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nightreaderenigma · 4 years

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Headcanons for ‘War of Hearts’

As requested by @pettania

Oh tough one…these might be a bit vague, or you will see different options. And I definitely don’t have 5 - sorry! When it comes to my longer tales, my headcanons often vary, playing with possibilities and contemplating things that might have happened. They shift and change until I find ones that get a huge ‘yes!’ I put everything through a process before I commit to it, because these stories mean so much to me. <3

1. So the most obvious question is – what was Brienne’s baby? And the truth is, I have changed my mind several times. Some days I want to continue their run of boys (which works with Possibility 1 below). Other days (the majority) I am pretty sold on it being a girl (which works with Possibility 2 below). However, a friend of mine insists that she had twins just like Jaime predicted in his teasing and I must admit, that this avenue also holds appeal. When it comes to children – I like to keep my options open, hence a couple of my tales end with a pregnancy rather than declaring the outcome.

2. By contrast - I am 100% certain that Pod does indeed have a child in the North. A son. Name…haven’t gotten that far, lol. But I do know that he wants to be a knight. So… on that note we have a set of head canon possibilities.

3. Possibility 1: So Sansa dies. Maybe in childbirth or perhaps she caught a bad chill. Either way, bye bye Sansa. Leaving Jon in charge as King in the North. With Sansa removed from the equation, Jon finally convinces the Lannister’s to visit Winterfell and train his Squires. It is here where Brienne stumbles across an aspiring knight amongst the trainees who reminds her so much of Podrick it nearly makes her cry. She immediately tells Jaime who calls to mind his conversation with Pod about the possibility. Tracking down the boy’s mother, they confirm the boy’s paternity. He is soon introduced to their own son, Podrick, and the two boys become friends. They tell Pod’s son tales of his Father’s heroics. They arrange (with the full agreement of his mother) to take on Podrick’s son as a ward and train him for knighthood amongst their own boys.

4. Possibility 2: This one takes place later on in the timeline. When Jaime and Brienne’s children are teenagers. This is also reliant upon their second child being a daughter. The Lannister’s are well known in the tourney circuits. They even host their own. Most of the knights who enter the lists were trained by Brienne and are familiar to the family so competition is fierce, however no entrants are as ferocious as the Lannister children themselves – including their daughter. Therefore, when a mystery hedge knight enters the lists and starts excelling, it causes a stir. It is rumoured he is from the North. Brienne instantly dislikes this, as she is still mistrustful of the Northerners. There are fears he is a spy sent by Sansa. Without consulting with her parents, their courageous girl resolves to get to the bottom of it and starts to form a bond with the knight – initially for information, but it soon turns into genuine attachment. Despite being a skilled warrior, the mystery knight is quite shy and quiet of personality, therefore building their rapport happens over the course of several tourneys, and it takes a while for him to reveal his face behind his helmet (hence no one aside from their daughter had ever seen him). Jaime and Brienne’s daughter learns that he is indeed from the North but has come South seeking knowledge of his Father. He has heard whispers that his Father was a great knight who was killed in the War Between Kingdoms, but he cannot make enquiries in the North without offending those who were involved. He declares that if his Father was killed by Northern forces, it is something he could never forgive and would gladly pledge himself to the Southern Kingdom. Of course, romance eventually blossoms, which is problematic for the young couple, given her parents stance on Northerners. But, when love is true, it can weather storms. The young hedge knight shows great bravery, continuing to court the young Lady Lannister (who also aspires to become a Ser) despite the adversity he faces with being a bastard (when she is noble) and the constant threat of being chased off by her three older brothers. Persistence is key - as Brienne has always admired determination - and eventually after much insistence and declarations of undying love from their daughter, Jaime and Brienne reluctantly agree to meet with her Northern suitor. All is well however, as the second Jaime and Brienne lay eyes upon him, they know he is Podrick’s son. The resemblance is strong in both looks and personality. From that point forward, they support the match wholeheartedly and the pair are married, thus joining the two bloodlines.

See? So many options! LOL

#ask me #headcanons #my fics

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thecleverdame · 5 years

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Sleepy Hollow - Chapter Seven

Series Master List

Pairings: Sam x Reader, mentions of Dean x Jo

Summary: In 1799, specialized police constables Sam and Dean Winchester are sent from New York City to a small town called Sleepy Hollow to investigate a series of murders. Approached by the town’s council, the Winchesters discover the local residents believe that the murders are the work of a deadly Hessian horseman whose head has been mysteriously chopped off. With help from the beautiful Y/N Van Tassel, Sam Winchester’s investigation takes him further through the dark wood where more murders have been occurring. What Sam does not realize is that the mysterious Horseman is being controlled by someone in a sinister plot to kill the most suitable men in the village.

Warnings: Canon-level violence, murder, smut, horror, gore and a little fluff for good measure.

Words: 40k

Beta: ilikaicalie

This series is completed. You can read it on my Patreon for a monthly pledge of 2.50. This pledge includes early access to all my stories and Patreon exclusive content. >> CLICK HERE <<

Philipse House - Night

Sam and Dean crouch in the shadows, peeking over the edge of a lighted window, watching men pace and argue.

“Can you make out what they’re saying?” Sam whispers.

“Not when you’re talking.” Dean shoves an elbow into his ribs, moving his ear toward the pane of glass.

Magistrate Philipse is packing his bags while Steenwyk, Lancaster, and Hardenbrook are in agitated conference. Their voices are raised but indecipherable.

“Look out!” Dean hisses, both Winchesters sinking to the ground, pressing their backs against the side of the cottage.

Steenwyck comes right to the window as if he has seen something, but merely closes the shutters. The front door opens and Philipse exits, tying his bag to a horse and quickly riding off into the night.

“That’s not suspect.” Dean snorts.

Road Outside of Town A mounted man is approaching on a heavily loaded pack horse. It’s Magistrate Philipse making his getaway from Sleepy Hollow. Sam and Dean rode ahead not ten minutes before and have been waiting to intercept him. Sam leaps out of the shadows grabbing the bridle of the pack horse.

“What are you doing? Let go!” Philipse shouts, kicking the horse.

“What are you running from, Magistrate Philipse?” Sam thrusts a finger toward him.

“Damn you, Winchester,” the magistrate sputters, still trying to break free. “Both of you quiet down,” Dean hisses. “You'll raise the village.” “You had a mind to help me and now you are leaving,” Sam questions. “Why?”

“Yes, but I am a fool. I put myself in mortal dread of…”

“Of...what?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Powers against which there is no defense,” Philipse whimpers. Sam’s not done with this man, there is more he needs to know and no one is leaving until he’s had his fill.

“How did you know the widow was expecting a child?” Sam presses.

“She told me.” “We are to deduce you are the father,” Dean quips, folding his arms over this chest. “I hope your deductions serve you better in your contest against the Hessian. I am not the father.” “Did she tell you the name of the child's father?” Sam insists.

“Yes, she did.” Philipse is beginning to sweat, looking around him, scanning the line of the woods. “She came to me for advice as the town magistrate.” There’s the sound of sheep in agitation at some distance but Sam holds Philipse to his story. “She wanted to protect the rights of her child. I was bound by my oath of office to keep the secret.” “Do you believe the father killed her?” Dean looks to his brother. Philipse stares at him in surprise. “The Horseman killed her! You damn fools, do you suppose the Horseman stops to impregnate women?” “The Horseman?” Sam scoffs. He’s had enough. “How often do I have to tell you there is no Horseman! There never was a Horseman! And there never will be a Horseman!” Sam grabs him fiercely, pulling on the amulet Philipse wears around his neck. “Let go! It is my talisman that protects me from the Horseman!” “You’re a magistrate and your head is full of such nonsense! Now tell me the name of-” A flock of sheep comes streaming and bleating across the path. The horses go crazy, braying and rearing.

“Sam…” Dean side-eyes his brother, looking toward the forest.

“Don’t start Dean, not this preposterous old-wives tale-”

There’s the distant thundering sound of hoofbeats and the wind kicks up. A flock of bird alights from the woods, flying into the moonlit sky. “Oh my.” Philipse makes the sign of the cross over his heart. ”Oh my, oh my, oh my.”

Philipse throws himself from the horse, scrambling to his feet and running away. The hoofbeats grow louder as Sam and Dean look to the dark of the road before them.

The forest explodes open, foliage bending to make way as the Headless Horseman gallops into view atop his black beast.

“That is no costume.” Dean draws his pistol. Sam is momentarily stunned, unable to believe his eyes. He looks down to draw his flintlock pistol, but the Horseman roars past before he can raise it or Dean can take aim. Everything happens in what feels like seconds. The Horseman chases Philipse who’s looking over his shoulder, running for his life in a flat sprint. The Horseman draws his sword. Philipse gathers his courage and stops, turning. He raises his iron key talisman before him. The Horseman is closing in. “Philipse!” Sam shouts as he and Dean take off toward the magistrate. Philipse holds the talisman up with shaking hands, trying to be fearless. The Horseman swings his sword upon the talisman and Philipse's severed head spins. His body falls and folds to the dirt. The Horseman turns his horse in a wide circle, making a complete turn, letting out a feral cry as the Horseman rides straight toward brothers.

Before either brother has time to take proper aim, the Horseman is upon them, then past. His foot kicks out as he passes Sam, connecting with the youngest Winchester’s temple in a sickening crack as he rides toward Philipse's corpse. The Hessian leans effortlessly to skewer Philipse's head with his sword. With the head as his prize, the Horseman races away. Sam and Dean turn, watching him head back into the forest. “Sam,” Dean grabs his brother. Sam can feel the gush of blood running down from his hairline and then he loses consciousness for the second time in Sleepy Hollow.

Van Tassel House - Sam’s Room Sam gasps awake as there’s a knock at his door. He shoots up in bed and Dean jolts awake from his chair in the corner. “Constable Winchester?” Baltus calls from the hall. Sam looks at his hand balled into a fist. He opens his hand holding both halves of Philipse’s iron key talisman. In the hallway, Young Masbath is seated by Sam's closed door. You’re behind your father who knocks again. “Has he spoken at all?” your father inquires. Young Masbath shakes his head no. Baltus enters, you and Young Masbath follow him, cautiously. Sam sits up in bed looking utterly bewildered.

“He has a concussion.” Dean yawns, getting up from his seat. “It was a Headless Horseman!” Sam mutters. “You must not excite yourself,” your father warns.

“No, you must believe me, it was Horseman! A dead one! Headless! My brother saw it too, tell them, Dean!” Sam looks from you to your father, but there’s not much behind his eyes. “I know, I know.” Baltus nods. “You don't know because you weren't there! But it's all true!” Sam looks to you earnestly. “Of course it is. I told you! Everyone told you!” Baltus exclaims. “I saw him,” Dean confirms, turning to you. “This isn’t good for him. He’s out of his mind, he took a hard hit to the head and he needs time to recover without this kind of agitation.” Sam’s eyes roll up into his skull and he falls back on the pillow.

“Sam,” you say gently, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking his limp hand in yours.

“I suppose it's back to the city then,” Young Masbath sighs.

You stiffen, looking to the elder Winchester who catches your eyes before shaking his head.

“He needs a good night’s sleep is all.” -

A million white milkweed seedlings are floating in the sunlight. Young Sam is laughing in delight as Mary’s blows the seedlings into the air. She hands him a milkweed pod and shows him how to do it for himself.

Sam breaks the pod and releases another million. But when he looks around to share the delight, his Mother has gone, and he sees her disappearing among the trees. He gets up to follow her. Sam can't see his Mother anywhere, he’s searching and searching finally to see her standing in the middle of a beautiful circle in the forest glade, surrounded by toadstools and mushrooms. Sam watches as his Mother spins inside the mushroom circle, almost dancing, his face smiling and happy. She stoops down to pick up a mushroom and eat it, dropping a small piece. He sees it fall, running forward to pick up and popping it into his mouth.

She watches him in delight, takes his small hands in hers, dancing with him. As Sam whizzes around laughing, his point of view becomes the encircling trees whizzing around, and suddenly he seems to be surrounded by menacing headless figures dressed all in black. Sam falls over dizzy and when he looks up he sees that the headless figures have merged into one, becoming his Father, watching his Mother heedlessly dancing, his face like thunder. His mother has loosened her clothes and is virtually bare-breasted. John's eyes begin to glow like live coals as Sam cowers away from him. Suddenly he’s in his house at night. Sam spies through a crack in the kitchen door, wearing a nightshirt that falls past this knees. Mary is seated, her head down. His father paces, chastising his mother angrily, his fist balled up in rage. John continues to berate his mother. He picks up his Bible off the table, waving it, then grabs Mary by the shoulders, forcing her to the floor. John forces her to her knees, she’s afraid, clasping her hands in front of her as John forces her to pray. He starts reading from the Bible. In Sam's dream, this is the same Bible from Baltus's house. Sam watches, afraid. He backs away, retreating upstairs to his room. A window is thrown crashing open, thundering booming. Young Sam sits up in his bed. He goes to close the window, rain pouring in. He looks down... Below, in front of the home, a man is dragging Mary toward a coach. Two other men stand watching, faces hidden under hat brims. His mother looks back, eyes pleading, struggling. In a desperate moment, she looks up to Young Sam. The two men look up to Sam: one is his father, and the third is a man with a villainous face. Sam reaches helplessly toward Mother as she’s forced into the coach. The third man speaks to John, then walks to the coach. He gets onto the coach as the coach starts away. John watches, rain flowing down his stony features. Lightning flashes and in the corner of the room Sam sees the cat watching him with glowing eyes.

Sam awakes, breathing heavily. After a beat, he flings back the bedclothes and springs out of bed, energized by a new determination. He finds Dean in his room, barging in without so much as a knock. His brother is laying on his bed, fully clothed with one hand on his chest.

“I’m glad to see you up and moving,” Dean cracks one eye.

“Perhaps a knock to the head was what I needed.” Sam paces across the floor in front of the fireplace. “The supernatural is alive here, Dean. All the logic in the world can not explain away what we witnessed.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Dean sits up with a grunt. “I saw him. There’s no room left for doubt. This place has brought to life a demon, now flesh and blood.”

“I can’t help but wonder, have I closed my mind to other such possibilities? Were there signs, clues pointing in the direction of the Horseman all along? Have we wasted time?”

“No,” Dean shakes his head, one hand on his thigh. “You’re thorough, Sam. That’s what makes you an effective investigator. I didn’t see it either.”

“We cannot be dissuaded.” Sam is animated, head bobbing as he thinks to himself. “If anything, these people need us now, more than ever. There is no man here, except for us, equipped to take on a true nightmare like The Horseman.”

“I agree.” Dean stands, patting his belly, looking around for his coat. He stops, looking at Sam, as he pulls a memory from somewhere in the ether. “Do you remember when you were a little boy and that woman broke into our house? You were sleeping and woke up to her in the bedroom. She was crazed and attacked you.”

“How could I possibly forget that?” Sam snorts. “How old was I? Five? And all of a sudden this woman, who looked very much like a wicked witch, for the record, was clawing at me.”

“Dad intervened before she could do any real harm.” Dean gets lost in the memory.

“He told us she was shtriga. I was convinced that I survived a creature of the night only to find out she was the drunk from next door who’d wandered into the wrong house.”

“Do you ever wonder how many people he killed in the name of God? He was dead set on the idea of good and evil, black and white. Men and monsters. He never stopped to think that perhaps his judgment was clouded. He was nothing more than a preacher turned hunter who saw what he needed to see to be able to sleep at night.”

“Dad was the real monster.” Sam breathes and Dean freezes, jaw tightening as he looks at Sam.

“I guess he was.”

Van Tassel House - Downstairs

Baltus, Steenwyck, Doctor Lancaster and Notary Hardenbrook are having another meeting, this time with you and Lady Van Tassel on hand with the drinks. “Right,” Baltus nods, pacing the room. “This time I'll go to New York myself and I won't be saddled off with more amateur deductors.”

“Detectors.” Hardenbrook corrects. “Deductives, I believe.” Steenwyk raises a finger.

Doctor Lancaster shakes his head. “No, no…” You stand in silence watching a room full of men babble on about nothing.

“Look here, amateur sleuths!” Baltus demands the attention of the room. “This time it is a magistrate that is dead and we-”

The door flies open, hitting the wall with a resounding thud. Sam strides forward, looking not only transformed but raring to go. Dean is quick behind him, folding his arms over his chest with Young Masbath round-eyed just behind them. “Gentleman.” Sam nods, looking around the room. “I need able men to go with us into the Western Woods. Who will be the first to volunteer?”

“You’re going back out?” Your father questions in amazement. “We thought you’d shot your bolt.” “Merely a setback.” Sam’s eyes flicker to you. “It may surprise you to know that this is not the first supernatural creature my brother and I have encountered. Albeit most accounts of ghosts and ghouls have a perfectly preternatural explanation, but in rare cases, such as the one you have here, the culprit is truly metaphysical. There is no one better versed than we are. Today we move forward. We now know who has done these terrible-”

“Now you know, we already knew,” Steenwyck sneers. “Quite so.” Sam concedes.

“It seems fate has chosen us to work a case without parallel in the annals of crime - in short, to pit ourselves against a murdering ghost.” Dean asserts, eyes narrowing as he looks from man to man. You can feel a sickening fear rising in your stomach. Sam has just come into your life and the horseman may snatch him from you just as quickly.

“No, Sam-” You stop short as every soul in the room looks at you. Scrambling to collect yourself you start again. “Constable-”

Your stepmother smiles softly, a knowing grin you’ve come to recognize all too well.

“Tell me, Constables.” Lady Van Tassel looks from you to Sam and Dean. “Do you intend to arrest him? Or impound his horse?”

A low indulgent chuckle erupts throughout the room.

“Neither.” Sam’s unphased. “We intend to put an end to the killing. To discover the cause and remove it. Who’s with us?” This call to arms is met with a heavy silence. No one.

#sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester au #sam winchester x reader

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queenmorgawse · 5 years

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take me away to some place real

written for @ignitingthesky‘s birthday, i hope this is a wonderful year for you <3333 related to i’m coming home now (right where i belong now), but as it takes place before the other, no need to have read it. fierce corpses!jyl and jzx au. read on ao3 + end notes.

When Jiang Yanli comes to, she is chained to a wall.

The manacles are made from iron and as thick as her wrist. She pulls on them anyway, panic rising like bile in her throat. Where did the plaza go? Where are her brothers?

“A...A-Cheng...A-Xian...” What is meant to be a scream comes out as slurred words instead. Her voice is hoarse and rough with disuse.

( Where is she? Where has time gone? She was bleeding out in the grand square of Nightless City, calling out for her little brother, and then the world turned black. )

A door creaks open. She whirls around, her chains rattling, and comes face to face with a man in dark green robes. He screams and drops the stack of talismans he was carrying. Yellow paper flutters all around them as they stare, each one at least just as confused as the other.

After a few seconds, she recognizes him. “Nie Huaisang,” Jiang Yanli croaks. What is A-Cheng’s classmate doing here? Her eyes follow the talismans, which is when she realizes that she, too, is covered in them. The ones sticking to her chest look older, though, the red ink on them faded from red to brown.

While she puzzles over this new information, Nie Huaisang seems to recuperate enough to speak. “Madam Jin,” he greets, bending down to gather his talismans. “Are you...are you feeling all right?”

Jiang Yanli gives her chains another experimental rattle. “Aside from these, yes.” In fact, she barely feels anything at all — neither cold nor warm, and the word separated from her by an invisible veil. Words still come to her frustratingly slowly.

She bobs her head and tries to bring a hand to her throat, only for Nie Huaisang to surge forward and stop just short of touching her. “Madam Jin, ah…careful with your neck. Don’t move, I’ll remove the shackles first.” He pulls a set of keys out of his sleeve. After some struggling on his part, Yanli’s bonds clatter to the ground. Beneath them, her skin is gray and rubbed raw. It should hurt, but when she presses down on the bloodless wounds, she can hardly feel her own touch. She pokes at her neck - carefully, given his warning - and swears there is a row of neat stitches there, pulling together the seams of a wound she cannot see.

“I’ll go fetch Jiang Wanyin,” Nie Huaisang hastily says. “He’ll explain.”

She can only watch him go, a haunting thought swirling in her mind : I died in Nightless City. She doesn’t need to see her reflection anywhere to know this. She knew from the moment the blade cut across her back, and she knew when she threw herself in front of her brother to shield him from that young boy’s blow. The only question that remains is how?

Hope blooms between her ribs. Perhaps A-Xian brought her back ⎯ but even as she entertains the thought, Jiang Yanli knows it’s unlikely. To rise again under his command is servitude, no matter the intention. He would not have done it.

If he had anyway, he would be here⎯

Wouldn’t he?

Footsteps down the hall distract her from going down that train of thought. The door bangs open, and next to Nie Huaisang stands her brother, red-faced and dishevelled and looking a breath away from falling apart. “...A-Jie?”

“A-Cheng!” She opens her arms. He hesitates at first, only walks to her and timidly leans into the touch of her hand, like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he dares embrace her. But then Yanli cradles his head, rubbing soothing circles into his back like she used to when he came to her as a child, crying angry tears over Mother’s harsh words or Father’s indifference.

Something in Jiang Cheng shatters then and there, and the dam breaks. His shoulders shake with harsh hiccups as he sobs into her arms, clutching at the back of her dress, and she lets him, smoothing out his hair and murmuring reassurances. It’s all right. I’m here. I won’t leave you alone.

She loses track of how much time they spend standing there, holding on to each other. Nie Huaisang has politely turned away ; Jiang Yanli wonders if he knows how much her brother hates crying in front of others, how much trust is shown as he allows the other to stay at all. Jiang Cheng is the first to pull away, wiping at his face like it’ll be enough to erase the evidence of his outburst. ( Or perhaps she gives him too little credit. He’s never been good at hiding anything from her, but it doesn’t mean his act won’t fool others. )

“I assume you want to see A-Ling too,” he says.

Jiang Yanli’s unbeating heart still feels like it stutters in her chest. “Please tell me he’s all right. I don’t know how long—”

It’s Jiang Cheng’s turn to catch her wrists, stilling her hands and steadying her. “A-Jie, he’s fine. He’s at home right now. The Lotus Pier,” he clarifies when his sister’s expression doesn’t clear. Koi Tower has that effect on people. “It’s been…”

“A year, four months and thirteen days,” Nie Huaisang’s soft voice pipes up.

So long? There are a million questions all shoving their way to the forefront of her mind, but the one that makes it first is “How did you do it?”

Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang look at each other. There seems to be a silent argument of you go first against no, you go before her brother sighs, shoulders slumping. “Fine!”

The story they tell goes all the way back to Nightless Day. They describe the plaza full of corpses again, Chenqing’s eerie melody weaving through the chaos. How the sight of Jiang Yanli’s lifeless body broke something in Wei Wuxian, making him bring the two halves of the Stygian Tiger Seal together. How her own corpse was among the ones to rise again under the Tiger Seal’s command, pulled into battle as their creator lost control of his own weapon.

From that point onwards, Jiang Cheng wavers, so Nie Huaisang picks up. He tells her about the two of them leaving Nightless City behind to bring her back to Yunmeng, then, three months later, about the siege of the Burial Mounds and its bloody end.

Fierce corpses cannot cry, but the aching emptiness remains. There is a hollow place between her ribs, somewhere that cannot believe the boy she raised as her own brother went as far as they all say he did, or that he’s gone at all. In her heart, he is a little child in a tree, gazing at her with fearful eyes as she holds her arms out and reassures him it’s safe to jump. He is a mischievous disciple dumping an armful of lotus pods next to her as she works, so overflowing with life it seems impossible death could ever lay a finger on him.

But it did, and she could not help him. That’s the tragedy of it all, Jiang Yanli supposes. They both died for it, even though she alone remains standing.

Her brother picks up the story again. He covers months in a matter of minutes, and describes the dreary aftermath of the siege, long hours of poring over whatever texts he could legitimately wrestle out of the Jin Sect’s hands, looking for a way to bring his sister back to consciousness.

“If it could be done for the Ghost General,” Jiang Cheng finishes, “it could be done for you, and it can be for Jin Zixuan.”

Impossible hope makes Jiang Yanli shiver. “You’d do it?” Then, that new light flickers. “A-Cheng, even I didn’t know where he was kept. They wouldn’t let me see him, no matter how much I begged.”

There was barely any time between her husband’s death and her own, but while she was going through it, she avoided thinking about it too much lest she go mad. There was something in the thought of her husband’s walking corpse locked somewhere by his own kinsmen, neither properly put to rest nor truly alive, that’d made her want to both weep and throttle Jin Guangshan herself. They were trying to bring him back to consciousness too, she remembers, to make a weapon capable of going to to toe with the Ghost General. But now⎯ if she can save him from this like A-Cheng and Nie Huaisang saved her⎯

“I want my family back together,” Jiang Yanli declares. One of her brothers is beyond saving now, but the other is here with her, as is her son. I want to get away, is what she thinks but doesn’t say. She was always out of place in the cultivation world anyway, trying to slot herself into a role she wasn’t meant to fit ; if leaving sects and their politics behind is the price for living with her family - whatever kind of life lays in front of her now -, she will gladly pay it.

Jiang Cheng grins at her. She missed his smiling face, Yanli realizes. This one is not cheerful even by a long shot, sharp as a sword’s edge, but it brings her back to happier days anyway. “Then we’ll do it, and I hope it makes Sect Leader Jin so mad he foams at the mouth.”

No words about how it might be difficult given his own position as Sect Leader, or how defying Lanling Jin Sect, even leaving as little evidence as possible, is becoming more dangerous by the day. He must want it as badly as she does, to bring his loved ones together once again, succeed once to try and make up for all those who couldn’t be saved.

Nie Huaisang claps. “Well-said, Jiang-xiong, well-said.”

Six months later.

“Oh, A-Cheng, I love it!” She dances from room to room with Jin Ling in her arms, marveling over the rows of plum trees by the front door and the lotus pond near the house. It is a small residence, but it’s plenty big enough for three people to live in, and most of all, it’s safe. The world is quiet here, without sect politics to muddle the waters or cultivators going only by what they think is righteous and disregarding the consequences.

Jiang Yanli looks at the little house and its flowers and thinks yes, this is where I would like to raise my child.

Jin Ling whines and tugs at a stray strand of her hair. As soon as she puts him down, he toddles forward and out into the garden. A few seconds later, she hears her husband’s voice and her son’s giggles, and guesses they must have started a tickle fight on the grass again.

Her brother hangs back a few steps behind her, hands behind his back. Jiang Yanli is reminded of a schoolboy waiting for approval. “I’m happy you like it.”

She turns around and takes his hands in his. “Of course I do! It’s wonderful, and so close to home too! You’ll come visit often, won’t you?”

“As often as I can,” he reassures her. Then he takes a deep breath, and she knows whatever he’s about to say will be important. “A-Jie, there’s something I want to show you.”

He leads her to the last door she hasn’t opened, tucked behind a curtain. It smells of incense, and Jiang Yanli guesses its purpose before she even steps foot in it. It must be her imagination, as it so often is these days, but her heart gives a painful thud in her chest.

“Since you can’t go back home to see them, I thought I should bring them to you.”

There are many tablets on the altar, but her eyes are immediately drawn to the ones in the forefront. Jiang Fengmian. Yu Ziyuan. They’re not the originals, which must still rest in the ancestral hall of the Lotus Pier, but they are here for her parents’ spirits nonetheless.

Together, the Jiang siblings light two sticks of incense and bow thrice before their ancestors. I hope life is kinder to you, wherever you are, Yanli wishes. I hope you will look after us in whatever trial life might bring.

They stand there in reverent silence for a few minutes more before she musters the courage to ask. “No one buried A-Xian, did they?”

Jiang Cheng scowls. She knows him well enough to tell it is more out of unwillingness to talk about it than true displeasure. “How could they? Even if they wanted to, there was nothing left to bury.”

Jiang Yanli hesitates. Perhaps it is frowned upon of her to want to put Wei Wuxian to rest, given the number of people who died at his hands, every tablet added to family shrines because of him. But the thought of her brother, alone and restless somewhere she cannot reach him, without the comforts other souls might have. Despite it all, she hates that he died alone, and she hates that he is alone even now.

She searches through the room until she finds a stack of paper money, flint and steel. Holding her findings, Jiang Yanli sweeps into the garden. She is greeted with the sight of her son sitting atop her husband’s shoulders, enthusiastically patting his head to try to get him to run, and Zixuan refusing with weakening will.

“Don’t do it,” she warns as she walks by. “What if you drop him?”

“I wouldn’t,” Jin Zixuan protests, but still sets down the toddler, who runs to Jiang Cheng instead and pulls at his robes, making noises about wanting to be picked up again.

Turning away from them, Jiang Yanli walks the small hearth she spotted earlier in a corner of their garden. With a few strikes of flint against steel, she lights a fire and watches it grow before she begins feeding it the paper money.

Jin Ling oohs and aahs as the paper shrivels and makes to grab at it before his uncle sweeps him back into his arms.

“Who’s it for?” Jin Zixuan asks. He lays a hand on her shoulder, she leans into him, and for that moment nothing has changed at all.

“My family,” she answers. “All of them.”

Her husband doesn’t say anything, only holds her hand and watches with her as the last of the papercraft collapses into ash.

She doesn’t blame him. He and Jiang Cheng have their own reasons to believe what they do about Wei Wuxian. Jiang Yanli herself might be wrong. But she has spent too much of her life holding her family together, through their failings and their flaws, to let go as they’re trying to.

It is like this : as long as her family lives on, she will be waiting for them to come home.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #jiang yanli #jiang cheng #mdzs fic #kim's fics #corpse parents!au

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bravegroupie-archive · 6 years

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WHEN MONICA SCHWARTZ & JACOB GEISZLER began their affair , neither of them went in with the intention of it becoming more than just that ------ a casual affair. both were married & with other partners , only looking for an escape from their wretched lives whenever jacob came over to tune monica’s piano. however , from their rendezvous newton geiszler was born into their lives ------ a perfect , seemingly healthy baby boy with an intelligence to rival any. despite being ready to drop his life to be with monica & care for newt , monica would deny jacob’s assistance , taking him to court & being granted full custody of the child. jacob would then be forced to leave , leaving newt with only his mother to care for him.

MONICA DIDN’T WANT A CHILD. no , she just wanted to beat jacob at something ------ a way to get back at him for all the wrong he did to her. however , monica would soon come to realize that caring for a child is a full - time job that cannot be ignored , which would later force her to retire from her opera singing career early & move to the town of derry to raise newt & teach piano lessons to the local youth there. for the rest of newt’s time there with her , she would frequently tell him how he was the one who had held her back , & if not for him , she’d be famous by now.

A LOVER OF ALL THINGS MUSIC , monica would attempt to instill that love into her son. his piano skills were excellent , but it was the singing that he had difficulty with. wanting her son to follow in her footsteps , she would attempt to have him sing opera style songs. newt however , did not have the range to accomplish this , & would fail almost every time. monica would become discouraged , yelling & picking on the poor boy every time he messed up or did something she despised. every thursday they practiced together , which usually meant that every thursday , newt was guaranteed a panic attack. on occasion , if newt messed up on a key note or the words , monica would have a ruler at the ready , punishing his hands for their mediocrity. the band - aids he would come to wear when going to school would pass off to his peers & teachers as a cute little quirk , though they were anything but.

NOT HAVING MANY FRIENDS AT SCHOOL , newt didn’t have much in the way of escaping the terror that was his mother. so he would go on & create his own safe space where he can hide from the world. inspired by the movie weird science , he would create a small little lab inside a treehouse of his design in the barrens by the derry landfill. this would serve as a “ man cave “ of sorts , where he could watch movies , play video games & perform strange experiments like testing the durability of gak & what really happens if you mix mentos & coke. he would affectionately refer to his treehouse as ‘ the playhouse , ‘ after pee wee herman’s show. newt would also found his love of music while rummaging the landfll for parts , discovering an old walkman with a sex pistols tape inside. he immediately fell IN LOVE with the band’s hard sound , leading him to discovering more punk rock music.

WHEN IT BEGINS TO MAKE AN APPEARANCE , newt sees him in two forms. after watching invasion of the body snatchers , IT would come to him as a pod person in clown make - up , pointing & screaming at him ------ the ear splitting scream creating a crack in his lenses. the creature would then chase newt , only stopping when newt turns a corner & encounters the bowers gang. the bullies would beat him up relentlessly that day , leaving the young boy practically quaking in fear. he would then spend the evening in his treehouse , curled into a fetal position & delving into the worst panic attack of his young life.

THE SECOND TIME IT WOULD APPEAR , IT would posses his mother. after coming home from a rare good day at school , monica would be waiting , delving into her utter disappointment of him & how she should have given him up. the verbal abuse would only increase more & more , newt unable to stop it. monica would then chase after her son , managing to use the ruler to effectively slap the boy across the face. this time however , a neighbor catches a glimpse of the attack through the window , putting a call to CSA right away. now released from IT’s control , monica would realize what she had done , shocked & downright frightened of the effect this would have on her reputation in the town. so instead of facing the charges , she would up & bolt the next day , leaving behind her home & her son.

WHILE NEWT’S FATHER WAS IN no mental state to take in his son , his uncle illia would gladly take him in , meaning he would need to leave for berlin. newt would happily leave derry & live with his uncle for three years , enjoying his youth for a bit before being accepted into MIT & moving back to boston. after attaining his six doctorates , he would go on to teach biology for a bit.

YEARS LATER , he would be reached by the derry city hall in regards to his mother’s house & the town’s intention to destroy it. as he is the only person who could claim the right to that house , newt would be force to take a sabbatical from his teaching position in order to put the house under his name & prepare it to be sold. at this point , he hadn’t been in derry for twenty - seven years , & even with being gone so long , it never stopped the nightmares from haunting him all his life. now with his return ? they would only get worse from here...

#「 *☣ — V: AND WE'LL ALL FLOAT ON ! / it: chapter one 」#abuse cw //#( just getting the bearings of my verse for now bc there's so much to say oof )

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gldngrl7 · 7 years

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Karamel Fic: Ruination (2/6)

Title: Ruination

Author: gldngrl7

Started: January 5, 2017

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 6

Author’s Notes:

In celebration of Supergirl’s return to the airwaves tonight, I’m going to post two chapters. Enjoy!

Chapter 2 is Explicit in rating.

Thanks to the following for your comments and flailing. You guys are awesome: @pwettypwita, @lostin-the-desert

To all others: thanks for reading/liking

Constructive criticisms and feedback/comments/flailing are mightily appreciated. Flames are destroyed by my freeze breath.

Chapter 2/6

I didn't know that I was starving 'til I tasted you

Don't need no butterflies when you give me the whole damn zoo

By the way, right away you do things to my body

I didn't know that I was starving 'til I tasted you

--Hailee Steinfeld/Gray – “Starving”

His whole life, once he got out of the throwing dirt clods stage, he’s pretty much been a stickler about grooming. A neat and tidy appearance does attract the partners, after all, and for a man dedicated to the giving and receiving of pleasure, attraction is key. It’s been a daily struggle here though, since it takes Kara’s heat vision to provide him with a haircut and the clothes he wears do not have the clean lines and complimentary silhouette to which he’s accustomed. So he settles for staying clean, his hair neatly combed and dirt scraped from beneath his fingernails.

But this time, stepping into the shower in the men’s locker room, is like sticking his hand into the mouth of a rabid Glarbeast. Mon-El can still smell her on him – her desire, her sweat, her own unique scent, and he’d rather cut off his own arm than wash that away. But he has little choice. He has somewhere he needs to be in an hour and, according to J’onn, he should attempt to look his best.

“If you were any quieter I’d think you were the one that was dead,” the achingly familiar voice says

“You do enough talking for the both of us, Ral,” Mon-El retorts.

Morgon-Ral had died long ago in the fall of Daxam, his body given back to the Gods of Val-Or while Mon-El drifted, asleep, through the Well of Stars, slowly finding his way to Earth. Though it had been three decades since last he saw his friend, to Mon-El it felt like mere weeks. They had been companions, brothers in bond, since childhood. No one knew him like Ral, and no one knew Ral like he did.

He couldn’t talk to anyone on this planet about Kara, about his growing feelings for her, not unless he wished to alienate every last one of them. So, his still-grieving mind created the construct of Ral, not unlike the hologram of her mother to whom Kara regularly speaks.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Ral asks, a slow smile spreading across his cherubic face like spilled honey. “About it being different.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mon-El denied.

“Then why didn’t you leave?” Ral points out. “She fell asleep hours before; you could have left at any time. You always leave…as soon as you’ve exhausted them. You were the master of sneaking away unnoticed. But this time…” Ral chuckles, “this time you left a tribute. And that is not like you.”

“Fine! It was different, okay?”

“Why do you have to make this so hard?” Ral wonders. “The only person you’re hurting is yourself. It’s not like I care about being right. Not anymore at least.”

“What if--?”

“She asked you to stay, didn’t she?” Ral challenges.

“She never said she wanted more,” Mon-El argues. “Besides, she was emotional afterwards, not thinking clearly. Maybe she just wanted to be held. Women can be like that sometimes.”

“Sometimes women can also have emotions and make clear choices about what they want at the same time. In fact, sometimes that’s when they make the best choices. Emotional or not, it looked to me like she knew exactly what she wanted, my friend. So, congratulations on a plan well executed. Well played on the sad-little-boy gambit, by the way. ‘I’m all alone in the world. Hold me’. Masterful,” Ral crows, his voice laced with admiration.

“That wasn’t a gambit, Ral!” Mon-El protests.

“I know,” Ral replies, suddenly solemn. “I was just busting you, that’s all. You’re so serious all the time now; I hardly recognize you.”

“You try losing your entire world and everyone you ever loved!” Mon-El shouts, his voice echoing off the tile and concrete walls. Of its own accord, his hand forms into a fist and the next thing he knows a section of white tile from the shower is shattering around it, ceramic shards raining down on his feet. Shocked by his outburst, Mon-El stares at his clenched fist and the hole in the shower wall, his racing breath struggling to normalize. “See how jovial you feel.”

“I think I know what’s going on here.”

“Oh, I just can’t wait to hear this,” Mon-El says, the weight of heavy sarcasm in his voice. Reluctantly, he lathers his hands with the bar of utilitarian, multi-purpose soap and begins to meticulously eradicate the memory of last night from his skin.

“You’re having trouble accepting that she might want you; this breathtaking woman who is, let’s face it, so out of your league she’s playing a different sport. But that’s not what’s giving you trouble. I mean, you’re accustomed to that; bedding women based on nothing more than the strength of your charm and that ridiculous smile, or—and it pains me to bring this up—your ranking at court. More than a few ladies tried to position themselves closer to the crown.

“Ral,” Mon-El grinds out. It’s a warning for Ral to school his words; the action a ghost from better times.

“I’ve never given you anything but the truth, brother, no matter how much it cost me, and I’m not going to stop now just because I’m dead. Besides, I’m not saying anything that you don’t already know on some level.”

Mon-El swipes his sudsy hands through his wet hair and lathers the foam cleanser through it, hoping the action will drown out the sound of Ral’s slightly imperious voice.

“You can’t accept that she might want you even though you have so little to offer; no currency, no bloodline, no titles, no position at court.”

“I got it!”

“You’re just a simple man now, with naught but his heart to give.” Ral throws a courtly gesture, covering his heart with his hand in an overly romantic way, before the smile evaporates from his face. “But worst of all, you’ve got it stuck in your head that you don’t deserve her because of what happened on Daxam. Don’t look now, but I think someone’s letting emotion cloud his judgment.”

“Are you done?” Mon-El snaps.

“Do you really want me go?”

“No,” Mon-El replies after a moment of silence, his shoulders slumping. “What am I supposed to do, Ral?”

“You have to find a way to get past this. Find your path. Assimilate. Your old life is gone, brother, and it’s never coming back. The days of free-flowing Zakarian ale at the endless banquet feast are over and it’s imperative that you accept that. You must make this place your home if you want to prove to her that you can be what she needs.“

“So I’m just supposed to forget?” Mon-El’s heart constricts at the thought of letting go of even the smallest part of the things he loved.

“Nobody’s saying that,” Ral shakes his head. “Beyulat Daxam, brother. But you’re re-reading the same chapter over and over, when there’s so much more left to your story. Turn the page – that’s all I’m saying. Turn just one page and then maybe the next one will be easier, and then the next and the next.”

Mon-El stands under the stream of hot water, steam surrounding him and filling his lungs as he considers Ral’s advice. He’s stumbled around this planet since he got here, only attempting to belong when it suited him, afraid to let go of the life he lead before as if it might somehow come back to him, catching him unawares.

Somewhere inside, he knows that’s not the kind of man Kara needs; a beggarly refugee, half in this world and half out. She needs someone to stand by her side and to be there for her. And how can he do that, if he’s barely here himself?

“I can’t lose her,” he mumbles, more to himself than to his companion.

“Then listen to your far superior friend,” Ral butts in, “and stop trying to kill this thing before it’s really started because of some misguided notion that you don’t deserve to be alive. The gods have a plan for you.”

“The gods!” Mon-El scoffs.

“Laugh all you want, but I’ve seen the signs—which means you’ve seen them too.”

“Signs?”

“Don’t play dumb. Has it occurred to you that if you and Kara had met before the destruction of Krypton she would have still been a child? Then while she was on Earth growing into a fine young woman—and I do mean fine—you were drifting through the Well of Stars in stasis. It’s like the gods were just waiting for the right moment. When you entered Earth’s atmosphere you could have landed anywhere on this planet, another country even. But did you? No…you landed right here in National City, home of one Kara Danvers, the angel that opened your pod.”

“That doesn’t mean the gods of Val-Or exist.”

“Some things never change,” Ral chuckles. “Even dead, I do love having this argument with you. You’re going to believe in something one day. Even if it’s not the gods of Val-Or.”

“I believe in Kara,” Mon-El professes.

“That’s a good start,” Ral nods.

Mon-El swallows thickly, recalling the power born inside of him during their lovemaking the night before, and wishing he could still be cradled between her thighs now. Standing under the shower of never ending hot water, he leans forward and places he forehead against the cooler tile, considering everything he’d learned last night, both about himself and about her as well.

“Are you going to tell her?” Ral asks, soberly.

Requiring no clarification because it had just been hovering on the outskirts of his conscious thought. It is knowledge he’s been struggling with since holding her in his arms, basking in their afterglow. Mon-El replies, “No.”

“Is that the wisest choice?”

“Don’t you think it will seem a little self-serving?” Mon-El wonders, trapped between what he wants and what he knows is right.

“Someone could get hurt and if that happens you will lose her trust forever.”

“I would never let it come to that.”

“It starts here,” Ral insists, his voice rough and regal in Mon-El’s ears. “Being the kind of man she needs means making the right choices, even when they’re hard. Even when it means things don’t always fall in your favor. Isn’t that what you wanted my help with in the first place?”

“I just don’t know—“

“She will never be able to take her pleasure with a human man. Not unless she wishes to make him a eunuch. She needs to know that.”

“I know,” Mon-El snaps, his entire body turning rigid, jaw clenching. He runs a hand through his wet hair, turns around and slumps against the tile, his back to wall. “I know. I just…I just want her to choose me,” Mon-El confesses. “Not because I’m her only viable option.”

“Did something special happen between you last night?” Ral asks, on the razor’s edge of prosecutorial. “When you held her in your arms, gave her pleasure and took your own, did something happen inside of you? Did it open your eyes, brother? Show you the art in a light you’ve never seen before?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust that. Always choose what is best for her, and not yourself. Do that…and I promise she will never see you for anything but the man she needs.”

“I want that,” Mon-El nods. “For her to always look at me the way she did when I was inside her.”

“And you can have it. But not if you run from her now.” A slow shift takes place then, the stern intensity in Ral’s his eyes shifts to a sparkle and a wide lascivious grin spreads across his cherubic face, and he chuckles deep in his chest. “Besides…how can you leave her now, when there’s so much left to teach her?”

“She learns quickly,” Mon-El agrees, his melancholic fog lifting slightly.

“Such a sweet, natural submissive you’ve found. It was magnificent how she surrendered to you. What could possibly be more intoxicating than a woman who can throw you against a wall with one hand, yet will spread her legs for you without question? What I wouldn’t give to hear wicked words of pleasure spill from her mouth. ‘Fuck’,” Ral says, testing the word, hitting the ‘k’ hard. “It’s such a divine word for the art, so primitive and guttural. Altogether satisfying, don’t you think? Won’t it sound lovely coming from her ripe mouth?”

Mon-El groans as Ral rambles words that burn fire in his loins. He vividly remembers Kara’s willingness to comply with his desires, even the ones he hadn’t specifically requested. He recalls the way she innocently took him in her mouth, listening intently to his instructions as he tutored her between harsh breaths, his hand sifting through her hair, her head bobbing up and down over his desperate cock. Mon-El remembers her guileless smile of conquest when she accepted all of him and swallowed every last drop.

“Brother, if you don’t train your Kryptonian goddess you’ll never forgive yourself. Val-Or! I’ll never forgive you!”

“She is everything I ever wanted, but didn’t believe could exist in one person.”

“No wonder you’d take more than one partner to bed so often,” Ral waggled his eyebrows.

“I gave up on finding satisfaction in one person.”

“But not anymore, it seems. I see your goddess is in your thoughts even now.” Ral indicates Mon-El’s cock, now standing at rapt attention. “You should take care of that, there’s not much time before you have to dress and leave. As you no longer have need of me, I’ll just—“

Ral withdrew, leaving Mon-El in the shower with a rigid cock and masturbation his only outlet. To most Daxamites, including Mon-El, it was a repugnant task after reaching adulthood, considered selfish in a culture that revered the exchange of pleasure between two or more parties. But he is no longer on Daxam, and the only partner with whom he wishes to exchange pleasure is Kara Zor-El, who is unfortunately not present to tend to his problem.

Soaping up his hand to provide slick lubrication, he begins by caressing his stiff member, imagining Kara’s delicate fingers running along the thick, sensitive vein on the underside and then passing her thumb over the weeping, bulbous head. He leans his head against the tile wall and allows the steam to envelop him, drawing him into his fantasy.

He imagines her kneeling before him and wrapping her lips around his length, before sucking him in all the way to the back of her throat. Circling his forefinger to his thumb at the base, he pictures Kara’s lips riding up and down the shaft as he ruts mildly into her mouth. Mon-El bites his bottom lip to suppress the groan rising to his throat.

In his fantasy, he fists his hand in her hair and urges her to her feet. After a languid heated kiss he turns her around to face the wall, pressing her shoulders until she’s bent over before him. Taking his cock in his hand completely, Mon-El imagines plunging into her with little preamble, pleased to find her clutch wet and ready. He can hear her cries of pleasure in his ears, distant memories borrowed from the night before and growing fainter with each use.

He speeds his hand, gripping and sliding his fist along the steel of his cock, trying to find the best rhythm. The right rhythm, which will make him forget that he isn’t buried in her perfectly greedy core. The fantasy fades like the steam as the water grows colder. He jerks and pulls at his cock in a mad attempt to replicate her perfection, but can find only a poor substitute of sensation.

The pressure in his balls grows until all he can do is drive toward his hollow climax, his chest aching to be inside of her once more. When he comes, it’s with a lackluster precision and a dismal groan; a clinical act devoid of the newly uncovered emotions or the sense of fulfillment he experienced with her last night. His seed spills to the tiled floor and—wasted—spins down the drain.

He should feel better, more relaxed, but his desire for her seems to be about as impenetrable as his skin and the release has barely dented the surface, because the desire itself has so little do with the physical. Shutting off the shower spigot, Mon-El is enveloped in the chilly air of the gym locker room, its concrete walls providing poor insulation to keep in the heat. He reaches for a white towel and wraps it securely around his waist, knowing one thing for certain as he steps out of the shower.

That Kara Zor-El has ruined him.

****

She could shower at speed if she wanted to—if she had to—but this morning, that is not the case. Showers are her sanctuary; a place where no demands are placed upon her and few expectations need to be met beyond the cleansing of her body and the rejuvenation of her mind. Here she can take the time to think.

After washing her hair, she works the conditioner meticulously through the long, thick tresses and then leaves it to sit. While the conditioner works its magic, she pours violet scented shower gel onto her fluffy red body sponge and squeezes it until the suds are worked into a fine lather. Every inch of her skin is sensitized unlike ever before as she moves the lathered sponge over her arms, around her neck, and down her belly.

It’s as if Mon-El has turned her on in more ways the one. Completely unaware, Kara Danvers had been walking through life wrapped in cotton batting that had nothing do with the radiation from the yellow sun. Suddenly, she’s aware of the spot at the back of her neck that sends a shudder through her when caressed, or the sliver of skin between her belly button and her thatch that has her breath hitching in her throat when she swipes it with the sponge.

Alex had been right. Mon-El had opened a new world to her last night, and she had been ill-prepared for its after effects. She can’t imagine that any virgin, for good or for bad, could ever be properly prepared for the feelings that follow the loss of their innocence.

She understands that, for many, the loss of virginity is an event they’d rather not dwell upon, but for Kara that is not the case. Her mind floods with images and sounds burned indelibly in her mind. She can’t help but cup her own breasts when she recalls the way he’d fondled them, teasing the nipples until they feel a semblance of the frenzy of need he had built within her.

Before losing her virginity Kara’s body would regularly reach a state of tension that begged for the kind of release that comes with masturbation. But had she never felt like she had been dipped in kerosene and set aflame like she did at this moment – like she had last night. She had never felt like a cuckoo clock wound so tight the springs and cogs threaten to fragment.

He had brought her to the peak four times last night, first stoking her desire and then ardently coaxing forth each climax. By rights she should feel the relaxed tranquility of post-coital bliss so often talked about in books and shown on television. Instead, however, her tension is cranked higher than ever before and she needs release once more. Mon-El had opened floodgates within her, a store of sexual energy, which she hadn’t known lay buried within.

Her soapy hands travel over the canvas of her skin, pretending that he’s there with her, worshiping her body while whispering soft words about her beauty and perfection. Words he gave her last night. Her core throbs with want, starving for him and begging to devour the silk and steel of his cock.

Kara slips her fingers into her wet folds, finding her clit with practiced ease and pressing against it until a shot of white-hot electricity flashes out from her core, spreading to all of her limbs. It steals her breath, but the forgotten shock of it has her crying out his name.

Kara places one hand the shower tiles for support as the press-and-circle of her finger around the bundle of hypersensitive nerves weakens her at the knees. “Oh, God!” she hisses, her throat swallowing air as if it’s abruptly become a rare commodity. She bites her lip in concentration her body hungrily reaching out for its impending detonation. It eludes her like a wisp of mist that slips through her fingers.

Needing more, she ups the ante by sliding a finger into the greedy grasp of her entrance and pumping it in and out a few times. She tries to imagine that the digit is Mon-El’s but his fingers are longer and more dexterous than hers. Her body refuses to be fooled.

She adds another finger searching for that divine stretch, that feeling of oneness that filled her when he entered her. She recalls wondering if his length and girth would fit within her untried passage, only to feel, when he entered her, like she’d never before been so deeply connected to another person. Beyond the mere casing of their separate skins, there was no discerning where she ended and he began.

Adding a third finger to her endeavor, it becomes increasingly clear that her body will accept no substitute. Kara replays the sound of Mon-El groaning as he labored over her, grunting as he doubled-down on his efforts and finally a deep, resonating growl when his on climax struck. But none of it pushes her over the edge like it should.

Back to her clit, she toys with the bundle, vibrating her own finger against it until the build within her reaches a painful fever pitch. At last, she topples over the edge, falling a disappointingly short distance back to reality. Her orgasm is dismal and unsatisfying, leaving her with the same amount of sexual tension as when she started.

Kara turns and leans back, her head against the tile wall, swiping away a stream of water from her flushing face. Her knees give way beneath her and she slides to the floor. Nothing else—no one else—will do, she realizes; only him. Him. In the beginning her plan had been for Mon-El to rid her of her virginity, so that she could be open to a sexual relationship with anyone of her choosing. But somewhere in the candlelit darkness of her bedroom last night, her carefully considered plan had quite thoroughly backfired.

She could no longer be open to just anyone, because no amount of denial would bury the fact that, at times, he had used his abilities to facilitate their lovemaking. To make it better for her. No human man can provide that, she knows. Perhaps she could have sex with a human, but her pleasure would be muted without his strength and speed.

Not to mention, she would have to spend every moment aware of the fragility of her lover. A human partner might offer emotion and attraction, perhaps even connection, but it would never be true intimacy. The kind of intimacy that would give her the freedom to lose control without fear – to surrender control with complete trust. Kara draws her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around her shins, tucking her forehead into the crook there. After only one night together, she is certain of one immutable fact.

That Mon-El of Daxam has ruined her.

TBC

#karamel #karamel fic #hanging on letting go series

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houstonlocalus-blog · 7 years

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Visual Vernacular: Gisela Colon

Gisela Colon, “Atmospheres” at McClain Gallery. Images courtesy of the gallery

An otherworldly exploration of color, form, light, and surface all vibrantly resonate in the latest exhibition at McClain Gallery. The dimensionality, the layering, and the quiet beauty combined by artist Gisela Colon all speak to her vast understanding of the balance of the masculine and the feminine through her impressive sculptural work. As one moves around the pieces, each tuned to a different vibration in colors and feel, one can see the subtle changes within the blow-molded acrylic that show forth both a luminous glow and thoughtful mystery.

These pods, which both hang on the wall and stand by themselves within the light-filled gallery, draw you in to look at the work from all angles but at a slow, purposeful movement. At the rate you traverse around Colon’s work, you truly are led by the hand, the heart, and the mind while pondering the effects these pieces have in a physical and conceptual form. Colon graciously answered questions about her background, her work and her creative process.

Free Press Houston: Do you have any particular memories from your youth that pushed you into the direction of art?

Gisela Colon: I had quite a few moments in the early years of my childhood — from around the age of 4 to 10 — that were seminal to the realization that art was something special and transcendental. My mother was a painter and I spent a lot of time working hands-on as her young assistant. We spend many long hours creating oil paintings of quotidian subjects my mother would lay out for us, such as sugarcane fields, tropical flowers, maracas, guiros, clay pots, ceramics, bohios, rolling green country landscapes, the rainforest, and numerous other natural subjects indigenous to Puerto Rico. We would frequently use as a source of study and inspiration master painters such as Van Gogh, Renoir, Rembrandt, Matisse, Monet, Gaugin, Picasso, Miro, Calder, etcetera. As a young child I was taken by the colors of Gaugin, the movement of Van Gogh, the light of Renoir, the humanity of Rembrandt, the poetry of Miro, the intensity of Picasso, and many more feelings of wonder, as we studied how all these were different and how we could make our own worlds with paint. I learned that knowledge to create comes from within, that what they all had in common was their own language, their own unique way of seeing the world, and I could see the world my way, too. I learned the power of being an autodidact, which to this day has positively permeated my whole life.

I was particularly mesmerized by how the colors in many of Gaugin’s paintings did not match the reality of what the eye might see, but rather what the mind might see, or choose to see from a variety of options. There was a painting of two women sitting in a field with flowers in their hair and vividly colored dresses, on a grassy meadow with a backdrop of purple-blue mountains and trees. The painting is titled “When will you marry,” 1892. I remember thinking, “why are the mountains painted purple and blue,” when I knew mountains were not really purple or blue, but they looked fantastic in these hues of purple-blue to convey to the mind of the viewer a feeling that the mountains were of significance because they were of such an unusual color.

The purple conveyed a feeling of monumentality, of physical presence beyond the earth. The choice of the color purple made a big difference. It made them special, unusual and almost other-worldly. Then I focused on the grassy meadows, and I noticed that they were all painted wild colors of oranges, bright yellows, and even a large section of an indigo blue. They looked so radically different to me than what I knew to be real grass colors, which then led me to ask, “why would he choose those colors?” And then in my young child’s mind I thought to myself, “because they look real to him, the painter.” I realized they looked real to the mind of Gaugin and they were drawn from an extrapolation of reality. In addition, they were converted into the artist’s reality, which is then conveyed to the viewer as an alternate reality, that is just as good and perhaps in some instances even better than the actual reality that exists before you.

That was the turning point for me, the realization at the age of about 5, that magic could be made. That an artist could possess that special ability to change the world, one person at a time, one perceptual experience at a time, one moment of connecting to another human mind through time. And this connection would be a deeper connection that might not be expressed in words, but in feelings. Color, material, space, light, everything that an artist uses can be twisted, turned, altered, changed, morphed, to convey a feeling, an idea of an alternate reality, an alternative reality that people might not possess individually, but can be communicated as an artist outward. I realized that an artist had the power to alter reality and the alteration of reality could become a meaningful thing.

FPH: How did you come to love working with light and sculpture in a minimalist fashion?

Colon: Minimalism is a misnomer because the term is used broadly to imply that the art is devoid of elements or pared down. However, most minimal art is quite complex and possesses numerous qualities that act together to provide an experience of purity. Minimalism provides an antidote to turmoil, noise, information overload. The key point for me is to invoke an experience of simplicity, silence, calmness, clarity of thought, complex thought, principled thought. Each individual ultimately lives in his own mind. Art is for the individual. That moment when the individual can reckon with his own thoughts, and have a moment of awareness and clarity onto itself. I strive to create objects that invoke some form of rational order, alignment, balance, aesthetic beauty, activating a person’s inner discourse.

I got to where I am today by making objects I want to live with, by making art for my own inner self. Throughout this pathway of discovery, the function of light became more important. Light, actually, is the most essential aspect of any work of art. Light is material, matter, and substance and it makes everything real. Without light we would not be here. It is that elemental. To be able to see something requires light. We take it for granted. We assume light is a given. Light is an essential primeval element that surrounds us all and makes life what it is: Light in its most basic form is the provider of existence. Light through the eyes tickles the brain and provides quasi-tactile functions and sensory pathways that are activated, creating the feeling of being alive. Light is an essential part of my work as it works synergistically with the other sculptural materials to generate a feeling of life-like qualities in the work.

FPH: Seeing that you have heavy influences from both Puerto Rico and California, how have you merged different design aspects from both worlds?

Colon: Both worlds embrace dynamic energies that can be channeled to effectuate growth and transformation. Puerto Rico provides the original spark, a vital, visceral source of energy. Southern California has an ethos of freedom and creativity; with hard work and perseverance, it is the perfect place to pursue your dreams —anything is possible and everything is achievable. Los Angeles has a long history of being a land of opportunity and freedom of expression from the pre-columbian days of the Cahullia Indians, through the early days of pioneers in the Wild West, to the golden era of Hollywood, this bountiful land has allowed people from all over the world to settle here and become part of the significant and growing creative milieu. I merge both sources of energy, applying a philosophy of transformation to my life and my art, conceptualizing and creating sculptures with chameleon-like qualities, exemplifying the female power of creation and embodying the spirit of renewal and re-invention that is part of the history of Southern California life.

FPH: Pondering on the title Atmospheres, how does this show encompass some of the pillars of your work and what new techniques did you use for this exhibition?

Colon: The word atmospheres comes from the Greek word vapor, and is generally defined as layers of gases surrounding a spherical celestial body. It denotes something soft pervading into its surrounding space. My work in this show embodies some of those subtle, ephemeral qualities that cause the works to radiate into space. The sculptures contain multiple layers of materials that absorb, reflect, and refract light outwards into the surrounding space, creating an extended atmospheric feel. Also through a unique pigmentation process I developed, they posses the ability to shift color depending on the external lighting conditions, the position of the viewer, the time of day, the orientation of the work, etcetera. They are active mutable objects in symbiotic relationship with their environments, which brings the concept of movement into play.

The concrete aspects of my work are actually not concrete at all. There is no place to rest the eye — the pieces continue in an unabated line of discovery — fluid movement, active change, variability of color, mutability of form, resulting in an experiential object — a present tense object that is always moving into the future. The sculptures are free-form, constantly moving yet still possess an outer vessel that is self-contained. There is a juxtaposition of push and pull, of dematerializing the object and re-materializing the color, light, and form into an autonomous activated object. There is a feeling that nothing is stable, there is no stasis, always in constant movement to the eye. They create a dialogue of permanence vs. impermanence. The work seeks resonance with the human condition, which is one of constant change and movement in different directions; always moving into the future into an ever-evolving self, into a changing identity, into something new; seeking authenticity throughout time.

FPH: Seeing that there is a heavy fabrication side to your pieces, how involved are you in the process and what is that process like for you as an artist?

Colon: My studio is a repurposed plastics factory where I have an inordinate amount of fun! I am personally very involved in the fabrication process, and really enjoy the technical and engineering aspects of the job. I work hand-in-hand with my studio assistants and other aerospace industry fabricators, approving every minute detail every step of the way. When I’m working there, getting down and dirty, is when I feel most alive, vibrant and dynamic. It is extremely liberating, and I experience creative freedom at its best, when I am in the throes of the industrial aspects of making the works.

FPH: In our culture, the perception of beauty seems to constantly be in flux. How do you as an artist extract a concept of beautiful, especially in the use of color, and how do you hope this translates to a viewer?

Colon: I approach the concept of beauty from a visceral, almost biological, place. I think aesthetics and the appreciation of beauty is something inherent in our genetic make up. We have a capacity biologically to crave beauty, to appreciate beauty, to want to be surrounded by an environment that possesses beauty. But again what is aesthetic beauty? In my experience, there has to be some form of order, not necessarily a rational order, but a sequence, progression, formula of organizing the world around you, which yields balance, colors, forms, a conglomeration of aspects that come together to produce some form of harmony, something that the human eye can see and the entire body can sense and recognize as as a sublime feeling. We find beauty in nature because of its inherent, sometimes invisible order, but it is always ordered. There is always some underlying predetermined order that formulates how things are created, grown, and made in nature.

There is always a code of life that rules everything organic on the planet. That underlying order possesses an inherent beauty, an aesthetic capability of pleasing the eye. Or maybe it is that we just recognize as humans something that is part and parcel of our own formulation, a genetic code that is inside each of our cells that forms our body that allows us to be able to appreciate and recognize the orderly formulation of life. And by orderly it does not necessarily mean symmetrical. You can have orderly asymmetries that also create meaningful aesthetic language. For example, when you look at all of the leaves on a tree changing color in the fall, the fantastic burst of colors blend together such as poppy orange, tomato red, sunset yellows mixed with lemon yellows, and they’re all asymmetrically clustered in a cloud of texture, forming an amorphous form that flutters in the wind with such breathtaking aesthetic pleasure, that you find yourself being alive in the moment, and that’s where the real game is.

Even non-organic life on the planet possesses some form of organized beauty. For example, when you’re hiking in the stark desert of California, with its monumental jagged-edge mountains and huge clustered boulders, you feel the power of the space you are in, recognizing you are in some gigantic cratered form created by the power of earth. That form has such beauty in its stream of creation, the force that was required to create it and the magnitude of the explosion that required its creation, makes it breathtakingly beautiful. Then you look at all of the scattered boulders, rocks, and pebbles, although they appear randomly placed, the laws of physics created them, and generated their placement.

The laws of physics positioned them in their spot and those laws of physics possess order and an underlying rationale for where every little piece of earth crust, rock, sand, ash and dust was laid. Inorganic nature operating at its best. Therein lies aesthetic pleasure, in the marvel of the energy that this planet possesses at its core. The planet has life inside it, whether organic or inorganic. We live on this floating, moving ball of earth that is traveling through the stars, and has a life force that rules everything on this planet. We are part of that greater life force that wants us to seek aesthetic pleasure, to pursue beauty, balance and order, and if we are lucky we can tap into that life force for a feeling of the sublime.

FPH: What upcoming projects do you have coming up?

Colon: Lots of things. In terms of exhibitions, there are solo presentations of my work coming up at the San Angelo Museum of Fine Arts, San Angelo, Texas (December 15, 2017 – February 4, 2018); South Dakota Art Museum, Brookings, South Dakota (March – July 2018); Daum Museum of Contemporary Art, Sedalia, Missouri (September – December 2018); Hilliard Art Museum, Lafayette, Louisiana (January – August 2019); Foosaner Art Museum, Melbourne, Florida (September 2019 – January 2020). My work is also featured in a thematic exhibition titled: Plastic Entanglements: Ecology, Aesthetics, Materials, opening at the Palmer Museum of Art, Pennsylvania (February 2018 – June 2018), traveling to Jordan Schnitzer Museum of Art (September 22–December 30, 2018), Smith College Museum of Art (February 8–July 28, 2019), and Chazen Museum of Art (September 13, 2019–January 5, 2020).

Gisela Colon’s exhibition “Atmospheres” runs through June 17, 2017 at McClain Gallery (2242 Richmond). Hours are Tuesday through Friday from 10 am to 5 pm and Saturday from 12 pm to 5 pm.

Visual Vernacular: Gisela Colon this is a repost

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