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lokis-army-77 · 1 year ago

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Live from Hawkins

Older!Eddie Munson x female reader

Word Count: 4.1k

Eddie watched as you are stood up on a date and without a second thought, he brings you home.

Warning: 18+. Eddie is in his late 50s to early 60s, reader is 20s to early 30s. p in v, oral (f receiving), dirty talk, sir kink, pet names, a few spanks, fingering, mention of a partner having died.

A/n: Thank you @munson-blurbs for hyping me up to write this and for thinking of the funny little thing that happens at the end hehe, I love you <3 also my version older!eddie is inspired by @ farmerusedto on tiktok and Instagram.

Masterlist Part 2

The fun of nightlife had escaped Eddie when his biological clock started making him go to bed at 8:30 p.m. instead of 2 a.m., but tonight was an exception. After an extraordinarily shitty day, he thought a drink or two at his old haunt would cheer him up. It didn’t, not entirely. The whisky he had been nursing tasted like shit and the crowd in the bar left little to be desired, except for you.

Eddie had clocked you when you entered the establishment at eight on the dot. His eyes raked over the pretty silky red dress that stuck to the curves of your body as you made your way to a tiny circular table with two chairs and sat down. Your head was held high as you watched the front door.

Ah, a date, He thought. Then he began thinking about all the dates he had been on in the long past years until he had met his wife, and then the lack thereof after her passing twenty-some years ago. He’s never had time to date. Raising kids two kids as a single dad while also being a simi-successful musician turned producer, looking for romance added a whole new thing to worry about so he just didn’t, but now, in his later years of life, with his children grown and moved out, he could afford the chance to indulge. Sadly though, you were apparently taken.

Even after he had finished his one glass of alcohol, he waited. Watching you as your posture slowly became slouched, you sipped on some fancy beverage, and your head stopped peaking up when the bell to the door chimed as it was opened and closed. You were beautiful and didn’t deserve to be stood up.

When the clock struck nine, Eddie stretched his aching joints and stood from the bar. Sauntering his way over to your tiny table.

“This seat taken?” He asked, hand resting on the back of the chair.

You lifted your head from your phone startled and shook your head. “Unfortunately, no. You can take it.” Sighing, you look back down at your phone, expecting him to take the lone chair and pull it up to another table. To your surprise, he actually sat down in front of you. “Um… can I help you?”

“Sorry, I just saw you sitting here by yourself for a while and thought you might like the company. A pretty girl like you in a pretty dress like that shouldn’t be sitting alone in a bar like this, some weirdo could show up.”

You blush, almost as red as your dress. “And how do I know you aren’t the weirdo?”

“Good question. You don’t.” He laughed.

The deep timber of it had your stomach flipping. His facial features were hidden under a nicely kept beard, full of salt and pepper hairs, more salt than anything else. The shaggy, slightly curly hair atop his head looked the same. He was definitely older than you by a couple of decades, but hey he was nice looking and obviously, the guy you were supposed to be seeing wasn’t coming. What harm could come from flirting with this guy?

“But hey, a bit of mystery can be a good thing, don’t you think?” He asks.

You can't help the giggle that passes your lips. “Oh, really?” You look him up and down. His outfit was something reminiscent of the eighties, only more subdued. Tight black jeans, motorcycle boots, and an Iron Maiden shirt that had been ripped at the hem. Before he had sat down you even spotted a black and white skull bandana in his back pocket. “I’ve heard that with age comes wisdom. Are you here to enlighten me then?”

He lets out a more hearty laugh this time, his head falling back. Your eyes scan the contours of his neck and watch as his Adam's apple bobs up and down. “I don’t know about wisdom, but I do have a few decades under my belt. Maybe I was the one hoping to learn a little thing or two from such a charming young lady as yourself.

Your hand lifts to cover your smile and you look away almost bashfully. “Such a smooth talker aren’t you?”

“As smooth as I can be…” He leans forward, hand resting on the table, fingers laced together. You see the many rings decorating them. The flip in your stomach drops and you clench your thighs together. “Why? Is my charm winning you over?”

“So that’s what you’re trying to do, huh?” You smile.

“Well, it was either that or all the vintage dad jokes I know.” He smiles back.

You can feel your mood being lifted from the once sour thing that it was into something more bubbly as you listen to him. “Vintage dad jokes? Sound’s intriguing. Maybe I’ll stick around for now.”

He nods. “That’s a good choice Sweetheart. Who could resist the allure of outdated humor and a bit of gray hair?” His hand tugs at his beard.

“You know, I could be out having an adventure with the guy I was supposed to be meeting here instead of chatting with a silver fox.” There is a permanent grin etched into your face as he gasps in faux offense.

“You wound me, Sugar. Isn’t it usually the unexpected adventures that turn into something unforgettable?” Eddie couldn’t lie to himself, he was laying it on pretty thick, but it was all in hopes that maybe, just maybe you might come home with him.

“Well, I do have to admit you are intriguing, maybe I’ll take you up on this adventure.” It was childish, the way your heel-clad foot slid its way past the single, center leg of the table and halfway up the man’s calf.

When he feels your foot rubbing on him, he has to steel his face. One of his hands slipped from the table and slithered its way down his leg and caught your foot. “What do you say we get out of here?” His hands were so big and his fingers so long that they wrapped with ease around your ankle. The pads of his fingers pressed in gently and you hoped he couldn’t feel how fast your pulse were thumping throughout your body.

Your mouth suddenly turned dry, words evaded you. All you could do was nod in response. He let go of your foot and stood, reaching out his hand. You take it and he pulls you up as well. “My name’s Eddie by the way.”

…

The drive to Eddie’s suburban home was filled with chase touches and lingering hands. His large palm warmed your thigh, his fingers dug into the plushness there. You cozied up to him, lips trailing up his neck to his ear where you nibbled on the lobe.

Eddie groaned as he white-knuckled the steering wheel. His breath caught in his throat when you inched a delicate hand into his lap.

“Now, little girl, don’t be starting something you can’t finish.” He chided. His hand on your thigh moved ever closer to the already high hem of your dress.

“Little girl?” you whisper into his ear. “I’m not a little girl, old man.”

You feel every bump and jerk of his 1960s Ford pickup as he practically jumps the curb and slams the brakes in his driveway, screeching to a halt. Eddie unfastened his seatbelt and turned to you. His hand immediately found purchase on the back of your neck and he pulled you in for a kiss. His lips were soft and plump and his beard tickled. You giggled into the kiss but that was cut short when they turned to gasps as soon as Eddie caressed his tongue into your mouth.

“Eddie…” You moan into him, fingers latched onto his shirt, pulling him into you.

“What is it, Sweetheart?” He pulled away from the kiss.

You looked him in his eyes, the street lamp outside aiding in deepening their already dark hue. “Touch me. Need you to touch me.”

He smirked. “Alright baby, I’ll touch you.”

Then, he backed away, hooking you from himself and slipping out the door. A pout worked its way onto your features as he walked around and opened your door. Tisking he shook his head. “What’s the frown for sugar?”

You took his outstretched hand, he was ever the gentleman. “You stopped kissing me.”

Leaning down he gave you a sloppy peck on the lips. “Well, I can't touch you how you want, Sweetheart, unless we go inside.” He chortled as he guided you to his front door. As soon as the lock was undone and the knob twisted, you pushed the two of you inside. You were hot and worked up and needed something to help the pounding ache that had made itself known between your thighs.

Inside, you try your best to tug Eddie’s shirt up and over his head but he is quick to catch your hands, pushing you back against the wall and holding them above your head.

“Not so fast. You’ve got to ask for the things that you want.”

You shake your head in defiance. You knew where this was going from the way he gripped your wrists. From the way his voice became stricter, more dominant. Need pools in the pit of your stomach. This was what you had been craving, what no other man could make you feel.

“Please.” Your plea comes out just above a whisper.

“Tsk, Sweetheart, I think you can do better than that.” Eddie maneuvers both your wrists into the hold of one hand while he lets the fingers of his other run down the open skin of your neck tantalizingly slowly. Goosebumps begin to prickle on your skin as the fingers wander down your chest and over the tops of your breasts, cleavage on display, heaving as you take sharp breaths of air.

“Please, Eddie.” Voice cracking. “Please, I want you. I want you to touch me, I want to feel you.”

He groans, hips pressing you to the wall harder. “What a good girl you are.” He captures your lips in another heated kiss.

The night had barely begun and you already felt like you were drowning in him. The scent of menthol cigarettes, whisky, and something almost woody filled your nose and all you could think of was the man pinning you to the wall.

A staggered gasp caught in your throat when Eddie dropped your wrists and heaved you up by the waist. Your legs cinched around him and his arms held you close. “Why don’t we take this to my room? I can put some nice mood music on.” He kissed up your neck as he carried you through his home.

“Mood music, hum?” You whimper when he sucks on a sensitive spot. “What, gonna play the Temptations greatest hits? Or how about the Chordettes? Don’t they have that song with your name in it?”

You yelp when his hand smacks your ass. “M’not that old, Sweetheart. It’s more like eighties rock ballads but that’s not what I’m choosing.” The smirk that contoured his lips was wicked.

“Mmm, and how old are you?” You ask, words muffled by your lips meeting his.

“Old enough.” Eddie pushes his door open and it hits the wall with a thud. He walks to his bed in the darkness and practically throws you on top of the sheets. He doesn’t follow, instead, he flips the bedside lamp on and the room fills with a soft yellow light.

His room isn’t what you thought it would be. It's all dark colors, blacks and grays. Three electric guitars hang like decorations on the wall in front of you. A few picture frames are scattered over the dresser to your left, too far to see the images clearly in the dim light. You watch him like a hawk as he walks to that very dresser and turns on a speaker.

He really wasn’t kidding about the mood music. You think.

“Get comfortable Sugar… Just got to figure out this damn phone.” You chuckle as you watch him fiddle with the touchscreen and cheer when the music fills the silence. You laugh even louder when Eddie fumbles the phone in his hands and drops it to the floor. “Shit.” He bends down to pick it up and when he does he props it against the mirror of the dresser.

“Is it okay?” You ask, hand covering the giant smile plastered on your face.

“It’ll live.” He shakes his head. When the giggles die down, he slowly comes toward you, crawling up the bed. The way his hands travel up your bare legs gives you chills. He pries you open gently, your dress hikes up your thighs, and the wetness of your pussy is on full display.

“Well, aren’t you a naughty girl… No panties?” He asks, hot breath on the inside of your thigh as he nips at the skin.

You shake your head as you explain. “No, not wearing a bra either. You can see the outline through the dress”

He grins a devilish grin and slowly teases his way up your thigh. The hot air from his breath caresses your skin white his beard tickles you. He pushes back your dress a little more before looking you in the eyes. “Ready?”

The whine that comes from you is almost unrecognizable, all desperate and needy when his mouth attaches itself to your pretty cunt. Your hand flies to his head, gripping his silky hair between stiff fingers.

“Fuck. E-Eddie.” You rasp. He hums the vibrations add to the cacophony of pleasurable feelings between your legs.

Eddie’s tongue rolls along your folds, wetting every inch of skin. The gentle sucks he performs on your clit pull moan after moan from you. Your back arches and your hips push down into the bed. Eddie’s hands push your thighs farther apart, the plush of them pooling through his spread fingers.

He loves the feel of you. Loves that he can make you writhe under him with just his tongue. His ego is through the roof, having not been this intimate with someone in years.

It's been all but a few minutes, to you its been hours, Eddie is expertly working you up up up and to the edge. One hand smoothes down your leg and under his chin. You feel the subtle touches of his fingers as they linger around your cunt. His other hand pushes your leg back more, creating more room. You heave a cry when two fingers breach you, stretching you out at a leisurely pace.

In and out, in and out, in and out he went, fucking you deeply with those long thick fingers of his, covered in rings. The metal soon became warm as they began to be covered in your slickness and his spit that dribbled down to meet them.

With the way his fingers pushed up into your walls, poking the fire in your belly. The ember that it once was, was not a full-on flame. It was wild and hot and needed something more to feed on.

“Eddie!” You cried, clamping down around him. Body ridged, ready to let go.

“That’s right baby, say my fucking name.” He pulled back only to reattach to your clit and pump his fingers tenfold.

His words were tender to the flame, making it rage out of control. “Eddie!” You cried again, wonton moans following as you feel the fire spreading. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie,” you chant like a prayer.

He’s greedy as he laps up every ounce of your release, you have to push him away gently, too sensitive for him to keep going but the crooked smirk he gives you as he kisses up your body tells you he wants more.

Your breathing is rapid as you come down. Your legs feel like jello and you’re hot, super hot. The fire in your veins had rekindled and the dress, conforming to your body, was becoming uncomfortable in the heat.

Eddie can see the way you tug at the garment and gives it a tug of his own. “I hate to see this little number go but I need to see all of you.” He manhandles you onto your stomach, snatching the tiny red zipper and pulling it down to reveal the soft skin of your back.

His hands rub into your muscles, thumbs catching on knots and smoothing them out. It was intimate, something you had never experienced in a one-night stand. He removed the tiny straps from your shoulders and kneaded until you were sighing contently into his sheets. Lower and lower he went, tugging the fabric with him and eventually taking it off, throwing it into the abyss. Rough fingers squeezed at the fat of your ass.

Unknowingly, Eddie had bent down, and as he was massaging you bit down playfully on your ass cheek. A weak squeal erupts from your throat. “Eddie, what are you doing?”

“I can’t help it if you look good enough to eat.” He bites down again and you buck your hips back. A hand quickly smacks down on your ass. “Quit being a brat. First not asking for what you want and now this? What am I going to do with you?” Condescension drips thickly from his words.

You wiggle your hips in his grasp. “M’sorry.”

Another smack. “I’m sorry what?”

The fire burns brighter with this fuel.

“I’m sorry, Eddie.”

He spanks you a third time. “Try again, baby.”

Your stomach flips. “I’m sorry… Sir.”

He hums in satisfaction. His hands wrap around you and pull you to your knees, ass in the air. With your head buried in the covers, you can only guess what he’s doing by the subtle movements behind you.

Eddie has taken his shirt off and unzipped his pants. His cock achingly hard and straining against his black boxers. “Gonna fuck this pussy good, baby.” You whimper in response. He shickers, “You like that, Sweetheart? You want my cock in that pretty pussy of yours?”

“Please,” You mewl, aching to finally have him inside you. The roughness of his hand steadies you as he inches closer. His hard cock on the other hand. He presses it against your folds, the head slipping through easily. You release a shaky breath when he nudges your clit. “Need you inside, please Sir.”

“Gonna give it to you baby,” Eddie replies, pushing into you. His breathing shudders at the warmth surrounding him. Your cunt squeezes him tightly, sucking him in and not letting him go.

He feels amazing stretching you out. He's bigger than you thought, wider. The tip pushes into your walls as he begins to thrust into you, the most wonderful grunts and growls filling your ears from behind.

"So fucking tight, Sugar." Eddie fucks into you at a hard brushing pace with stamina you didn't know he had. His hands grip your hips so hard you know there will be visible marks there later but you don't mind.

You turn your head slightly and look over your shoulder as best you can. Eddie has a wild look in his eye, streaks of gray hair falling into his face. Your eyes catch on the plethora of ink etching his skin. You had seen the ones covering his arms but you couldn't have imagined this. Your mind wandered to what the rest of his body looked like. We're there more pieces yet to be seen or did alabaster skin win out as you go further down his body? The thought of seeing the rest of him has you bouncing your ass back into him, meeting his every thrust with fervor.

The fire Eddie had lit within you was once again roaring out of control. The way his cock filled you deep has you shaking in delight.

"More, more, more," you called out to him, fists clamping down onto his sheets so hard it was a wonder you hadn't ripped them.

“More? Is that what you want?” He patronizes. His right hand moves from your hip and he bends forward, snatching your hair up at the base of your skull. The dull throb that accompanies his tight hold has you wailing. Your stomach flips and flips, pressure building up. You’re going to cum and you tell him as much.

“Please, keep going Eddie, fuck. Keep going, I’m gonna cum, Sir.” Big blubbery tears have started to streak down your face, once pristine makeup now smeared.

He pulls on your hair. ‘Don’t cum baby. Wanna watch that pretty face as you cum on my cock.”

Eddie pulls out of you and it feels like forever until you are flipped onto your back and he inserts himself back inside. The new angle has your legs clamping shut around him and the head of his cock brushing against a sensitive spot which makes you keen into him.

You make eye contact with him, his gaze is feral. He’s looking at you like you’re a buffet laid out for him. His hips rock into you with such force that your body is slowly jerking up the bed. You reach out for him, hands open and close, needing to have him close to you. That fire is still burning within you and it is scorching.

Eddie leans into your touch, relishing in the feeling of your nails dragging long scratches down his pecks and stomach. He catches one, entwining his fingers with yours and pinning your hand back into the mattress. Another intimate moment that had butterflies erupting alongside your fire.

“Please,” you whimper. “Wanna cum so bad.”

He leans down more, pressing a chased kiss on your lips. “Alright Sweet girl, you can cum.”

When you let go, Eddie can’t help the absolutely hedonistic moan that comes forward. He’s rutting into your constricting cunt like an animal. The look of absolute ecstasy that washes over your face had him fighting off his own release.

“Where do you want it, Baby? Where do you want my cum?”

It’s absolutely crazy, the place that comes to mind, but some deep, dark, nefarious place inside you wants it so badly. Craves is.

Without thinking, brain foggy with a greediness only comparable to the deadly sin itself, you blurt, “Inside.”

Eddie’s hips stutter and his mind goes blank. Inside? Fuck, She wants it inside. He groans, fighting himself. He shouldn’t but he wants to. Oh, how he wants to. Thoughts of what your pussy would look like leaking his cum have him going ridged, his conscience losing out against a primal need he didn’t know he had.

“Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck ah!” He’s a moaning mess when he finally gives in and lets himself cum.

You can feel his release as a warmth spreads out from your tummy and envelopes you. Eddie falls careful not to let all of his weight squish you. His kisses make you giggle as you try and catch your breath.

You’re exhausted, warn out in a way you never have been. “Thank you,” you say, kissing him back. He looked at you with soft, round eyes.

“Why are you thanking me, Sweetheart?”

You sigh, content. “You saved me from a night of wallowing in my self-pity.”

He shakes his head. “Beautiful girl like you deserves to be treated right, that guy’s a bastard.”

“Tha-” You’re cut off by the loud ringing of his phone, still connected to the speaker. Eddie cringes at the volume and turns slightly to eye the phone but does not move to get up. It stops ringing a moment after.

“I think I should get going…” You whisper and give him another kiss.

“Mmm, you could stay the night. I can take you back to your car tomorrow.”

You pout at him. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”

“Sweetheart, I’m asking you to stay, you aren't imposing on anything.”

You giggle and go to answer but you are interrupted by his phone ringing again. Eddie says quietly, “What the hell?” before pulling himself out of you. He hesitates a moment, watching as his cum leaks past the puffy, used lips of your cunt, then grabs at his phone.

‘HARRINGTON’ Is flashing across the screen.

“What do you want man? I’m in the middle of something.”

Eddie still has his phone connected to the speaker and the next few sentences make Your smile fall and your face bloom into a heat that could rival the sun.

“Oh, I know you are. Half the fucking world does you dipshit!”

“Wow okay Steve, calm down. No need for name-calling.”

“Eddie I swear to god, do you know what you’ve just done?”

“No…?” Eddie scratches his head, looking at you and shrugging his shoulders.

“You just fucking broadcasted you having fucking sex LIVE on fucking Facebook!”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn smut #stranger things x reader #stranger things smut #stranger things fic #female reader #older!eddie munson

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guusagi · 3 months ago

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Welcome to my Blog!

My name is Guusagi or Guu for friends, I'm 28 years old, my pronouns are She/Her, and I'm Bisexual!!

What kind of blog is this? Anything I'm currently into, or obsessing over! As of me posting this, it's currently My Chemical Romance and Alien Stage. I am mostly a reblog page, but I will occasionally post my thoughts, reblog art from my art blog or more recently I started recommending MCR-related fanfiction.

My current interests you'll see me reblog/post about:

Fandoms: -My Chemical Romance (photos of the band old and new, fanart, fanfiction/shipping: frerard; frikey) #mcr -Alien Stage (fanart and/or theories) #anstg -FFXIV (less so now but it's my fave mmo ever) -Vocaloid (Hatsune Miku mostly, or Gumi) -Indie Vtubers (as a twitch streamer myself and my fellow vtuber friends) -Mermaid Melody (fave childhood anime) Other: -Art (reblogging my own art or anything i find pretty) -Misc. memes (whatever makes me lol xd) -Yapping: #mythoughts for anything I like sayin'

Links:

Art Blog: @guusagi-art Twitch Instagram Bluesky Youtube Tiktok

A song that's stuck in my head:

youtube

More about me cus I'm a yappaholic:

tw: yapping; oversharing; self-diagnosed neurodivergent girl plz be kind to me.

Nice to meet you, and thank you for taking the time to read this! I'm currently working a full-time job, while streaming as an indie vtuber twice a week! I've been an artist for as long as I can remember, I found art and my love for it through anime and manga. I love indie games, like rpg maker games, or rhythm games like the Project Diva Series. I also LOVE FFXIV, I calmed down since finishing the latest expansion Dawntrail, but I'll still like and reblog art <3

I don't watch anime anymore, but my favorite was always Mermaid Melody!! Other than my previously mentioned obsessions: I love cute and girly things, the color pink is my personality, but I'm also a tomboy at heart! I love listening to music and watching youtube videos, also am an avid reader of manga/comics as well as fanfiction.

My music taste at the moment is pretty much: Radiohead, Muse, MCR, System of a Down, Vocaloid/Hatsune Miku. I love alt-rock/prog. rock; vocaloid pop music; jazz; genre-mixing like rock x jazz; math rock; getting into pop-punk/punk-rock recently.

FAQ/Yapping:

A bit of my history with tumblr: I started this tumblr way back when sometime between 2012-2014, I don't remember much from that time but I do know I was very into Adventure Time and Undertale especially, lots of reblogs of art and such! My main motivator for coming back to tumblr now after over a decade? MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE!! I got into them very recently, like in 2022! I won't yap about how much this band means to me now, but just know I'll be reblogging a lot of MCR content!

Am I neurodivergent? Great question! I actually don't know, I think I am but I am NOT diagnosed professionally. I've only self-diagnosed myself very recently, perhaps within the last couple of years. Take what I say here with a grain of salt, but I felt it important to get it off my chest.

This started off with me noticing small things about myself, then the list just kept getting longer and longer: my intense focus ONLY on my interests, my tendancy to info dump/over-explain things/repeat myself, my sensitivity to sounds/taste/touch, my hyperfixations that take over everything else (eating, going to the bathroom, abandoning adult responsibilities...), able but also not able to read social cues; stimming such as hair tugging/pulling, biting nails, pacing around when talking or thinking or excited/stressed, bursts of emotion after a long period of staying neutral, needing to shut down and be alone after socializing, being upset if a routine gets changes/if a routine stays the same for too long, unable to follow conversations or getting bored of them, unable to focus on what poeple are saying if in a loud room... I was also told that as a child I wouldn't smile much or ''look sad'' in photos, stand/walk on my tippy toes, and I was generally excluded/bullied in middle school for being a bit ''weird'' about anime. I also made quite a few friends on the spectrum and find myself relating to them quite a bit. The fact that I went on a such a rabbit hole of research, watching videos, taking online tests, listing things and finding out more about ADHD and Autism, is also a factor to why I suspect it for myself. I also found out that I am prone to masking, which is common in neurodivergent AFABs, but releasing said mask at home around family. I don't know which one I could be, or if any or both, but I just hope to not be dismissed or told I'm trying to get attention because I don't have the paperwork to prove myself. I guess idk if this counts but a lot of my friends have mentioned me being neurodivergent in general. Will I ever get officially diagnosed? It depends, I'm afraid of the costs and taking meds for it, in online tests I usually get borderline or a ''lower'' score so I'm afraid of being dismissed professionally as well, when I really can't afford it at the moment. Anyways sorry for the info dump LOL. All being said this could all just be anxiety symptoms as well.

Is this too personal for a blog intro? Eeeh who cares, this just shows my personality more than anything, and how I just can't stop talking about myself or my interests. You're free to go!!

#intro post #my thoughts #mcr #alien stage #mermaid melody #vocaloid #muse band #radiohead #lgbt #neurospicy #art #hi there #did i overshare about my potential tism yeah #procrastinating from working to write this blog

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percontaion-points · 1 year ago

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VOEN chapter 5

Click to see the rest of the snark & image descriptions

Click here for the rest of the series!

Chapter 5

She reached absentmindedly for her neck. The necklines of her dresses were unfashionably high. Every time she inherited a dress from Mamá or one of the tías, Mamá ensured that it was altered so as to cover the scar that puckered the skin of her lower neck, above her collarbone.

[...]

Yes, she fussed over altering necklines, claiming that such modesty was becoming, that it would certainly endear Nena to suitors in the future.

A review on GR of this book said that they hated how the author clearly used historical fiction to push a gross “modest is hottest” narrative. And quite frankly, I’m in complete agreement.

…her runt yellow dog, Pollo…

The author desperately running down the list of Spanish words she thinks that a primarily white audience will know, and eventually coming to “chicken meat”.

“Would it be possible to tame your hair? Sometime in the next hour? It looks as if you were thrown from a horse.”

Nena’s needle hovered above the next stitch as her stomach dropped in dark, unwelcome surprise. “Why,” she said flatly. It was more a statement than a question—she knew why.

“You remember Don Hortensio’s son Don Felipe,” Mamá began. “You met him at Nochebuena. The handsome one with the bay mare.”

[...]

“Of course I remember,” Nena replied. “Beautiful mare. Well proportioned. Intelligent face. Why, is she for sale?”

That is the correct answer to your mother flinging you at a rich man, yes.

Ever since she was old enough to bleed, she became something to be sent away. Something to be bartered like meat or salt in exchange for a powerful relationship, in exchange for more cattle or land or vaqueros.

[...]

After this Don Felipe had come and gone, she would have to find her brother at lunch to dissuade the suitor. Whatever excuse she could spin against the match—and there were always many—would be enough if it came to Papá’s ear in the voice of a man.

Papa listens to Felix because Felix is a MAN. And god have mercy on the woman who tries to speak her mind.

The chapel bell tolled. An hour to noon.

“An hour to noon”? Wow, if only there was some kind of word to describe that… Something that maybe starts with an E, ends with an -leven.

She knew every tree that grew between la casa mayor and the spring: the oaks, the anacahuitas, the laurels. She knew which ones grew over her grandparents and infant siblings’ graves and which ones protected the carefully buried afterbirth of her siblings and cousins.

Was talking about afterbirth crucial to the continuation of the plot?

“I understand, Papá,” she said. “You have my word.”

Chapter 5 summary: As she does some mending later, Nena thinks about the fateful night. You know which one I’m talking about. She remembers walking out to the river in search of Spanish silver with Nestor. And then waking up the next morning in a world of hurt. I’m more concerned with why she’s held onto thoughts of a boy who abandoned her a decade earlier.

Mama comes over and she’s like “Ay, mija! Brush your hair! A rich man is coming over!” Nena is like “gross. The patriarchy!” over the entire thing, knowing full well that this is suitor number 172038. She usually convinces Felix to talk to their papa about why this guy isn’t a suitable match.

Anyway, the peaceful afternoon is interrupted when a man comes riding in with urgent news: that yanquis (yankees) are claiming that all of the land belongs to them, and that a nearby town has already fallen to them. Obviously this pisses everybody off. Like how dare those goddamned white men come and start killing people for their land.

A couple of days later, the man comes back with the ranchers from the nearby ranches, and they basically get wound up to go run off to fight in this battle. Nena eavesdrops on them, but so does Mama, because… yeah. This does concern the women if there’s a possibility of being kidnapped, raped, and/or murdered. As the men start to leave, Nena rushes over and is like “If you’re going to war, you’ll need a healer!” Papa obviously doesn’t like the thought of his daughter being on a battlefield, but the others convince him that having somebody to tend to the wounds would be super useful. Papa agrees so long as Nena “gets married as soon as this is over”.

#vampires of el norte #bookblr #readers of tumblr #book review #supernatural romance #gothic fiction #gothic horror #horror novel

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script-nef · 4 years ago

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No need for jealousy, sweetie | Kageyama Tobio

Category: fluff

2k words; Is it a famous idol? Is it a high-skilled setter? Nope. It's his own son.

Everyone knows Kageyama Tobio, the genius setter of Japan’s national team and a member of The Monster Generation, is a love-struck fool. It’s not that hard to find out, seeing how his normally rigid and scowling face immediately turns soft and full of tender affection as soon as his wife is mentioned. His reaction is the same when his son, who celebrated his first birthday just a few months ago, becomes the topic of conversations as well.

The news of his son’s birth was posted all over Japan’s news as it consisted of a video uploaded onto his SNS account where you were beaming like a sun with your newborn baby in your arms while Tobio was silently crying his eyes out. He then moved to embrace you, words of thanks and love spilling out in between hiccups and cries. You joked that he cried more than you during the labour and everyone in the room was either laughing or comforting him.

You once attended one of his matches with Hikari in your arms, cheering for your husband and his team. As soon as the match was finished and congratulations were given, he zipped to your side and took the baby off of you. Hikari, recognising his father, gurgled joyfully and snuggled deeper into his embrace. As you started talking to Tobio, they both looked at you with an identical expression, like it was copy-pasted, that fans nearby took hundreds of photos. It’s one of the highlights in compilations of “Kageyama in husband mode” videos. (Other popular uploads include interviews where he doesn’t shut up when asked about your health or questions about your relationships. A lot of his fans started liking him thanks to YouTube’s wacky algorithms.)

Tobio is the embodiment of a devoted husband and father. Despite his odd memorisation skill which seemed limited to all things volleyball related, he never once missed an anniversary, birthday or doctor’s appointment. He even excused himself from practices for you. You can still hear how Hinata screamed “You’re skipping volleyball practice? You?” when he delivered the news. Interviews and commentaries after matches were cut short, much to his company and team officials’ dismay, because he couldn’t waste a second returning back to your side. He always repeated “[Name] is waiting. Goodbye.” with a bow and took off. He also wakes up practically instinctively to the baby’s cries even after he’s wiped out due to his rigorous training. The amount of superhuman stamina he has made you jealous since you’re half-dead after exercising a bit while he’s fit as a horse. He says any exhaustion he has evaporates as soon as he sees his son’s cute little face. A weird and floppy smile appeared on his face whenever he took the minuscule hands in his.

Hikari is practically a carbon copy of his father. Same piercing black eyes which look odd but strangely suitable on a one-year-old, smooth black hair growing in tufts and a round face with baby fat filling out his plump cheeks. Tobio sometimes pokes his chubby cheeks while he’s sleeping, hands trembling like he’s about to touch a priceless artifact. If you took a photo now and compared it to one of Tobio’s childhood ones, even he would be confused. They’re just that much alike.

When his teammates and friends visited to celebrate Hikari’s first birthday, their reactions were… quite interesting. Apparently they didn’t expect the child, a genetic offspring from Tobio and you, to have the similarity percentage lopsided to 99 and 1. Hinata argued 99.5 and 0.5 which caused another fight to explode between him and your husband.

It was very childish, the arguments thrown around being the equivalent of “Look at him! Are you sure you didn’t just split into half like that thing with the cell?” “Mitosis, idiot.” “Why are you still so mean, Tsukishima?! But yeah, mitosis!” “What the hell do you think you’re saying, dumbass? He’s so much like [Name]!” “Only you can see that, Mr Wife Idiot!” and so on. It was cut short when Hikari started crying due to the influx in noise and Tobio’s Dad Mode kicked in.

In your eyes, it’s absolutely adorable. Two copies of your favourite face in the world to wake up to and fill your life with. While pregnancy was a pain, right now is paradise. Especially since Hikari is a quiet and calm kid just like his father. By now, you should be concerned if they’re clones rather than father and son.

But recently, Tobio’s kind of miffed at Hikari for some reason. That doesn’t mean he’s neglecting his child, he would rather die than do that. He’s as attentive as ever, if not even more so than usual. Using his overpowered athletic skills to respond to Hikari’s whines or cries much faster than you, he drops everything and runs out at the smallest indication of discomfort. It’s also not because having a baby is a handful, they’re meant to be like that.

No, he’s just incredibly jealous of a one-year-old because “he’s taking up all your time and affection when you promised to love me most in the world”.

When he first said that, your initial reaction was to double-take because you thought you heard him wrong. The thought of “Well. My hearing is failing now” echoed in your head. But no, this dork was being possessive and filled to the brim with envy over his son. His own. Son. As unbelievable as it sounds, it’s kind of in character for Tobio. Tobio who has various epithets like:

King of the Court

Volleyball Idiot

Number 1 Wife Fan

Mr “I have two brain cells and one’s for volleyball and one’s for my wife. A third one is sprouting for my son.”

And plenty of other variations.

So far, the attempt to make him understand the needlessness of his concerns and jealousy haven’t gone well. Generally, it starts with your defence of “Tobio, I love you and Hikari equally.” “You said you would love me the most in the world!” “Fine then, I love you the most in the world.” “I know you’re lying!” “Sweetie, please.” Rinse and repeat.

He turns dejected after every single “fight” and curls up into a ball, refusing to talk to you unless you hug and kiss him. He thinks he’s sneaky and manipulative. He really isn’t, you have him playing in the palm of your hands.

But it’s going to become a real problem if he’s going to be jealous with the tiny tenant who’s going to be around for at least another 2 decades. And the worst thing is that you can’t regularly find advice since his closest friends aren’t… much of a help.

Hinata looked at you like you were crazy in one of your rare meetups. Tsukishima acted like he was actually getting sick from your concerns, that salty bastard. Yachi, kind and helpful and sweet Yachi, was the only one who made valuable contributions with Yamaguchi. It’s such a shame they’re so busy that they can barely have a social life nowadays.

“Hmm… I mean, he stills loves Hikari, right?”

“Yes. Endlessly.”

“Well then… how about treating him exactly the same as you did before Hikari came, if not more affectionately? That’ll show him that his son, his one-year-old son who doesn’t even understand the concept of jealousy, is not a quote-unquote threat.”

“Just threaten to leave him alone for like, a month if he keeps on being possessive. That’ll wake him up.”

“Tsukki!”

“Oh hello, Satan, didn’t think you'd be contributing. How’s roasting the souls of the innocent going?”

“It’s going fine. Would they really be innocent if they’re in Hell?”

“It’s a joke, Sea Salt. Also, that would crush him!”

“That’s the whole point.”

“I think you’re using this just to annoy him.”

“You’re thinking correctly.”

“Back to the topic at hand! [Name]-chan, just reassure and spend a lot of time with him.”

“That’s literally what I’m doing right now! Ughhh what should I dooooo…”

“You know it’s really annoying when lovestruck couples come and complain about their relationship like it’s a problem when in reality you’re happy, right? Just saying.”

“Tsukki, she has a real problem here!”

“Eh, does she though?”

And of course, that line of conversation took off before you could object and continued for the rest of the visit. So all in all, the two-hour lunch date with your friends resulted in a public commotion which nearly got you kicked out of the café. You were about to return home with no solid solutions when Hinata grabbed and stopped you.

“Hinata?”

“[Name]-chan, I’m sure it’s going to be fine. I think he’s just like this because he spent his entire life looking at either volleyball or you, and now that a third party has entered, he’s just not used to it. Time fixes everything or something like that, right?”

“It’s already been a year though…”

“Yeah, well… I’m sure he’s getting better. I remember when we visited you on Hikari’s okuizome, he was literally looking at you for the entire time. The entire time. When it was his son’s 100th day anniversary.”

Yes, Tobio spent the whole 5 hour party/ceremony with his eyes glued onto you, until everyone berated him for his lack of attention. Hinata literally flung a rubber band at his head and he didn’t even flinch. It was the main topic of conversation in your friend circle for the next month or so.

“But when we came again for his first birthday, Kageyama was all over Hikari! I think the transition of his love for you to Hikari is a bit slow, if that makes sense. He probably thinks the love you have for him is getting smaller compared to his love for you. Our Kageyama’s a bit of an idiot like that, right?” You don’t really know whether to nod or shake your head. “The fact that you’re hesitating kind of says everything, [Name]-chan. It’ll get better when his love for Hikari matches yours, okay? Hang in there!”

With a swift but warm hug, Hinata ran off to do his training.

The entire walk back home was filled with ruminations. Hinata was probably right. Kageyama’s attitude was slowly, but surely changing now that you’re thinking back. The ratio of his time with you and Hikari was 9:1 when he was just born, but recently it was more like 8:2. It should be concerning that this is the progress after a year of living together, but it’s better than nothing. You probably have nothing to worry about.

“Tobio, I’m home!” Silence welcomed you back. “Love? You home?” It was one of his rare days off and he said he would be taking care of Hikari so you could enjoy some free time while he can sleep in for the day. Also because his team instructor forbade him from meeting with Hinata since it always ends with a 3 hour volleyball match.

“In here.” A tiny reply emerged from the nursery. He always came running as soon as the front door creaked open like an overgrown puppy since you started living together, so this was surprising. Quietly tiptoeing in, you were met with your baby sleeping soundly in your husband’s arms, sucking on his thumb and sleep-babbling intermittently. Tobio’s face was one of love and pure happiness as he watched Hikari snoozing away like he didn’t have a care in the world—the same face he made when he stared at you. When he raised his head up to look at you, his eyes were filled with joy and warmth, crinkling in the edges.

“He’s so small.” He whispered, careful not to wake Hikari up. You joined him by his side, gently nudging your child’s chubby cheeks and revelling at its softness. “I have this… this feeling in my chest whenever I look at him… the same one whenever I see you.” Tobio’s hand came up to cup your face and he pressed a tender kiss to your lips.

“I love you both so much.”

Yeah, you have nothing to worry about.

#kageyama x reader #kageyama imagine #kageyama tobio x reader #kageyama tobio imagine #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu!! imagine #haikyuu one shot #haikyuu!! one shot #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#kageyama #kageyama tobio #fluff #female reader

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syn0vial · 4 years ago

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important question number 3 what do you have on boba and sintas vel 👀 - lekkui

i have... some things! honestly, i wish sintas’s portrayal had been a little more solid in the EU. it varied wildly between writers and in certain comics, she had little more characterization than “beautiful, tough bounty hunter chick.” i hope if they revisit her in new canon, they give her a more nuanced, more consistent depiction. also i’ll be ignoring said comics for the purposes of this post bc it’s my blog and i’m too sleepy for salt right now

but yes, onto the bullet points!

for those unaware, sintas vel was a female kiffar bounty hunter who boba tried to start a new life with when they were teenagers. they both got out of the bounty hunting game and settled down on concord dawn, where they got married and had a daughter, ailyn. boba was 16 and sintas was 18 at the time.

one of the things i find most interesting about the two of them, especially when they were teenagers: ailyn was consistently the more logical and level-headed of the two of them, while boba was always more emotional and impulsive. tragically, it’s this impulsivity that leads boba to fuck up so badly and, ironically, to transform into the emotionally detached asshole we know later on.

but yeah, this dichotomy is seen pretty early on in a flashback-by-proxy, in which we learn that the whole romantic run-away-together-and-get-married-and-start-a-new-life-somewhere-far-away plan? 100% BOBA’S IDEA.

in particular, we get the briefest snippet of an exchange where boba is trying his hardest to convince sintas that this would be a good idea. and, no exaggeration, it goes like:

sintas: “i mean, it’s kind of very obvious that you don’t know what you’re doing--” boba: “THINGS I KNOW: YOU’RE GOOD AT SHOOTING THINGS. YOU’RE PRETTY??? I TRUST YOU A LOT. see this is a good idea :)”

TEENAGE BOBA FETT: PURE OF HEART, DUMB OF ASS

anyway, boba fett and noted-morosexual sintas vel make their way to concord dawn. here’s some things we know about their relationship before everything went to shit:

nicknames! they referred to each other with the first syllable of each others’ names: bo and sin. very cute :)

they got married using a traditional mandalorian wedding vow. neither of them had any idea what the mando’a meant, bless their hearts.

as a marriage token, boba gave sintas a small red heart-of-fire gemstone tied on a simple leather cord. it was the best he could afford which, at the time, wasn’t much. however, it had significance to sintas as a kiffar; kiffars are near-humans whose members possess an unusually high occurrence rate of telemetry, or the ability to read memories from objects. heart-of-fire gemstones were said to be among the best for storing such memories.

SHIPPY FIC WRITERS TAKE NOTE. three words to describe boba in a committed relationship: PROTECTIVE. AS. HELL. absolutely unwilling to tolerate so much as a dirty look towards sintas. maybe even a little paranoid. kind of understandable given how much grief he’d already endured in his short life.

it didn’t save them

ok, fair warning, here’s the point where shit gets traumatic, so if you want to know nothing but the relatively happy stuff, STOP READING HERE. also, CWs for manipulation, sexual assault, murder, and imprisonment, bc nobody in this canon is allowed to be happy :(

last chance to turn back!

ok. onto the traumatic shit.

so! boba and sintas are doing fine. operation stop-being-teenaged-bounty-hunters-and-try-to-pass-for-normal is going pretty well! not only do they have their own functional little family unit, but boba has a job as a journeyman protector. basically think of them as like. mando frontier lawmen. and on top of that, boba has been taken under the wing of his superior officer and son of a local magistrate, lenovar.

we don’t know much about lenovar (like, is that his first or his last name, for example...) but we know that boba and sintas trusted him and that boba in particular looked up to him as both a friend and mentor.

however, lenovar was not what he seemed. once he had the young couple’s trust, he managed to get sintas alone and raped her.

in the aftermath, sintas performed some brutally pragmatic mental calculus: lenovar was a high-ranking journeyman protector and son of a magistrate. she and boba were two struggling teenagers with a baby, escaping checkered pasts. retaliating against lenovar would likely destroy them. which meant not only that she couldn’t retaliate against lenovar; she had to make sure boba wouldn’t, either.

so. how do you keep your extremely protective, impulsive former-bounty-hunter husband from flying off the handle and murdering your rapist?

you don’t tell him about it. you don’t tell anyone about it :(

argh just reading this i’m feeling salty that we get so little of sintas’s perspective on any of this. it’s all just “how did this make boba feel? how did it affect boba’s life?” and it’s like GOOD GOD. this woman is now maybe 20 years old, making the absolutely-gutting decision to keep her sexual assault a secret from her closest friend bc it’s the only way to protect her and him and their daughter from being steamrolled by the system. and like, nobody thought to expand on that?

nope, we just get a comic where she’s needlessly sexualized and drawn to look young enough to be boba’s daughter despite the fact that she’s older than him and ugh

OKAY. enough salt. moving on.

sintas’s plan works for all of a year, at which point boba somehow finds out the truth. and everything goes straight to hell.

boba, finding out that sintas kept her sexual assault by lenovar a secret for a whole year (and remember, boba was probably continuing to work under and look up to lenovar during this time), is utterly furious. of course, he wants nothing more than to murder the shit out of lenovar and is only further enraged when sintas tries to logically talk him out of it. in his anger, he proceeds to verbally torch ALL the bridges in their relationship, at one point even cruelly questioning if ailyn is even his daughter. he then storms off and makes good on his threats to kill lenovar

in the aftermath, boba was branded not just a murderer, but the murderer of his superior officer—an even more serious crime. yet, despite repeated interrogations, he refused to say why he had done it, fearing that doing so would drag sintas down with him. he only insisted that he felt no remorse for killing lenovar and that lenovar deserved to die.

in the end, his efforts didn’t save sintas—the courts seized all of what meager assets they had, leaving them all penniless. boba was then exiled from concord dawn and wouldn’t see his wife and daughter again for fifty years.

after everything that happened, boba was a changed person. it’s as if that spark of optimism and dare-i-say goodness that had survived his father’s death was snuffed out, leaving only a cynical, angry shell, laser-focused on violence because it was the one part of his father’s legacy he hadn’t yet failed.

sintas and ailyn, meanwhile, struggled to pull themselves out of poverty, with sintas reluctantly returning to bounty hunting to support them. ailyn never forgave her father for abandoning them, which led to its own equally-disastrous tragedy some decades down the line.

moral of the story is to listen to your wife and don’t make her sexual assault all about your stupid need for revenge. like, i get that the rapist needs to die but maybe like... work with your wife and make it look like an accident? don’t be an impulsive fucking inconsiderate idiot? maybe realize that your wife probably just endured the most hellish year of her life to protect YOUR dumb ass?

honestly, as frustrating as teenage!boba is, you can’t even be that angry at him bc like... he and sintas were both victims reacting imperfectly to absolutely shit circumstances. lenovar is the real villain here.

never going to be over how tragic it is that these two kids tried so fucking hard to derail their villainous origin stories, only to be forced onto even more brutal tracks bc the one adult they should’ve been able to trust in their situation ended up being a predator :(

#snowberry-pie #sintas vel #boba fett #lenovar #the fact that sintas was never spotlighted as a perspective character in the EU....... criminal

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thebestofoneshots · 4 years ago

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About a Girl

Paring: Dean x reader

Prompt: Reader turns into a small kid after a witch puts a spell on her and the boys need to figure out a way to fix it before she grows down into nothing. While Sammy investigates, Dean has to take care of her.

Warnings: none

“Did you hear what she said?” You asked Sam as you walked out of the witch house “before Dean shot her?”

Sam thought about it for a second “I don’t think she said anything...”

“No... no... I’m sure she did! She said something... juvelin? Juven... juven-something... didn’t you hear Dean?” You asked turning towards him, he was rather distraught packing things up on the trunk of the impala.

“Maybe? But I don’t think is anything to worry about (Y/N).”

You were still unconvinced, but the brothers thought it was nothing, and they had more experience with witches than you did so you decided to ignore your uneasiness. “Maybe I’m just tired... We’re going home now, right?”

Dean nodded. You got on the back seat of the impala and the boys got in the front. You hung out with them for a while, sitting on the middle seat and jamming to Dean’s tunes. But sooner than later Dean played one of his soft rock music and even if you loved most of them, they knocked you out since you were a child, since your dad would listen to it while road tripping.

Dean smiled when he saw you soundly asleep as he reached out for a drink from the cooler. Sammy was awake still and the three of you arrived home around 7 pm. Once the impala was on the garage and the boys were about to leave the car Sam called you to wake “Hey (Y/N), we’re at the bunker!”

There was no answer, so he turned to wake you up. His eyes opened wildly when he saw what laid on the back seat. He quickly motioned Dean to turn too. Both of the boys stared for a bit, for where their friend was supposed to lay a little girl was instead.

Dean was about to speak up when the little girl started to open her eyes. She slowly sat and looked at the two boys confused. “Are you dad’s friends? Did he go on a hunting trip again?” She asked as she yawned.

“Yes?” Answered Sam.

The little girl sighed “nice to meet you then, I’m (Y/N). Who are you?”

Dean gave Sam a look. Was this little girl really you turned back in time? It certainly looked like so. “ I am Dean Winchester.”

She giggled “No, you’re not. I know Dean Winchester, he’s about this height,” she said placing her hand at eye height “he’s a year older but I’m taller. Daddy says it’s because I eat all my vegetables and he’s a picky eater, only likes pie.”

Sam snorted from the side and Dean gave him a look before turning back to you.

“All through,” you said standing up and getting close to him “you do look a little like my Dean,” you said after grabbing the sides of his face with your now small hands “especially the eyes,” you stared at his eyes, those definitely looked like Dean’s eyes, you would know, even at five years of age you knew those eyes were special, you quickly separated from him and stood back on the leather chair of the car “are you related to John?”

“Yes,” replied Sam, “he’s uh... our cousin.”

“So you’re Sam and Dean’s uncles. Nice to meet you,” she smiled.

Dean had already gotten out of the car and opened the door for you to come out. “What is your name?” You asked Sam before he came out.

“I’m... I’m Henry Winchester,” he replied. Dean gave him a look and he just shrugged, if he said he was Sam little (Y/N) would think they were messing with her.

“All right (Y/N) time to go in,”

“Where are we?” She asked as she followed the boys through the big concrete walls.

“This is the men of letters bunker. Where we live,”

“I wish I lived in a place like this,” you spoke as you looked in awe all around “maybe one day,” you said hopefully. A small knowing smile grew on Dean as he heard those words, they had invited you in when they bumped into you on a hunt a few years back, you’d been with them ever since, and you always called the bunker your home.

“So... Not-my-Dean-Winchester, what are we going to do?” You wondered “some of dad’s friends just leave me in the corner and tell me to behave, some others are really nice, Bobby once took me to the movies... You guys seem really nice, but also very tired. Did you just finish a hunt? You have that look in your eyes dad has when he finishes a hunt.

Yes, that’s how he remembered you, a very talkative little girl who used to play with him and Sam when you were together. And very clever too, you seemed to always know what the adults were about.

“We are actually getting home from a hunt,” Sam answered. You looked at him expectantly “A witch.”

“Oooo, dad’s never faced a witch before”, she said. “Are they very dangerous?”

“Some are, this one was just... weird, she put a spell on our friend,”

“I’m sorry, are they all right?” You asked with concern.

“She seems to be,” Sam replied “but we need to contact a friend that is a witch to help us. Dean, keep an eye on her while I contact Rowena,”

“But I don’t know how to take care of children,”

“Do what you’d wanted to have when someone took care of us,” Sam shrugged and turned on the corner opposite to where you and Dean did.

“Woah,” you exclaimed excitedly “this place is amazing! Look that table,” you said as you ran to stand on one of the chairs around the war room table “this whole bunker is amazing, you are very lucky to live here,” you told Dean as you admired the whole place. “Are you guys rich?”

“No... we ugh... sort of inherited it.”

“So... will you tell me to shut up and sit in the corner?” You wondered, it wasn’t uncommon and you were used to it “because I can, but I’d be happier if you allowed me to take a book at least, you have plenty of them. I promise I wouldn’t damage it. Just look at the pretty pictures. But if being quite in the corner is the order I’ll take it, sir.”

“Of course not!” He scoffed “I was going to ask you if you wanted to watch a movie,” he asked, “we would make popcorns and stuff.”

“I’d like that a lot,” you nodded excitedly.

Jack entered the room just a few seconds before that and tried to figure out what was happening “who is that?” He questioned.

“Jack, this is (Y/N),” he furrowed his brows, that was (Y/N), she looked just like (Y/N) but at least 25 years younger. “(Y/N), this is Jack... my son...”

“You don’t look old enough to have a son that old,” you said turning your head back and forth between the two of them. Dean had a little smirk drawn on his face, finally someone recognized he wasn’t old,

“I’m actually four,” stated Jack.

You frowned and turned to Dean.

“It’s a long story, magic.” he explained.

“WelI guess it makes sense,” you said as you shrugged “we will still watch a movie right?”

Dean nodded, by then you had already jumped over the table and walked towards Jack, you handed him your small hand “nice to meet you Jack.”

“How did this happen?” He asked Dean as he looked at you.

“Well my dad asked them to take care of me,” you replied.

“A witch,” Dean signed from behind.

“Oh...” acknowledged Jack “maybe I could try?”

“No, we don’t want Chuck noticing anything,”

“Who is Chuck?”

“God,” replied Jack matter of factly.

“What?” You asked confused.

“My granddad, not God, that would ridiculous,” replied Jack.

“It would,” you giggled.

“So, what do you want to watch? I’m sure they must have princess movies or something on Netflix,”

“Netflix?” You shrugged “I was thinking maybe we could watch “The adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad”

Dean licked his lip on that particular way of his “is that the headless horseman movie?”

You nodded energetically “I will hunt him down one day!”

“But the movie terrified you,”

“Before I knew I could take him down like dad does all the time with other monsters, he’s like a superhero.”

Dean smiled, he remembered, way back when, his dad was his superhero too.

“Jack, find the movie, I’ll go make some popcorns with (Y/N),” as the two of you walked in the kitchen Sam was sitting there FaceTiming Rowena.

“Hi, Henry!” You smiled “why are you talking to your computer?”

“That’s her? Wee little thing was adorable,” said the person from the computer.

“Is the computer talking to me?” You asked confused.

“It’s ugh, kinda like a phone call, but with video,” explained Dean.

“Like in Star Trek?” You asked.

“Yeah exactly,” replied Sam.

“Cool, didn’t know that excited. Maybe it’s because you guys are rich.”

Rowena chuckled from the other side of the screen. “I’m sorry darling, but I can’t do anything unless I know the spell they used.”

“On your friend?” You asked turning to Dean.

He nodded and started making the popcorns on the stovetop.

“Hey Henry,” you said to Sam “Do you want to come watch headless horseman with us?”

“He doesn’t like that movie,” Dean replied.

“Do you wanna change it?” You asked Sam, who you thought was called Henry.

“No, don’t worry (Y/N), I have a lot of research to do.”

You shrugged and walked beside Dean. You could barely see the stovetop but it was fun to hear the little kernels pop.

As the popcorns were ready the two of you walked towards the tv room, or Dean Cave as he liked to call it. Jack was already sitting on the sofa and the movie was just a click from starting.

“Your TV looks so weird,” you said trying to find the rest of it, but it seemed to only be a screen “looks like a cinema...”

“Yeah, it works like that,” answered Dean, how would he explain that this wasn’t the same world you remembered. Everything changed so much in a couple of decades it would be hard to explain a little kid such things.

As the darkest scene of the movie approached, right when the horseman followed Ichabot’s through the dark forest you were playing full attention. Taking in everything that happened in the movie and analyzing all the possible outcomes, even as a small 5-year-old your mind was blazing with “what ifs” and “whatnots”. You needed to know, “how could you save Ichabot?”.

“What would you do?” You asked turning to Dean.

“What?” He questioned, right after losing his focus on the film.

“How would you get out of it if you were Ichabot?”

“I’d look for the body, salt and burn.”

“But no one knows where it is, besides the head is somewhere else...”

“I’d do my homework prior, and I’d have Sam, Cas and (Y/N) to cover my back,”

“Me?” You questioned.

“No, a different (Y/N), she’s uh... much older than you,”

“And she would help you hunt down the headless horseman?”

“She’d probably figure out a solution for the problem before we realized we were in trouble.”

“She sounds like a cool person,” you smiled “I’d like to be like her when I grow older, there aren’t many girl hunters out there.”

“Oh, there will be, lot’s of them. You’d be among the best.”

“Well you don’t even know me but thank you Not-My-Dean-Winchester”

As Jack found another movie and clicked play, the three of you continued watching the TV attentively. But halfway through the film, your interest in it had faded and you started paying attention to everything around you. The strange-looking TV, the bright little boxes that Dean checked whenever they would beep, he’d said that it was his phone but it didn’t look like any phone you’d seen. As you kept taking in all the new things you started drifting asleep on the couch.

As the movie finished and Dean and Jack noticed, Dean motion the younger boy to be silent and he lift you up to bring you to your room. Your face was hiding on the crook of his neck and your small arms hugging his neck. Halfway asleep you mumbled, “you know, it’s funny Not-My-DeanWinchester, that you smell exactly like my Dean Winchester”.

He frowned, yes, you had always been close, even as children, but noticing the way someone smelled, you, your adult version had never mentioned anything similar. “I quite like that smell,” was the last thing you said before drifting so deep into sleep that not even when he laid you on the bed a little too abruptly did you notice.

He went back to his room. And did some research on his laptop before sleeping himself. Neither him, not Sam had found the spell yet.

The next morning, as the boys went to check out on you their hearts almost fell to the floor. Instead of a very talkative little 5-year-old, they had a way smaller kid in your room. A version of you that most have been 2 or 3.

“Where’s mom and dad?” You asked. They didn’t know how to respond. You’d grown down at least 2 years in a night, if this kept going you would be unborn in less than a week.

“Hey!” Sam approached you “they went to work, we’ll take care of you today, my name is Sam,” he said pointing at himself, when you were three your mom was still alive and you hadn’t met the Winchesters “that’s Dean,” he pointed at his bother.

You took a deep breath, even kids know when they're in danger, and you felt safe enough to trust these two unknown men “I’m hungry.”

“I’ll uh... let’s make some breakfast all right?” Smiled Dean and he motioned for you follow him. Once you got to the kitchen he sat you on the counter to be able to keep an eye on you while Sam called Rowena again.

“Samuel, you need to stop ringing me whenever you...” she stopped complying as he saw the smaller girl sitting on the counter dangling her feet “oh, don’t tell me that’s (Y/N).”

Sammy nodded.

“Yes I am, thas my name,” you said with a smile, “I’m twhree yeahrs old” you showed your hand, with 4 fingers up.

Dean got close and lowered one of the “three,” he said softly.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“We need to find a cure,”

As the day passed by, the boys got more and more desperate, Rowena had travelled to the bunker to see you in person and try to understand the spell.

“I think I have it!” Said Sam after hours sitting in the library, “(Y/N) said something about juvenile, I found a spell, juvenillis juvinale a puero usque ad senem,” it’s something like form old to young.

“Oh I know this spell,” smiled Rowena “I just need a few things and we’ll be able to fix (Y/N).

“Fix me, why?” You asked Dean as you munched on some cereal.

“A different (Y/N),” he replied absentmindedly.

After the three of them found all the stuff they would need Rowena started with her reversion spell. “a puero usque ad senem, a puero usque ad senem, redde id leve et quod suus 'non est verum” she said, and then threw some dust to a vase, a little explosion made a noise and green smoke came out from it but you were still toddler.

“It didn’t work!” Exclaimed Dean angrily.

“No, it takes time for her to grow up again, she should be back to normal in the morning,” stated Rowena “pleasure to see you boys, but I’ve got business to run, demons to keep in line, all that hell business, so goodbye”.

As Rowena left the bunker after packing her stuff the boys sat back in the library still worried. You were quietly sitting on the main table playing with Dean’s phone. Who would have thought angry birds would keep your three-year-old version entertained for hours.

As Dean took you to bed, you started to be wary of your surroundings, you wanted to see your mom and dad. “I don’t like it here,” you said as he sat you in the bed, “it’s scary I want to see my momma,” you cried shyly.

“I know,” replied Dean in the most understating way “I get it, but it’s all right, you’ll see her soon. The sooner you fall asleep the better.”

As he stood up and walked towards the light switch you stopped him “NO!”

“Lights on?”

“I don’t want to be alone, I never sleep alone, always with mom and dad.”

“But I’d be right next door,” he tried to reason but you only denied with your head.

“Won’t sleep, I will stay awake all night if I’m alone.” Dean drew a deep breath but sat beside you on the bed. “Can you tell me a story?”

“A story?” He questioned.

“Yes! A story before bed,”

“I don’t know any...” he said sadly.

“A song?”

“Can’t sing.”

“Plweeeease?”

“Hey Jude, don't be afraid” he started to mumble the so-known lyrics, “You were made to go out and get her, The minute you let her under your skin, Then you begin to make it better”.

Before either of you realized you were both half asleep. As you opened your eyes in the morning, you felt your bed being occupied by someone. And that someone was cuddling you. You hadn’t been cuddled in years. So naturally, you opened your eyes and jumped backwards when you realized how close Dean’s face was to yours, you even distinguished his small freckles. The bed was small, so that jump led you to the floor. Hitting yourself in the head with the side table in the process.

“Auch,” you complained once on the floor rubbing your head where it had collided with your side table.

Dean’s head popped from the side of the bed, half-sleep at first, but when he saw you, your regular aged self a giant smile grew on his face “You’re back!” He said with content “She’s back!” He screamed so the boys could hear.

“Back? From where?” You asked as you got up from the floor and crawled back inside the bed, yes Dean was there. But it was so cold you didn’t even care, you just wanted your covers on top of you.

“You turned 5, and then 3.”

“Five what?” You asked frowning.

“Years old.”

“I was a kid?”

“Oh, and a very adorable one. You made us watch frozen,”

“Bullshit! I would never! Didn’t even exist when I was a kid.”

He chuckled “Well I guess you do know yourself, we watched the headless horseman animated movie when you were 5, when you were three you basically played angry birds on my phone all day,”

“And why are you in my bed?” you asked after your brain started to process everything Dean was telling you.

“Well, your three-year-old version didn’t want to be alone, threatened to stay awake all night if I didn’t.”

If I’d know that was all it took I would have done it ages ago, you thought to yourself. “Well, then, that sounds like a fever dream, heck maybe I’m still dreaming,” you sad as you dragged Dean from his sitting position to lay back down, “whichever it is, you are now my personal heater”.

“I mean, I knew I was hot but—”

“—Shut up Winchester! I’m trying to sleep,” you mumbled as you cuddled into him. Yes, you were so sure you were dreaming because you only cuddled Dean Winchester in your dreams.

“Hey (Y/N)?” He questioned as he looked at the ceiling and drew small circles on your back.

“Mhm?”

“Why did 5 years old you knew that I smelled like, and I quote, ‘her Dean Winchester’?”

“I’d know it was you no matter my age Dean. I could have been 50 and still recognized you. Besides, you’ve always smelled so nice...” you replied half asleep.

A small smiled appeared on Dean’s face. You thought he smelled nice, and you were cuddling him, even if you were probably still being affected by the spell, he would cherish this moment for as long as it lasted.

Permanent Dean taglist: @akshi8278 @hobby27

Find more Dean fluff here

Feedback is always apreciated ✨

#imagine #one shot #oneshot #x reader #dean winchester #supernatural #dean winchester one shot #dean one shot #dean x reader #fanfic #supernatural imagine #dean imagine #dean winchester imagine #reader insert #supernatural fanfiction #Dean

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cupcakemolotov · 4 years ago

Text

Road to Ruin

I... have no idea where this came from. But hey, I’ll take almost 2K of story after a drought of words. SFW, character death, probably some angst. You can read it here on A03 if you prefer.

Caroline had missed the Memorial Service.

Finals at NYU had been brutal, her schedule packed and tangled tightly together after a truly unfair back to back testing schedule. She’d wanted nothing more than to climb into her lumpy dorm bed and sleep for a week, but she’d promised Bonnie she’d try to make it.

She hadn’t.

But that was the fault of May storms and erratic flight schedules, not her personal choice. By the time her mom picked her up in Richmond, five hours late and dragging with exhaustion no number of espresso shots could perk up, it was dark and raining. She’d fallen asleep in the car, dragged herself into the house, and had just enough energy to change before diving into her bed for the sleep she’d been missing for what felt like weeks.

Elena was dead.

The news had come five days before finals, and after sobbing her eyes out on her RA’s shoulder, she’d pulled herself together and buried herself in all night study sessions and endless equations. But the knowledge had lingered, that this friend of hers who had grown so distant the last year, more distant than any amount of school schedules and new friends could allow for when Caroline was a devout texter, was gone. She’d cried in the shower, for the girl who she’d once known and would never know again.

Shifting her weight on the damp grass, Caroline studied the freshly dug grave. The last few years before graduation hadn’t been good for their friendship, High School having been a roller coaster of drama and boys that was expected, she supposed. But if only that had been the only drama, she was certain they wouldn't have grown so far away from each other. There had been that weird mass grave that someone had found that had kept her mom busy for months dealing with the locals and the FBI, the weird way the old boarding house had been repaired seemingly to open up only to remain empty. Those strangers who her mom had not liked who had asked questions about a couple of weird gravestones in the museum. That series of petty thefts that had kept her mom even busier than the mass grave and its collection of weird historians and FBI investigations, that had finally culminated in some family heirlooms being stolen from the Lockwoods.

Tyler had bitched for months about it. Weirdly, it had been those complaints that had been the deciding factor that had her breaking up with him. Yeah, the sex had been good, but a girl did not need pillow talk about family heirlooms and how upset his mom had been. Any boyfriend worth their salt (and teenage hormones) should have been far too distracted by her being naked right there, not their moms.

She shuddered a little, thinking about it.

The second half of their junior year had been a mess, and been made worse when Aunt Jenna had died. Caroline’s fingers tightened on the bouquet she was holding, thinking of all the deaths that had accumulated that year. Aunt Jenna. Her Dad. Carol Lockwood. How terrified she had been that her mom would end up next, logical or not.

Then there had been the way Elena had gone all weirdly obsessed with finding her biological parents, the way it had driven her as if it was something outside of herself she couldn't control. Caroline studied the tops of the flowers she held in her hand, wondering if not for the first time if she could have done something different. Been a better friend, helped Elena in some way. Those long weeks that first Christmas when Elena had decided to spend it alone, how she had refused to answer a single text message until she’d shown back up at school, dark circles under eyes like an underfed anemic.

She’d been… different, after that. Less boy crazy and more… mature. And that summer, she’d gone to meet a family claiming to be hers. And when she’d come home, she’d been so happy. Bouncing, sparkling happy. Cousins, she’d said. Brother’s and a sister who said that her mother had been theirs and they’d been looking for her.

Family.

That was what Caroline wanted to remember her. The girl who sat with her for hours after Bill died, both of them quiet, legs tangled on Caroline’s bed. The girl who liked board games and pink lipstick and who had terrible taste in shoes. Her friend. Not the girl from their Senior year who had slowly become something else entirely. Pale and wane, short tempered and then so, so quiet. The girl whose new family moved into Mansion at the edge of town that had been empty for decades, who paid for an expensive car and clothes and who never came to a single game to watch her cheer.

Letting out a slow breath, she set the flowers she’d brought down on the grave and chewed on her lower lip. People usually said things at graves, didn’t they? But she’d never been good at that sort of thing. Not at her Dad’s grave, and not here, standing over the bones of her friend. She’d brought daisy’s because Elena liked them, and she briefly closed her eyes, hoping that Elena knew she was here, that she missed her, and that even if she reached the old age of one hundred, she’d remember the night she and Elena and Bonnie had laughed until they cried over the most ridiculous of conversations, until they’d had to scramble to pretend they’d been sleeping when her mom came home at dawn after her shift.

That would be the Elena she’d take with her.

Swallowing hard, she turned on one heel and jerked to a stop, heart slamming into her throat as she found a man she didn’t recognize lingering far too close to her. He was only a few inches taller than her, but something about the utter stillness of his posture, the way she hadn’t heard him walk up behind her, her usual excellent sense of people taught by her mother and perfected in the subway system having failed to ping at her, left her breathless with surprise. For a moment, Caroline struggled to get her pulse under control before narrowing her eyes. “Excuse you, creepy much? Most people have the decency not to loom in graveyards.”

A sudden hint of a smile played across a distractingly full mouth, and he reached up and pushed his sunglasses up into his rumpled curls, something about the way he was looking at her sending the faintest hint of alarm down her spine. “Spend a lot of time in graveyards?”

“That is none of your business,” Caroline said, letting her voice frost over in disapproval.

“Apologies, love.” He said, body shifting from that hair raising awareness to a soft charm she might have liked if she hadn’t seen him looking at her like she was a particularly interesting bug. “I didn't recall seeing you at the funeral, and I’m sure I would have remembered you.”

Something about him, the way his eyes never left hers, put her back up. She hadn’t spent the last two years in New York City to let some weirdo stranger intimidate her now. “I don’t recognize you at all,” she said primly. “So that means you were fairly new to Elena’s life. Do you make a habit of memorizing faces at funerals? That seems like the sort of thing that would alarm a psychologist.”

The curve of his mouth deepened, and to her despair, he had dimples. “You must be Caroline Forbes. Ms. Bennett was disappointed that you missed the service.”

Caroline shrugged, stubbornly holding his gaze though it was starting to bother her that he didn’t blink. “May storms are a bitch. And neither Bonnie nor Elena mentioned anyone who would match your description.”

He looked intrigued. “Do you usually ask for physical descriptions of their acquaintances?”

“And pictures of their drivers licenses,” she retorted. “So that if they go missing, I know where to direct my mother to find them, but you're definitely not either of their types, and since you think you have some claim on Elena, that must mean you belong to the Mikaelson family. Which one are you?”

She didn't do much to hide what she thought of his family, and it didn’t seem to bother him.

“Smart,” he murmured. “I’m Klaus.” And then he offered her his hand, something like a challenge lingering at the back of his eyes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Caroline.”

It was a dare. And she was terrible at turning those down, even as her instincts warned her that there was something about this man she wasn’t seeing. But she was also standing twenty feet away from a number of her own dead relatives, and Grandma Forbes would haunt her forever if she was rude to this man in front of her. Baring her teeth in something like a smile, she took his hand. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”

Laughter had lit his eyes a half moment before their skin touched, and something she couldn’t describe rolled down her spine. More sensation than feeling, she felt it down to her feet, and it left her pulse pounding. She pulled her hand back, too quick to be polite, but she didn’t care as she stared at the man who had gone still and so quietly dangerous, she was debating reaching for the pepper stray attached to her keys.

She could probably get it out and in his face before he lunged.

Maybe.

Klaus’ fingers had curled into his palm, as if he too had felt whatever that had been, and the blue of his eyes were doing something strange, and Caroline became intensely aware of everything around them. The buzz of summer insects, the shape of his stupidly plush mouth, the smell of fresh turned dirt. It was the near silent buzz of an incoming text that broke the staring contest between them. Senses hyper-alert, she pulled her phone out of her purse and saw that she had two missed calls from Bonnie. Glancing up from her lashes to find that Klaus hadn’t looked away, so she pasted on her best false smile and shrugged.

“Well, Klaus, I’m sure this is where I should say something polite about seeing you around, but that seems super unlikely,” Caroline said with a false shrug of disappointment. “So, I’ll just say bye instead.”

A lowering of his lashes, something behind his eyes that burned her skin. “Hmm, I suppose we’ll see, won’t we? The family has decided to stick around a bit longer, give ourselves time to mourn. You may be surprised how much you’ll see us.”

Caroline snorted and stepped around him. “History of your family’s willingness to grace the town with your presence says otherwise.” But because her grandma had raised her right, and was probably seriously judging her only granddaughter from the plot just a few feet away, she smiled and waved, just like her pageant days had taught her. And only when she was almost to her car, did she relax enough to look at her text.

And felt her heart drop to her toes.

I don’t think Elena is dead.

Brows tucking tightly together, she went through the motions of unlocking the car door, glancing back towards the man lingering in the graveyard. Klaus hadn't moved, except to slid his hands into his pockets and to turn to watch her. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers against hers, the heat and calluses of him, the shock of him down her spine. For a moment, she tried to remember what Elena had told her about her biological family, the people who went through all the right motions but never showed her friend the care she deserved. The brother’s who had been so considerate, and offered her anything money could buy but not a single ounce of affection. Lifting her chin, she narrowed her eyes, even though she knew he couldn't see her.

Let him think what he wanted. She was fairly certain she’d never see him again. Klaus, who stood in graveyards in pressed slacks and rosaries around his throat. Something was going on there, and the last thing she needed was for him to turn out to be some kind of serial killer.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, she started the engine and set her teeth, only then allowing herself to really absorb what Bonnie had sent her. Not dead? What was Bonnie thinking? And if she was right, why would the Mikaelson’s lie?

Why bury Elena, fake or otherwise, with the ghosts if she wasn’t really dead?

#my fic #klaroline #klaroline fanfiction

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years ago

Text

A Place Like This 2

Warnings: this short series will include dark elements including noncon, possible violence, mentions of mental illness, and other explicit content. I’m not your mother, curate your own consumption.

This is dark!Lumberjack!Andy Barber and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start asking questions but you might not like the answers.

Note: I’m a filthy liar and this is gonna be obv more than two parts and I dunno what I’m doing.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Your office was the room across the hall from Andy’s, just beside the bathroom and furthest from your mother’s.

You had a routine; it helped you keep on track. You woke up, had a coffee and a small breakfast, and climbed back upstairs to begin your work. At noon, you took a break, you went for a walk or just sat on the porch with your mother if she wasn’t in her room. You returned to work and later in the afternoon you came down to remind your mother about her pills. Then you started dinner as the day was in its final decline.

Andy only changed that slightly. He woke earlier than you did and was on his way out as you got up. He came home around dinner time and you left a plate for him in the oven if he was late. He was quiet, he ate, and went upstairs. The first week went by as such. You almost pitied him for living in what seemed a crowded isolation.

Then the weekend came. Like the other lumber workers, he had those two days to himself. It would be the first real test of your arrangement.

You woke at your usual time and went down to make your coffee. You only wrote for a couple hours on weekends. Breaks were good. You measured the grounds into the percolator and filled it with water. You turned on the decades old stove and turned as you heard the old stairs groan.

Andy appeared in the door. He wore jeans and a thick knitted sweater. His hair, overgrown and shaggy, was pushed away from his face, his beard a shade darker and starting to puff out from its length. You suspected that as a lawyer, he never looked so unkempt and yet even now, he still managed to look refined.

“Hate to be selfish but you think there’s enough for me?” He crossed to the table and sat.

“Should be,” You rubbed your hands together. You wore an old sweatshirt with a grizzly on the front and your old faded jeans with the bleach stain on the knee. Unfashionable but warm. ‘“Cream, milk, sugar?”

“Black’s fine,” He said as he scratched his chin. “I was thinking today I could stock us up on wood for the fireplace. Since it’s snowing now, it’s better to get it done before the winter is really here.”

You squinted at him and played with the frayed cuff of your shirt. “So, you got a lot of snow in the city?”

“Not as much as here, I’m sure.” He let out a long breath and you saw the cloud in front of him.

You paused and listened for the rattle of the furnace. “Fuck.” You pushed yourself away from the counter. “I gotta light the furnace.”

“Where is it? I’ll do it.” He offered. “Since you made the coffee.”

“You sure?”

“Think I can handle it,” He stood. “City boy and all.”

“Basement door’s outside. It’s a pain but this place is old and not very well put together.” You said. “There’s a lighter in the drawer.” You pointed at the counter. “Thanks. Oh, and the key too. Hanging by the door with the green tag.”

“Alright,” He crossed to the door. “Think I’ll figure it out.”

He disappeared down the hall and returned with his big boots. He put them on before the back door and unlocked it. He tramped down the steps as the door clattered behind him and you listened to his crisp footsteps.

You wrung your hands as you thought. Nice enough, you surmised, but evasive. Maybe he wasn’t running from some heinous offense but he was trying to get away from something. You could tell by the way he always seemed to direct the conversation, especially when it turned on him.

You heard the sudden rumble of the furnace and the vents hissing. You turned as the percolator began to shake almost in tandem and the small glass knob bubbled with brown coffee. You took it off the burner as the basement door squeaked and the jingle of the key accompanied the snowy steps across the yard.

Andy kicked off his boots and slipped through the back door. He hung the key and he shook the snow from his hair and smoothed it back. He left his boots on the mat as you poured two mugs. He approached and you slid one to him. He took it with a soft thank you.

You added milk to yours and sat at the table as he did the same. You regretted it almost immediately. You should've taken it up with you and hid in your office.

"Any plans today?" He asked. You blinked and he rested his palm against the hot mug. "Sorry, it's none of my business."

"Nah, nothing planned," You replied. "So you just plan on chopping wood on your day off?"

"Not much else to do up here. It's nice. Mindless." He shrugged.

"You have a lot you don't want to think about?" You wondered.

His jaw ticked as he eyed you and his lips curled slightly.

"Don't we all?"

"You'd have to to come all the way up here from wherever you're from." You commented.

"Hmm," He chuckled under his breath. "You'd make a good prosecutor. You don't miss a lot."

"I'm a writer. I write about people, so I gotta study them closely."

"I thought you wrote about animals."

"That's what I'm paid to write about but… I have my own projects." You lifted your mug and tasted the rich brew.

He sucked his bottom lip in as his thoughts wrinkled on his forehead. "Uh huh," He uttered carefully. "Guess that's true then."

"So… is it too much to ask why you ditched being a lawyer?" You asked.

"You do anything long enough and you get bored."

"And you never did anything else? Never got married?" You prodded.

"Well, what about you?" He challenged as he hooked two finger through the handle of his mug. "Not many fish in this pond, huh."

"Touche," Your lips slanted, "You definitely are the lawyer type."

🍂

Later that day, after you gave your mother her second round of pills, you ventured out into the forest that skirt around the old property. The snow was only just past your ankles, the powder fell in spurts but didn’t seem to get much deeper. When you were met with a block or an impasse in your writing, you always came out to the trees to clear your mind. You were done for the day but you had a long week ahead of you.

You kicked the snow of a fallen tree by the river and listened to those critters not yet in hibernation in the blanket branches above. You thought about the man staying in the room next to yours and the answers he would give you; the questions you were too afraid to ask him.

He wasn’t telling you everything, perhaps he didn’t owe you everything, but the lines in his forehead, the crinkles beside his eyes, the depth of his irises as they watched you. There were things you needed to know about a person and you feared you didn’t know enough about this stranger you’d invited in. You had been too intent on the money, on your own keeping.

Or maybe you were paranoid. You were starting to sound like your mother when she claimed the birds were listening to her and taking the messages back to the monsters of the forest. When she had barricaded herself in her room and refused to come out for fear you were one of them in disguise. The day it had all fallen apart.

Your nose was numb and tingling. You pulled your scarf up over your face and turned back. The snow was crisper now. The temperatures fell with the sun and that happened quickly in the winter. The sky was a dark grey as you came back to the house, the chimney billowed up toward the quarter moon and a soft amber light shone between the curtains of the front room.

You dusted your boots off before you stepped inside. The voice didn’t stop as you took off your coat, scarf, hat, and gloves. You slid your boots off and listened. The scene was unexpected as you peeked into the front room.

Your mother sat with her favourite blanket over her legs before the fire. A fresh stack of wood sat beside it, the basket full of split logs as well. Andy bent to poke at the embers and send up sparks as he got the fire going higher.

“So, this book you’re reading,” He said as he set the poker aside. “Did she get away yet?”

“I don’t think she’s gonna,” Your mother replied as Andy stood and brushed off his jeans. “I don’t think that’s what the story’s about.”

“That’s too bad.” He looked up and his eyes met yours. You moved so that you stood in the doorway. “But I guess that’s truer to life. Not everyone gets their happy ending.”

“Well, I’ve been taking my time because it doesn’t have an ending. Yet.” She explained. “I’m waiting for her to finish.”

Your blood went cold. You crossed your arms and cleared your throat.

“What book is this, ma?” You asked.

She looked around the chair at you and blanched. Andy sat on the sofa and you pushed yourself away from the door frame. Your mother shook her head.

“I told you not to read my stuff.” You grimaced as you came closer. “It’s a first draft. Unfinished, unedited. It’s… personal.”

“From what she says, it’s pretty good regardless,” Andy offered. “Can’t blame her for her curiosity.”

You looked at him sharply and sighed as you dropped your arms.

“Whatever. Just don’t look at it again til I’m done.” You reprimanded. “Please. I’ll give you a look when I’m ready.”

“Dunno why it’s such a big deal. You write for the magazine all the time.” She grumbled.

“Because this isn’t an article on leaf fauna, ma,” You rubbed your cheek. “You already eat?”

“Just about to. Andy put a casserole in the oven.” She smiled. “Never knew a man who cooked. Your father, he couldn’t even salt his own eggs.”

“Mmm,” You sniffed as the smell of the burning wood melded with another more savoury scent. “Well, thank you, Andy. That was considerate. I’m sorry I waited so late, I was a bit distracted.”

“No problem,” He shrugged. “Really, the least I can do.”

You glanced between him and your mom. She hadn’t been this awake in ages. Her meds usually had her napping until dinnertime and asleep just as quickly after. She was vibrant and more friendly to this man than people she’d known for decades. You felt as if you’d walked in on something.

“Well, let me know. I’ll be upstairs.” You backed up. “There’s some strudel left from yesterday we can have for dessert.”

You left them and stopped at the bottom of the stairs as you looked back into the front room. Andy’s voice droned as he spoke to your mom and as she chuckled his eyes found yours. They narrowed for just a moment before he turned back and smiled at the older woman.

Nice enough, you presumed, but why didn’t you believe it?

🍂

The next day, you watched Andy through the window. The snow was thicker, a harbinger of the storm that had been brewing for over a week. He crossed to the trees, his boots barely higher than the blanket below. He sank down with each step. Only a fool would venture out as the windows billowed and flung the snow errantly.

You tore yourself away and pulled the curtain shut. You crept out into the hall and listened. Your mother slept late that day and when you gave her her pills, she’d just rolled over and fallen back to sleep.

You neared the door of Andy’s room and your hand hesitated on the knob. You took a breath and twisted it. You entered and were struck by the man’s smell; of his sweat and the deodorant that always lingered around him. The bed was made and the room barely looked lived in.

You walked slowly to the closet. Flannel shirts and jackets hung within above a single suitcase.

You felt a pang of guilt. Had you not just chided your mother for her snooping? You bent and unzipped the bag. It was empty. You checked the pockets; empty too. You stood and slid the door back into place. You went to the bed, the table next to it with the drawer that didn’t quite shut all the way and you wiggled it open.

The bible your mother left in there as if it were a hotel and pack of smokes. You’d never seen Andy smoke, never even smelled it on him. You took the carton and flipped open the top. Inside, a folded picture. You tiptoed to the window and looked out. His footprints faded into the trees.

You slid the photo out and opened it with shaky hands. It was Andy, shorter hair, trimmed beard, smiling, his arm around a dark-haired woman and a young boy in front of them. You folded it quickly and pushed it back behind the sticks in the pack. You placed it as you had found it and forced the drawer shut.

Was he running from his own family? Or maybe, what had happened to them?

You fled his room and closed the door guiltily. You were only more confused than before. You descended the stairs and hastily pulled your coat from the hook. Your hat was pulled on carelessly and you tied your boots without thinking. You pushed your hands into your gloves and angled yourself out the door. It was fucking cold; the fleece lining of your coat made little difference.

You grunted as you forced your boots through the snow and followed Andy’s tracks as they filled with a new layer of powder. You weren’t sure what you were doing, why you were doing it. What could he be doing all the way out in the woods which would be incriminating?

You went on, even as the questions floated in your mind. You followed his large boot prints, placing your feet in them as you followed his path. You came to a stop before the river, the overturned tree showed where someone had brushed aside the snow. The tracks veered off away from the log and you looked around.

You were forced back into an upright trunk, the breath knocked out of you as Andy pinned you with his arm across your chest. His eyes seared into you as he leaned his weight into you and you gasped for air as you smacked his shoulder.

“Why are you following me?” He growled.

“What? Andy, let me--” You gasped, barely able to breathe, the snow clumping in your lashes. “And--”

“Hmm? I see you watching me. I see the way you look at me.” He hissed. “I help you, help your mother and what? What do you think I am?” He grabbed your chin, his hide glove rough against your skin. “Am I that villain you write about? Is that what you think?”

“No, I…” You smacked him again and again. “I was just---” He let off just a little as you gulped for air. “There’s a storm. You shouldn’t be out here--”

“You think I can’t handle a storm?” He snarled. “You’re not a very good liar and trust me, I’ve known a lot of liars.”

“Let go of me.” You pleaded. “Jesus Christ, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I followed you, okay? I was just… curious.”

“Uh huh,” He turned you and forced his arm around your neck as he bent you over. You kicked as he dragged you through the snow towards the river. “WHat do you think? I’m hiding some big secret like one of those books you read?”

“Let--go,” Your feet slid through the blanket below. “Stop! What are you--”

“You think I’m what? A criminal? A murderer!?” He pulled you up and spun you away from him. You stumbled backwards as you faced him.

Your boots slid beneath you and you hearth the hard thunk of your sole against the the ice. Thick but not thick enough. You held out your hands as you looked down at the river coursing below the brittle surface. Your heart raced in your ears. You tried to take a step forward but he was at the bank, watching you.

“Ah ah,” He raised his hand. “You stay where you are.”

“What are you doing?” You pushed your feet apart. “Andy--”

“Terrible accident you falling through the ice like that. There’s just so much snow, you can’t really tell where the water begins.” He smiled and tucked his hands in his pocket as you heard the slow crack beneath you. “Your mother will be devastated.”

You swallowed as your eyes wetted and you looked between him and your feet. You lifted your boot and the snap below you had your heart in your throat. You plunged into the freezing water with a shrill shriek, your arms flying up to grab onto the ice.

The frozen sheet broke as you tried to latch on and you kicked as the water soaked your coat and dragged you down into the depth further. You flapped helplessly and spun in circles in the waves. The water filled your lungs and you choked and you stared up through the frigid foam, the blurry shadow staring down at you.

The cold bit deep into your flesh and your limbs weakened the more you struggled. The water smothered you and your body spasmed in the thralls of finality. Your eyes rolled back and the dark water flowed around you in welcome.

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #dark andy barber x reader #dark!andy barber x reader #andy barber x reader #fic #series #a place like this #lumberjack au #au #lumberjack #Defending Jacob #dark fic #dark!fic

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thespianbooks · 4 years ago

Text

A Court of Nightmares and Starlight //Chapter 15//

Masterlist

(tags: @thron3ofbooks, @df3ndyr, @courtofjurdan, @art-e-mis, @herondamnn, @the-third-me, @im-still-trying-here, @emikadreams, @paytin77, @mis-lil-red, @sleeping-and-books, @lucieisabooknerd, @amandareay-sunshine, @easy-p-lemon, @azymondias05) *bold tags don’t work. Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list!

Thank you all for your patience over the last couple of weeks, enjoy and stay awesome! ❤️

XXX

The remaining session left in our annual summit had followed and ended, for the most part, rather successfully. After Eris had taken his treacherous father back to the Autumn Court, we reassembled the next morning. Each High Lord and High Lady had sat evenly spaced around the reflection pool with our entourages and our human friends as well; Tamlin and his sentry Hart, being the odd ones out. Despite the memory of our first High Lord's meeting, and Tamlin's actions back then looming over us, he continued with his peculiar silence—staring at the reflection pool as our host officially began the meeting and Rhysand began informing the others of our dire situation.

"A coup? In the Night Court?" Tarquin had asked.

I nodded solemnly in return. "Keir, our steward of the Court of Nightmares, has spent the last several years plotting with an Illyrian camp lord named Kallon," I explained.

In the decade of summits we held, Rhys, Cassian and Azriel informed the others more about the Illyrian forces and their ways of life—which they hadn't known much about prior to the war. The latter of the trio emphasized their archaic lifestyle—and his disdain for it, while Cassian and Rhys detailed more on how the armies functioned. I remembered how Cassian's hazel eyes brightened with pride when he announced that he and I had been slowly training more and more females to join their forces over the years. At that moment, however, those eyes had been dulled and matched the grim line of his lips as he and Azriel sat a little taller at my explanation.

"Unfortunately, that camp lord has rallied half of the other camp lords and their armies to his cause," Rhys had continued.

Tension then settled over us as Rhys summoned the reports that Azriel had gathered over the last several weeks in his hands; Helion using his magic to replicate and pass them amongst the group.

"Half of your Illyrian forces have turned against you?" He asked us incredulously, though his gold-flecked eyes were stony.

I nodded grimly, holding my stomach protectively. "Unfortunately. In exchange, Keir has promised to support Kallon in separating the Illyrians from the Night Court," I managed; my throat going unexpectedly tight at the thought.

"Which is why we called this summit early," Rhys continued for me. "Not only does our intel inform us of the traitors in our court, but it also suggests that Beron has joined their ranks as well."

Everyone's resolve had been matched with this news; after the High Lord of Autumn's display having only been hours behind us at that point, we all knew that his newfound alliance was no longer a suggestion.

"What would you have us do?" Kallias asked carefully. His fiercely blue eyes searched for a way to help, but I knew the hesitation was still there as he placed a hand on his mate's knee.

Viviane squeezed his hand in return and trained sympathetic eyes at me. She knew better than the rest that a war brewing on the horizon was the last thing I, nor my mate, wanted to focus on with our youngling on the way.

"We only ask for the same help you offered during the war," I pleaded softly—meeting all of their gazes as Rhys took my hand. "Your armies, should we need them, because if Rhysand and I should fall, then-" my voice cracked a bit, and I squeezed my mate's hand.

"We believe Keir has orchestrated this coup, rallying what Illyrian forces he could through a young and untested camp lord, and now reinforcing old ties with the Autumn Court in order to take over my throne. He's always resented my family ruling the Night Court, even during my father's reign, and now he believes he can take it for himself," Rhys said.

"Make no mistake, my father is ruthless," Mor joined in—voice tight. "And I know he wouldn't just stop with the Night Court. Kallon is an idiot for believing my father would grant the Illyrians independence. The Illyrians, and whatever ties he's formed with Beron, he's using to his advantage. He believes them all to be fools and wouldn't hesitate to bide his time until taking over their court as well. Whatever deal he's struck with the High Lord will ultimately give him leverage in the end. Leverage over them, over the rest of Prythian, and the Mortal Lands as well."

Mor's warning to the others of her father's ambition resounded in my head for the thousandth time since the summit and I groaned quietly as I rubbed at my temples, staring out the window at the wide expanse of the estate's gardens.

"I have to admit, Feyre darling, the rest you've gotten over the last couple of weeks has allowed your mental shields to build back up nicely," came Rhys's warm-tenor voice from behind me. "It's too bad that I can tell just by the look in your eyes what you're thinking of; or rather, remembering."

I glanced at his muted reflection in the library window, mirrored in front of me, and scowled at the taunting smirk on his lips. "You can't even see my eyes from here," I retorted.

"Sure I can," he said easily, his reflection growing closer as he walked towards where I perched on a cushioned seat by the window. "Just like I can see that lovely scowl on your face."

I threw up my hand in a vulgar gesture, knowing he'd see that, and his laughter finally allowed my shoulders to relax as he curled in next to me on the window seat. I adjusted, stretching my back and curving a hand along the ever-growing line of my belly. In the weeks that had followed since the summit, my stomach had only continued with its exponential growth—which left Rhys infatuated. He rested a hand on it now as I moved to recline against his shoulder, returning my stare out the window.

"Your level of stress is beginning to concern me, my love," Rhys said quietly as he ran a hand along my stomach. "I know it's easier said than done, but I wish you would unburden yourself."

I sighed and closed my eyes as I allowed my body to fully relax against him, taking in a few cleansing breaths. He was right; in spite of getting full support from our friends in the other courts and in the Mortal Lands as well, I couldn't shake off my sense of unease. Even Tamlin, our unlikely ally, silently agreed to offer his armies—should we need it. Though he remained speechless as the others asked more and more questions on the intel we had gathered, he listened. At the end when the others offered what they could, he merely stood with Hart and said he and his armies were at our disposal—before they winnowed away without another word.

Perhaps it was his abrupt behavior, along with the lingering question of Eris's true intentions, that weighed on me. After Tamlin's departure, we had all been suspicious of whether or not Eris was truly on our side. There was no doubt that the High Lord of Autumn was our enemy, but we had yet to see if his eldest son was merely using his father as a pawn in this coup for his benefit alone.

"Come back to me, Feyre," Rhys murmured in my ear, knowing my thoughts were once again swirling with anxiety and pulling me away. "Come back to us," he said as he rubbed the swell of my stomach.

"We have the numbers; we have the allies and support we need. Now we wait, and while we wait, we can go back to focusing our attention on him."

I smiled as he kept sending soothing strokes over the fair expanse of my belly and turned my face into his neck. I breathed in his salt and citrus scent, relishing in his touch before I slowly opened my eyes to meet his.

"You're right," I said softly. "I shouldn't worry so much, but I guess I do because…" I trailed off, unable to think of the right words.

"You're nesting," he amended with a smirk.

I raised a brow, "Nesting? Madja said that wouldn't happen until much later."

During one of our previous check-ins with the healer, she expressed that in the last remaining weeks of my pregnancy, I would be overcome with a sudden instinct to clean and organize in preparation for the baby's arrival. This instinct was commonly known as nesting, and every expecting female had experienced it before giving birth. The healer also expressed that males cultivated a form of it as well, something Viviane alluded to when she explained that Kallias's male-bonded instincts would alert him of when her time was approaching and cause him to accommodate her and their youngling's needs on a primal level.

"True, but this could be a form of it," he explained, amused. "As a High Lady simultaneously expecting a youngling, it's only natural that you would want your court in the best condition before welcoming a child into it."

I stared down at my stomach, his hands laying idle on either side of it, "That's still months away…"

Rhys kissed my temple, "Yes, but it's rather transparent that the threat of a coup is what keeps you so troubled." I could feel the shift in his mood as he mulled over his words, but I turned in his arms and carefully straddled him—meeting his gaze so that I could put his mind at ease.

"This isn't your fault Rhys, it isn't anyone's fault," I reminded him. "Like you've told me so many times before, this is still an exciting time for us, and we're coming to a solution. One day at a time, and although I have my moments where I get lost in my worries, I know we're safe."

His returning grin was slow as he held my hips, and I leaned in to press a tender kiss on his lips in an attempt to quell some of the stress he now felt. "Let's concentrate on him," I said.

"And on you," he emphasized as he rubbed the tender spot between my pronounced belly and hip bone. I hissed a bit at the soreness as he massaged the area. "Are you feeling any better after this morning?"

I sighed as I recalled the new aches and pains I had been experiencing as of late. Almost a week ago I woke up with excruciating muscle pain in my hips and out of an abundance of caution, Rhys sent for Madja-who, unsurprisingly, informed us that yet another unfavorable exploit of pregnancy was plaguing me. On top of the lingering nausea spells, dizziness, and fatigue, I was now dealt with the unfortunate side effect of pain in my pelvic area. According to the healer, due to my ever-expanding womb, the hormones being released in order to make room were causing an imbalance in my pelvis bone—thus causing pain in my hip joints and back. Thankfully, there was no cause for alarm in regard to the baby, but it meant another ailment added to the list I already struggled with.

Fortunately, the healer gave us a list of different exercises to try in order to relieve the strain and tautness, and I was more than grateful that my mate was eager to help alleviate it.

"A little," I replied as he kept rubbing soothing circles into either side of my hips. I relaxed as I sat in his lap, allowing him to continue as I laid my hands on his shoulders. "It always feels better when you do that, though."

He offered a sympathetic smile as his hands worked, "I'm sorry you're so uncomfortable, Feyre. I thought this level of discomfort would come at the end stages."

I pouted, "So did I. Now I can't even imagine the mess I'll be then. You'll have to carry me around everywhere because I won't be able to walk." I lamented with a dramatic sigh.

"I'll be happy to oblige you then, and now, my love," Rhys said before placing a kiss on my still pouting lips. "But hopefully you'll have some relief before then."

"Probably not, but it's all right," I said as I glanced down at my stomach. "He'll be worth it…"

He grinned as the glimmer that was our baby fluttered between us, but after a few seconds his lips parted in astonishment as we both felt that flutter turn into a solid bump against his hand. It was small, so subtle that any other lesser being might've missed it, but it was clear as day to us.

"Was that…?" Rhys choked out.

I brightened, "He kicked."

His violet eyes stared at my stomach, amazed, before lining with silver as he beamed. "Our son kicks."

I laughed wetly and rubbed the other side of my stomach, trying to gently coax the movement to continue and we both concentrated on it until we felt another kick in return.

"He's kicking, Rhys!"

"He's strong," he said, voice warm as his hands ran over my stomach carefully. "Try not to kick too hard in there, son, you don't want to hurt your mama."

I smirked, "Are you scolding our son already, Rhysand?"

"Not scolding, just giving him a gentle reminder to take it easy on you," he said.

My heart warmed, but before I could say anything else, something from the window caught in the corner of my eye. I turned to face it, Rhys following my gaze, and gasped as I saw flecks of snow falling outside. Just minutes ago, the sky had been clear and blue, the sun shining as it normally did on a spring afternoon. Now, the expanse of the skies were lined with clouds as it snowed, but I noticed none of it stuck to the ground—still warm enough outside for the snow to melt as soon as it touched the earth. I turned to Rhys, confused at this sudden change in weather—unlike any I had ever experienced in Velaris, or Prythian alone for that matter.

"Viviane has given birth," Rhys answered my silent question. "Whenever a youngling is born into a ruling family's court, it affects all the others in Prythian. In this case, since this child was born into the Winter Court, we have snow."

I brightened as I turned back to the window, a sense of pride swelling in my chest and throat, "So, this means she had her baby today? And they're both okay?"

He stoked my side lightly as he nodded, "Yes, this is a sign that both mother and child are healthy."

I felt my eyes burn at the realization, the relief. Viviane had mentioned that bringing forth a youngling would be difficult, and if fae cycles were any indication for what labor pains might be, I couldn't imagine how excruciating it must've been to endure. But, seeing the light snow shower meant she and her baby had made it through without complication, and were both recovering.

"I can't imagine what it must look like in the Winter Court," I said.

Rhys chuckled, "I'm sure the snowstorm is quite impressive for them, but it'll be nothing compared to what will happen here once you give birth."

I raised a brow, "What happens in the Night Court? A full day of night for all of Prythian?" I quipped.

He flicked my nose with a smirk, "You'll see, smartass."

I giggled, "Wait, but I'm actually curious! What will happen here?"

Just as he was about to retort with another snide comment, Mor and Elain burst through the library doors. Mor squealing in delight as she twirled about the room in excitement.

"Viviane gave birth!" She sang, too distracted to notice when I moved off of Rhys's lap as gracefully as possible, my cheeks warm. Elain was on her heels, but she took in our position and quickly looked away.

"I know, Rhys just explained it to me," I said as I stood, smoothing out my loose long-sleeved tunic.

"Oh, I can't wait to meet her," Mor gushed as she took my hands in excitement. "Did she tell you the name they picked for her?"

I shook my head and Mor grinned, "Eira."

"Snow. How beautiful," Elain chimed as she came to our side.

"It is," I said as I looked out the window again, and it was then that I noticed Nesta standing by the window at the opposite end of the room.

Her arms were crossed over her abdomen as she stared outside, blue-grey eyes actually soft as she watched the snowfall. I was surprised until I remembered the speech she delivered over a decade ago at our very first summit meeting before the war—the condolences she offered on Kallias and Viviane's behalf for the loss of all those younglings at Amarantha's wrath. Her sympathy had surprised me then, and I wondered at the warmth in her eyes now—and what looked to be like a hint of sorrow in them as well.

"Eira," Rhys said as he stood nonchalantly from the window seat. "Seems pretty fitting as well," he said as he took in the sight of the snow falling again before coming to rest a hand on the small of my back. "Looks like we'll have to be equally creative when we pick a name."

I grinned at his insinuation and Mor groaned in exasperation. "Will you at least give me a hint? Are you leaning towards boy names or girl names?"

I shook my head. "Sorry Mor, but my lips are sealed. You'll know the baby's name when he or she is born, just like everyone else," I teased.

"But you already know what you're having, don't you?" Elain asked, and I could see the impatience in her eyes as well.

Though some had implied that our baby was indeed a boy at the summit a few weeks before, Rhys nor I actually confirmed this fact—much to everyone's chagrin; especially Mor and Elain's.

I shrugged and Mor rolled her eyes again. "You know if you don't tell us, we won't know how to decorate the nursery," she tried to argue; and my sister's eyes widened at the idea.

"Then we'll stick to a neutral theme," Rhys suggested.

I laughed at Mor and Elain's equal protests, but my eyes returned to Nesta—who had turned from her place at the window and exited the room as quietly as she had entered.

XXX

I later found Cassian staring up at the cloudy sky, wings tucked in tight as he stood in the middle of the training arena as snow continued to fall. I cleared my throat as I approached, and he turned to face me.

"You aren't here to try and insist I train you again, are you?" He asked, hazel eyes sparkling with mischief.

I rolled my eyes, recalling how in spite of Madja's recommendation, there had been days I still wanted to keep up with some of my training while still in the early stages. After seeing the toll my pregnancy was taking, however, Cassian adamantly refused.

"No, not this time," I said and motioned to the sky. "Did you hear the news?"

He nodded and picked up a stray dagger on the ground, "I know what it means. You should've seen the way the trees around here turned when Lucien was born. It was actually nice."

I watched as the lightness in the words he spoke didn't quite reach his eyes, noting the same strange sorrow in them that were in Nesta's. After she left the library, I had excused myself a few minutes later in order to try and find her—curious to know what melancholy suddenly plagued her. I had let Rhys know through the bond that I felt something awry with my sister, and that I was going to talk to her in the hopes that she might finally open up a bit more with me. However, while I searched for her, I instead heard Cassian's grunts as he vigorously sparred in the outdoor training pit. I watched from a balcony as he tore apart a training dummy to pieces, unusually aggressive, and waited until I saw him calm before coming out to meet him. There was something aching inside of him, and inside of Nesta, and though they continued to keep whatever bond between them private—I hoped I could find out why they were suddenly afflicted.

"It's good news then, isn't it? For Kallias and Viviane?" I asked quietly.

He glanced up at the sky again with a quick nod, "Yes, it is."

I softened as I saw the longing in his eyes, "Why do you look so sad then?"

He quickly averted my gaze, "What makes you say that?"

"Because the look on your face is the same look I saw on Nesta's earlier," I said gently.

He sighed and tossed the dagger in his hands into a crate by his feet. "I'm not sad, Feyre, and I can't always speak for your sister."

"No, I guess you can't." I said as I crossed over to a nearby bench and sat on it, wincing a bit at the pain it caused in my hips, but silently invited him to sit beside me regardless.

He obliged and sat on the bench, "You're in pain?" he asked.

I shook my head, "Moving around is just trickier now, because my growing stomach is throwing off...everything, apparently."

His lips widened into a grin. "Figures Rhys's kid would give you hell before it's even born."

We both laughed and I saw that same longing return in his gaze as he stared at my stomach. I hesitated before asking, "Have you ever considered having a child one day?"

Cassian's shoulders stiffened for a second before he sighed in defeat, knowing he couldn't evade this question. "I'll never have any offspring of my own Feyre," he finally said.

I blinked, surprised, and suddenly his look of sorrow and longing made sense—along with the same expression I had seen in Nesta's. Though unofficial, we all knew of the ties that existed between Cassian and my sister. Rhys and I figured that when they were ready to express their feelings—to share their bond, then they would. In the meantime, we all silently acknowledged it, but never said anything to try and coax a confession.

This revelation however, made me recall that in the decade since she'd been made, Nesta had yet to experience a fae cycle. Shortly after experiencing mine for the first time, I had briefly informed my sisters of what to expect. It wasn't long after that Elain had experienced her own and I had been there to coach her through the agonizing process. I expected Nesta to soon follow, but whenever I tried to inquire about it, she brushed me off. For years, I assumed that she just shut me out whenever her time came; until Elain revealed to me that our eldest sister hadn't had a cycle at all since before being made—when she was still a human.

Remembering this, and hearing Cassian's words now, my heart squeezed in remorse for bringing it up. I looked up at the sky as the snow continued to fall around us, "I'm sorry Cassian," I whispered. "I shouldn't have-"

He cut me off with a huff of laughter. "In my centuries of existence, I never gave it much thought. Rhys, on the other hand," he said, his gaze meeting mine again with solid reassurance. "When he came back from Under the Mountain, it was all he talked about,"

"I didn't know why at first, because we had always been too preoccupied to even consider settling down and having offspring. But after Az and I heard about you, met you, I knew you were the reason why. From the moment he came back from that place, when you both made it out of there, he envisioned a future with you."

My eyes burned as I squeezed his hand. "We wouldn't be here, expecting this child, if it weren't in part for you Cassian," I admitted with a sniff.

He laughed and pulled me into a one-armed embrace around my shoulders. "Those hormones of yours are no joke! It's kind of funny," he teased.

I scowled, "I can't help it. It's not my fault he's thrown me completely out of whack." I said, motioning to my stomach.

Cassian grinned. "He?"

I paused. "Don't tell Mor, or Elain. They're dying to know, but between you and me," I began, resting a hand over the apex of my stomach. "It's a boy..."

Cassian's eyes flickered with a mix of yearning and joy, and I noticed his hand twitch towards my stomach, but he stopped himself—hesitant.

I smiled, "Go ahead. You are going to be his Uncle Cassian after all, and according to Viviane he'll be able to distinguish our voices as he grows."

He blinked, "He can hear us talking?"

"Well right now he hears my voice the clearest, and Rhysand's. But over time, he'll be able to hear everyone else's, including yours," I explained.

He balked before touching my stomach cautiously with an open palm, "In that case, you should get used to my voice now, little one. I'll be training you once you're big enough."

I grinned playfully, "If you're going to teach him to fly, just make sure you don't drop him out of the sky."

"It was one time," he said with a roll of his eyes. "And I would never endanger a youngling's life, especially his. You hear that little one? Don't let your mean ol' mom or dad tell you otherwise. Uncle Cassian will take good care of you."

My heart warmed as he went on to have a conversation with my stomach, and I continued to answer any other questions he had about pregnancy and about my growing son—reminding me that this pregnancy was just a wonder to him, and everyone in our inner circle, as it was for Rhys and me. They were living through it for the first time, just like we were, and they loved our son just as fiercely as well. I then silently promised myself that during this period of waiting, I would spend less time worrying and more time with my family.

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cestlestial-beings · 4 years ago

Text

The Hunter

Summary: A mysterious "hunter," John, saves her from a ghost. She's in college; he's twice her age. But she really, really wants him, and with any luck, something will happen.

Fandom: Supernatural Characters: John Winchester, Unnamed Original Female Character Pairing: John Winchester/OFC Word Count: 2,800 Rating: Explicit AO3: Link

I’m sitting on my living room couch, anxiously biting my fingernails and hoping the salt circle around me does its job, when there’s a knock on the door. I jump up. It could only be John, the “hunter” who’d shown up a few days ago, introducing himself initially as FBI Agent Carrel, asking questions about the strange happenings around my house, and later revealing it was haunted by a ghost. A ghost!

Still, I’m jumpy from my recent encounter with the a murderous ghost a few hours before. “Who is it?” I call, hopefully loud enough to make it through the wall.

“It’s John,” a voice says from the other side.

I hop out of my salt circle and go unbolt and unlock the door. When I open it, John’s standing there. It’s dark, almost midnight, but the porch lights of my small, out-of-the-way home light up him up just enough for me to tell that he’s looking a little worse for wear: dirt on his clothes, scratches on the side of his face, the t-shirt under the flannel torn in several places.

“The ghost is taken care of,” he tells me. “Bones salted and burned. You’ll be safe now.” I feel a wave of relief. Safe. And then, unexpected, a brief wave of disappointment. The ghost is gone, which means John is going to leave now. After all he’s helped me through, after the inexplicable attraction that grew during the few days he’s been here…

He turns to leave, but I grab his jacket sleeve. “Wait,” I say. “I’m… Can you… Can you stay the night?” His face is totally stoic, not betraying any emotion, so I rush on. “I know the ghost is gone, but can you stay, just in case it’s not, somehow? It would make me feel a lot better.” It’s partly true. This big, old house I’d inherited from my aunt, full of spooky vibes (which turned out to be totally valid), is far from anyone who could help if something happened. But I also can’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe, something would happen if he stayed.

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly and I feel a flutter of butterflies in my stomach. I flash a quick smile back at him, relieved he didn’t reject me outright.

“I can keep a watch out from outside,” he says, nodding to his car, which is, despite being at least three decades old, gorgeous.

I shake my head. “No, you don’t need to actively watch out for anything, so you should stay inside. I just want someone nearby. Just in case. It’s no trouble, really.” There’s a slight edge of pleading creeping into my voice and I hope I’m not coming off as desperate.

A long moment passes before he nods. “All right. If it would make you feel safer.”

I open the door more fully and gesture for him to come in. “I can set up the sofa for you to sleep on. Or…” I pause and bite my lip. Could I be so forward? He watches me, eyebrows slightly raised. “Yeah. Sofa,” I quickly say, ducking my head and going to grab some sheets from the closet.

He sits patiently at the table on the tiled part of the room, waiting while I set up. I straighten up after tucking in the fitted sheet, feeling self-conscious. “Can I, uh, get you something to drink?” I ask. He shakes his head, so I go back to putting the sheets on. I can still feel his eyes on me while I work.

“Okay, all done here,” I say. “I guess I’m going to head to bed.”

Another small, barely-smiling smile. He stands up and takes off his leather jacket. I should go, I think as he drapes his jacket over the chair and starts unbuttoning his flannel, but now’s my only chance. I should say something. He’ll be gone tomorrow morning, and I want him, I really, really want him.

He pulls off the flannel shirt and drops it on top of his jacket. I try to keep my mouth from dropping open. He’s in just a t-shirt now, his muscular biceps visible. Wow. He raises his eyebrows at me again, and I quickly turn and walk quickly into my room. I don’t have the guts to do anything. A tough guy like him? He wouldn’t be interested in a soft college girl like me.

I stand in front of my closet a little too long trying to decide what to wear. He’ll probably see me in the morning, so I want to look good. But not too good, like I’ve been trying. And it has to be something that makes me look mature. I pick out a satin tank/shorts combo. Yeah, this is good.

I try to get to sleep after that, I really do—if I can’t work up the courage to make something happen, I might as well get some rest—but how am I supposed to sleep knowing he’s just down the hall, a couple doors away? I toss and turn for an hour before I finally flip on the light and sit up in bed. God, I could use a drink. Just something small, to help me get to sleep.

I open my door as quietly as I can and slip into the hall, trying not to wake John. But I’m surprised to see the light still on at the end of the hall. I pad down the hallway, wondering what he’s still doing up. After digging up a grave and stopping a ghost, he must be exhausted.

When I reach the living room, I see he’s sitting at the table flipping through an old book with an open, half-finished bottle of Jack next to him. He looks up when he sees me. His eyes roam up my body, taking in my appearance, but he quickly looks away. I savor the warm feeling that spreads through me from seeing him looking.

“Hey,” I say. “Couldn’t sleep. Looks like you couldn’t either?”

He lets out a low, short laugh. “Usually can’t.”

I walk over and sit down next to him. “Can I?” I nod towards his bottle of booze.

“Are you even old enough to drink?”

“I’m twenty-two!” I say. Hearing it out loud, it sounds ridiculous, and I blush. I’m trying to impress this older man, and I just emphasized my immaturity.

He looks at me for a moment before nodding. “Help yourself.��

I get up and grab a couple of whiskey glasses from the counter before sitting back down and filling them halfway up. “Cheers,” I say, raising mine up. He picks up his glass and lightly taps it against mine, and we both down our whiskey. I crinkle my nose at the strength of it, burning all the way down to my stomach. It doesn’t take long for a light buzz to start running through me.

“So what are you reading?” I ask, peeking over at his book.

He rubs his eyes. “Demon lore.”

“Demons?” I ask. “Those exist?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen one?” I’m curious. What do they look like?

There’s a long pause. He clenches his jaw. “Yes.”

I can tell it’s personal, so I don’t press. I pour another glass and sip at it. John’s back to reading his book now. At least he’s tryingto read. His eyes are moving back and forth, but they’re staying at the top of the page, like he’s not processing the words enough to move on to the next line.

“You saved my life, you know,” I say.

He looks up at me. “It’s part of my line of work.”

Yeah, a line of work that’s far from easy. I lightly place my hand over his, avoiding touching his red and torn knuckles. “I mean it.” I lightly run my fingers across the back of his hand in a way that I hope is getting across what I’m hoping for tonight.

He inhales sharply and pulls his hand out from underneath mine. “You’re so young.”

I frown. “I’m an adult.”

“I should get some rest,” he says, standing up. I stand up quickly too, and he’s close now, so close, less than a foot separating us. Up close he smells like leather and sweat and blood, a combination that has absolutely no right to be so intoxicating. I set a hand lightly on his chest. I look up—he’s got at least eight inches on me—and meet his eyes. His brow is furrowed as he studies my face.

“What are you doing?” he murmurs.

My hand slides up and around to the back of his neck, pulling him down to me. I press my lips against his. He kisses back, slowly, hesitantly, then pulls away. “You’re so young,” he repeats.

“I’m old enough.” My hand is still on his neck, and I lightly run my fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes. “Please. I want you,” I say, probably coming off as desperate, but not caring.

He shakes his head. “This isn’t a good idea.”

I bite my lip. His body, so close to mine, is making it hard to think. “It’s just one night,” I say.

He looks up and away, a torn look on his face.

“Please?” I say again.

His jaw sets. He’s come to a decision. I only hope…

He leans down and kisses me. Harder this time. Hungrier. His tongue runs lightly across my upper lip, pressing for an invitation. I open my mouth slightly and his tongue meets mine. My hand slips from the back of his neck to the side of his face. There’s a slight prickle of stubble against my skin, and want floods through me. His masculinity—in the way he feels, the way he smells, the way he tastes—is overwhelming in the best way.

His hand comes to rest lightly on my hip and then slowly works its way up under my top. He runs a thumb over my breast, gently grazing the nipple, and I let out a soft moan. I’ve been with other men, men my age, but it’s never felt like this. I’ve never felt so much desire.

I pull back for just a moment to pull off my top, fully bare for him. I tug at the bottom of his t-shirt, and he pulls it off. I run a hand up slowly through his chest hair, bringing my palm to rest on his jaw.

“Bedroom?” I whisper between kisses.

He nods, wrapping his arms around my hips and lifting me up. I wrap my legs around his waist and he holds me like I weigh nothing. God, he’s strong. His lips never leaving mine, he walks us down the hall and into my bedroom, only bumping a couple picture frames off the wall as we go.

When we get to my room, he pulls away just long enough to see where the bed is and then deposits me on it. He’s standing above me, eyes wild and wanting, and desire courses through me. I squeeze my legs together tightly for a second, a futile attempt to relieve the pressure building between them.

His fingers run along the band of my shorts and he makes eye contact with me, waiting for permission. I nod, and he slowly starts to pull them down, trailing kisses from between my breasts to down between my legs. Lower, and lower, until he gets… there.

I hold back a moan, arching slightly at the pleasure as his tongue stimulates me. A finger slips between my legs and slides into me and I bite my lip, squeezing my eyes shut. Oh, god. I’m getting closer, closer… Too close.

“Mm. John, wait,” I say, and he pauses and looks up at me, eyes still dark with desire. Fuck. “I want you inside me.”

He grins at me, more expressive than he’s been all week. He climbs up on the bed over me, lowering his head to kiss me. I didn’t think I’d like the taste of myself, but on his lips… God, I can’t get enough.

I struggle to undo his belt, distracted by the kiss. I feel his lips curl upwards against mine and then he pulls back for a moment, just long enough to undo his belt and slip out of his pants and boxer briefs.

I’m dazed, my whole body feeling hyper-sensitive and electrified. I run my eyes down him. Eyes filled with lust, scruffy beard, muscled, hairy chest, and… Wow. I lick my lips. “Condom. Top nightstand drawer.”

I lie back as he rifles through the drawer and pulls out a condom. He leans over and tears open the packet with his teeth. Goddamn. My hand drifts down towards between my legs to relieve the want building in me, but he grabs my hand and pins it next to my head. He shakes his head. “That’s my job, sweetheart.”

He drops my hand and slips on the condom. He trails a finger across the sensitive area between my legs—oh fuck—and slowly up my torso, coming to rest over my breast.

“Inside me,” I repeat.

He laughs softly. “No patience.”

“Please?”

He smiles again and adjusts himself. I feel him brush up against my opening, the whole area wet and ready. He bends down to kiss me and then pushes inside.

I turn and let out a satisfied exhale into John’s neck.

“Fuck,” he growls. He pumps in and out, slowly at first, and then faster. He presses up against my clit with each thrust and I gasp, pressing my head back into the bed. It feels so good it’s almost painful.

He runs a tongue up my breast, across my collarbone, to the side of my neck. I put my hand on his cheek and guide him up to my mouth, kissing him, short, hungry kisses as he continues to move against me.

I’m close. I’m close. I’m… I inhale sharply. “Oh, fuck. Fuck.”

“You there, sweetheart?” he murmurs into my ear, his voice hoarse.

“Yes. Nnnn. Fuck.” My eyes are squeezed shut as I ride it out, pleasure pulsing through my whole body. He feels so good still. So damn good, even when it’s too—almost too—much.

He thrusts in one more time and freezes, a shudder passing through him. “Mm.” He drops his head, breathing hard. “Fuck.”

I laugh breathlessly. “No kidding.”

He pulls out and lies down next to me. We stare at the ceiling for what must be a couple of minutes, the sounds of us catching our breath the only noise in the room.

My breath slows enough for me to talk, but I’m still close to speechless. “That was… Thanks.”

He doesn’t reply. When I look at him, he’s still looking at the ceiling, a relaxed look on his face. He senses me looking and turns his head, giving me a slight smile. I smile back, a much bigger, more obvious smile.

I move myself up the bed a couple of feet so my head is over my pillow and climb under the sheets. I pat the pillow next to me, and John follows my lead and slips under the sheets with me. Now that the pleasure’s fading, sleepiness is starting to wash over me.

I snuggle up against him, the little spoon to his big spoon.

“Do you regret it?” he says softly.

I roll over so I’m face to face with him. “Regret it?”

He still looks relaxed, tired like me, but there’s a hint of doubt in his eyes. “Sex. With me.”

“Are you kidding?”

He doesn’t respond, just holds my gaze steadily.

I can feel a blush rising to my cheeks as I say, “Of course I don’t regret it. That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

He looks placated, though a hint of what looks like guilt lingers. “Glad to hear it, sweetheart.”

I run a hand over the coarse hair on his chest, pressing a kiss to his lips. My eyes start to drift shut in tiredness and I blink them back open, throwing him an embarrassed smile—I know my face is far from attractive when I sleep. I roll back over, and he drapes his arm over my hips.

I’d started my evening afraid of being killed by a ghost, but now I couldn’t feel more secure, here in the arms of a man who I know can protect me.

—

When I wake up, John’s side of the bed is empty and cold. The couch has been unmade, the sheets put away. Besides the two dirty whiskey glasses and an extra set of tire treads in the driveway, there are no signs he was ever here at all.

I’m disappointed he’s gone, but I’m glad I got a chance to spend the night with him. I’ll be holding on to this memory for a long time, stowed away for when I need a little release.

#spn fic #my writing #spn reader insert #john winchester x reader #reader insert #age difference #1POV

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purplesurveys · 3 years ago

Text

1274

Department One: Apparel And Jewelry

What are you wearing today? Just a white duster dress. Very loungewear-y, hahaha. I didn’t feel like wearing shorts today.

What does your favorite shirt look like? At the moment I’m obsessed with my Vante shirt. It’s fanmade but it was made tastefully; the designs aren’t too loud and I love the cute little shoutouts and tributes to his past paintings, so it had been a ridiculously easy decision for me to want to buy it.

What kind of underwear do you prefer wearing? Eh I don’t really have a preference as long as I don’t find them uncomfy.

What are your favorite kind of jeans? I’m definitely still stuck in my mom jeans phase. Idk man, I just love how they match nearly all kinds of tops.

What do the last pair of shoes you wore look like? They were adidas sneakers. Not a big fan of chunky shoes but it’s an Ivy Park and it was on a big discount HAHAHA so I didn’t hesitate to get them.

How many shoes do you own? A little more than 10. I love shoes and wanna collect them someday...just not today, hahaha.

How much jewelry do you own? Not too big on jewelry; most, if not all the ones I wear are just borrowed from my mom since we share the same style anyway.

Do you own any real diamonds or other expensive jewelry? Yeah, the ones I would borrow from my mom are pretty pricey.

Has anyone ever gave you jewelry as a present? Yes, I received rings and necklaces from my ex. One of my aunts also gave me a necklace when I turned 7.

Do you like diamonds or gemstones better? I just stick with diamonds...which is...also a gemstone too, if I’m not mistaken.

Silver or gold? Silver.

Department Two: Electronics

Do you have a DVD player in your car? Not in mine, but we do have one in the family car. I used to watch movies on there often but after one grueling road trip where my motion sickness acted up, I haven’t wanted to use it since.

If you have one, what does your camera/camcorder look like? I just use the camera in my phone but back in the day I used to have a DSLR; that was when I thought I wanted to take up photography, heh. It was a Nikon D3100.

How much did it cost? I’m not sure since my dad gave it to me as a present, but a quick search told me it would’ve cost him around P20,000 which issssss wow more expensive than I thought.

What kind of cellphone do you have? I have an iPhone 8 with an LCD screen that’s deteriorating by the day HAHA. I really need to get a new phone.

How often do you send texts? I text just for work purposes now, so it really depends on how busy my accounts are. Some days would require me to send out more texts than usual.

Do you have your own computer or does your family share? I have my own laptop. My workplace also provided me with what’s supposed to be my work laptop, but they had it sent to me when I was already a couple of months into my job and all my needed files and programs were already in my personal laptop. Since I was too lazy to start everything all over again, I’ve never actually used the work laptop haha.

How many computers are in your house? We have three laptops in total - my siblings and I each have our own. Kind of a necessity these days.

Do you still have a VCR? I don’t think so.

How many DVDs do you own? We probably have around 30-50 but most of them are movies from like the 2000s that we just haven’t thrown out. Personally, I have about five DVDs of old films like Gone with the Wind, Rebel Without A Cause, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, etc, and recently I’ve been buying BTS merch so DVDs are part of that mix too.

Does your car have a GPS? No. I use Waze on my phone instead.

What kind of iPod/MP3 player do you have? Haven’t used an iPod in like a literal decade. I use Spotify for my music.

How many songs are on it? Spotify doesn’t work that way since it’s technically a database of songs.

What size is your TV? Never bothered to ask/check.

How many TVs are in your house? Four. Living room, dining room, master bedroom, my brother’s room.

What video game systems do you have? We have a PS3 and PS4.

What about handhelds? Switch. I believe my sister also still has her DSi stored somewhere.

How many video games do you have? Probably somewhere around 50-60. My dad and brother are content with repeating their games lol.

Department Three: Home

What kind of shampoo do you use? It’s a Dove variant but I’m just blanking out on the specific name/what it does.

Soap or shower gel? Shower gel.

What does your comforter look like? It’s pretty colorful and has geometric shapes and lines.

Does it match your pillows? Yep, they come in a set.

What size is your bed? Twin.

Do you or your parents like to decorate the house with various things or is it plain? My mom puts considerable effort in decorating the house but it’s nothing overboard that it feels tacky. There’s enough decor in enough spaces.

Does the furniture in your house match? Sure. I imagine my mom would be very irritated if she felt something was uncoordinated at home.

What does your couch look like? It’s a gray L-shaped couch. Gabie broke a portion of the couch’s springs when it had only spent its like first two weeks at home but surprisingly my mom has not noticed it yet; probably because she barely sits on that side.

How many does your dining room/kitchen table seat? It has six chairs, though since we’re five one of the chairs is almost always unoccupied.

Do you have any fancy china? No, my mom isn’t the type to collect those.

Do you have outside furniture? Yeah we have a table and chairs up on the rooftop, if they count.

What do your curtains look like? My siblings and I have pull-down blinds. The other rooms have these pulled-back gold curtains that’s accompanied by white sheers.

Department Four: Grocery

What kind of bread do you get? Sliced white bread, always. Sometimes my mom will pick up pan de sal, but she gets those from a certain bakery and no longer the grocery.

What is your favorite kind of cake? CHEEEEEEEEEESECAAAAAAAKE.

Do you get a lot of sweets from the grocery store? Eh, nah. Not a big fan of sweets.

What kind of soda is your favorite? Don’t like soda.

Do you drink juice? What kind? I can take it or leave it. I wouldn’t buy it for myself.

What is your favorite chewing gum? Doesn’t matter to me. The flavors last for only like a minute anyway.

Do you usually get candy from the check-out aisle? Nah. Those are far more accessible so who knows who could’ve touched or tampered with them. Plus, I mentioned I don’t like sweets.

What is your favorite soup? Miso or cream of mushroom.

Have you ever had soup when you were sick? No. I don’t enjoy hot beverages/liquids very much so I doubt I would feel comfort from soup when I’m sick.

What are your favorite canned vegetables? Not sure if it’s a cultural difference thing but canned vegetables kind of sound gross and I don’t think I’ve encountered those (I actually had to look it up lol). My parents always buy fruits and veggies as is.

What do you eat for breakfast? Fried rice is a constant but my mom switches up the set of viands every time. Some of the meals she serves would be hotdogs, eggs (either scrambled, omelette, fried, or sunny-side up), corned beef, dried fish, hashbrowns, luncheon meat, tapa, and Vienna sausages. Poptarts or toaster strudels? Poptarts. I’ve never had toaster strudel and I’m honestly not sure what that is.

What salad dressing do you prefer? Spicy mayo.

Ketchup, mayonnaise, or mustard? MAYONNAISE. I can live without the other two.

What kind of cookie do you like best? I only ever eat chocolate chip.

What kind of snacks do you get at the grocery store? Salted egg chips or Pringles. Not a big fan of snacks either. This survey is making me realize I’m way more into full meals than anything else.

Do you get the meat from the deli? Er, we don’t have delis here. Too fancy a concept lmao. If we have them, they are most likely in those extremely upscale, boujee neighborhoods.

What is your favorite frozen dinner? I mean my dad buys frozen meat, fish, etc, but the frozen dinner sets that I see in American culture, which I’m guessing is what’s being referred to in this question, are not common here.

Do you prefer frozen dinners to actual cooking? I honestly can’t imagine how it’s filling, but then again I’ve never tried it. Personally, food made from scratch is still the best.

What is your favorite kind of pasta? Fettuccine.

Do you eat meat? And if not, do you eat vegetarian meat? Yes, I eat meat. I get vegan options if they’re accessible and affordable, but those choices are hard to come by here.

What is your favorite fruit? Avocado is really the only one I’ll give a pass to. Everything else tastes horrible.

What about vegetable? Broccoli, bell peppers, green beans.

Department Five: Health And Beauty

What kind of makeup do you normally use? None. If I absolutely have to put on makeup, I will begrudgingly put on foundation, maybe some eyeliner, and lip gloss. And they will all most likely be borrowed from my sister.

Do you wear more makeup on special events? Not necessarily.

What is your favorite makeup brand? I wouldn’t be the right person to ask because I would just say none of them.

Do you use any acne products? Mmm no, I just splash water on my face, really. I actually got into a conversation about skincare with my co-workers yesterday and besides the usual shocked experessions I get when people find out I don’t use products, they recommended I at least get moisturizer and sunscreen. Idk, let’s see but historically it’s been hard to convince me to invest in skincare haha.

What kind of perfume do you use? I have one of Beyoncé’s perfumes, Heat Rush. I don’t actually know if that’s still in production but it’s been my staple for like a decade or so now.

Have you ever been on a diet? No. I never really had to be on one.

What products do you use in your hair? Shampoo and conditioner.

How often do you brush your hair? Only when I have to leave the house or have an important virtual work meeting.

What do you take when you have an upset stomach? Nothing. The toilet usually solves that for me lol.

Do you take any prescription medicine? Nope.

Department Six: Movies, Music, And Books

What is your favorite movie of all time? It’s been Two for the Road for a solid nine years and it doesn’t look like anything’s on its way to dethroning it anytime soon.

What genre of movie do like best? Drama. The more realistic it is, the better.

What was the last movie you watched? It’s a Korean film called Be With You. I liked it and I cried waterfalls, but the ending was so rushed it was kind of disappointing.

What was the last movie you purchased? I don’t buy movies. If I wanted to see a film I’ll check if Netflix has it, then if they don’t I just try to scour one of those illegal movie streaming sites that always happen to have thousands of pornographic ads hahaha.

What is your all time favorite band? Paramore. Do you still buy CDs? Only from artists I’m an extremely huge fan of. Right now that would be BTS, so I’m catching up on all the albums they’ve released in the last eight years.

What was the last CD you bought? I got the Butter album set, if that counts. If it doesn’t, the last full-length album I purchased was Dark & Wild.

What was the last song you listened to? I think it was Permission To Dance.

What is your favorite book? I haven’t found it yet.

Do you even like reading? I used to love it a lot more, to the point that back in grade school I was known as always having a book in my hand. I just don’t know where that passion went.

How often do you read? Nearly never. I mean...I do read fanfics, I guess; but I won’t count those.

Department Seven: Sports And Fitness

Do you own a bike/scooter/skateboard/etc.? We do have a bike at home, but that doesn’t mean I know how to ride it. We don’t have the other two.

How old were you when you learned to ride a bike w/o training wheels? I still don’t know how to last on a bike without training wheels heheh.

Have you ever been camping? Nah.

How often do you work out? Nope but at work my boss just started another fitness challenge, so I’ll probably have to get back on working out soon just because I would want to accomplish the challenge.

Are you in good shape? Sure, I think so. I’m not like fit fit because I neveeer exercise haha, but I also don’t make it a point to constantly eat unhealthy foods or have an unhealthy lifestyle to the point that it affects my body.

Do you go to a gym? I do not. I thought of getting a membership at the start of the year but I’m glad I didn’t push through with it because all the gyms are still closed anyway.

Have you ever been fishing? No. Idk if it’s my kind of pastime or not.

Have you ever been on a boat? Yeah. My country has like 7000 islands so I was bound to get on a boat at some point in my life haha.

Can you play golf? Never seemed interesting to me so no. Even on Wii Sports I barely picked golf.

Ever rode on a golf cart? Yeah, in resorts where we had to ride them to be taken to our room.

Would you ever go hunting? That’s an easy no.

What is your favorite sport? Pro wrestling or table tennis.

Ever played on a sports team? No, my school didn’t have a table tennis varsity.

Department Eight: Toys

What was your favorite toy as a child? Cash registers because I liked the buttons. Also Play-Doh sets that had those contraptions that would squirt out the clay in various shapes.

Do you still play with toys? Well, no.

Do you collect any toys? I don’t, but I’m not opposed to start buying Funko Pop figurines of people or characters I’m interested in.

Did you ever have building blocks? Sure, but I was never creative enough for them.

Did you play with dolls? No.

Barbies or Bratz? Which were better? BRATZZZZZZ

What is your favorite board game? Scrabble.

Do you like to do arts and crafts? Hell no.

Do you think that kids now have it better than when you were young? For sure, but isn’t that kind of the goal?

#survey #surveys

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sibillascribbles08 · 4 years ago

Note

If you could take creative control of ninjago what would you change

Christ...

WELL

Actually no idk where to start with this there’s so much anon there’S SO M U C H I guess I’ll do a run of MINIMAL changes tho (for as long as I can)

I don’t think I have to change much in the first two seasons, thankfully, since the writers actually sat down to think about what they were writing at the time but g o d did it go to hell afterwards

Season 3 - This Zane focused season is going to be ZANE FOCUSED DAMN IT. We’re focusing on his loss over his Father, having salt rubbed in the wound by having his father’s work turned into an evil army, and being faced with the fact he’s obsolete compared to it all. He keeps trying to stack up numbers to win, recalculate things, and it’s why his line at the ending ACTUALLY has impact. The thing that sets him apart from the nindroids, his ability to love, is what allows him to defeat the Overlord.

Jay, Cole and Nya love triangle is DESTROYED. Pixal, Zane and Cole is the new love triangle and later OT3

Season 4 - The explanation for the other EMs being around is far less stupid. Garmadon establishes that oh yeah all of your parents had elemental powers and even talks about a few of them because holy SHIT. Cole mentions his mom because he should have done that a g e s ago. Is this supposed to be a Kai season doesn’t feel like it. Open the season with better explanations of why the ninja split. Emphasis the fact that Kai blames himself for what happened to Zane, and continues to do so throughout the season. Add that to why he’s so desperate to save Skylor from her dad (not willing to lose someone else). We still lose Garmadon, Kai and Lloyd have a talk at the end of the season. Also ZANE IMMEDIATELY GOES TO GET PIXAL A NEW BODY WTHHH????

Season 5 - Idk this season was pretty good over all I think. A bit better lore established into the cloud kingdom, hints that they don’t actually control fate they just think they do. Explain where the FUCK NIMBUS CAME FROM?? Water can still beat up ghosts but idk feel like there should be some other factors involved, some magic. Kai and Zane figure out they can make water a LOT sooner. Also why doesn’t Kai just set the preeminent’s house armor on fire??? Should have. OH I did forget since this season is supposed to be for NYA GETTING HER WATER ELEMENT how about she actually GO WITH THE NINJA AND DO SOME SHIT SOMETIMES??? I don’t mind her training, specially Ronin helping her but like??? Wtf why not have her ENGAGE, idiots.

Season 6 - I’m the weirdo who actually likes season 6 but that doesn’t mean it’s not without its issues. I don’t mind Jay wondering about where he stands with Nya but his behavior throughout the season has to stay consistent. When he agrees with Nya he needs to let it go he needs to LET IT GO. IT LITERALLY SHOULDN’T BE BROUGHT UP AGAIN UNTIL THE LIGHTHOUSE. He also needs to linger more on his birth father (and besides he should have suspected he’s adopted since season 4 cause he knows neither of his parents had lightning powers). Zane doesn’t ignore Pixal’s warning about Nadakhan but if she’s off somewhere else idk how she gets threatened I’m sure Nadakhan could figure it out. OH and time can still reset and stuff idc but like, Jay and Nya need to talk about it and they need to GO BACK FOR ECHO. EVEN IF THEY DON’T FIND HIM THERE.

Day of the Departed - just wish it was longer tbh, but major changes: Why do the ninja not seem to care that cole is FADING OUT OF EXISTENCE and Lou should be a lot more worried about his son.

Season 7 - I mean, it’s mostly a trash fire, but I think it’d be a lot more enjoyable if they actually had good sibling dynamics going on. Acronix following his brother because he always has, but starts questioning their plans as things go. At first their relationship is much better, which is why they best Kai and Nya, but by the end that flips over. Actually have Kai and Nya having an ISSUE. Kai thinks their parents could have been traitors, Nya seemingly doesn’t care because she’s so wrapped up with her samurai x stuff being stolen. They end up fighting and don’t make up until the boiling sea. ALSO GIVE RAY AND MAYA A BETTER FUCKING EXCUSE FOR BEING GONE THEY COULD HAVE FUCKING SHANKED KRUX WHEN HIS BACK WAS TURNED GET OUT OF HERE HE HAD NO LEVERAGE.

Also Machia isn’t dead okay she’s just in the past she WILL COME BACK

Seasons 8 and 9 I’d say are pretty solid honestly? My minor changes: Garmadon isn’t Garmadon he’s a fucking fake get out of here with that shit THE REAL GARMADON WOULD NEVER. We actually learn where Mr. E came from I don’t even care if it’s just Harumi and UV talking about how they found him in a scrap heap and got him fixed just give me something. Stop treating Dareth like SHIT. Ronin and The Commissioner plan a jail break long before they’re let out in season 9. Teen Wu is a lot less... air headed. Like seriously he seems to have more logic when he’s a child it doesn’t add up. I’m not saying he has to remember everything but wth?? Oh, and Mistaké isn’t dead fuck you.

Season 10 - ............................................ delete it and start over. Literally, hate all of it, get it out of here. Four episodes for villains you built up like FUCK in the last two seasons??? All of them fucking as big as people???????? cowardly, weak, uninspired, I don’t want it I’m just going to have to redo this whole gd season. A) Oni leader is a QUEEN now and she can be up to 30 feet tall no I do not give a FUCK B) Fake ass Garmadon is revealed to be a different oni entirely he was an agent for the queen the whole time but never finished his mission C) She can still paralyze a bunch of people but man Lloyd you’re going to need more than a shiny tornado to fight her off. D) In fact you need to summon your other great grandma so the two of them can get over their divorce spat. E) Where’s the mask of vengeance bring that back into play. F) Mistaké shows back up to help. I suppose plot wise it can?? Mostly run the same but I think they’re going to have to run much farther than the city with how fast she spreads her reach. Also she’s weak for Lloyd because he’s the smol great grandson and he has to use that to his advantage to slow her down. Mistaké makes something that can unparalyze people and they get some of their allies back before the finale thank god. Faith isn’t just in a coma the whole GD time.

Season 11 - Fire half? Good. I need a much better reason why the ninja go to the never realm tho because wow did they just make everyone out of character in that last episode. The ninja have no reason to just ignore Wu and shove him out like that. Wu has no reason to NOT NOTICE LLOYD IS BREAKING INTO HIS ROOM WHEN HE WAS KICKING THE NINJAS ASSES IN THE FIRST EPISODE. Ice half?? ... h Yeah no they should have known Zane was the emperor from the start LMAO. Or at least suspected the possibility. The decades of time passing??? Deleted. Maybe give it a year. Idk why it’s just Lloyd snapping Zane out if why aren’t the other ninja involved like p l e a s e. Also kill Vex with an ice spike, thanks.

Season 12 - Over all I liked what this season had going but there... should have been more. And that ending felt so crunched together like damn... Unagami was a p cool villain at least BUT idk, despite all the focus on the plot so much of it didn’t feel tangible enough. Even if we’re going to focus more on the video game world I want to see more of what these NPCs are up to. Should have tossed in a couple of filler episodes. Also can someone just kill the Mechanic too SMH (and they should have tied Wu up in something sturdier how did he not just break out of that WHATEVER)

Suppose I’ll stop there I haven’t season season 13 yet.

Oh, the timeline itself needs some fucking work too. At least establish Wu and Garmadon’s sudden aging. At least establish how old Zane is (I’d believe he was built 40 years ago but I find it hard to believe he was active for all of it). Establish that yeah the FSM really did basically fuck off like idk 14 years ago and idk why the show acts like it was so long ago it couldn’t have been based on the other facts we know have Wu learn that his dad is a bitch ass motherfucker and he needs to ditch.

Honestly there’s more but like................. this is the simple version

#scribs speaks #ninjago #you asked I suppose #Anonymous

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lisarichardsonbylines · 4 years ago

Text

How to Tell Your Husband You’re a Witch

Witches we need you. Now more than ever. In the time of COVID-19 we can find respite in place-based reverence, plant magic and the divine feminine. So writes Lisa Richardson, who came to witchiness with nothing but white hetero straight-lacedness and a crush on a yoga teacher.

Lisa Richardson | Longreads | April 2020 | 15 minutes (4,084 words)

On a Friday afternoon, pre-COVID-19, my husband dropped some ice-cubes into glasses, ready to make us screwdrivers and cheers to surviving another week of working/parenting/wondering where the hell the years were going, only, the vodka bottle was empty.

“Oh yeah,” I said, my eyes sliding sideways, trying to not cause a fuss, “I used it for medicine.” The previous week, the kitchen counter had been cluttered with a giant mason jar full of oily plant matter. “Balm of Gilead!” I explained, brightly, as he wiped away the breakfast crumbs around it.

“But what is it?”

“Cottonwood tips in oil.”

His eyes had flicked, then, over to the brand-new bottle of extra virgin olive oil that was now nearly empty, as I enumerated the medicinal benefits of this old herbal remedy (and all this from a tree in our backyard!). Twenty-four years together means I could hear the abacus in his brain clicking, as he wordlessly calculated the cost per milliliter of a gallon jar of plant matter masticating in top-shelf olive oil, against the cost per unit of a bottle of generic aspirin tables, overlaid with the probability of me losing interest in this project.

First the olive oil. Now the vodka for dozens of little jars of tinctures — garden herbs and weeds soaking in now-undrinkable booze. My midlife quest to attune more deeply to the rhythms of the natural world was starting to incur unexpected, but real, costs.

He was quiet, as he opened the fridge and pulled out a beer instead.

* * *

In my defense, I could have pointed my finger at Natalie Rousseau, a yoga teacher living in my 5,000 person village, who I’d first encountered leading a solstice yoga class billed as a way to survive the madness of the holidays (in slightly more gracious language). Thanks to her offerings of insight I did survive the commercial horror of the “festive” season, and a few months later, as the new moon entered Aries (whatever that actually means), I plonked down $200 to subscribe to her online 13 Moons course — my foray into “slowing down and being more present,” as I pitched it to my husband when he inquired about the strange entry on the credit card statement.

But I did not deflect the simmering tension between us by naming Natalie as the instigator of these “kitchen witch” experiments. Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

But there it is. The word. Witch. The wound.

* * *

Every day, after COVID-19 entered our world, Natalie Rousseau has responded with an offering, a teaching — a meditation, an ancient mantra of protection, a yoga practice for managing anxiety, a how-to video on harvesting poplar medicine. It’s as if she’s been resourcing herself for this moment to develop the richest arsenal imaginable, to navigate, not the public health crisis, but the billion personal crises each of us is forced to confront as life as we know it slams into pandemic mode. It’s not what I thought a witch would do, if I ever thought about them at all.

Natalie doesn’t look like a witch either — not in the way I conceived it for last year’s Halloween costume, with my long black skirt, dollar-store pointy hat, and heavy black eyeliner, walking alongside my 6-year-old vampire-werewolf. Natalie is petite, just a few inches over five feet, her long blond hair still evoking the decade she spent living in a west coast surf town, her chest and lean muscled arms bright with full sleeve flowery tattoos and Mary Oliver quotes. She moves like a dancer, demonstrating yoga poses as if she’s transcending gravity. As a teacher, she speaks exactly, even in Sanskrit, and guides movement precisely, padding gently and soundlessly through the room, making an adjustment here, offering an instruction there.

So, I was surprised when she used the word “witch” to launch her new online offering, The Witches Wheel. The lure was irresistible. Natalie was claiming the word “witch” without flinching, without anger, without provocation, not as a way to reclaim feminine power and stick it to the men, warranted as that may be: It was essentially an invitation to observe the cycle of the seasons.

A threshold beckoned.

* * *

Natalie, a recent empty-nester, lives with her husband Paul and two dogs in a modest townhome, with a creek and a dozen rogue gardens installed by various residents running behind it. The garage is full of motorbikes. The porch is swept clean on the day I visit, six months into the 13 Moons program, wanting to talk with her about this radical word and why, in a world still unsure what to do with powerful women, she’s not afraid that she’s exposing herself to pitchforks and fires, haters, and trolls.

Even though I am not a member of any kind of coven or cult, (I don’t think book club counts), I know deep in my bones to never throw another woman onto the fire for helping you. That has been done too many times.

A tea blend of her own mixing — vanilla chaga chai — is brewing on the stove in an open saucepan. She tends to it, as I settle in, sneaking glimpses around the room, looking for evidence of witchcraft — pentagrams, cloaks, bottled frogs. Nothing. The space is uncluttered, a throw-rug on the armchair, a couple of stark white deer skulls are mounted, European-style, on a wall against a reclaimed barn board — definitely more Soho chic than occult-goth. Her husband returns from town, where he has picked up fresh croissants for us. He’s tall and strong, with a tightly cropped red beard — he looks like a guy you’d run into at the gym, at the surf break, at the hardware store.

“So, what’s it like living with a witch?” I ask him as Natalie attends to our tea, a light-hearted question sprouting out of the great compost of fears I am thinking. Is it impossibly hard to be with a woman who comfortably claims her own power, magic, cycles, voice? What kind of a man can love and honor a witch? And lurking deep beneath it all: Will my husband be one of them?

Paul rolls his eyes, overly-dramatically, pointing up to the light fixture in the kitchen — light bulbs housed in mason jars of all sizes, evoking summer cabins and fireflies and Kinfolk magazine dinner party lanterns. “I made this for her because everything ends up in jars. Have you seen inside these cupboards?” He walks around the house, in faux-exasperation, opening doors to reveal neat stacks of jars, full of dried petals, leaves, syrups, tonics, salves, salts. “And there’s more upstairs!” If it hadn’t been for the dinner party they’d hosted the previous night, most of their apartment’s horizontal surfaces would be covered in jars, he tells me, and the front porch would have housed a dead raven and a dead Cooper’s hawk.

“She’s always sending me out in search of dead things,” he jokes. He picks up roadkill in case she can salvage feathers or skulls.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

The two of them are remarkably self-sufficient — an animal lover (“he loves animals more than people”), Paul realized veganism left him tired and undernourished, so took up hunting to procure his own meat humanely; one of the deer skulls mounted on the wall was harvested this fall, its meat now fills their freezer. They grow a garden, wildcraft, eat well. There is an ease between them — a tidal push and pull as they navigate their modest shared space and the morning routine, without evidence of fake niceness, of power trips or struggles.

Witchcraft, in Natalie Rousseau’s mind, is too non-dogmatic and non-hierarchical to submit to a single all-encompassing definition. “As a practice, it’s so highly individual,” she says, “but across the board, it is very place-based, land-based and body-based. For me, it’s about cultivating a relationship with your own body, your own mind, your emotions, and subtle sensing faculties. It’s learning how to trust your intuition. It’s about reclaiming your own instincts, but also being able to feel: this is what stress feels like in my body, this is what relaxation feels like, this is what it feels like to say yes to something out of a sense of obligation or pressure, this is what it feels like to have a boundary. This is what it feels like when I’m safe. These cues come to us from our bodies. It has to be, for it to work well, otherwise, you’re always reaching outside yourself for another authority.”

This is what she wants to help women, particularly, to reclaim: their sense that they are the first authority on themselves, that they can trust their bodies’ wisdom.

“The biggest thing I want to share with people,” says Natalie of her teaching and online courses, “is how to trust themselves. Everyone can very easily make the medicines that their household would need for common household complaints — colds and flus and chest colds and menstrual cramps — so many basic things that anyone can make very simply, quite affordably. I’m not anti-pharmaceutical. There are many medications people have to take daily to live. And if I have a serious infection, I’m going to take antibiotics; if I am seriously ill, I am going to go to the doctor; if I have any kind of trauma, I’m going to be so grateful for that form of medicine. But I believe the role kitchen medicine has is in the maintenance and prevention of illness.”

One of her biggest laments, though, as she makes videos and handouts and shares them with her online community, is that even people who have paid to do her course don’t feel that they have the time to take it into their kitchens. “Making a tincture is literally pouring vodka over plant materials and leaving it on your counter for four weeks!” she says. But it is easier for most people to just buy one online and have it delivered to their doorstep. “I am saddened by how easily women give their power over. This is the biggest thing I’ve noticed as a teacher in the past couple of years — how quickly women will say, ‘but how do you do this? I don’t know how to do this! I’m afraid to try this because I might not be good at it, I might be doing it wrong. I’m an imposter.’ I really struggle with this. Where is it coming from?”

But she knows. We have relinquished our power, over a thousand years or more, of wounding, of witch-burnings, of patriarchy either convincing us we have none or forcibly stripping it away, (hello Harvey Weinstein), until all we feel empowered to do, now, in 2020, is consume. And we’ve been doing that with all our might.

We override the listening, we ignore the nudges, we push through, like good soldiers. “Most people are running so hard,” observes Natalie. “Our culture is so focussed on productivity. We are so overly heroic — it’s all or nothing. I can’t do something unless I’m an expert. I don’t want to try. But this is a craft. It’s a path of education.”

Natalie’s invitation is gentle, and she’s crafted her online course to serve that: Start with one plant and learn its taste, its smell. Spend five minutes a day on meditation or in conscious ritual and begin to notice what’s going on in your nervous system, in your mind, in your body.

“When he first met me, I was already a skull collector, and now he goes and finds them for me and brings them back,” says Natalie. “He’s gotten really good at living with witchy stuff.”

Don’t get so distracted by the word witch, that you fail to notice that it is connected to craft. Witchcraft, for Natalie, is a path of learning “how to trust and problem solve, from within, knowing that we are in a system of power that, for better, for worse, will strip us of any ability to trust ourselves and to always feel empty so we have to keep buying more stuff.”

When she says this, a deep thrill of recognition hums in me, accompanied by a shiver of fear. Those are revolutionary things to say out loud, to cast into the open air. I recognize it viscerally as the kind of talk that gets people in trouble.

* * *

Last summer, before I met Natalie, I had stepped from my backyard patio stones onto freshly cut grass and spied the sinuous form of a wandering garter snake. I leaned in quickly, excitedly, about to call my 6-year-old over to glimpse the garden visitor before it shimmied away. But it was eerily still. Ugly slash wounds marked its body. It was dead. Innocent victim to the ride-on lawnmower. Obliterated by our oblivion.

“Oh no,” I muttered. “I’m so sorry!”

I had already begun to wake up to the natural world, it’s rhythms, it’s offerings of medicine, it’s otherness, but it had come with a shadow side, a growing despair at what we were doing to the world. Even without a malicious intention, I was causing death and destruction — just mowing the lawn, drinking my coffee, wiping my ass: My actions, all our human activity, had compounding impacts that were destroying the snakes, the ocean, the atmosphere, the forests, the icecaps — beyond repair.

I wanted my garden to be a habitat. I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. My penitence froze me in place, scared to make a move for fear of ruining something else. Then, regret overriding my squeamishness, I fetched the flat-bladed shovel and edged it under the dead snake. I carried her body over to the vegetable patch, and in a space between the beds, where the mower never goes, I laid her down. I picked marigolds and calendula from around the garden, where they’d been planted to keep the snails away, and lay the bright orange blossoms in a circle around her.

Grandmother snake, I whispered, hoping that some force that exists beyond the definitively dead snake at my feet, might spread the word among the entire species, “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean it. I will try to be more careful.”

It was a made-up ritual, the kind that a kid might perform deep in her dream world at the bottom of the garden, and it made my 44 year-old-self feel a little bit better. At least I’d made a gesture of repair, had expressed my desire to return into balance with the living world around me. If it had any effect, I’d never know. I went back inside, said nothing.

A few days later, out in the garden, my husband tripped over the skeleton of a decomposing snake, ringed by wilted flowers, half consumed by ants.

“That was spooky,” he confronted me. “What’s going on? Are you some kind of witch?”

* * *

Natalie has always been comfortable with the word. Now she’s having fun inviting people to consider the archetype, circle it, unpack it, stumble upon some kind of recognition: Wait a second! Maybe I am a witch!

“It’s cool how people in the western world can take a description that has been used mostly as a slur, and turn it around to use as something empowering,” she says.

For thousands of years, witch was a term used to incite violence against women. By the most conservative estimates, half a million people, mostly women, were executed in the European witch craze between 1300 and 1650. Accusations of witchcraft were used against women, says Rousseau, “in ways that were extremely dangerous and terrifying. It was really about getting power from them, and getting land back. So, to use a word like that in an empowered way, even today, you have to know you’re safe to do it. And it’s important to realize that in many places in the world, it’s still not safe for women to say that. But if we can, in safe places, take that word and turn it around, that, to me, is extremely powerful.”

I wanted the bees to waggle-dance directions to my sunflowers to their hive-mates, I wanted the wandering garter snakes to nest in their hibernacula through the winter and bask in the long grass in the summer, I wanted to lie on my back and watch butterflies dance through the flowers and the hummingbirds zoom in and out, I wanted to inhabit innocence again.

Natalie herself embodies empowerment. Not in the traditional way I have come to recognize power — as someone standing over, dominating someone else, her source of power comes from within.

She doesn’t need to take any from her partner.

“Do you find this relationship at all emasculating?” I joke to Natalie’s husband.

“I don’t. Not at all. No,” he replies.

“We’ve always given each other space to be ourselves.”

But that’s not always a guarantee of safety.

If it is dangerous to be an empowered woman in the world, then it’s dangerous, too, for the men who love them.

Lyla June Johnston is an author and activist of Diné and European heritage. Her inquiry into her disowned European heritage led to a realization: The millions of women burned alive, drowned alive, dismembered alive, beaten, raped and otherwise tortured as so-called, “witches,” were not witches at all. They were the medicine people of old Europe. Her lens, as a contemporary indigenous woman, and as a survivor of sexual violence, helped her identify that those were the women who understood the herbal medicines, the ones who prayed with stones, the ones who passed on sacred chants. And the all-out warfare of the witch burnings didn’t just harm the women. It had a profound effect on the men who loved them, their husbands, sons, brothers. She recognizes the echo of this in the story of her own time, of her own people. “Nothing makes a man go mad like watching the women of his family get burned alive. If the men respond to this hatred with hatred, the hatred is passed on. And who can blame them? While peace and love are the correct response to hatred, it is not an easy response by any means.”

How many men have kept their women down, tried to keep them at home, have become the handcuffs that the women fought against because they were answering to their own unarticulated primal instinct to keep them safe?

Natalie Rousseau speculates, “I am sure historically you had lots of husbands telling their wives to tone it down, not because they didn’t respect their power, but because they were genuinely afraid. I’d apply that to any women described as uppity — getting involved politically, or getting involved in local stuff that’s happening, fighting for the environment: Stop getting noticed so much. This could be dangerous.”

Some dangers are too great to be able to protect each other from. And so we turn the fight on each other — little domestic power-trips that distract us from the fact that we’ve relinquished all our power any way to the Great Machine.

* * *

My tentative inquiries into witchcraft, becoming fluent in my own moods and emotions, and paying attention to the seasons, barely prepared me for the abrupt slow-the-fuck-down order that came when COVID-19 landed in British Columbia, in my village, as school broke for spring break. The emergency handbrake was pulled. Everything came to a squealing stop — all my plans, canceled; all the stores, closing; the whole damn world, under house arrest and in a panic. The whiplash from the stunning speed of that shift has left my whole being hypersensitive to any sudden movement, to being jerked around. But the first things I have staked my trust in, in that space of uncertainty, were Natalie’s teachings: First, trust your body. Pause. Listen.

In self-imposed isolation with my husband and just-turned-7-year-old, I dance with anxiety and curiosity and disconnection and too-much-information. The well-trodden pathways we have all been racing along, flexing our power and exercising our entitlements as consumers, are suddenly bordered up with emergency tape. This invitation that Natalie has been dripping out, month after month, takes root. There is far more potency available to us, than shopping, driving, holidaying, consuming, endlessly moving around the planet.

There is potency in all the feelings that have been showing up at my door. Oh, good morning frustration. Ah grief, yes, I suppose you’d like a cup of tea. Hello there, existential terror, I wondered when you’d pop by. There is potency in sitting with my back against a huge cedar tree and listening, in slowing down so much that I can give my 7-year-old my full attention. There is potency even in my words, when I soothe him down from a tantrum by saying, “you know, this is a really hard time for everyone in the whole world right now because no one knows what’s going to happen and no one can play with their friends. I’m really proud of you.” And I can feel his body relax into this space of being acknowledged in his struggles and his efforts.

I don’t know if there are any medicinal properties in the tincture of St John’s Wort and valerian that I drop into water and hand my husband, to gentle his nervous system. Or in the jar of immune-boosting oxymel, that I brewed up with grated ginger and turmeric and orange peel, and shake every day. But even if it’s a placebo, there’s a relief for me in feeling I can do something, can offer my people some kind of healing intention in a little glass, that I can acknowledge that this is hard for my husband too, and that acknowledgment isn’t a concession that takes away from my own sense of struggle.

For decades, we’ve bought into the illusion that our power is as consumers. Now that stores are closing and the shelves are emptying and we have to stay home and not immediately indulge every whim that arises, we all feel powerless. But that was never our truest source of power. There’s another source that we can all plug back into, our deep relationship and interbeing with the life force. Maybe, this is our threshold moment. Maybe, this is a chance to craft a few little spells, to speak the words of the world we long to inhabit — a place where the currency of kindness and wonder flow, where humans return to a deep memory of belonging among the plants and creatures, and to brew up a cup of tea, light a candle, and dream it into existence. Maybe it’s an invitation to say, “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to, I will try and be more careful,” and to build a little altar, even if you feel kind of cray cray doing it. Let your nervous system settle as you invent some small ritual, (just ask your inner 5-year-old for guidance, she probably remembers exactly what to do), and make a gesture of repair.

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have on my Apocalypse team,” I tell my husband, the night the global virus countertops 400,000. He’s been chopping wood, auditing the pantry, getting our kid across the finish line of the LEGO project that has absorbed him for four days. My husband was a farm kid. He’s always been practical, my polar opposite. Even when we have battled each other, (am I giving up too much of my power to him? If I acknowledge his pain and his needs, will that cancel mine out?) I’ve always known he would do anything to keep me safe. “Not that I can request an upgrade now,” I joke. “But I bet you’re glad to be stuck with me. One always wants a daydreamer at your side in a pinch.”

“Oh yeah,” he spoofs me: “’ The stock market is collapsing, let me just go check my Tarot cards.’”

We laugh. And hold each other. We can’t buy our way out of this. None of us. Our entire species, our global community, is being vividly reminded that we are all in this together, inextricably connected, epidemiologically entwined, in our vulnerability and our sweet potential. We didn’t need Amazon and airlines and online shopping to know what the witches have been telling us all this time. All the power we need is right here — between us, around us, within us. We just have to remember it.

* * *

Lisa Richarson

is a senior contributor to Coast Mountain Culture magazine and a columnist for Pique newsmagazine and edits the hyperlocal websites,

TheWellnessAlmanac.com

and

TracedElements.com.

She’s deep into a decade-long mission to slow the fuck down, but still optimize life for happiness and productivity. Born and raised in Australia, she has lived as a guest on the unceded territory of the Líl̓wat Nation since a ski vacation went rogue 20-odd years ago.

Editor: Carolyn Wells

Posted by

Lisa Richardson

April 8, 2020

https://longreads.com/2020/04/08/how-to-tell-your-husband-youre-a-witch/

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greaterlandscapes · 4 years ago

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My Dean Blunt Rotation aka High Fidelity Left A Bad Taste in My Mouth

For the past 2 to 3 months, my listening habits were teetering to an end; mostly via burnout by spontaneously listening to local artists daily and less likely of a musical discovery drought, whereas my interests of a certain artist or genre hasn't found its, sort of, "eureka", moment per se. I've been feeling less enthusiastic over the things i listen to since my friends have gradually lost their flare when it comes to discovering/exploring untapped parts of the music realm. Thus, in return, my enthusiasm not being reciprocated. It leaves an empty feeling from someone who has been yearning social interaction, may it be media being latched on the topic - it's a feeling that's been guilt-tripping me ever since I was stranded in the other end of the metro. I feel closed off, exposed to the crippling loneliness the lockdown has punished us: a defacto solitary confinement in a national level. Our act of staying online is also an act of staying alive outside.

To be fair though, it's a valid move to not boomerang compliments/gripes over an art you haven't consumed due to someone's autonomy. Your able body being to consume the art you wish to finish with free time is a luxury in of itself. The art is then failed to serve its purpose to reach its goal: You have squiggly lines heading straight to oblivion rather than swirling in the earlobes of a wandering cyber nomad. We, eventually, need to find something that could help us exit, rather than escape, from capital. We, in return, do not shut ourselves from the outside. Instead, we then tend to avoid the stress of protocols and outdoor fascism; Not avoid the indoor liberalism that is eating us alive and online. It's a capital punishment we never knew we signed up for ever since the onslaught of the virus and the state. Art for art's sake is nonexistent now, always has been, it seizes to ever since we went inside. Feeding off of a holographic meatloaf coming from a glowing screen. We have a real-life Karen acting as a nightlight in our rooms.

The COVID lockdown made us listen to music — both for better, for worse. For one, it made us pass most days. You could say the same for any sort of media: film, mixed media art, or whatever pre-Covid activity that sprung up during our time in isolation. For music, however, there was an uptick of new listeners that made others Wheel-of-Fortune the fuck out of their music discoveries in sites like RateYourMusic, Bandcamp, or even Sophie's Floorboard. We've continued to expand and became more open change of opinions and be less of a jackass towards someone else's opinions. On second thought, our opinions have been catalogued, leaving more notes than actual footprints of our previous listens. Our new discoveries made new bands and re-emerging bands, bands who faded to obscurity, crawl back in the surface with newfound interest from younger listeners (ie Panchiko, Jai Paul, and Dean Blunt) and this glowing, previously unseen and unexpected overwhelming support from fans of departed artists (ie SOPHIE, MF DOOM)

For the other, we've hogged gratuitous amounts of media, resulting into losing our primary direction as to how we want to consume our media based on the preconceived notions of what we want in our art. There is goodness in becoming directionless when you think about it, but there comes a cost to our identity as music listeners. Instead, we end up widening our tangents, falling in endless rabbit holes, having zero chances to emerge from the surface. In fact, i refuse to call it a "rabbit hole" instead i'd rather call it a "pipeline" of sorts — transitioning casual music fans into a full on, different, unique versions of themselves that would define them when laws and protocols have eased in the outside world. Our act of staying online has either made most of us break our character or enliven our past selves. The music pipeline is now more apparent, stretching the norms of what was once alienated by a silent majority, but now accepted as an acceptable form of expression. The more music we are exposed to has made casual listeners stranged out or react in ways that our personality have betrayed us or deemed not as acceptable to them. Still, not changing anything that was prominent pre-pandemic. Liberal cop behavior is stronger, now more dangerous than it ever was once perceived by the outside world.

HIGH FIDELITY? NO, THANK YOU.

Imagine a situation inside of a record, pre-pandemic of course, where you do not feel like lifting a record out from the shelf, instead, you window shop just for the sake of windowshopping. Capital and media made us think that going to record shops is a semi-productive activity. The age of discovery has died ever since High Fidelity romanticized and normalized the incelage of horny record diggers. Does this movie age well, yeah sure it does, for old 90s nerds at least. But did it translate well over in the past 20 or more years of events and tragedies that unfolded in pre-9/11 America? No it didn't. It was an age of free expression, only liberals would dream of whenever they take a sip of Guinness beer in their favorite dive bar.

Mind you, over a couple of months ago, it was my only chance in seeing why this movie was the talk of the town back when it was released. There's music, yeah, and attractive leading leadies, yeah, it has everything a 90s kid would love to salivate and drop their gonads over while they watch this movie. I obviously did not live to see the movie on opening day but i could imagine the scent that came out of that movie theater with attendees donning windbreakers and The Who shirts with popcorn dressing stains on their plastic cups. If there was a Filipino counterpart to this movie, i'd bet corporate champions Eraserheads and Rivermaya would soundtrack their music over and have either Tado or have Boy 2 Quizon, but i sense it to age like milk more than it could age like fine wine due to the senseless jokes one can execute in a Cubao or Cartimar record store.

John Cusack is obviously the incel in question here: a damaged, vengeful ex who constantly fails to live his partner's expectations and weaponizes his personality over the situations that has nothing to do with his interests. I spent the entire time being absolutely disgusted over the spineless responses of John Cusack's leading character. The movie then treads on flashbacks with John Cusack's failed relationships and what he could do to move on from each and one of them. If i could stand a SONA for 3 hours then I can't stand John Cusack being the dull entry point to incel, making more reasons why you should hate record store clerks who don't give an iota of shits to someone's inviting rapport. High Fidelity is opium for massive music circle jerks who can't take a single breathe of fresh air or a single quota of touching grass. There's more targeting weak and inferior guys and hot women who dump dumb overconfident dudebros more than the actual "music recs" in the entire movie. The more I think about this movie, the more I realize how our personality is in line towards Dick, the record store being unmercifully dunked on by the movie's two leading characters. He's an angel in the world of cynical bastards, witnessing both demons pitchforking record store customers in the ass while they're purchasing the latest Sonic Youth album.

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I believe that Jack Black, the dark horse of High Fidelity, has a pleasing personality more than an irritating demeanor due to this behavior in the record store. In fact, outside of the record store, Jack Black doesn't seem to take the business is your pleasure act pretty seriously. Unlike John Cusack's character he brought his obsession over involving a record in an important memory/point of his life. There is so much stuff that has happened outside of the record store, so much for Rolling Stone and NME being the bible of music at the time, endlessly christening and shilling artists that believe to become the second coming of the Beatles. The music references here however are treated as fluff than it is a mechanism that would drive the senseless plot forward. If anything, there are events pointed out in the event that doesn't have anything to do with the life of the characters.

If anything, this movie did a great job at capturing the feeling of music bros being dumped on the wayside by a mature set of characters and how their current conditions aren't perfumed by the studios' liking of having to Cinderella story the shit out of a bunch of normal record store owners. The reality is in the reaction of one's social capital being invaded and we're here to witness how those reactions panned out in 2021. This is a villainous depiction of music nerds being the salt of the earth, the bane of all media discussion, still reflective of the insufferable salt of cyberspace found in music forums like 4chan and RYM. High Fidelity is a pipeline of 90s musicology, a dreaded fever dream of an owner waiting for the decade to end, trends ossifying and re-emerged by the hands of nostalgia-savvy individuals. It was, at its time, every music-movie nerd's excuse equivalent of Scott Pilgrim VS. The World. There are memories worth remembering and cherishing, and this movie isn't one of them.

DEAN BLUNT, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK

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In the past two weeks I've been fancying myself into sitting down and listening to different projects from the ever elusive, UK-based sound artist Dean Blunt. The first time i chanced upon his music wasn't too long ago - albeit a recent one in the time of COVID - was when I randomly stumbled upon his records at a Spotify recommendations section under John Maus (yeah lol i know the implications whenever his name is mentioned) - but then i was enamored by his online presence so quickly I put everything down and dedicated an hour or two researching about this man's music.

Other than the fact that his album "The Redeemer" wasn't the best record to start off in journeying through his discography: ending up disgusted and borderline bored even and I was more likely to lambast this record's aimless, pretentious art-pop inflections. By the end of the day, it was a preference long solidified by his undying fanbase. According to his hardcore fans, the music isn't really music, evaluating it as a free form of sound art, rather than sticking to a structured and conventional cues; the genre is nullified by most analysts of the arts. The growing interest of the general public towards Dean Blunt's pranks and antics have long appealed to my tastes as a chaotic neutral individual. Pranks that are well executed to piss off UK gallery connoisseurs and entertain ironic attendees who'd shit on the art piece rather than participate in it.

More of the resources I've found about Dean Blunt online: numerous aliases and collaborations that lasted around almost 2 decades. The most notable of all them, at least for my money, are either Hype Williams, a duo consisting of Dean and frequent collaborator Inga Copeland, and Babyfather, an art performance parodizing the pirate radio culture in the UK. I have not delved enough in Blunt's body of work to evaluate everything and what i could synthesize from it. For now, I enjoyed it as a form of entertainment. Well, color me impressed because Dean Blunt isn't clowning around, he, in fact, makes blissful and transcendental music from left to right.

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Dean Blunt was the only few artists that made me want to binge on their discography. His movements in his music has attracted this pesky listener who thinks that being mysterious is a plus. I mean, look at me who thinks The Paul Institute, Panchiko, and Burial are the greatest artists that have walked the face of the earth.

The most I've enjoyed from Dean Blunt's discography are his mixtapes and collaborations: preferably his Soul Fire and ZUSHI, both of which were packaged as B-sides or supplemental releases rather than major releases such as the Babyfather project or the Black Metal releases. His knack for blurring the lines between genres still fascinate me as of this writing, and it continues to amaze me how he doesn't seize to compromise his art, he's here to prove a point and it sells quite well despite the lack of direction in his music. Blunt's music has more aggressive and hazy texture than the hollow, wide, soulless structure of art-pop/hypnagogic pop released today. He creates terrains from the rubble of his country's current shortcomings. The music overlaps the actual intentions with abstract concepts, becoming deconstructed down the line. In Babyfather, noise music coincides with Blunt's amateurish rapping. In Black Metal, Blunt isolates himself along with the assisted skeletal guitar playing. Both projects throwing all tropes in a vaccum alongside Blunt, who he himself would sought to become a personification of a musical void.

(Excerpt from the Babyfather album review in TinyMixtapes)

Dean Blunt is an entity that wishes to become one person, but no, this isn't a figure in a specific art form; this isn't Banksy, this isn't Bob Ong, this is made by one person, clearly it is if you listen closely, and it's been entrancing me ever since his presence was felt on the horizons of the internet. Dean Blunt, what the actual fuck.

#dean blunt #high fidelity #music #film #music review #2021 #hype williams #Youtube

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