memory is right, some expert said that the cannonballs were from the American revolution and that the buttons were from a Hessian soldier (Hessians were mercenaries that the British used against Washington’s army). BUT – strange things began happening while those items the firemen dug up were in the firehouse.

First off, anyone that touched the items got very ill with high fevers and rash. The guys that actually dug up the items were very bad off; and their feet became swollen and turned black and blue. The door to the firehouse would also swing open just as someone approached, and the doors to the huge cast iron firehouse oven would open and close all by itself. Someone in the company said that they should bury the items; put them back in the ground – and when they did everyone got better, and all the strange things stopped happening.

13. The Fortune Teller

My firehouse has had a run of strange happenings over the years also. Many of us have actually seen a misty figure move through the rec room and out to the apparatus room. Some of the crews have seen the figure together, others have seen him when they were by themselves. The usual doors swinging, chairs moving upstairs, people walking across the floor or up and down the stairs happens occasionally.

The really scary part was when a friend of a friend stopped by the firehouse with her kids for a tour. This woman practices tarot card readings, fortune telling and the like. She had never been in the firehouse before and had never known about any of the instances in the firehouse. After the tour she asked me if the firehouse had “guest appearances” often. I thought she meant the kids and said that we often have children take tours of the place. She corrected herself and asked if we had ever seen ghosts, I said, maybe-I’m not sure. She described our misty figure from head to toe exactly as he appears and said she had seen him. Do I believe, probably not much more than I had before that day but I don’t doubt anything.

14. Standing Behind Me

This story takes place in Fayetteville, NC and the department I used to work for there. When I was assigned to Engine 2, I had heard all kinds of stories of it being haunted. Footsteps, doors opening, writing on the wall, and even a sighting are all the things I was told about.

I heard some things once in a while but the one time I was really spooked happened in late 2000. I was lying in bed, about 2 am when I heard footsteps approach my bunk and stop behind me, between my bed and the wall. The first thing I thought was that I had slept through a call but then I saw that my LT was still asleep and I noticed the radio was quiet. I could feel someone standing beside the bed and as much as I didn’t want to I slowly turned and looked to find that there was no one there.

#14 Firefighters Share Their Scariest Paranormal Encounters #paranormal #ghost and hauntings #ghost and spirits

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doomedandstoned · 3 years ago

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King Buffalo Provide Respite For Pandemic-Weary Listeners on ‘The Burden of Restlessness’

~By Billy Goate~

Artwork by Zdzisław Beksiński

I confess, I came a little late to the KING BUFFALO party. I mean, I’ve known about them from their very first record on and have even picked songs to play on The Doomed & Stoned Show that's I've found particularly enjoyable. Regulars to the program know I’ve always been more a doomer than a stoner, though obviously relishing music from both worlds. Only recently had I given myself the opportunity of really baking in their music. It probably has something to do with the summer psychedelic kick I’m on lately, that and I’ve been getting a lot more sunshine, walking more, learning how to enjoy being human again.

Not only did I give the band's latest LP, 'The Burden of Restlessness' (2021) a solid listen, I've been spinning it non-stop! The title grabbed me right away, because I could very much identify with the uncertainty and fear of 2020 lockdowns, which eventually gave way to boredom and stoic despair. Depending on who you ask, it's their third studio album and it's got its hooks in me for damn sure.

Sonically, the sound is fresh and vital, every note captured prestinely by frontman/guitarist at Rochester's Main Street Armory between December and January. I don't know if he's a sound engineer on the side or what, but I really am impressed by how present the instruments sound, without excessive reverberation. After Sean finished recording and mixing, the tapes were sent to Grammy-nominated producer Bernard Matthews for mastering on the other side of the continent in Portland, Oregon.

Let's go through King Buffalo's release track-by-track, because I think there's plenty to talk about here.

1. Burning

The Burden of Restlessness by King Buffalo

I feel it falling apart Too many blisters and scars Are we the wick or the flame, are they just one in the same? Was it just doomed from the start?

The record opens with “Burning” and in those first dozen seconds of churning downtuned noise, we’re unsure what kind of song it’s going to be. An assertive riff-motif starts to dance to the accompaniment of a motor-like rhythm. The singing is as depressive as we’re bound to encounter from King Buffalo, with lyrics that express regret about “another year lost in the wasteland” and that feeling of falling apart while time stands still.

The members of King Buffalo have been on a steadily rising trajectory in recent years, so the sudden closures of concert halls and canceled tours wasn't just a bummer for a lot of professional musicians; it had immediate career implications, along with the obvious problem of no job = no money. It’s one thing to weather through a crisis when you know what the end game is, and at this time last year most of us still didn’t know what the hell was going to happen. We thought everything would open up and return to normal, then the summer of 2020 exploded all around us with social unrest. The album’s title speaks to the creative frustrations of being not only uncertain of when your band is next going to tour, but what to do in the meanwhile. For creative people, there’s a burden to create -- sometimes just to keep yourself from going mad with frustration.

2. Hebetation

The Burden of Restlessness by King Buffalo

I don’t know which way to run One thousand different ways but I can’t seem to live with one So I’m stuck where I’ve begun Another languid day, can’t seem to break away

“Hebetation” was one of the singles that emerged before the album was independently released toward the start of summer. It is the song I relate to the most, too. Vibrant Helmetesque riffmaking sets the song a sail, with a bit of a nod to Sabbath as well. The math-like interplay between drums, bass, and guitar have a vaguely krautrock aura about it, though the volume and tone is pure metal. Like the opening track, the words are frank and honest, addressing the weight of unfulfilled dreams, the jadedness that comes with disappointment, and suicidal thoughts that come floating into mind when it seems nothing's working out as planned. “Nothing’s changed at 35. Still every night I dream a million different ways for me to die.”

3. Locusts

The Burden of Restlessness by King Buffalo

Stifling the sun with wicked hands Everything undone with vicious plans

“Locusts,” as the name implies, is replete with bouncing guitar rhythm, with picking that seems to dart about like that swarm of grasshoppers that used to sweep through my poor pitiful East Texas garden mid-summer and shred everything in sight. Around the 3:30 mark, we’re treated to an extended high-end grinder of a B-section, with sweeping psychedelic gestures ala Kim Thayil -- and hearkening back to the melodic motif of another great song: “Sun Shivers.” When the A section returns, the rhythm is more deliberate, less dashing about in math or progressive fashion. The song ends with what could well end up an extended drone jam on just the right night as King Buffalo continues to roll through the U.S.

4. Silverfish

The Burden of Restlessness by King Buffalo

I stare at the cracks in the wall And melt into nothing A silverfish slithering away, from everything

“Silverfish” got a music video, which was a wise choice as the song is quite accessible and relatable, too (even if it did get a few people wondering if King Buffalo was having their own “The Sword Moment” stylistically). The main motif is a two-note broken interval from high note to low in an almost an ‘80s-style nod to the advent of computer generated music (to my ears it sounds like the guitar may either be taking on the action or playing in sync with the synthesizer).

Never fear, the heavy is soon here. When I heard those first crashing tripled-down chords, I let out an inner hellllll yeah to that shit. The quirky little melody from the start comes back, this time on guitar in a way that really works to convince you that it was a good artistic choice from the get-go.

Lyrically, it's another wistful line of expression: “I stare at the cracks in the wall, I think I’m unravelling...I think I’m losing my grip on everything, I’m drifting away.” This is also one of the few songs on the record with a strong melodic chorus. It comes towards the end, which works quite effectively in climaxing the song.

(BTW, anyone else freaked out by silverfish as much as me?)

5. Grifter

The Burden of Restlessness by King Buffalo

I make my way over the dunes Desolate and dry The remnants of empires past Too stubborn to die

“Grifter” returns to the everyman accessibility of “Burning” and “Hebetation,” with a notably despondent tenor to each line of the song. The calm singing over rhythmic verses so characteristic of King Buffalo’s writing gives way to a brutal grind sans chorus. Sometimes you don’t have words and you just have to work it all out with your axe or piano or whatever's your jam. There didn’t need to be a big, bloated angry chorus on top of it all. We feel that most adequately from the riffmaking itself, which plays out like slow burning frustration that intensifies with every round of the dirge.

6. The Knocks

The Burden of Restlessness by King Buffalo

Everyday I wake up on the floor Another useless day like every other that’s come before I can feel it creeping more and more Don’t think I wanna wake no more, don’t think I wanna live no more

“The Knocks” features the same keyboard playing as before, so now I’m sure it's either Sean or bassist Dan Reynolds on synth -- though the playing here is much more ornamental, at times adding an exclamation point to the sentiment of the lyrics. It might be a little much if overplayed, but here it’s dispensed judiciously. We have a bass, drums, and synth break where a chorus would normally be, followed by another shred sesh that’s feeling like Helmet or Prong love. A beautiful mid-range guitar melody intervenes, then things start to feel a distinctively robotic pattern announces itself around the 3:20 mark, joined in short order by the rest of the instruments. This leads to a melodious guitar sequence, with the dexterous kind of finger work that the one dude at shows likes so much when he pretends to shred next to the stage.

7. Loam

The Burden of Restlessness by King Buffalo

I’m shedding the burden of restlessness To rise from the loam of the nothingness

“Loam” hearkens back to my favorite King Buffalo album, ‘Longing To Be The Mountain’ (2018). A broken octave rhythmic pattern is plucked with drums and bass being all cool, saying just the right thing at the right time. Atop it, the jaded, sedated crooning of Sean McVay, which as both a musical and cultural Doomer I find appealing. A mean guitar lick lashes out like a whip atop bass and drums around 3 minutes, then tears into another voiceless psychedelic improvisation. It's a beautiful instrumental metal section with a hard rock appeal. The song returns to its opening vibe in an almost Toolesque fashion, then opts for more catharsis-giving mosh time and another plaintively sung extended note melody.

The verses give us a hint of hope, as Sean declares: "I’m shedding the burden of restlessness / To rise from the loam of the nothingness." I'm curious to hear the two other albums the band plans on releasing in 2021 (yes, you read that right!) and how they will pair or contrast with this one.

King Buffalo's The Burden of Restlessness holds a special place in my music library and its songs are a frequent highlight of my daily playlist. I suspect it will be a record you, too, will keep close at hand as the plague rages on. A balm for the weary soul.

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#D&S Reviews #King Buffalo #Rochester #New York #desert rock #krautrock #blues #stoner rock #progressive rock #metal #HeavyBest2020 #Doomed and Stoned

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