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angelasscribbles · 10 months

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Victim of Love Chapter 12: Looking Forward

Series: Victim of Love

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings: Drake x Riley

Word Count: 1,852

Rating: MA

Warnings for this chapter: None, really. Some mild language.

Song Inspiration for series: Victim of Love by The Eagles

Victim of love I see a broken heart I could be wrong but I'm not no I'm not

My other stuff: Master List.

“That’s it! The last one!” Riley declared as she removed the needle from the rump of the heifer in the chute in front of her. Turning her head to the cowboy manning the chute door she said, “Let her out!”

“I really can’t thank you for everything you’ve done for us, Riley.”

Riley turned to smile at Drake’s mother. Dressed in trousers, a flannel shirt, and boots, with her hair tied back and pushed under a wide-brimmed hat, Bianca Throckmorton Walker looked every bit the matriarch of a family of ranchers.

Riley shook her head with a laugh, “What? Administering annual vaccinations to the herd? Any of your cowboys could have done that!”

“I’m not talking about that, and you know it! I’m not sure the herd would have survived without your intervention. Walk with me for a minute?”

Liam did not follow Riley after she left Hana’s room. She hadn’t expected him to, she meant it when she said he needed to stay and focus on his wife and unborn child.

It still hurt.

She clung to Drake and poured that hurt out as she sobbed in his arms.

“Is Hana okay?” Drake asked in alarm.

Riley nodded as she lifted her head to take in the concern in his eyes and it somehow made her feel better. She wiped her face as she staunched her tears and came to a decision, “I’m going to Texas with you.”

“What?”

“You said something was wrong with the herd, but no one knows what?”

“Yes, but-“

“Do you have a large animal veterinarian on staff?”

“No, because-“

“Because there’s an alarming shortage of large animal veterinarians in the U.S.”

“Right. We have one that we use but he covers a very large area and is currently at a ranch about two hundred miles away investigating a similar issue there.”

Riley nodded as she stepped out of his arms, “Vets who work with farm and ranch animals have to work outside in the elements, no matter how hot, how cold, or how rainy, they stay on their feet all day and they work long hours.”

“Yeah, that sounds like the job description,” Drake agreed.

“They’re also on call several nights a week. Most new graduations are choosing small animal care, dogs, cats, even exotics because they have regular hours in an air-conditioned office.”

“And the fewer people that choose to go into it, the worse the workload gets for everyone else,” Drake surmised.

“Yep! And the less anyone new wants to sign up for fourteen-hour days and being on call five days a week.”

“Yeah, okay….so?”

“So, there’s a good chance that no one is coming to help you in time.”

“Yeah, but….Riley, this isn’t your problem, you don’t have to-“ he rubbed the back of his neck as he fought an internal battle. As much as he would love to take her home with him and have a chance to get to know her better, he wasn’t sure she was thinking clearly. She was obviously upset.

“Drake!” Her tone was sharp, “I don’t have to tell you that losing an entire herd could be financially catastrophic for a cattle ranch.”

The fidgeting stopped as his eyes searched her face, finding nothing but an earnest seriousness there. She was right. Losing the herd might be a blow the ranch couldn’t recover from. “Riley, are you sure?”

“I’m sure! Now come on, I need to go pack! And I’m going to need the contact information for that other vet so we can compare notes and hopefully nip whatever this thing is in the bud!”

“I can’t take all the credit for that,” Riley followed Bianca up a small hill overlooking the northern part of the ranch, “Wow, this is a great view!”

“Isn’t it? My grandfather used to bring me up here when I was a kid. He’d tell me stories about the ranch’s history, point out all the places we could see from here, and explain what each was used for.”

“That sounds like a good memory.”

“It is. Later, after he died, I started coming up here by myself. At first, it was just to feel close to him, but the more time I spent looking at and thinking about this place, the more determined I was to save it.”

Riley nodded in understanding. Drake had told her how Bianca’s father had abandoned the ranch. Preferring the cushy life of a politician to the harsh life of a rancher, he had let the ranch fall into a state of disrepair. “I get it. You love this place. It’s obvious.”

“I do. The only thing I love more is my children; you’re good for both.”

“What?” Riley blinked against the afternoon sun as she studied the other woman’s face.

“You’re good for this ranch, Riley, and you’re good for my son.”

“Oh…I…”

“I’m not reading that situation wrong, am I?”

A flush spread across Riley’s face, “No, ma’am, you’re not.”

Riley had been prepared to stay in a hotel room, but neither Drake nor his mother would hear of it. She had been given a room in the main house, right down the hall from Drake.

The first few weeks she had tried to maintain some kind of boundary between them. She was there for the cattle, she was there to give Liam and Hana space, and she was there to heal a little and figure out her next steps.

What she wasn’t there to do was jump straight into another relationship, one with Liam’s best friend, one that was likely a rebound. Especially when she was there to work.

But it had proven impossible to keep her distance from him for any appreciable amount of time. Not only did he run the ranch, which threw them into close proximity with each other as they worked to find the cause of the illness spreading through the herd, but since she had agreed to stay at the ranch rather than a hotel, they were eating meals together and spending their downtime together.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

“What?” Riley spun toward the voice. She hadn’t heard anyone enter the stables, “What makes you think I’ve been avoiding you?”

“Because you’ve been avoiding me.”

She sighed as she tightened the girth on the horse she was tacking up, “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t sure how to handle the whole situation.”

“What situation?” He opened another stall and lead a beautiful chestnut gelding out. He wasn’t going to cancel his plans to ride just because she was there first. In fact, he was prepared to follow her if that’s what he had to do to get answers.

“You know what situation, Drake.”

“No, I really don’t. I thought we really hit it off in Cordonia. We got along well; the sex was amazing, and you spilled your guts to me on the plane ride home about everything with Hana and Liam. What changed? Did I do something wrong?”

Riley took the horse by the reins ready to lead her out of the stables, but she paused in astonishment, “What? No! You’ve been nothing short of amazing, Drake! You’ve been there for me in a way very few people ever have!”

He dropped the saddle he was about to put on the horse on the ground and moved closer to her, “Then why are you avoiding me?”

“I just…” tears welled up in her eyes, “I’m sorry. After everything that happened, what you witnessed with me and Liam and Hana….and after everything I told you….I just assumed you would want to extricate yourself from that whole mess. I didn’t want you to feel obligated-“

With almost no warning, she found herself in his arms, “Riley, look at me! Extricating myself from this situation, as you call it, is the last thing I want! And obligation is the last thing I feel when I think of you! Goddamn it, girl! How do you not know what you do to me?”

“I just thought, maybe I should get myself sorted before I get more entangled with you. I still have feelings for Liam and-“

“I’m well aware of your feelings for Liam,” his fingers traced up the side of her face and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His eyes locked on hers, full of pleading, longing, and determination, “I’m not asking you to stop having feelings for Liam. I’m not asking you to end your relationship with him. But I am asking…no, I’m begging you, Riley, to give this, to give us the same chance! And I have never begged anyone for anything in my life! Don’t you want to know if this could be something?”

The world stood still as she stared back into his eyes for an eternity. Then she nodded.

“Yes? That’s a yes? You’ll give us a chance? Stop avoiding me?”

“Yes.”

He surged forward and claimed her lips.

“I’ve never seen my son this happy,” Bianca told her, “And you saved this ranch.”

“I had help,” Riley demurred.

“I know you collaborated with other ranches and vets in the area, but-“

“And Texas A&M University-“

“Yes, I’m aware, but still, it was you here on our land, up before the sun came up and up after it went down, working right alongside all of us. You kept up with seasoned ranch hands, Riley, that’s impressive.”

Riley laughed, “Don’t let the title fool you, I’m no stranger to hard work. I was waiting tables in my parent’s restaurant at twelve and I could run the kitchen by fifteen.”

“And you were top of your class in Veterinarian school.”

“Bianca! Did you run a background check on me?” Riley’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

Bianca shrugged, “When my son told me he was bringing some woman I’d never heard of home to mess with my cattle? You’re damn straight I did!”

Riley burst into laughter, “Fair enough!”

“I know you’re planning to return to Cordonia soon, but I wanted to make sure you knew that you had other options.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you could stay. I’m offering you a job here at the ranch as well as a home. If you don’t want to stay in the main house, there’s a small guest house closer to the stables that you could take. And I’m also giving my stamp of approval to your relationship with my son.”

Riley sighed as she turned away from Bianca and looked out across the miles of pasture. The job offer wasn’t a total surprise. Large animal vets were scarce, and Bianca liked her.

But she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to move away from Cordonia permanently. “What if I say no to the job offer? Will you still give your blessing to my relationship with Drake?”

Bianca scoffed, “Of course, I will. I mean it, Riley, you’re good for him. Just think about the job for a day or two before you make up your mind, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed, a multitude of emotions swirling and mixing inside her, “I’ll think about it.”

#victim of love #trr #trr au #drake walker #drake x mc #angelasscribbles #the royal romance #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #the royal romance fanfic #choices #choices stories you play #trr au fanfic #trr fandom #trr fanfic #choices trr #trr drake #trr fanfiction #trr mc

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jawritter · 4 years

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When The Lights Go Out

Part 1

Summary: Life hasn't been your best friend lately, you lost your job, and are on the verge of losing your apartment. Who knew when you decided to join a Sugar Daddy app that your best friend suggested ina last ditch effort to save your apartment, and not end up on the street, your first and only client would turn your whole world upside down.

Pairing: Mobster!Dean Winchester x Virgin! Reader

Word Count: 2358

Series Warnings: Mob level violence, injured Dean, description of injury, creepy Godfather John Winchester, John is pretty much a double bag, escort services, virgin reader, lose of virginity and all the insecurities and fun stuff that come with it, age gap (23 year old reader; 40 year old Dean), angst, unrequited/requited love?, language, smut, unprotected smut.

Chapter Warnings: None really, language, escort serives, angst? I think that’s it for this chapter!

A/N: Beta’d by @deanwanddamons! Thanks so much love!! Please don’t copy my work!! Feedback is golden! Hope you all enjoy this one!! It’s gonna be a little bit of a slow burn y’all, but just hang in there!

(This fic is based on this request: Could you do a Dean x reader where she is 23 and lives alone in her apartment, she gets fired and can loose her house, her friend tells her about a sugar daddy app, she makes a profile and Dean 40, contacts her, she is virgin and don't offers sex, Dean is billionaire business man and needs a girl for his business parties,the reader is really shy, blushes a lot, they fall in love, he takes her to a trip and makes love to her on a private island, could it be a series?)

Want more? Check out my masterlist!!

***MASTERLIST***

***SERIES MASTERLIST***

Adjusting your too short skirt, you look across the crowded street from your hiding place among the crowd of people standing on the side of the road waiting for their cab, or Uber to pick them up from whatever they had just left, or take them to wherever they intend to go.

Heavy thunder rolled over head, and you looked up at the ominous black rolling clouds that from your street view made the skyscrapers look shorter than they really were.

Your heart was pounding so loud in your ears that it drowned out all the sounds of the hustle and bustle that was New York City on an average Friday night. Even though, in reality no one noticed you, you looked no different than about six other girls standing within a four foot proximity of you, you felt like every eye was on you. Like they were judging you, and knew just what you were doing, and just who you were waiting for.

Even though you weren’t meeting this man for sex, you felt like you were no better than the whores that line the streets of Brooklyn late at night, like cattle lined up for a sale barn to go to the highest bidder.

Claire had suggested that you join the Sugar Daddy App in order to make a few extra bucks after losing your job as a junior accountant at JP Morgan. You hadn’t been there all that long, and when they changed management, your new female boss seemed threatened by all the females in the office, especially those like yourself, those that were young, those that had potential; so therefore you got the first axe.

You didn’t really like the idea, but you were really left with no choice. Even though New York was a big city, it didn’t make jobs exactly easy to come by, and you need money before next Friday, or you would be living under one of the many bridges.

It hadn’t taken long for Dean to respond to your add on the app as a paid escort, and the fact that you weren’t offering sex didn’t seem to bother him when he’d direct messaged you. He said he just needed you to attend a business party with him, a promotion for his brother, and if you did well, he might hire you permanently.

Claire seemed to think that you had hit the jackpot, and told you to jump on the opportunity, but the amount of lucid information that he’d given you as far as what to wear, and that you were to just be on his arm to “look pretty”, you couldn’t help but feel you were dealing with the mob.

You knew that was a silly notion.There was only one mob left in New York that had enough power behind them to even be threatening. Everyone else was nothing but grunts under them, and there was no way in Hell a Winchester would be using a Sugar Daddy App in order to find someone to take to a business party with him.

Claire said not to worry about it, and that you were looking into things to much, that you had watched to many Scarface movies, and this was probably just a businessman who was in his forties, overweight, and lived in one of those box cublicial apartments on Manhattan with too much money, and not enough social life to bring someone to the event.

You had your doubts.

The way he worded things, so secretive, so proper, it had you scratching your head from the moment you agreed to this job as to whether or not this was a good idea, or if you were going to be the next featured picture on the back of a milk carton as New York’s latest missing person.

Just as you were about to say fuck it, and turn around and head back to your apartment, a sleek, black SUV pulled up to the curb and stopped. Looking around you notice that everyone that was standing next to you just a few moments ago had all but vanished, either getting into their own means of transportation, or giving up all together and deciding to hoof it.

The window directly in front of you rolled down just enough for the baritone voice to filter out of the dark interior of the car.

“Y/N?” he asked, and you stepped forward cautiously. If you weren’t regretting this before, you were now.

“Yes?” you said, stopping just short of the curb.

The driver’s side door opened, and the short driver made his way out of the car, and around the back passenger door that was facing the road. He opened it for you to climb in as another round of thunder rolled, and thick raindrops started to pelt down all around you.

This was it, there was no going back now.

Swallowing the little voice that was screaming how bad of an idea this was, you climb into the back of the car and the driver shuts your door before making his way around to regain his seat at the helm of the car.

“Well, I must say you are attractive enough, but you look terrified sweetheart.” the same deep baritone voice said across the dark back seat next to you as the diver pulled out onto the street.

Straightening up in your seat, you adjust yourself and try to look less like a scared child, and more like the paid escort you were for the night.

“Well, I’m sorry Dean, but as I told you earlier, the fact that you were so secretive concerning the details of our evening made me a little uneasy. Most clients tell you where they’re going to take you, and what you are going to be doing for the evening.”

Dean chuckled next to you, and adjusted his tie.Even though it was dark in the car, the street lights let you make out his strong jawline, and handsome profile enough to know this was not some overweight businessman. He was much more than that.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot. My name is Dean Winchester, and I’m hiring you to escort me to my brother’s dinner party in celebration of his promotion in my father’s company.Judging by your slack jaw, you’ve heard my last name before, and you see why it wasn’t exactly a great idea for me to put my last name, nore the details of our arrangement in a direct message on some crude app.”

You set there in total dumb founded shock.

Of all the people you thought were going to be picking you up tonight, Dean Winchester was not one of them. You had feared that this was a mafia pick up, but this was much worse.

Dean wasn’t only Mafia, he was son of the oldest, most lucrative gang in New York City’s history, his father, John, made Al Capone look like a little boy dressed in a suit. His family were ruthless, and virtually untouchable, protected by money, and God only knows what else you couldn’t even begin to imagine. They didn’t hide what they were because they didn’t have to, and you were more fucked than you thought you’d ever be.

“My brother Sammy’s promotion details are not important. The only thing you need to know is that for the evening you are my girl, and you will do as I say. Talk as little as possible, and like I said, just look pretty. That won't be that hard for you. Stick close to me, but I promise you, this is continental ground, and no one can harm you in any way. So just relax and enjoy the party.”

Dean was completely unfazed by the fact that you still seemed to be in complete shock, like this was the reaction he was expecting from you. He knew that this was your first job? Why the hell did he hire you for something this big? If you weren’t already having a panic attack, you were pretty sure you were going to by the time you got to where you were going.

“Dean, I...Look I don’t...I don’t know if this is such a good idea.What if they don’t buy that I’m your girlfriend, and furthermore why do YOU, of all people, need help getting a girlfriend?” you asked. Dean threw his head back against the seat of the car, his deep booming laugh echoing through the entire car.

“Sweetheart, relax.You're perfect. I didn’t want someone with experience. Escorts in my line of work are, well, a commonly used expense, and I didn’t want someone that is recognizable to anyone that is going to be at this party tonight. I wanted this to be believable. As far as why I need you? Well that’s easy. I’m 40 years old, and unmarried, but I’m also my father’s successor to the company.The only problem is, the high table seems to think that I should have a wife by now, and I don’t, so you are here to keep my father and my elders off my back.” Dean said shortly as the car came to a stop in front of The Roosevelt Hotel.

Dean reached into a folder that was sitting on the seats between you, pulling out a stack of papers that were stapled together, and handing them to you. You took them with what you knew had to be the most bewildered look on your face that anyone had ever had, but Dean seemed to be unfazed as the dome lights were switched on inside the car, and Dean handed you a pen.

His large, freckle dusted hands, made everything they touched seem so small, and you wondered how many people those hands had killed before you buried it deep down inside of you, not letting the thought manifest.

This man was dangerous, but you needed the money.

“This is a NDA.It says that you can not disclose your employment with me, nor anything else you will witness here tonight as long as you live. It’s virtually a gag order. It’s for your protection, not mine.”

You nodded your head and swallowed hard, not daring to ask what the hell would happen to you if you broke said agreement, and signed the papers, knowing you had no choice.

Looking up at the astonishing greens eyes staring back at you, you fought against the deep blush that pooled through your cheeks. Dean was handsome, and there was no denying that.

“Okay, so, I know you said no sex, which quite honestly is a shame,” he said, looking you over in the small space, his perfect white teething pulling at his lower lip, making you blush even deeper than you already where, “but in order to make this convincing, there’s going to have to look like there is some degree of intamicy between us. In other words, I will hold your hand, touch you, tastefully of course, we're not animals, and I may even kiss you if need be, is that okay?”

The thought of those pink, plump lips on yours made a shiver go all the way down your spine, and you had to look down for a moment to compose yourself.

“Yes sir, that’s fine.”

Dean chuckled as he opened his car door, getting out to open yours, his large, warm hand going to your lower back as he pulled you in close to him once you stepped out of the car.

“Call me Dean, Baby Girl,” leaning down so that only you could hear him, his warm breath fanned over the skin of your neck, and goose bumps raised all over your skin, “or you can call me Daddy, I’m okay with that too.”

You blushed furiously and covered your face with your hand, a deep embarrassment at the way your body seemed to be responding to this man standing next to you on the curb of the crowded street. Another booming laugh escaped Dean as he pulled you into a hug. People were apparently watching that you were unaware of , because the act seemed to have already started.

“I’m only teasing you sweetheart.I love to see you blush.Remember, impress me tonight, and this job is yours permanently, and I promise you, I will pay you so well, that you will never want for anything ever again.”

That was a promise you could get behind, so you straightened your skirt and took him in for the first time in the light of the foyer as you walked together, your arm over his own in a formal manner suitable to the occasion.

You hadn’t really looked at him until now, and man, he was a sight.

Danger reeled off of him.From the ridiculous expensive, black, custom fitted Brioni suit, and crisp white Ralph Lauren shirt, to his only God knows how expensive black shoes.

He was lethal, and he had no problem not hiding it.

His piercing green eyes held an air of mischief that excited you in a way you’d never experienced before. Not a hair out of place, except for the almost auburn stubble that matched his perfectly placed hair sprinkled across his chiseled jaw, and a smirk that could melt the panties off of every woman in the room.

He carried a presence about him that commanded attention, and you could tell by the faces of the people that were watching the two of you as you both checked in to the black tie event the hotel was hosting for the Winchester family, that he was the man that everyone loved to hate.

This was the craziest thing you had ever done in your life, and it would probably one way or another end badly, you knew that, but his was the most alive you had felt in your life, and you were determined you were going to enjoy the moment on Dean’s arm, and worry about the rest later.

Besides, what was life without a little adventure, and it was high time you had yours.

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#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #mobster!dean #mobster!dean winchester x virgin!reader #virgin!reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean x you #dean x reader #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #spn series #dean winchester series #jensen ackles #jawritter #when the lights go out

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lailoken · 3 years

Text

“Ash (Fraxinus excelsior).

In the nineteenth century it was believed that if ash trees failed to produce fruit — keys — disaster was foretold.

In Yorkshire:

Some people every summer examined the ash tree . . . to see whether or not they had produced any seed; for the barrenness of the ash was said to be a sure sign of public calamity. It was a tradition among aged and thoughtful men, that the ash trees of England produced no seed during the year in which Charles the First was beheaded. [Jackson, 1873: 14]

In East Anglia:

The failure of the Crop of Ash-keys portends a death in the Royal Family . . . The failure in question is certainly, in some seasons, very remarkable; many an old woman believes that, if she were the fortunate finder of a bunch, and could get introduced to the king, he would give her a great deal of money for it. [Forby, 1830: 406]

ROWAN Or mountain ash, an unrelated tree which has leaves similar to those of ash, was widely considered to provide protection. Occasionally ash itself was also believed to be protective.

Rowan and ash sticks were used to drive cattle . . . believed to be 'kindly' and both trees were believed to be endowed with properties that ensured no interference from harmful influences. [Larne, Co. Antrim, October 1993]

In rural areas 'even' ash leaves-those leaves which lack a terminal leaflet and therefore have an even number of leaflets-were used in love DIVINATION. In Dorset:

The ash leaf is frequently invoked by young girls as a matrimonial oracle in the following way: The girl who wishes to divine who her future lover or husband is to be plucks an even ash leaf, and holding it in her hand, says:

“The even ash leaf in my hand, The first I meet shall be my man.’

Then putting it into her glove, adds:

‘The even ash leaf in my glove, The first I meet shall be my love.'

And lastly, into her bosom, saying:

‘The even ash leaf in my bosom, The first I meet shall be my husband.'

Soon after which the future lover or husband will be sure to make his appearance. [Udal, 1922: 254]

According to a 52-year-old woman who described how she used ash leaves for divination during her childhood:

Start at the bottom leaflet on the left-hand side and say:

“An even ash is in my hand

The first I meet will be my man.

If he don't speak and I don't speak,

This even ash I will not keep.”

As each word is said, count a leaflet around the leaf until the rhyme is completed (this probably entails going round the leaf several times). When the rhyme is finished, continue by reciting the alphabet until the bottom right-hand leaflet is reached. The letter given to this leaflet gives the initial of your boyfriend. Two or three leaves may be used so that you get a greater range of letters. [Thorncombe, Dorset, June 1976]

In many parts of northern Britain ash was known as esh. In north Lincolnshire:

There is a widespread opinion that if a man takes a newly-cut 'esh-plant' not thicker than his thumb, he may lawfully beat his wife with it. [Britten and Holland, 1886: 170]

Burning the ashen faggot — a faggot made from young ash saplings — was a widespread Christmastide custom in Devon and Somerset during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. According to a late nineteenth-century writer, it was:

an ancient ceremony transmitted to us from the Scandinavians who at their feast of Juul were accustomed to kindle huge bonfires in honour of Thor. The faggot is composed of ashen sticks, hooped round with bands of the same tree, nine in number. When placed on the fire, fun and jollity commence-master and servant are now all at equal footing. Sports begin-jumping in sacks, diving in the water for APPLES, and many other innocent games engage the attention of the rustics. Every time the bands crack by reason of the heat of the fire, all present are supposed to drink liberally of cider or egg-hot, a mixture of cider, eggs, etc. The reason why ash is selected in preference to any other timber is that tradition assigns it as the wood with which Our Lady kindled a fire in order to wash her new-born Son. [Poole, 1877: 6]

Ashen faggots are still burnt in a few West Country pubs, and miniature faggots are occasionally prepared for burning on domestic hearths.

On the evening of January sth ('old' Christmas Eve) at Curry Rivel, a Somerset village situated on the southern edge of Kings Sedgemoor, the wassailers go visiting' around the parish with their wassail song and the ashen faggot is ceremoniously burned at the King William IV public house. The faggot is made from young ash saplings and bound with bonds ('fonds,' 'fronds,' 'thongs,' or 'bonds') of withies (osiers); bramble has been used occasionally in the past. The number of bonds is variable but since the bursting of any one during the burning is a signal to ʻdrink up,' decency and country logic demands a 'reasonable few'. Either five or six are normally used. At the appropriate moment the faggot is placed on the fire, traditionally by the oldest customer-one villager can recall the fag- got being brought in a wheelbarrow as was 'right and proper'-and as each bond bursts there is much cheering and a general clamour for drink. The landlord, Mr John Cousins, prepares a bowl of hot punch for the occasion to augment the barrel of beer usually provided by the house Brewery. Until quite recently cider was consumed in large quantities; the 'brew' of cider and perry donated by the (Langs) Hambridge Brewery in 1957 is particularly remembered. [Willey, 1983: 40]

In the first half of the nineteenth century:

Some towns in Somerset held 'Ashen Faggot Balls'. The one in Taunton on January 2nd, 1826 was 'most respectably attended by the principal families of the town and neighbourhood'. It was still held twenty years later, but by then the event was losing its appeal. [Legg, 1986: 54]

In some parts of southern England ash twigs were carried by children on ASH WEDNESDAY.

In villages around Alton in Hampshire, and as far away as East Meon, near Petersfield, at Crowborough in Sussex, and doubtless in other places, children pick a black-budded twig of ash and put it in their pocket on this day. A child who does not remember to bring a piece of ash to school on Ash Wednesday can expect to have his feet trodden on by every child who possesses a twig, unless, that is, he or she is lucky enough to escape until midday. [Opie, 1959: 240]

I was born and lived as a child in Crowborough . . . On Ash Wednesday it was always the custom to take a piece of the [ash] tree around with you. The piece had to have a black bud, without it it was void. If you were unable to produce the piece when asked the rest of the children could stamp on your toes. I remember one day whan I was playing about with it in school and was told to take it to the front and leave it in the waste- paper basket-and all the way back to the seat had to dodge the stamps! Ever prudent I had another piece for play time! This all stopped at 12 mid-day. [Pershore, Worcester shire, October 1991]

[At Heston, Middlesex, in the 1930s] on Ash Wednesday we all took a twig of ash tree to school and produced it when challenged or risked a kick-and we had to get rid of it at 12 noon. We even risked the wrath of the teacher by rushing to an open window to throw out our twigs as soon as the mid-day dinner bell rang. [St Ervan, Cornwall, February 1992]

A widespread cure for HERNIA involved passing the patient through a split ash sapling, preferably one which had grown naturally from seed and had not previously been damaged by man. The tree was then tightly bound up and as it grew together so the patient would be healed. A full description provided in 1878 by the wife of a Sussex clergyman demonstrates how this cure, which required communal cooperation, was considered to be quite normal:

A child so afflicted must be passed nine times every morning on nine suc- cessive days at sunrise through a cleft in a sapling ash tree, which has been so far given up by the owner of it to the parents of the child as that there is an understanding that it shall not be cut down during the life of the infant that is passed through it. The sapling must be sound of heart, and the cleft must be made with an axe. The child, on being carried to the tree, must be attended by nine persons, each of whom must pass it through the cleft from west to east. On the ninth morning the solemn ceremony is concluded by binding the tree tightly with a cord, and it is supposed that as the cleft closes the health of the child will improve. In the neighbourhood of Petworth some cleft ashes may be seen, through which children have very recently been passed. I may add that only a few weeks since, a person who lately purchased an ash-tree standing in this parish, intended to cut it down, was told by the father of the child who had some time before passed through it, that the infirmity would be sure to return upon his son if it were felled. Whereupon the good man said, he knew such would be the case; and therefore he would not fell it for the world. [Latham, 1878: 40]

Similarly:

A remarkable instance of the extraordinary superstition which still prevails in the rural districts of Somerset has lately come to light at Athelney. It appears that a child was recently born in the neighbourhood with a physical ailment, and the neighbours persuaded the parents to resort to a very novel method of charming away the complaint. A sapling ash was split down the centre, and wedges were inserted so as to afford an opening sufficient for the child's body to pass through without touching either side of the tree. This having been done, the child was undressed, and, with its face held heavenward, it was drawn through the sapling in strict accord- ance with the superstition. Afterwards the child was dressed and simul- taneously the tree was bound up. The belief of those who took part in this strange ceremony is that if the tree grows the child will grow out of its bodily ills. The affair took place at the rising of the sun on a recent Sunday morning, in the presence of the child's parents, several of the neighbours, and the parish police-constable. [Bath and Wells Diocesan Magazine, 1886: 178]

An example ofan ash thus used can be seen in the Somerset Rural Life Museum at Glastonbury. A similar practice could be used to overcome IMPOTENCE.

In Wales the similar ritual was to split a young ash or HAZEL stem and hold it just fastened at the top. This made a symbolic vulva into which the impotent male introduced his recalcitrant organ. Binding up the tree again enabled it to heal, during which the impotence faded. [Richards, 1979: 13]

In Cheshire a cure for WARTS

was to steal a piece of bacon and push it under a piece of ash-bark. Excrescences would then appear on the tree; as they grew, the warts would van- ish. [Hole, 1937: 12]

In Wiltshire sufferers seeking a cure from NEURALGIA were advised:

Cut off a piece of each finger and toe nail and a piece off your hair. Get up on the next Sunday morning before sunrise and with a gimlet bore a hole in the first maiden ash you come across and put the nails and hair in; then plug the hole up. [Whitlock, 1976: 167]

In many areas 'shrew-ashes' were used to cure lameness in cattle and other illnesses. In a letter dated 8 January 1776, Gilbert White of Selborne, Hampshire, wrote:

A shrew-ash is an ash whose twigs or branches, when gently applied to the limbs of cattle, will immediately relieve the pains which a beast suffers from the running of a shrew-mouse over the part affected . . . Against this accident, to which they were continually liable, our provident fore- fathers always kept a shrew-ash at hand, which, once medicated, would maintain its virtue for ever. A shew-ash was made thus:- Into the body of the tree a deep hole was bored with an auger, and a poor devoted shrew- mouse was thrust in alive, and plugged in, no doubt, with several quaint incantations long since forgotten. [White, 1822, I: 344]

In the nineteenth century a particularly well-known shrew-ash in Richmond Park, Surrey. According to the park-keepers' tradition ʻgood Queen Bess had lurked under its shade to shoot deer as they were driven past�� [Ffennell, 1898: 333]. This tree was closely observed by Sir Richard Owen (1804-92), first director of the Natural History Museum in London, who lived near the tree, at Sheen Lodge, from grew 1852.

Either the year he came to live in the park or the year after . . . he first encountered a young mother with a sick child accompanied by 'an old dame', 'a shrew-mother', or, as he generally called her a 'witch-mother'. They were going straight for the tree; but when they saw him, they turned off in quite another direction till they supposed he was out of sight. He, however, struck by their sudden avoidance of him, watched them from a distance, saw them return to the tree, where they remained some little time, as if busily engaged with it; then they went away. He was too far off to hear anything said, but heard the sounds of voices in unison on other occasions. He heard afterwards from the keeper of Sheen Gate... that mothers with 'bewitched' infants, or with young children afficted with WHOOPING COUGH, decline, and other ailments, often came, some- times from long distances, to this tree. It was necessary that they should arrive before sunrise . . . Many children were said to be cured at the tree. The greatest secrecy was always observed when visiting. This was re- spected by Sir Richard Owen, who, whenever he saw a group advanc- ing towards it, moved away, and was always anxious that they should not be disturbed. He could not tell me in what year he last saw a group approach the tree to seek its aid. He could only say he had seen them often, and thought they continued to come for many years. [Ffennell, 1898: 334]

During a recent survey [of Richmond Park] the site of the old shrew ash was identified. This proved to be . . . the spot where an ancient ash still stood in 1987. A sucker from its roots was still alive, although the tree itself was passé. The storm of autumn brought the trunk down. A railing has now been erected around the remains, which are to be left in the ground, and a young ash is to be planted alongside the stump. Presumably it will eventually replace the old tree, but it means that the site at least will remain identifiable. [Kew, Surrey, February 1994]

There uses included curing EARACHE, RINGWORM, and SNAKE BITES.

The sap of a young ash sapling was used to cure earache. A sapling was cut and put into a fire so that when the stick started to burn the sap came out the end and was caught on a spoon. This could be put on cotton wool and put into the ear. [Daingean, Co. Offaly, January 1985]

Ringworm was more common in my childhood . . . a remedy resorted to was to burn ash twigs in a tin box or similar container and allow the smoke from the smouldering twigs to envelop the affected part—usually arms, neck or face. [Larne, Co. Antrim, October 1993]

Ash leaves are used to combat viper bites. When an animal has been bitten farmers boil ash leaves and give the animal the resulting liquid and place the boiled leaves as a poultice on the bite. Works on people too! [Dorchester, Dorset, February 1992]

Ash sticks were used as weapons.

The Joyces are tinkers . . . they are wary and row among themselves. They do have some fierce fights in which the women join in. When they have each others heads well cut with ash plants they settle down and are as friendly as ever. [IFCSS MSS 750: 242, Co. Longford]

Stories relating to Ireland's past tell of fair-day brawls where ash plants were used and blood flowed freely. [Ballymote, Co. Sligo, May 1994]”

—

The Oxford Dictionary of Plant-Lore

by Roy Vickery

#ash #Oxford Dictionary of Plant-lore #Roy Vickery #tree lore #plant lore #ash tree

39 notes · View notes

fific7 · 4 years

Text

Something Blue

Sirius Black x Reader

@omgrachwrites 500 Follower Celebration

AU prompt: Arranged Marriage

Summary: Sirius is not going to agree to this. At all.

Warnings: Swearing, brief mention of parental child abuse, Smut Lite but maybe 18+ just in case. The age of consent is 16 in the UK, sorry if that’s not in line with your own country’s/state’s laws.

A/N: Sorry for the child abuse but we all know what darling Walburga’s parenting goals were. This is mainly non-canon, my imaginary HP AU.

(my GIF)

Sirius Black leapt up out of his chair, knocking over his ornate crystal glass as he did so.

“NO! NO, NO, NOOOOO!!! I will not agree, I will never agree!! I’m not a piece of meat to be auctioned off to the highest bidder!”

His younger brother looked as if he was trying to disappear beneath the fancy lace-edged tablecloth. But it wouldn’t budge to the side enough for Regulus to slip under it.

His father leant back in his seat, sipping from his wineglass, all the while contemplating his eldest son, an ambiguous expression on his aristocratic face. Sirius looked like a mini-me of Orion, except without the silver-grey hair at his temples.

His mother. Well.... his mother. Her face looked like a dragon’s might as it built up to unleashing a huge tongue of flame onto an unwary passerby. Only scarier. Much, much scarier.

Sirius didn’t want to hear what she had to say - or rather scream. He turned on his heel and started barging clumsily out of the huge dining room. Before he could reach the door however, her shrill voice rang out, bringing him to a halt involuntarily.

“SIRIUS ORION BLACK! Return to this table NOW! Who gave you permission to leave the room??!! We haven’t finished discussing your marriage!”

He hesitated for a moment, but then resolutely continued walking to the door. But yet again he didn’t reach it. A long string of stinging spells hit him, making him cry out and drop to the floor.

His mother glided across the room, and stood over him. “Get up, you weasel! Miserable little whelp!” He couldn’t move. Another round of the same spells hit him. He twisted in pain, curling up into a foetal position to try and protect himself.

“Walburga!” his father’s deep voice rang out. “That’s enough. Sirius - get to your room! I’ll speak to you later, boy!”

Sirius hid under his quilt, still in pain from the quantity and strength of the stinging spells inflicted on him. He only had a month of the summer holidays left before he returned to Hogwarts for his 6th year. He sobbed quietly. 30 days of torture to endure. How was he to survive it?

******************************************

Sitting on the Gryffindor common room sofas with her friends & dorm-mates Lily & Mary, Y/N Y/L/N eagerly caught up with all their gossip from the summer holidays. That’s what first day back at school was meant for, after all.

They were even more eager to hear all about her holidays. She came from one of the old pureblood wizarding families, and they’d taken her and her younger brother to the South of France for a month.

They ooh’d and ahh’d at her descriptions of the palm trees, the beaches, the sunny weather, the French couture, the tedious formal balls she’d had to attend. She’d rolled her eyes as she described all the handsome but crushingly boring French wizards she’d had to make small talk with. And then there was the matter of....

Their chat was rudely interrupted by 4 teenage boys hustling into the common room, noisily and boisterously talking to each other. They were collectively known as The Marauders.

James Potter made a beeline for Lily, leaping athletically over the back of the couch she was sitting on and landing right next to her. “My Lilyflower!” he yelled, flinging an arm over her shoulders.

Like clockwork, she threw off his arm, scowling at him & snarling, “Get lost, Potter!”

Y/N and Mary grinned at each other, caught by Lily and also getting a glare from her.

The other boys also squeezed onto the couches, Sirius Black next to Y/N, Remus and Peter on either side of Mary.

“Hi, guys,” said Y/N, “how were your holidays?”

And so their summer stories were quickly added to the gossip pot, except that Sirius just mumbled, “Was okay,” and nothing else.

Y/N watched him, worried. She knew only too well what his parents were like. She guessed he probably didn’t have the best of summers. She’d speak to him later on.

*******************************************

She lay in her bed that night, thinking about Sirius. They’d always been good friends, ever since kindergarten, as their families moved in the same social circles. But they genuinely liked each other, it wasn’t just the family/same circle thing. Amongst other things, they shared the same view about the whole pureblood scenario and loved the same kind of music.

He’d admitted to her that this summer had been the worst yet. She’d hugged him to her, giving him all the silent support and comfort she could. They had sat there by the fire in the common room for hours, both shedding a few tears.

But they’d discovered one surprising thing in common; both sets of parents had announced that they were currently arranging marriages for their eldest children.

The next evening, Y/N and Sirius had a very satisfying venting session about the (in their eyes) antiquated tradition. But their parents were determined to continue with it. And that meant they had no choice but to follow their parents’ wishes.

Neither of them knew who their “intendeds” were to be yet, as negotiations between all the interested parties were still ongoing.

Y/N had been pondering on that, quite a lot in fact - throwing out every unattached pureblood name she could think of. Sirius had eventually snorted and declared that he didn’t give a damn, as he wouldn’t be consummating his marriage.

“Sirius!” squealed Y/N, “that’s the whole idea of getting married!”

He shrugged, “Don’t care. I’m not doing it and fuck the lot of them!”

“Apart from your wife!” sniggered Y/N, and Sirius joined in her laughter.

One evening in the common room, while cuddling each other on the couch, Y/N laughingly said to Sirius, “Wouldn’t it be a riot if they matched us two?” and both had then descended into fits of giggles.

“Bloody cattle market,” grumbled Sirius, “it’s ridiculous. We’re still almost children ourselves.”

Because what they did know, was that they’d be married off shortly after their 16th birthdays.

The pureblood wizarding world wanted a lot more little wizards & witches running around as soon as possible, so the more usual matrimonial ages of 17 or 18 had been pulled back to facilitate this.

Sirius’ birthday was in early November, while Y/N’s was in early December. It was still September, so they still had a couple of months of freedom left.

********************************************

Their friends were totally shocked when told about the arranged marriages, not understanding the tradition and culture behind it. But they tried to be as supportive as possible.

Lily and Mary went on several wedding dress shopping trips with Y/N, as her parents had agreed that she could choose her own outfit. Finally she found a figure-hugging ivory column dress with a long train, and a simple veil attached to a tiny tiara. The dress was tastefully cut, with a low - but not too low - sweetheart neckline.

With a matching pair of high-heeled satin court shoes, Y/N looked elegant and beautiful. She was really pleased with her choice, and didn’t give one thought to what her husband-to-be would think. How could she, when he was a faceless unknown entity? She put the outfit in its garment bag and stowed it safely away at the back of her wardrobe.

Sirius and Y/N bonded even more over the predicament they found themselves in, whispering and gossiping in corners about it.

“Well, I’m just going to act like the royalty I am, and have lots of side girls,” declared Sirius.

Y/N burst out laughing, “Sirius! You’re such a colossal drama queen!”

“Huh!” he huffed, “and what if I am? The whole thing’s a complete farce!!!”

*********************************************

Nothing was heard from either set of parents by mid-October, and Y/N & Sirius were hoping that they’d been unsuccessful in arranging any matches yet. After all, the formal engagement shenanigans still had to take place before the actual weddings.

However, neither of them had been able to resist whining to their families at every possible opportunity about the whole idea. It was only too apparent to everyone that it was still a very unwelcome plan to both teenagers.

Not that it bothered the families in the slightest. Each complaint washed over them, ignored, like waves running over the sand with each turning of the tide.

Sirius’ birthday came and went. Nothing. Nada. Radio silence. Y/N looked gleefully at Sirius, “You might’ve escaped it, you lucky devil!”

He grinned back, “Hey, don’t jinx it, Y/N!”

*********************************************

But it seemed she had jinxed it.

Two days before Y/N’s birthday in early December, Sirius vanished from Hogwarts. No-one seemed to know where he’d gone, but Y/N had a sinking feeling in her stomach.

She was certain that her lifelong friend was going to be an engaged man when he returned. And very shortly thereafter, a married man.

How would she deal with that? It was such an alien concept.

Would his wife have to come and live with him at Hogwarts? What if she was horrible and didn’t fit in with their friendship group? She sincerely hoped she wasn’t an awful person, but some of those pureblood girls...!! Hellish!!!

But what if she monopolised his time & didn’t even want him to hang out with his friends at all?

She was very worried that her friendship with Sirius would never be the same.

Oh well, probably not all that long to go until she found out the answers - good or bad.

She didn’t really think about how Sirius would react once she was married, too.

********************************************

The day after her birthday, Y/N was summoned to Dumbledore’s office.

Her stomach knotted and her hungover (birthday party) head throbbed even more. What could she possibly be in trouble for? It must be something big, otherwise surely a telling-off from McGonagall would have sufficed?

It turned out that her parents had sent for her, and they were in Paris! Her heart sank. Damn! They’d found a fiancé for her, and she was obviously expected to go and meet him, possibly even become engaged to him as soon as they met.

She wondered if it would be one of those boring boys she’d met over the summer. Her family hadn’t holidayed in France for a while prior to that, and now she wondered if the real reason had been for her parents to check out some potential fiancés for her.

She groaned.

Dumbledore gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’m guessing from that groan that you’ve got an idea what this is about? I’m not going to comment at length on pureblood traditions, but I will say this - it seems to be happening very quickly, and you are still so young....” He sighed.

He reached out and handed her a small metal trinket box, which had been sitting on the corner of his desk. “Two minutes,” he warned, and once the time had passed, Y/N disappeared with a swirl, landing in a very elegant hotel room in Paris, on the Champs Elysee.

********************************************

“WHAT??!!! she screeched at her mother. “No! I will not!!!”

“Y/N, you will. We decided that an engagement was not required, as they are a useless waste of time & money. This way, you will begin your married life immediately.”

Y/N stomped over to her bed and threw herself onto it. “Just so I can get pregnant sooner, huh?! Well, no..... I won’t do it!”

Her father came into the room, frowning deeply at her temper tantrum. He spoke to her sternly.

“Your wedding dress will be delivered to the room in 15 minutes, young lady. It’s being steamed at the moment. As soon as it gets here, you will put it on and I’ll take you down immediately to the ballroom for the ceremony.”

Y/N burst into tears. “Father, I haven’t even seen or met him!! How can you expect me to marry him today?!”

“That’s exactly it, Y/N. It is what’s expected of you, to carry on the pureblood line. They are a noble family and it’s a very advantageous match. I am sure you will like him.”

*********************************************

Her father had more or less dragged her into the ballroom.

There were a few rows of chairs, covered in ivory silk and set in a crescent shape round a flower-covered altar. Some French purebloods were already seated on them, along with family members.

The celebrant watched Y/N being coaxed and prodded up the aisle by her father. Merlin, what a couple these two were going to make, he thought, frowning slightly as he looked down at the sulky male face and crossed arms in front of him.

Y/N was shoved next to her bridegroom eventually, and she cast a sideways glance at him. He picked the same moment to scowl over at her.

Everyones’ heads in the room snapped up as both Y/N and the groom cracked up in hysterical laughter.

Given the relatively small pool of suitable matches, some would say it was quite predictable that Y/N and Sirius would end up standing beside each other at the altar.

**********************************************

Much later that evening, Sirius & Y/N locked the door to their honeymoon suite.

They’d changed into more relaxed clothes before the reception, and Y/N began to pack away her wedding dress and accessories, which she’d left on the bed earlier.

Sirius was hovering. It was the only way Y/N could describe it. He paced from the french windows which led out to onto a large balcony, to the small lounge area, to the en-suite. And back. And again, his long legs carrying him there and back in a few moments, over & over.

“Sirius.... you’re going to wear a path in that carpet with all your pacing back and forward.”

She heard him clear his throat, gulping a bit, so she turned to him.

“Please... just sit down for a minute.”

He sighed, then plopped down onto a chaise longue. He put his head in his hands.

“Y/N.... I’m so nervous.”

She sat next to him. “Why?”

“We’ve been like brother and sister all the time we’ve known each other! And now... well, you know....” he looked up at her, looking so worried that she immediately hugged him. He tensed up as she put her arms round him, so she stroked his cheek gently.

“Sirius, it’ll be fine. Just fucking relax, please, will you!”

He leapt up. “Why are you so CALM!!” he yelled.

He marched over to the en-suite, going in and slamming the door.

Y/N sighed and rolled her eyes. She was well aware that she was now hitched to a king-size drama queen, but Sirius was handling this a lot worse than she’d expected.

She went back to packing her wedding clothes away. She was beginning to get a bit annoyed with him, because after all - she was in exactly the same position. But he seemed to have lost sight of that, steeped in his own insecurities. Didn’t he wonder how she might feel, having to sleep with her “brother”?

She wasn’t blind - she’d always found Sirius very attractive, he was a very handsome, sexy boy. But she had violently pushed away any erotic thoughts of him, precisely because of their sibling-like day to day relationship. And she was sure he didn’t think of her in any other way, judging by the number of girls he’d flirted with and snogged (and more?) during his 4th & 5th years at Hogwarts.

An hour later, Sirius was still locked in the bathroom. Y/N left him to stew.

She finished packing up all her things, then changed into the ridiculous nightgown her mother had insisted she wear on her wedding night.

She thought that her mother must be stuck back in the Victorian era, as she regarded the floor-length, white, floaty piece of nonsense she was wearing. Wasn’t this what they called a passion-killer in Muggle novels? Although it was quite see-through, now that she looked closer.

She lay down on the massively deep and comfortable quilt, picking up her book and beginning to read. Not what she’d envisaged doing on her wedding night. She huffed to herself; it looked like Sirius was following through on his threat not to consummate the marriage.

After another hour or so, her eyes started fluttering closed as she began dozing off. She jumped a little as she heard the bathroom door open. She leant up, on her elbows.

Sirius edged slowly into the main room. He was naked as the day he was born, but shyly covering himself with both hands. He stared at her at she lay on the bed.

“I...” he gulped, “I’ve... never slept with anyone before,” mumbling down into his chest, not looking at her. That took her by surprise. Judging by the standard hallway gossip, Sirius had slept with half the school. “Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. Then she spoke up again, “Well, neither have I.”

He suddenly met her eyes. “Thought you might like to get a look at the goods before we have sex.”

“So we’re having sex, then?” she questioned him.

“We have to, don’t we?” he replied, “We’ve got to make babies, and soon, or else we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“How romantic, Sirius.”

“Just being realistic. You were the one who told me I had to consummate my marriage, who said that was the whole point of getting married.”

He dropped his hands down to his sides.

Her eyes raked over his tall, slim, athletic body, lingering on what was between his legs. It was - a lot bigger - than she’d been expecting, and he didn’t even have a hard-on yet. He had more body hair than she’d guessed too, studying the smattering of hair on his chest, and the line of dark hair leading downwards from his navel. Her eyes roamed back up to meet his.

“Why, Sirius, I’m impressed. Who knew what was lurking under those worn-out jeans of yours?”

He gave her an uncomfortable smile, but walked to the bed, clambering onto it one knee at a time and lying down next to her. He moved his body half over the top of hers, and looked down at her, lying underneath him. He reached right down to the hem of her nightgown and pulled it up slowly, watching, fascinated, as her body was fully revealed to him. He gently tugged the gown over her head, dropping it to the floor.

His breath caught in his throat, and she could hear him beginning to breathe more quickly, more deeply. He reached out a tentative hand and ran it over her stomach and onto her breasts, palming her nipples and making her breath catch too.

Suddenly his mouth was on hers, kissing her hungrily until she pushed him away to gasp some air into her lungs. He lay fully on top of her, running his hands desperately over every inch of her body, starting to pant as he did so. She was returning the favour, beginning to learn the contours of his lightly muscled torso.

She felt his lips next to her ear. “You’re beautiful. Perfect. Gorgeous.” He smiled down at her. “I never let myself think of you and me being together like this, Y/N, cos I never thought it’d happen.”

He kissed her again, trailing his lips down her neck and onto her collarbone, placing small kisses all along it. She could now feel how aroused he was, his erection pressing insistently against her thigh.

“And now we’re married, that is how it’s gonna be. I can have you in my bed every night, love you where and whenever I want. I can’t believe my luck.” He laughed, a low, self-deprecating sound. “I might’ve told myself that I loved you in a brotherly way, but clearly.... you now know that’s not the case.”

“Hmmm,” Y/N pondered, “I think you may have a point. I think I might’ve been mirroring your thoughts, Sirius.”

“So.... does this mean we’re now saying we’re dedicated fans of arranged marriages?”

They both laughed.

He kissed her deeply, sensually sliding his tongue into her mouth. She kissed him back, the kisses growing gradually more and more passionate.

Eventually Sirius stuttered, “Y/N! I... I think... I’m gonna...”

Y/N looked up at her handsome husband and pulled his head down to hers for a kiss. She took him into her arms and pulled his hips against hers.

“C’mon, Sirius, let’s explore these pastures new together,” she whispered to him.

He nodded, “Yes... let’s, love,” thumb brushing over her bottom lip, up and onto her cheekbone.

*********************************************

Sunlight streaming through the french windows woke them the next morning.

They were still tangled up together, and it felt good, felt so right.

The two of them gazed into each other’s eyes in the golden early morning light. The smiles on both of their faces were as bright as that sun.

He stroked a strand of hair off her cheek, she ran her fingers over his strong jawline.

The first of many, many such mornings.

*********************************************

#sirius black x reader #ben barnes #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black imagine

127 notes · View notes

x0401x · 4 years

Text

Jeweler Richard Fanbook Q&A

Simple Questions for Seigi-kun (Parts 1 and 2)

Thank you very much for these questions from several people. We had Seigi-kun take a look at everyone’s questions right away and answer as many as he could! Not all of them can be published, but please enjoy Seigi-kun’s answers!

Q.: Seigi-kun looks good with black short hair, but is there any hairstyle that he looks up to? It does not seem to have changed much from when he was a child, but there is this impression that people often do college debuts, so here goes this simple question. The photo on the cover of volume 6 was wonderful. His set-back hair looked very good on him. (Black Short Hair-san)

A.: Hello! I guess it’s the first time I was told that my hair style looks good on me aside from Nakata-san and Richard; thank you very much! As for an image I look up to, huuum, there wasn’t any in particular when I was little, but nowadays, I look up to the two I just mentioned. They’re of different vectors and just really cool! Ah… this is embarrassing, so please keep it a secret. I have the feeling that they already know, though.

Q.: Any words you want to send to your past self from before meeting Richard? (Inu-san)

A.: “Nakata Seigi, you might be reckless, but you technically haven’t done anything wrong! Probably! Hum, you’re mostly thoughtless! But you’re not mistaken! If you see someone being attacked in a park, don’t hesitate to shout and go help him! Also, you might be compensated for doing your best at cooking. Good on you.”

Eh? There’s something from Richard too? “Seigi-kun, you are already passionate enough, but make sure to take a better look at your surroundings. Make sure to cherish yourself. Also, if you get invited to work at a TV station in Shibuya, make sure to just accept it.” Ah, yeah, yeah! I’m also counting on myself for that last one.

Q.: I am a college student just like Seigi-kun. When I have free time, I play video games, read books and talk about fun things with my friends. Seigi-kun, what do you do? Do you read books about gemstones and study after all? (Anzu-san)

A.: Hello! Indeed, during my free time when I didn’t have classes, there were times when I’d do self-study and learn about stones, but when I got together with my friends in the cafeteria or lounge, we’d get roused up over trivial talk. Everyone had a rough idea of the timing they should focus on their studies, so when I think about it nowadays, that might’ve been a “let’s make racket while we can” kind of mood. Looking back on it now, it was fun.

Q.: I am bound to fail every time I make sweets. If there is any trick to making sweets, please tell me. (Satou-san from the Heavens)

A.: Aah… I feel like someone’s already asked me a similar question. Ahem. T-That’s right! First things first, let’s try to stop treating “sweets” like they’re special! I guess this is the trick I can think of. They’re simply like an arithmetic test or a chemistry experiment; it just so happens that, if you mix up the set ingredients, a chemical reaction occurs and you reach the same results. If you lead it to the decided answer, you’ll manage to make something tasty, is all. Try to stick strictly to the recipe, and if it still doesn’t turn out right, I think it’s good to do a reflection on where you might’ve gotten it wrong. Eh…? If it doesn’t go well even then…? Aah… I’m gonna leave my phone number here, so if you have anything you want to eat… Eh? Richard, you want me to knock it off? That’s right. It’s not like I always have time. I almost did something irresponsible. Sorry. I’m cheering for you! See ya!

Q.: Where do you start washing your body from? (Yukinekoya-san)

A.: I’ve never thought about that~! It’s from the hair, but that’s with shampoo and doesn’t count as my body, so… *moves his body as if scrubbing it* I start washing from the neck and ears! But what’re you gonna do by asking that?

Q.: What’s your favorite meat? (Reihenbach-san)

A.: If its for Japanese curry, pork! If it’s for Sri Lanka’s curry, fish or chicken! If it’s for sukiyaki, cattle! I love all kinds of meat! But what flashes in my mind regarding “my favorite meat” is the meat and potato stew that Hiromi used to make, so I guess it’s gotta be beef. There wasn’t much meat in it, so I was able to taste it rather well.

Q.: I am a middle school teacher; Seigi-kun, who was the teacher that left the biggest impression on you? Please leave out Richard-sensei! (Kikuchi-san)

A.: Ah, that question is relatively easy to answer. It’s someone named Yamazaki-sensei, who was my class teacher in high school. He’s a graduate from the faculty of economics at Kasaba University, and he’d compliment me at random. Like, “You sure are working hard” or, “You’re so smart”. So I got cheeky, admired him, and when I told him I wanted to be like him, he said, “Then, how about you aim for my alma mater?” and I replied with, “Yes!”… Since Kasaba is a private institution, it was just a suggestion where I was getting ahead with my feelings, but though Hiromi made a bitter face, she wasn’t against it. Maybe she thought it was better than having her son say that he wanted to start working after graduating from middle school. Sensei was transferred when I was in my first year in university, but I hope he’s doing well.

Q.: Seigi-kun, if you were to compare Richard to an animal, which do you think it would be? (Himawari-san)

A.: If Richard were an animal… I wonder which. Richard feels a bit like an animal even now, so it’s hard, but I’d say human…? No, Richard is a human being. My bad, my bad. An animal with whooshy golden hair and blue eyes… I once had the feeling that the air about him is a bit like a creature named miacis, which I saw before in some illustrated reference book. It’s an ancient animal and seems to be the ancestor of dogs, cats and the like, and its exact appearance isn’t known anymore, but when I think of it as the origin of the beauty of all the animals I like, I wonder if he wouldn’t be something along those lines… Richard, Richard? Why won’t you look at me in the eye?

Q.: Is there any time you laughed the most when you were with Richard-san? Alternatively, if there was any time where you ended up laughing without thinking, please tell me! I am rooting for you! (Heartbreak Akira-san)

A.: Eeh…? Is it okay for me to talk about this…? Ah, I’ve received permission, so I’ll say it. Erm, this is a story from when I was studying French; I suddenly felt like doing a prank when I couldn’t make any progress at all, so I asked Richard-sensei something nonsensical, like, “If you don’t mind, please say ‘steamed bun’ in a really French-like way; I think it’ll definitely sound French to me”. And then the answer that came at me was a perfectly French-styled “steamed bun”… I died of laughter. Sorry for being too descriptive with the details. If you have a French friend close to you, I think you should try to make the same request. I think it won’t sound like Japanese to you. It’s already a bit amusing just remembering it. Hey, Richard. You didn’t find it all that funny? Ah, it was funny when I rolled over laughing? Then I guess we can call it even.

Q.: What are the dishes and desserts that you want to try challenging yourself to make? (Tsugiumi-san)

A.: I get interested in the stuff that I think looks delicious, but they’re a little different from the things I decide to try my hand at making. Richard, is there anything you wanna eat? I’ve noticed this recently: I don’t have much will to make stuff only I want to eat, but if it’s something that someone important to me feels like eating, I suddenly get motivated. That’s why, if there’s… Ah, ah, why’re you punching the cushion?

Q.: Looking at Richard-san and Jeffrey-san, are there any moments or points in which you feel that they are similar? (Yoshimura-san)

A.: Yoshimura-san, hello. There are; from my perspective, there are many. There sure are, but… from the face that the person next to me is making, it seems better not to say too much about it. Let me put this one on hold.

Q.: What was your favorite school lunch menu? For lunch boxes, what were your favorite contents? (Nanatsuji-san)

A.: Hello! I used to like all the school lunch dishes, but as expected, curry was what made me happiest. As for lunch boxes, I’d mostly get an allowance to buy the sandwiches and lunch boxes I liked, and whenever I got more than 500 yen, I’d get to buy a large serving of hayashi rice and would be happy over it. After all, the servings have to be big for a school boy, if nothing else.

Q.: If you switched bodies with Richard upon waking up, what is the first thing you would do? (Sango-san)

A.: Eh...? How? Would it be magic or something? I’d probably think, “Is this a dream?” and go back to sleep. But why would I be in Richard’s body...? I wonder if my head would malfuction from talking too much about how beautiful he is and things would turn out like that. If I got cocky and tried to imitate Richard, I feel like he’d give me one hell of a cold look with those elegant eyes of his, so hum, I wouldn’t do anything, just sleep until the magic wore off. I also think that Richard would be happier when I have the face of Nakata Seigi rather than his own.

Q.: When did you get your growth spurt? (Middle Schooler-san)

A.: Does that mean the time when I got taller? I think it was either in my third year of middle school or first year of high school. It was neither too late nor early among my friends, so while not minding it much, I ended up surpassing Hiromi’s height.

Q.: Seigi-kun, hello. ♪ Seigi-kun, what kind of fashion do you like? Where do you normally buy clothes? Also, have you changed your style or been influenced after meeting Richard? If you can, please tell us. (*^^*) (Yuriko-san)

A.: Hello! Fashion, huuh... To be honest, before I started working in Étranger, I used to feel like I only needed to keep my clothes as clean as necessary and that they were okay as long as they didn’t look sloppy, but as expected, once you enter a jewelry shop, the number of clothes with high collars increases. Then, I met Richard, and ever since I started working for him, my opportunities to wear a suit increased, but what he often tells me is, “Wear what you like however you like the most you can within the limits”, and speaking of which, I kinda seem to look up to suits with a large silhouette and felt hats, like the ones people used to wear in prewar days. I think this is probably the influence of an actor my Grandma liked. In the past, there was a black-and-white photo of him decorating the apartment where Grandma lived. It would’ve been great if I could’ve showed myself wearing a suit to Grandma.

Q.: Seigi-kun, hello! A question for you. Seigi-kun’s “senpai”, Vincent-san, is a user of Jeet Kune Do, but you are also a black belt at Karate, so I am very curious about what would happen if the two of you actually fought. Since you both master your own matrial arts, so I feel that I would be able to see a cool fight between you. Also, this is just my ponderings, but Seigi-kun, I want you to tell me, from your point of view, how strong you think Vincent-san is and what changes you have of winning. (Monaka-san)

A.: Hello! Erm, when you say “fight”, is it okay to interpret it as a head-on brawl? I think you probably do not practice any martial arts, Monaka-san, so I am going to answer based on that: martial arts abilities and fight abilities are completely different. See, the rules of each martial art are pre-determined, and if you fight within them, you won’t suffer serious injuries and you can decide who wins or loses, but there’s none of that in a brawl, so... Also, I believe both parties know that, if a person who did martial arts to some extent hits someone in earnest, it’ll result in something that can’t be undone, so I think they can’t bring themselves to throw fists with each other. But on the other hand, since we can tell to some degree that we both seem to have have this awereness, I think it’s okay if I so much as throw a paper ball at the back of his head. Vince-san might hit me back, and then I guess I’d fling a straw bag at him next. We might get along a bit better if we both let it out. Sorry that it’d be the light type! I hope this served as an answer.

Q.: A question for Nakata Seigi-kun! To be precise: is there anything that makes you go, “This is the one thing I want to tell Richard-shi!!”~? Even if it is something that is normally hard to say, you might be able to say it here. (*^^*) (Sui-san)

A.: “I’m happy when you eat my pudding; thanks! But I’m begging, for health reasons, that you’re at least careful not to eat too much...! I wanna be with you for a long time. Please. And... also... thanks for always. I’m so grateful to you that I can’t say it enough. It’d be great if I could.” This is it! Aah, that was embarrassing. Eh? “You’re always telling me that much”, you say? Is that so?

Q.: What is your favorite sweet? (Tanaka Milk Tea-san)

A.: That’s a difficult theme... I don’t seem to have any that I’m obsessed with, but anything looks delicious to me if it’s a sweet that Richard eats with relish, so I grow to like it. But when Richard doesn’t eat all of a sweet and leaves some of it, I go, “Could it be he left it for me because he thought I’d like it?” and they also turn out to be so, so tasty. Basically, I like everything. Unless I buy and eat it by myself.

Q.: Nice to meet you; as Seigi-kun faces people very straightforward and honestly, I read every volume while confirming over and over that I also want to live on facing people like that. Is there anything that the aforementioned Seigi-kun always puts in his bag? (Sumiyaki Yuuma-san)

A.: Sumiyaki-san, hello! Being told that I face people honestly is flattering. I do think it’d be great if I actually manage that, but the “honesty” I’m thinking about is my own concept of it, so it’s not like this honesty is something only comfortable for the other person. That’s why being told so makes me all the happier. Thank you. This is from after meeting Richard, but what I always have in my bag is candy. Royal-milk-tea-flavored ones. When I don’t have them, I pack in some other sweet, and just from thinking, “I’d give him this if he were here”, it kinda feels like having a fragment of him with me even when he’s not by my side, and it’s reassuring. It helps me out. Other than that, my phone. Thanks for the question!

#housekishou richard shi no nazo kantei #the case files of jeweler richard #jeweler richard #richard ranashinha de vulpian #nakata seigi #richard #fanbook #my translation

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poptod · 4 years

Text

The Dead Heed No Lies (Ch. 1)

Description: Your job isn't as simple as it was when you first started out. Before you know it, you're hunting down an old God who happens to be a kleptomaniac with an overgrown sense of justice, alongside a 4,000 year old corpse who occasionally commits first degree murder.

Notes: This is an older fic that I’ve decided to continue! I called it the ‘untitled NatM 4 movie’ so think of it like that. I have plans for this and I really hope I do this storyline justice because I just love it so much. Word Count: 2.3k

Chapter One: Life’s a Sham

You loved your job. No, truly, you did - working in a museum was one thing you knew you actually wanted in life. Still, keeping this in mind, you hadn’t exactly signed up for needing to complete a reorganization of every file in the whole goddamn museum within the span of a week.

How long had your boss worked at the place anyway? High time to retire, you thought, heading to the A section. And just because you worked at night didn’t mean he could abuse you any way he liked.

Long night ahead of me, you thought, wishing that you’d bought some sort of energy drink before clocking in. Instead, you took a bite of the scone you’d gotten, looking through the first box.

Aaron Copland, American musician, died 1990. You wondered why that was in there, it was pretty recent after all.

Aaron Burr, you understood that.

Oh, they were out of order.

You fixed them.

Moving on…

A few (more than a few) minutes later, actual exhibits in the museum.

The giant Anubis statues guarding the King Ahkmenrah exhibit, those needed to be reordered. AH came before AN. Even though the Pharaoh exhibit had been moved away.

‘Anubis, an ancient Egyptian deity is connected mainly with the underworld, being the guardian of the underworld, referred to as Duat. He protects the dead, ushering them into the underworld, like a modern day reaper. He is also the god of embalming, and is believed to have invented the process. He has two forms - one, man like, with the head of a jackal, ears alert and sporting a red ribbon. His other form is that of a jackal or a black dog, the fur color a stark difference from the brown of jackals.’

Why am I reading this? I know this already. I have a goddamn major in Egyptian mythology.

American Civil War, that was in the right place.

Ancient Egypt.

Ancient Greece.

Anglo-Saxons, what was that doing there? Belonged in the British museum of history. Though, you supposed it didn’t hurt to have a little European history in America.

Anne of Cleves.

Austro-Hungarian Army.

Bayeaux Tapestry.

Boleyn, Anne.

Booth, Charles.

British Empire.

A wretchedly loud sound came from upstairs, like the stomping of hordes of elephants, all intent on making you crazy. You groaned to yourself, taking a deep steadying breath before continuing. Noises were none of your business. That was the security details’ issue. Though… looking to the side, you found a plastic knife, thinking it couldn’t hurt to be… armed? Could you consider a plastic knife being armed? You grabbed it anyway.

Calvin, John.

Caribbean History.

Castles of Britain, followed by Scotland and Wales.

Catherine of Aragorn.

Cattle Industry of America.

Charles the First.

China.

Civil War, America and English.

Cold War.

Crime and Punishment.

Danish Holocaust.

Dresden Bombing.

A loud honking of a horn, followed by a cacophony of party music. What the hell was going on up there?

You stood, fuming, the papers in your hands falling to the ground you were previously sitting on. Dealing with your lousy job was one thing, but having terrible upstairs neighbors at the same time? That was a whole other deal, and certainly not one you signed up for. With clenched fists still grasping the plastic knife you stormed towards the door leading to the stairs, which would take you into the break room, which in turn would lead to the lobby.

The trek up the stairs took a little bit out of you, but you continued, panting lightly and still fuming with anger. Before you could open the door to the main room though, McPhee entered the break room, laughing to himself.

“Sir?” You stopped, unclenching, hoping to not make a bad impression.

“Oh! Uh, you. What’s - what’s going on?” He asked, fumbling over his words like usual, playing with his hands in a dainty sort of way.

“It’s loud out there, I was wondering what was happening, sounds sort of…” you peeked out the half open door, trying to see what was out there, but he shut it far too fast to be considered ordinary. “Abnormal.”

“Yes, well, um, we’ve got uh, guests.”

“I know. From the British museum? Isn’t partying at midnight sort of… against the rules?” You asked cautiously, never knowing when he’d go full speech without knowing words on you.

“Right, it is, but -“

“McPHEE?!” A loud, female voice you didn’t recognize came from the other side of the door, loud pounding fists as its’ partner. “DEXTER STOLE THE KEYS AGAIN!” She panted for a moment, the pounding stopped. “I can’t find the bloody monkey and now he’s let out all the lions and they’re the only ones I don’t know what to do with.”

McPhee closed his eyes, letting out a quiet, tired breath. His facade, if you could call it that, and been broken, and it only left you more thoroughly confused than you had been before.

“McPhee, are you in there??”

“Yes,” he hissed, prolonging the ’s’.

“Doctor, could you explain what exactly is happening?” You asked, starting to not care that he was now having two separate conversations with you and the woman behind the door. Apparently, someone had stolen the keys, and you had live lions in the museum which was COMPLETELY against regulations, and why did McPhee know about it? The man you knew would never allow animals into the museum.

“Is there someone else in there?!” The woman from behind the door rapped on it three times, presumably with her knuckles from the sharp sound. In the distance, you heard someone scream ‘goal,’ followed by an uproar of cheers.

“Are you playing soccer in there?” You asked him incredulously, not caring if he was the curator. No matter his rank, no matter how much you needed a job, you couldn’t stand for such misuse of a museum.

“Uh -“

The door opened before he could explain himself, the woman from the British museum stumbling through. She left the door wide open as she entered, keys grasped tight in her hand, letting you see outside.

A whole lot of people in costumes were running about, throwing a party. How in the world had McPhee authorized that?

“It’s not what it looks like,” he said quickly, his eyes rapidly switching between the woman and you.

“Really? Cause it looks like you’re throwing a party in a museum,” you said, eyes wide and your anger fully returned.

“Who are you?” The British woman turned to you, still out of breath and looking just about as confused as you were.

“I’m the archivist, and you are holding an illegal party, you’re not supposed to invite people onto the premises after -“

“Honestly, would you shut up and let me show you? We’re not holding a… party, or whatever you called it, it’s… something else,” McPhee said cryptically, obviously trying to hold back information. You were miffed, crossing your arms, and doubtful at his intentions. Still, he was your boss, and you ought to give him the benefit of the doubt. He hadn’t failed you yet. With a deep breath you slowly nodded, allowing the two of them to lead you out the door.

A dinosaur.

Made of bones.

An actual, live dinosaur was staring at you, and it wanted to play fetch.

“That’s, uh, Rexy, I believe Larry called him. Harmless, mostly,” McPhee explained, waving to the dead yet animate animal. It only stopped for a moment to notice the three of you before continuing to chase after a toy car, one of its’ bones tied behind it. Your mouth fell open in disbelief, eyes wide with a general panic that you knew consciously wasn’t deserved, but you couldn’t convince yourself of it.

The whole room was filled with historical figures, ones whose statues you’d stared at for so long as a child, in wonder and curiosity but now you no longer wondered, you no longer imagined - they were there. Whether you wanted it or not, they were there, and they were loud.

“That’d be the Huns, apparently it took your old night guard for-ever to get them to get along,” the woman said, shaking her head.

“Who… what…” you mumbled, in a daze of disbelief.

“The Tablet of Ahkmenrah,” the woman said in a dramatic voice, using jazz hands to accentuate the wonder, but it didn’t do much for you. You’d heard of the tablet, sure, but it wasn’t at your museum anymore. It had been transported to the British museum -

Oh. It all clicked together, why you hadn’t heard the noise before, why McPhee knew what was happening, what the cause was.

Of course, that’d be if magic was real.

“Show me,” you said, not wanting to completely discount their story. The woman looked utterly delighted, while McPhee looked mostly uncomfortable, fiddling with the bottom of his jacket, an awkward smile on his face. Your eye twitched as the two of you made eye contact. In less than a moment, you turned back, following the woman towards wherever she was taking you.

“What’s your name anyway?” You asked as she led you through a crowd of historical figures.

“Tilly. Yours?”

“Uh -“ You were quickly interrupted by Tilly, who ran into Christopher Columbus.

This can’t be happening, you thought to yourself, as Tilly apologized in Italian to Columbus. Columbus, made fully of silver black stone or steel, bowed his head with a smile, returning to his soccer game with the Neanderthals, who seemed quite excitable in the presence of Tilly.

“I, uh, this is -“

“A lot? I know. My first night taking care of my museum was, well, a disaster,” she laughed to herself, rolling her eyes in an ‘oh, you,’ sort of way. “Anyway, here we are!”

An empty, closed off room. The room mean to house the Pharaoh, who had been delivered to the British - what was she thinking?

“Oh, right,” she mumbled to herself, rubbing her chin methodically as she stared at the ground. You waited patiently, admiring the art of the room.

“Guess we’ll have to find the King himself, should be somewhere,” she said, pulling you by the wrist down the hallway. A few more turns and you were at the balcony of the lobby, and at the halfway point of one of the stairs, on the platform, was a man dressed in ancient Egyptian garb, golden robes flowing in a way unlike any cloth you’d ever seen. After all, a whole lot of old cloth was like that, well made, thin and light yet warm.

She led you down the staircase, stopping behind the King, who was apparently manning a DJ station.

You felt yourself get lightheaded. It simply wasn’t possible. It couldn’t happen, not physically. It disobeyed everything you ever knew, every wish you convinced yourself wouldn’t be fulfilled.

“Oh, hello!” The King turned around, having just been alerted of your presence by Tilly tapping him on the back. His gaze first landed on her, then on you, tilting his head to the side with a curious smile.

“My friend here is, uh, new. Doesn’t believe that all this is real,” Tilly explained, and the King gave her a knowing look, bending down to pick up what you assumed was going to be the tablet.

“I’m just an archivist, I don’t think I’m supposed to be here,” you said over the loud music, suddenly feeling quite like you were going to be sick. It felt too much like a fantastical story. You just read and studied fantastical stories. You didn’t star in them.

Yet, here you were, being handed a tablet made of pure gold.

“Uh… cool,” you breathed out, holding something in your hands that costed more than your life. As soon as opportunity let you, you gave it back to the King.

“I am Ahkmenrah,” his eyes flickered over to Tilly before coming back to you, resting soft and welcoming on yours. “What shall I call you?”

“Uh, (Y/N),” you stuttered, blinking furiously, as though it’d wake you up from a dream come true.

“Well, (Y/N), welcome to the party,” he laughed, turning back around to choose another song.

“I’m gonna sit down,” you whimpered, collapsing onto the steps behind you. Tilly looked like she was going to stop you, but decided against it, her hands coming back to her sides.

“I’ll let you catch your breath, okay?” She said with a smile, patting your back and leaving down the steps. You watched as she left, joining one of the Neanderthals in dancing.

“It’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” The King said, sitting down beside you. Despite being dressed in royal clothing, and speaking in a rather posh manner, he acted human. In that moment, you appreciated it.

“Yeah… why, um, how do you speak, uh, English?” You asked, turning to face him.

“I went to Cambridge. As a display,” he said, quickly correcting himself. You nodded, turning to face forward again.

“I’ve never been to England,” you murmured.

“It’s nice. Cold,” he joked, laughing to himself. You joined in weakly, still feeling overwhelmed. You continued staring forward for a while, letting yourself wonder if this was reality, or if you were hallucinating, but he must’ve noticed your silence as he cleared his throat.

“Would you like some water?”

“What?” You asked, turning to him, pulled out of your thoughtless trance. “No, I’m alright. It’s a lot.”

“I know. Imagine waking up in a coffin every night,” he joked, but it fell flat. It sounded flat out miserable.

“I’m going to go lie down,” you mumbled out, your voice cracking as you stood. He immediately stood with you, before pausing, hesitant to follow you.

“Uh - I hope you, uh, feel better!” He called to you as you left down the stairs. Before he was out of earshot you heard him curse to himself, but you didn’t care to think what he was so troubled with. Was that a little cruel? Sure. Selfish? Definitely, but you’d just found out that all the exhibits were going to come to life at night, and that magic definitely existed and all those fictional Egyptian Gods you’d studied for so long were most likely real.

You needed time to process… and maybe to scream a little.

#ahkmenrah x reader #Ahkmenrah #Night at the Museum #rami malek character #rami malek #male reader #Female reader #ahkmenrah x male reader #ahkmenrah x female reader

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ashleyswrittenwords · 4 years

Text

Correlation Doesn’t Imply Causation

Another Zelink Oneshot

Commissioned by @truffeart :)

Post-BOTW fluff with needless angst mixed in

--------------------

It took time for the people of Hateno to warm up to the presence of the Princess with the blood of the goddess. They were folks of the countryside where the strangest occurrences had been the occasional Goron traveller or the time a youngster swore up and down that one of the cattle could speak. Miffed hadn’t covered their wonder when the mysterious young man who had brought the decaying house by the cliffs brought home a wide-eyed blonde who suspiciously met the description of the fabled princess.

The man had only stayed in the house for short periods of time, typically buying out Pruce’s stock of arrows and visiting the odd scientist at the peak of the village. A wild, insatiable heart for adventure was something to be expected and the older gossip mongers suspected he would bring back a woman from his travels. What they hadn’t expected was his bashful admittance the day after to Ivee and her mother that he was last century’s fallen hero, that Calamity had been vanquished, and that Princess Zelda was resting in his house.

When one person knows something in Hateno, everyone does.

Initially, it was something Zelda worried extensively about. One-hundred years. Would she be out of touch? Even worse, would they see her as a monster? During her excessive ramblings, the latter question made Link do a double take and immediately steer her off the topic. He had been awake for a little over a year and reassured her that the people of Hateno were harmless, but for the first couple weeks he didn’t dispute her flimsy excuses to stay in the home when he went out on short errands.

Actually, he was very supportive of her. Link’s love for cooking had turned into more of a passion and he had easily taken the mantle of the house chef. She could tell he allowed her to do menial tasks like dicing onions so she could feel helpful, and it worked. While out to gather ingredients for meals, he brought back gardening and sewing supplies to supplement her time; even taking her measurements and returning with three colorful Hateno dresses.

And Zelda was thankful, so thankful that after two weeks she let Link introduce her to the people he knew. She had slinked a couple paces behind him, uncomfortable by the stares once they reached the main road. Amira, the wife of the general store owner, had laughed during their brief introduction, “Nack was going around spreading rumors that you glowed in the dark. I don’t suppose that’s true?”

With a wobbly smile, Zelda affirmed that it hadn’t been true. The day got easier after that. People realized they weren’t going to witness anything other than a socially anxious girl and went about their chores as if nothing happened. Of course, she also dissuaded formal titles and told them she wanted to be a normal person for as long as possible before piecing together the kingdom that had already been underway by the Sheikah.

The days went by slow, but the months sped by her. Before she knew it, Link had woken her up to the smell of herbal tea and fruitcake - sweets in the morning had always been her guilty pleasure.

“Happy three months,” Link said with a hum as he set out some plates.

Blearily, she smiled and took a seat at the table to watch him work. “Has it really been that long?”

He barely nodded. “Official this evening.”

She observed him from behind. A soft hum smoothed over their silence and she allowed herself to enjoy this less guarded Link. He talked more often. It seemed to come naturally to him now.

Zelda let herself melt into the wooden chair and thanked herself for making patterned seat cushions. It wasn’t uncommon that she took in her surroundings, comparing what she lost to what she has now. Materially, it was a deficit but never did she feel so complete. There was no real goal other than to just be.

They ate in a comfortable silence, both still wearing what they slept in.

When noon rolled around, she disappeared upstairs to pull on a deep green dress with sewn in flower patterns and jotted down a list of items to pick up from East Wind.

“Do you not wish to accompany me?” she asked, tying a rupee pouch to her belt. There wasn't any accusation in her voice, merely simple curiosity due to his affinity to keeping by her side. And, admittedly, she did enjoy his company.

“As much as I do,” he grumbled shortly as he tapped the Sheikah slate repeatedly. “Impa sent a letter last week that travelling merchants were having bokoblin issues in the mountain pass.”

Link wore his riding trousers and a simple Hylian tunic. Without words, they had both understood that she had claimed his Champion tunic to sleep in after days of mending. Her heart sank, it meant the shrines weren’t working today and he would need to ride horseback.

He seemed to read her mind, reaching to thread his fingers passed her ear and through her shortened locks. A commonality after she decided thigh-length hair wasn’t practical anymore.

“I should be back at nightfall. Will… you be okay?”

It was a question born of genuine concern despite the knowledge that she was fully capable of cooking and caring for herself, but he needed that affirmation for himself and she was fully willing to allow him that. When she nodded, he pulled away and she mourned the loss of warmth. Zelda forced the corners of her lips upward. The sight reassured him.

“Be careful,” she chided once he packed a small bag and swung onto his horse. Link looked down at her, grinning as if he knew something she did not. “I mean it. Don’t do anything rash.”

“I know,” he breathily said, “I won’t.”

The manner in the way he spoke sounded like her nagging had caused him great exhaustion, which elicited a playful swat at his leg.

“Tonight?” she said, sounding more like a statement than a question.

Unwavering cobalt eyes fixated on her. A chaste nod. They didn’t say much more by the time he secured the reins in one hand and urged the horse into a slight trot. Soon he was over the bridge and down the road. By the time she retrieved her basket, he had long disappeared into the Hateno woods.

Autumn made herself known in the tree leaves that were displaced by Zelda’s steps and the chill that bit her cheeks. She fell in love with the season all over again. Ivee’s voice was clear as day once she stepped on the village road. Two people on horseback road passed her towards the inn up ahead. They politely nodded to the woman as she shouted out today’s discounts and carried on their way.

Ivee grimaced at their backs and stiffened at Zelda’s footsteps. Suddenly, with a bright smile, she twisted around to ring out a warm invitation.

Zelda offered a weak wave when the greeter’s face fell. “Sorry.”

The store owner’s daughter waved her apology away with a sigh and continued sweeping away fallen leaves from the doorstep. “Don’t be. Dad’s been on me more about getting newcomers in before the first snow.”

“Is business bad?” she asked, taking a glance about the area. There were more people than usual.

“Quite the opposite, it’s our busiest season,” Ivee pursed her lips in thought before gesturing towards the door with a scowl. “He’s always like this. Thinkin’ we’re missing out on customers if I don’t lose my voice by sunset.”

Zelda’s shoulders bounced with silent laughter as Ivee leaned back on her heels to wipe sweat from her brow.

“I saw Link leave not too long ago,” the brunette raised her brow. “Seemed to be in a hurry.”

A shrug was Zelda’s answer as she said, “I suppose Kakariko is having a monster problem and, well, you know how he is.”

She grinned wryly, “Can’t ignore a damsel in distress?”

The basket swung with Zelda’s idle swaying and she rolled her eyes. “Oh, no,” she considered, then remembered why she came by. “Have the truffles been restocked?”

“I’m afraid not,” Ivee pouted, “I tried to save some yesterday before they sold out again, but Dad nearly lost his head.”

“I appreciate the thought, Ivee,” Zelda hummed in contemplation. She’d have to do something else for dinner.

The woman looked down, then hazel eyes shot up to hers with an idea.

“Nikki’s daughters go truffle hunting down in the lower forest. Such troublemakers, those girls,” Ivee mumbled the latter notion under her breath. “But now that moblins aren’t as much of an issue, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you tagged along.”

“I’d love to, but Link has still been wary about me straying too far from the village. I’d rather not give him a heart attack.” And Zelda wasn’t too keen on wandering far without him; the Yiga were still active on the roads outside the village. Until now, they were careful to keep a low profile.

Ivee sighed and leaned on her broom. Wistfully, she smiled, “I wish I had a protective husband like you. You would think I could find a respectable man already, but everyone our age in this town has the maturity of a child.”

The basket in Zelda’s hands froze mid-sway. “I beg your pardon?”

She didn’t seem to notice the change in the blonde’s body language and went on to stare off, “Link is so protective of you. Zelda, you’re lucky to have snatched up a man like that early on. I’m starting to think I’m either horribly unlucky or Calamity Ganon made them extinct.”

Surely her ears weren’t mistaken.

Husband?

Snatched up?

The woven wood splints of the basket handle dug into her palm, but she carefully guarded her expression - a testament to her upbringing.

“There’s plenty of agreeable men in the village garrison,” she said, trying to shrug off the odd feeling. “I can make Link put in a good word for you.”

Ivee quirked her lips to the side, “I don’t know, Zee… but honestly I have nothing to lose. Will being into soldier types make me as smart as you?”

They laughed it off and Zelda politely excused herself with a slight stiffness. From East Wind, she picked up grains and milk while making sure to leave a good report to Pruce of Ivee’s behalf. On her way out, Pruce chuckled.

“Send my regards to your better half!”

Her brows scraped the highest reaches of her forehead, but Zelda quickly reeled herself in and sent a bright smile behind her. As she walked down the road with the sales shouting of Ivee behind her, she felt the shock of their assumptions settle into a stark warmth against the chill air.

There were several variables that insinuated… a very misconstrued aspect of her relationship with Link. The tips of Zelda’s ears flared. But, no, she was a scientist and understood that correlation did not mean causation. It could simply be an assumption drawn from Amira and Pruce’s household only.

“Zelda!”

She jumped at the hiss, spinning towards its direction and coming face to face with Nikki. The woman gripped her wrist and dragged her around the corner of a house. Then, Amira popped up from behind a barrel.

“You’re good!” she loudly whispered. “He didn’t notice.”

“Who didn’t notice?” Zelda said, making Nikki momentarily panic when her voice was too loud for her liking. The antics of the two women were fairly normal, but this situation was entirely new.

Amira, who was glaring around the bend, appeared again with shifty eyes. “There’s a man going around asking nearly every woman on a date.”

Nikki puffed out her chest victoriously. “You’re lucky. He got distracted by the innkeeper’s daughter. He kept going on about boots. His boots this, his boots that. My goodness, he’s fortunate he didn’t pull that on me. My Nacky would have let him have it.”

“O-Oh,” Zelda exchanged glances between the two of them. “Thank you.”

“Absolutely, darling,” Amira proudly declared. “We wouldn’t want Link running around trying to find the man who wanted to steal you from him, now would we? It’d be bad for business.”

Before Zelda knew it, she was nodding vehemently. “Yes, I know what you mean.”

She most certainly did not know what they meant. At all. Quickly, she bid them a good day and began her way up the slopes to the Sheikah lab. Despite Amira and Nikki’s warning, the boot man never appeared to steal her away.

Purah’s squeaky voice was heard above the ticking of gears as Zelda pushed open the doors. Calculating brown eyes met hers, “I was wondering if you’d ever visit me.”

“I was here yesterday.”

She still appeared to be a child, but Zelda noticed she was taller than the prior day. From her stool, she squinted down into the cavernous body of a small guardian. It had long been deactivated by Link before he defeated Calamity Ganon, and Zelda was set to use it for a better purpose than rotting in a junkyard.

The Sheikah waved her off, “Did your potion make only my mind older because I distinctly remember Symin being the only one here.”

Symin barely looked up from a diagram, “She was here for four hours, Purah.”

All the scientist did was hum a tune. Zelda helped herself to the desk space she had occupied a day before. Scattered across it were miscellaneous notes in Zelda and Purah’s handwriting. Small illustrations were more prevalent in Purah’s more recent studies. At least her physical form was growing older and the blonde was quick to scribble down her observations.

Beyond that, however, Zelda grew relentlessly distracted. Any progress was dashed when she remembered how they referred to Link. Three desperate attempts to read through the same paragraph were thwarted by the time she slammed the book shut, unable to get the notion of being married out of her head.

Husband. Husband? That would make her his wife, logically. But what wasn’t logical would be the ability to fathom this idea in the first place.

“Symin,” she suddenly said, catching the larger man’s attention. He swiveled a bit in his stool to face her.

“Do you need another reference?” He was referring to the Guardian mandible in his lap.

Zelda shook her head before choosing her words carefully.

“What are your thoughts on marriage?”

“Um,” Symin wrinkled his nose and gazed up at the ceiling above. “Uh, I have very little on the subject. Why ask me?”

“Don’t hit on my assistant, Zelly,” Purah’s voice echoed from within the Guardian body she was dismantling. “I’ll tell on you to Linky.”

That made Zelda place her hands on the table and partially stand. The metal parts lying on her skirt clattered to the ground.

“So, you think we’re married too?” She was louder than she usually was with a tone of finality.

Symin nearly gawked, “You aren’t?”

“No!”

“You aren’t?” Purah echoed, popping her white head of hair out of the sea of wheels and cogs.

“Purah you should know this!”

“Zelly, you must know old women don’t poke their noses into other people’s business! Consider it an educated guess.”

Zelda groaned, falling back into her seat with her head in her hands.

The researcher’s assistant beside her shifted awkwardly in his seat.

“Well,” he started, then stopping and starting again. “It must have been another dramatization when the story began spreading across Hyrule.”

“What’s the story say then?” she said, defeat in her stature and embarrassment on her cheeks. “I might as well know how it was told.”

Purah had fully reemerged now, her clothes stained from oil. She wriggled onto the table. “Something something, before the Princess’s birthday,” she sang, “the goddesses something something and under the watchful eye of Hylia they eloped or whatever.”

“We eloped?”

“I don’t know!” Purah threw up her short arms. “That’s what the bird said!”

“Look,” Symin steered her away from his mentor. “Maybe it’d be best if you got home and explained it to Link before he hears it from someone else.”

She considered it. He was right. Zelda should rip the bandaid off early on, then the awkwardness could pass faster.

Right?

“I will say, I was hurt that I wasn’t invited,” Purah pouted, handing Zelda her basket. “But remember that when there’s a real wedding.”

She didn’t have the emotional energy to argue at that point.

It had been hours since she had ascended the cliff and now the impending sunset brought dropping temperatures. The clouds over the sea hadn’t lightened her mood either.

By the time Zelda returned home, night had fallen outside and it caused her to assume that Link was wise enough to spend it in Kakariko. He knew she didn’t like the thought of him riding past dusk.

She waited until small bubbles manifested over the sea of oil and melted the butter for her mind to wander. It wasn’t… imposterous to make inferences based on their interactions. After all, they had known one another for over one-hundred years (with all minor happenstances abiding). Perhaps it was only natural that they developed their familiar bond.

Zelda had difficulties with darkness and he, with sleep, so it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence that she made herself a space amongst his makeshift pallets by the hearth, nor him in her bed in the loft. How many times has that happened?

Many times. Most nights.

The heat on her face was quickly blamed on the simmering risotto base. Gradually, she stirred in the rice and spices, copying the movements she’s seen Link do before.

Besides, sleeping together - no, merely sharing the same proximity - was born of necessity. There were plenty of activities a married couple performed that they didn’t. Nikki and Nack called one another the most egregious nicknames. Zelda nodded to herself, stirring the contents of the pan with fervor. That was something they never did.

They were comfortable roommates. Who slept together on the occasion.

And who shared lingering touches when words didn’t suffice.

She was wary to confess the feelings she harbored for those small moments when he’d brush the side of her cheek and down the length of her hair; the only times she regretted her dubious haircut. And maybe she did enjoy the opportunities to remind him to shave by cupping his cheek in her hand. Thrill wedged itself in her heart when he leaned further into her touch.

Discomfort sat at the bottom of her stomach. Zelda frowned deeply. The familiar sensation of impending disappointment ebbed at her.

The door at the head of the room clambered open, revealing the sheets of rain falling from the heavens. Boots stomped a couple steps on the hard-wood and the door shut more gently than it opened.

“I’m sorry,” a chilled, but deeply familiar voice said. “I’m late.”

Zelda sat back on her haunches, taking Link in as he peeled off his sopping cloak. His shoulders shook as the rain had long set into his clothes.

“Link,” she whined. “Hylia above, what have I told you about riding in the rain? Especially in this weather!”

“I know,” he grinned wryly at her from across the room. “And I nearly rented a room, but then goddesses told me you were cooking tonight.”

She would have chastised him further and ran to grab him an extra change of clothes, but her previous thoughts pounded in the back of her brain and the steady bubbling of risotto kept her in her place.

“You’re too much for me,” she huffed, barely looking at him. “Can you check to see if this is done?”

Suddenly, his breath was right next to her ear. “I’ll move out anytime you want me to.”

A pause.

“It’s perfect, Zel.”

Her hand stilled in its stirring. There went the nickname criteria.

Zelda caught his eye and his amused expression deflated slightly. She blinked, “This is your house.”

A small crease formed between is brow. “And?”

“And,” she emphasized, “you’re going to catch a chill in your own home if you don’t change.”

Link didn’t move immediately and she could feel his stare, but eventually he relented to her nagging. She could hardly hear him shuffle about the room once his boots were removed. When Zelda pulled the pan from the fire, he was descending down the loft in a simple cloth shirt and trousers.

“Did I do something?” he said, idling by the foot of the stairs.

That had made her brow furrow and her frown to deepen.

“No,” she nonchalantly answered, throwing down a potholder on the table with more force than needed.

He eyed her from the cabinet and pulled out a couple plates.

“I am fine,” she copied his stare and could tell the question was on the tip of his tongue. Still, he held her gaze from across the room. Zelda pressed the appropriate silverware onto the placemats.

“Link, stop that. I’m fine.”

When he closed the distance to put the appropriate plates on their mats, he hadn’t yielded to her reassurances and took note on the way she stepped away to give him extra room.

Annoyance wormed into Zelda’s chest and she dimly noticed that this manner of interrogation was used before.

“Have I done anything?” Link asked again, genuinely this time. “Because I’m sorry if I worried you.”

It was a wonder how this was the same man who could take on three lynels at once. She only knew because she’s seen it. The fire was there when he stared down Ganon after a year of waking up from a century of slumber, it hadn’t stifled the flame in his eyes. But now, he was careful with her. The blue of his eyes was soft, gentle and fully willing to apologize when there was nothing he did wrong.

“No,” she said, forcing herself to match his demeanor because it wasn’t fair for her own troubles to affect him. “No, you haven’t.”

His follow up question didn’t need a voice.

“I heard something in town and,” she stopped to let her stiff shoulders sag. “I don’t think you’ll like it.”

Gods, she sounded like she was a child about to admit to breaking something. As she said the words, she realized that the idea itself hadn’t bothered her. What had bothered her was his potential reaction.

Zelda could say they were friends, even close friends, but lovers? Spouses? The pull of her heart at the thought scared her.

Disappointment. There would be disappointment in his eyes that would leave her to hurt.

“They think,” she paused. He tried to take her fidgeting hands in his, but she pulled away and left him dumbfounded. Zelda didn’t like that expression at all on him, only making her more flustered in what to do.

“Who?” His tone was gentle, like calming a spooked horse.

Zelda breathed in a large breath, “This morning. Ivee and- and Pruce and… Nikki and Nack...”

She trailed off, searching the floor and Link for words.

“The townspeople?”

Tentatively, she nodded, not quite able to spit out what she needed to say.

Now, he was fully confused. “What do they think? Zelda, I promise you they don’t judge you for what had happened.”

The Calamity. Of course he would be thinking she was worried about that with how aloof her mannerisms suddenly were. Assuming he guessed right, his small frown upticked to sympathy.

“They’d never pin that on you. If anything, they warmed up to you more than they did to me.”

He began to tell her about the odd stares he got when he began reconstruction of the house. All the stories that would typically make her laugh, but all she could do with stare at their feet.

“They think we’re married!”

The words that flew from her were unequivocally hers yet her ears could hardly believe it. Link’s lips fell into a small “o” as he took a step back. Shock barely registered on his features, and it made her regret saying anything at all. She hated the way his eyes left hers.

Unsure of what to do, she watched him pace to the opposite wall and back. Never did he meet her gaze in turn for the rafters above. A hand brushed through his damp hair.

He swallowed the remnants of his tales, more softer with a certain disbelief, “Married, huh?”

Her quiet response affirmed him.

If this had been any other situation, she would have poked fun at the way he was behaving. Nothing about him exuded the certain confidence he so often employed in front of her. Lucky was a word she would have used if she managed to confound him like this.

“Ivee was the first to mention it in passing,” Zelda placated. “I thought it was a simple misunderstanding until Pruce then Nikki then Amira until…”

“Until it wasn’t so simple,” he finished for her. She smoothed a piece of hair behind her ear with a nod.

They fell back into a quietness. Some of Link’s shock gave way for, what she assumed, a reluctant acceptance.

The risotto was growing cold and neither had the stomach to point it out.

Zelda wasn’t ignorant about her feelings. However, she knew she was a coward. Before the Calamity, she had an understanding of why his name suddenly filled up the pages of her diary. Back then, Link had a silent charm to him that let her be herself for a short moment. It enraptured her. But she also had an excuse to never admit it.

Now, she had nothing to hide behind. No Calamity Ganon was going to drag her away from the man who was obviously embarrassed to be seen as her husband.

“Married?” he asked again, as if she hadn’t confirmed it for the umpteenth time. He was leaning against the table with his hand rubbing his neck.

“Yes, Link,” she was growing frustrated. “They think we’re… you know.”

Then, he looked up. “Is that a bad thing?”

Link’s eyes swept the room at her startled reaction. “Well,” he said with a raised brow and a small shake of his head. “If you’re completely against it then I am too, but-”

Then, to her absolute surprise, he shrugged. “It’s not horrible.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” there was defensiveness in his voice, “that other people assuming I’m married isn’t the worst rumor in the world.”

Now Zelda was thoroughly convinced he had stumbled upon a pub on his way home. “You do realize that it would mean I would be your wife.”

His shrug was more grandiose this time. “And I would be your husband.”

By then, the room was much dimmer. The fire lacked wood and Zelda hadn’t had time to think about lighting candles. She could make out his features, but could hardly read them.

“So, you’re not mad?”

Link wasn’t leaning on the table anymore. The action made her feel closer to him.

“Why would I be mad at you?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Not at me. The rumor.”

There was hesitation in his movements, but he crossed the little amount of space between them. “Honestly? It makes sense why more people haven’t outwardly hit on you.”

That comment made her let out a short laugh.

“But no,” he said; she could hear his smile. “I’m not mad… not at all.”

Link’s approach was slower than usual, but she opened up to his enticing pulls that evolved into a gentle embrace.

There were many doubts Zelda harbored. Most old, some new. To her, they were indistinguishable. Yet, all were forgotten, if only for a little while when he held her close in his arms.

When she bunched the cloth of his shirt in her hands, she felt him shiver.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” Zelda muttered.

All he did was hold her closer.

#i LOVED writing this #i actually wanted to write more but you know theres always a point where too much of something spoils the rest #loz #zelink #loz fanfiction #zelink fanfiction #ashleyswrittenwords #zelda #link #legend of zelda: breath of the wild

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valkyrieofsmut · 4 years

Text

Kurt’s Mail Order Bride 5

Cowboy!Kurt Wagner (Nightcrawler) x Mutant!OC

Descriptions: Old westAU In about 1900 Germany, Kurt has heard stories about the wild west and dreamt about being a cowboy for a long time. When he’s brought over to America and sent to live with Logan he’s excited, until he learns what hard work a ranch actually is. Logan knows a woman will set him straight from his shenanigans, and brings one back. Kurt hopes for love, but they can’t seem to get along.

A/n- Hmm... Some “saucy” situations in here... well, they’d have ruined reputations in the 1900s, anyway.

Masterlist

Story!

Despite Logan not being happy with her for taking Kurt into town, over the next few weeks, he was more willing to let her take him when she went, as long as Kurt stayed in the back of the covered wagon; out of sight from the other people in town.

Logan was also glad to see that Kurt was doing more around, that his chores were being done by him, and on time, instead of having to cover his part while he laid around moping.

Also making him happy was the fact that Kurt seemed to be getting along better with Beth, and he seemed to be behaving more like a man than the child he had started as.

Kurt grabbed the basket Beth had made them for lunch and the blanket to sit on as he headed to the porch.

The wagon stopped by the front of the house and he climbed in.

“Your lunch is on the counter, Logan, we’ll be back tonight,” Beth told him where he stood on the porch.

Logan grunted and headed inside as she snapped the reins to set the horses in motion. Kurt watched out of the front, leaning out and enjoying the scenery drifting past.

“Where would you like to have lunch?” Beth asked.

“Somewhere with a nice view,” he answered.

They kept an eye out and found a nice spot about a mile from town.

As Kurt laid out the blanket and Beth brought over the food, they started talking. They ate their fill, putting the leftovers back into the basket, and sat around, Beth looking up at the clouds and Kurt gathering long strands of grass.

“I think that one looks like a horse,” Beth said, looking over to Kurt. “Don’t you think so?”

Kurt looked over from the circle he was making, then up to where she pointed. “I don’t see it,” he told her.

She looked back to the clouds and lifted a shoulder. “It must have moved. What are you doing?”

Kurt held up the circle of long grass. “It is a crown, usually they are made of flowers, but there are not much flowers here.”

Beth took it when he handed it to her and looked at it in interest.

“You’ve never made flower crowns before?”

Beth shook her head.

“I thought it was something children did everywhere, especially girls.”

Beth looked up at him with a corner of her lip tilted up. “Well, there’s the problem. I never spent much time with girls. I worked on the ranch with my father and brother, and learned how to run a household from my mother, but I never really spent time with other girls my age.”

“You have a brother?” Kurt asked. “Why didn’t he get the ranch instead of them making you sell it?”

“Had,” Beth corrected. “He… He was a lot like you… Fun loving, energetic…”

“What happened to him?” Kurt asked softly.

“He… he got cholera and passed. Along with my mother…” Beth looked away, back to the clouds. “He was only ten, I was only thirteen… After… My father and I worked the ranch and kept it going, but… He was struck by illness too… a year and a half ago… I worked the ranch alone for the last year, but, it was hard with so much livestock. I ended up selling them off, bit by bit, until I had an amount I could keep. But… The town didn’t think it was proper for a lady to run a cattle ranch, so they made me sell everything…”

Kurt was silent.

She had gone through so much, lost so many loved ones. Running a household at thirteen, and a ranch at, he guessed she would have been twenty-one, since she looked only a year or two younger than him.

No one in the circus had had to do that; there were children, and one or two of them had been orphans, but the circus rallied around them and made sure they were taken care of, just as they did all of the children. No one went hungry, no one was hated, no one was different, except him, and only because he was blue. The others hadn’t given him a hard time about it, either, but he had not been able to go into town with the others, and had had to stay out of the way of visitors so they didn’t turn into a mob.

Kurt looked up at Beth as she stood.

“We should get going, there are rain clouds on the horizon,” she told him, pointing.

Kurt stood and they took their things back to the wagon before climbing in and starting off again.

When they got to town, Beth pulled the wagon over and tied the horses before going out and to the stores.

Kurt watched as Beth made her way down the raised wooden sidewalk to a store and into it. She was wearing one of her normal outfits this time, with a long skirt and long sleeved shirt, but not one that had the too tight bodice and waist that restricted movement.

After a few more minutes, she came back out, and Kurt watched her go to another store. He turned to the back of the wagon, wondering why his heart had jumped at the sight of her.

The sound of slight rain pattered on the covered roof above and Beth was soon climbing onto the wagon and hurriedly untying the small covering that fell forward and covered the buckboard to mostly stop the rain from falling on her.

Kurt looked up at her and settled close behind the buckboard. “We are leaving already?” He asked.

“Yes, it’s going to be trouble to get back through to the ranch if we don’t get ahead of the storm,” she told him.

They set off just as Kurt heard the rain pick up against the roof.

Kurt leaned out through the opening, but leaned back in as the rain splashed back on his face and stray drops flew in from the wind.

“It’s really getting heavy,” he commented, but Beth didn’t seem to hear him over the now raging din of rain.

Puddles were forming on the road and the droplets of rain were hitting and splashing back up, getting the horse’s legs and sides of the wagon muddy and wet.

They were almost to the ranch, scarcely a mile and a half out, when the wagon bumped over the road, then the back slid to the side and sank.

The horses jerked to a stop, whinnying in protest, and Beth nearly flew over the front and down between the horses, but Kurt reached out and grabbed around her waist through the opening in the wagon.

Beth fell back onto the buckboard, eyes wide and breath halting in shock and fear of what had almost happened.

Kurt realized that his arms were still around her, and let her go.

Beth took a deep breath and glanced back at him before blushing and looking away. She turned around the side and tried to stay dry as she looked back at the wheel.

“What’s going on?” Kurt asked.

“I’m not sure,” she answered. “I’ll have to go look.”

“But you’ll get wet,” Kurt protested.

“It can’t be helped,” she said, climbing down. She was nearly immediately soaked, rain dripping down her arms and back as she went toward the back of the wagon.

The wheel had slid about two feet to the side and sank into the mud there, becoming more trapped as the small stream of rain washed more and more mud over and through it.

She hurried back to the front of the wagon and climbed up, sitting down and taking the reins. They snapped over the horse’s backs, and the horses pulled, but the wagon didn’t move. Beth snapped the reins again, and the horses strained, pulling at the wagon, but it still didn’t move.

Beth groaned in frustration. “Kurt, come take these. Have you ever driven a wagon?” She asked, turning to him.

Kurt climbed through the hole and shook his head. “A little,” he told her. “But not anything fancy like turning or parking…”

“That’s ok,” she told him. “Just try to make the horses pull the wagon. I’ll get out and push.”

“Beth, it’s not fitting for a lady to push a wagon,” Kurt protested.

“There’s no point in both of us getting soaked,” she told him. “Besides, I’ve got this,” she pushed out her hand and the rain that came in contact with it was shot sideways.

Beth hopped down and hurried to the back, loving the thought of taking the tub into her room and having a hot bath when they got back. She’d boil the water and climb in when it was just barely cool enough that her skin didn’t start getting blisters.

She got to the back and called for Kurt to start the horses pulling while she stood and pushed out her arm, hitting the back of the wagon to force it forward. The weight of the wagon was too great, letting it stay in the mud filling pothole.

After minutes of rain soaking through her outer dress, and starting through her corset, Beth gave up. She hurried back around to where Kurt was slapping the horses’s backs and trying to get them to pull forward.

“Kurt, stop,” Beth called up to him. “We’ll have to wait for the rain to pass, at least.”

She took the reins from him and unlatched the horses, pulling them off to the side of the road, finding a group of trees and tying them so they were at least a little protected from the pounding rain.

Beth pulled up her skirts, feeling like she was dragging around nearly a ton of wet cloth, and made her way back to the wagon, Kurt’s hand helping her up with the extra weight.

Water dripped down her hair, the heavy mass falling down as it pushed the pins out.

Kurt climbed into the wagon and closed the back flap as Beth followed, hoping to keep the rain out. As he looked back, a puddle was forming at Beth’s feet.

Beth bit her lip and stepped closer to the opening at the front. “Maybe I should stand outside…” She murmured.

Kurt looked up at her and noticed the shivers wracking her shoulders. “Nein, you’re freezing, don’t go out there…”

Beth blinked furiously as the rain tried to drip into her eyes from her hair. “I- I can’t stay in these clothes; I’ll catch my death…” Beth told him honestly, a blush glowing across her cheeks.

The sky outside was darkening by the minute, and Kurt wasn’t sure they’d be able to get out of there at all, with the wagon being stuck, so, he was a little worried about what to do, since they hadn’t prepared for an overnight trip.

“So… I suppose you’ll have to take them off…” He mumbled, his cheeks flushing purple at the thought.

Beth blushed darker, but her shivering body pressed her forward. “Please- turn around,” she asked him quietly.

Kurt turned, listening to her struggle with the soaked fabric, and the heavy squishy thuds as it fell to the floor of the wagon. There was some slapping noises as she moved it around over the edge of the buckboard to dry.

Beth settled her skirt so that it could dry easier, and her shirt was next to it. She peeked out, a last hope for rescue, but there was no one. She shivered as a breeze blew across her, and she looked down at her muddy and ruined stockings. She unlaced and pulled off her boots, putting them in the corner, and gently pulled off the ruined material of her stockings, throwing them over the rest of the clothes; it didn’t matter if anything happened to them now.

Beth glanced over at Kurt, checking that he was still turned around, and quickly loosened her corset enough to unhook the busk and pull it off. She stood it in the corner with her boots to dry and looked around, finding the blanket they’d taken to sit on at the picnic. She shook it out the best she could and wrapped it around herself.

“I suppose I’m as decent as I’ll get until I dry,” she mumbled to let Kurt know he didn’t have to stare at the seams in the canvas anymore.

They sat down, neither sure what to do, and Beth began taking out the few remaining pins from her hair, trying to straighten it the best she could with all of the tangles it had gathered from the rain.

Kurt stood and closed the flap at the front of the wagon most of the way.

“What are you doing?” Beth asked him.

“You’re still shivering,” he answered quietly.

“Oh… Thank you,” she murmured. She’d gotten so used to the shivering by now that she had stopped noticing.

Kurt sat back down by her, watching her unwind her hair.

“Kurt-”

Kurt blushed a little at hearing her say his name out of breath like that. “Ja?”

“Your- your eyes-”

Kurt felt his heart clench. Of course she’d only found something that made him more of a freak. “Ja, they, ah, they are very bright in the dark…”

“I thought so- I mean- that first time I saw you, I thought they were glowing a little,” she told him.

He didn’t say anything, just looked away, and his eyes fell on the basket of food.

“Are you getting hungry?” He asked.

“A bit,” she admitted.

They moved closer to the front of the wagon to see better, and ate a little, but left some for breakfast in the morning.

After they had packed up their food again, they moved to the back of the wagon and settled down.

Kurt laid facing away from Beth, as was proper, covered in a spare blanket they’d found stuffed in a corner. She had wrapped herself up to stay warm, and it was warmer in here now that the flaps were closed, heated from their body warmth and breath, but he could still feel her shivering behind him.

Kurt’s tail snuck closer and wrapped around her.

A moment later, he opened his eyes and stared at the wall of wood and canvas in front of him.

He felt warm enough without the blanket, helped by his fur, but her body was shaking, a gentle but steady shiver.

It was inappropriate, he knew, but Kurt turned over, looking over Beth’s blanketed body. He scooted closer and pulled his blanket out so that it covered both of them, but he had to scoot even closer so that it fully covered them.

He blushed as he felt her body press against his with each breath.

It was like he was holding her close, a hug maybe, or an embrace shared by people who wanted to kiss each other. But he didn't want to kiss her.

…

Did he?

He mentally shook his head.

No, she was so normal and beautiful, why would he want to put his strange, irreverent lips all over her?

And when had he started thinking of her as beautiful?

Wait-

All over her?

Why had he thought that? Did he want to kiss all over her?

A feeling like panic started tightening in his stomach.

Why was he thinking all of these strange and inappropriate things now?

It must be because she was practically against him in this dark space.

It was confusing his mind and body, so much that in the middle of worrying about his thoughts, he started drifting off.

Tag List!

@otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @racheo91 @tephi101 @lilypalmer1987 @pingu89 @gifsbysimplysonia @omnomsauruswrites @keldachick @Randomfandompenguin @mannls @screeching-student-unknown @lizfawn @ya-lyublu-tebya @their-bibliophile @the-fifth-marauder03 @Jbstans

#Kurt Wagner #kurt wagner x oc #Marvel AU #old west au #nightcrawler x oc #angst #mutant oc #romance #multi part story #X-men #x-men au #Rancher AU #Cowboy!Kurt Wagner #Cowboy!Nightcrawler #valkyrieofsmut #mutual pining

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sapientiaethumanitas · 4 years

Text

"That is very wise for your age, Elara. Humans too often tend to cling to the past or just think about the future. Yet it is so important that you live in the here and now: you are given so few years on this earth - you cannot do this by worrying about the future or wallowing in the past and what might have happened.”

Ezekiel ran through the beard, which by now had grown much too long and dense for him. He only ever wore a moustache and chin beard, but the last weeks he had too much to do and as a vampire it was difficult to wear a well-groomed beard: after all, you had to shave without a mirror. But he was almost uncomfortable about how much Elara looked at him - not that she looked at him in general, more that he did not look to his liking.

"I know I need a shave, don't look so judgemental. In Nilfgaard men with beards are considered barbaric. I thought it always enhanced my dignity, but I don't like it as wild as it is now. As long as I don't shave completely, then I look like a 80-year-old..."

He giggled and then looked at Elara, who obviously couldn't follow him: "Excuse me - when vampires are eighty, they are ten in human years - in the end I look like a toddler when I shave completely."

Another giggle, which slowly faded away when Elara added the description with the oak: "Mhm, I've rarely heard a better description for me - like an oak in a field daisies...So I thought that Khagmar fitted this description exactly, but I am quite tall as well..."

He noticed that the young woman was grabbing her ankle and pushed a little stool right in front of her chair so that she could put her foot down calmly. Her well-being was very important to him and he did everything in his power to make her feel comfortable.

His little trick of turning into fog did not seem to frighten Elara either, but rather to amuse her. "Of course I can hear you - I can see you, hear you, smell you and track you down. Sometimes life as fog is much easier: you are not so easily suspected." He pulled his mouth into a roguish grin, taking a sip from his tea cup.

While he was telling the beginning of his life story he always liked to look at Elara in between. He did not read her thoughts, but that was not necessary either, because her facial expression made it just as easy for him to understand. The thing about his age: well, there was no real reaction anymore that he had not experienced before. Some reacted with fear, some with laughter, some with indifference, and some simply opened their eyes wide and stared at him with their mouths open. He was used to it by now.

"I have seen countries rise and fall, whole generations of human beings - whether aristocrats or farmers - were born and died. Dynasties were established, fell, new ones came, and wars broke out again and again. Diseases arose, I fought many, then new ones came and decimated the people again. I fought at the front as a doctor- for the North and for Nilfgaard. In the end I helped both sides, was arrested and hanged for treason. They didn't know I was a vampire and rose from the grave the next day."

The war had not been long ago: the North had surrendered to Nilfgaard, Wyzima went to Emhyr van Emreis, thousands of people lost their homes. Ezekiel had always sworn to stay out of human politics, but they had taken him from the Academy, forced him. He had never cared about the rulers, but the soldiers did not deserve to be slaughtered like cattle. And he knew that Elara's husband had been one of them.

"Excuse me, but I need something stronger than tea." He got up from his armchair and walked over to a glass cabinet whose doors creaked when he opened them. He always liked the smell it gave off: he had once bought the cabinet from an old man who liked to smoke a pipe, and the smell had adhered to the inside. In the cabinet Ezekiel kept his good spirits, some of the bottles cost thousands of crowns.

He took a crystal bottle from the cupboard, which imitated the body of a naked woman. She knelt and held the neck of the bottle in her hands. There was a purple liquid inside it, it glistened when Ezekiel tilted the bottle.

"Excuse the provocative bottle: my kind love nudity and almost everything is decorated either by naked men or women. I'd like to offer you a sip, but I know you don't drink. Parfait d'Amour: violet liqueur with vanilla and citrus. It's delicious."

He hated coming back to this banal solution of his pain again and again, but nothing helped him the way alcohol could. He was an immortal being, he could take as much alcohol and drugs as he liked. But he was also a constant role model and often had to subordinate his desire to his seriousness.

He also knew that he didn't have to pretend to be in front of Elara, and so he enjoyed the burning sensation that ran down his esophagus and stomach, leaving him in comforting warmth. He listened to her attentively, nodded to agree with her on everything:

"I already know that it was no mistake to bring you into the academy. You are rational, have a vision for things, philosophise well and not too much. Life has burned you and yet you have not lost your will to live. You are a strong emancipated woman, but who does not discriminate against men, but only equals with them. You know what it means to be on your own, but you are also communicative and like to help."

He put his head down to get the last of the liqueur out of the glass and poured himself straight back in. "Forgive me, but I just couldn't help but read your mind. That's another one of my abilities. Not every vampire is capable of it, but I am. I haven't done it too many times, I swear to you. But sometimes it helps me understand you humans better - we feel as much as you do, but differently. That's why I can't interpret many emotions properly, so it helps me understand your kin better."

He looked at her with regret, looked briefly concerned on the floor under her armchair: "You...have not only lost your husband but also a child? I am very sorry about that, I mean that you have probably heard that many times before and probably can't hear it anymore. But I mean it. I feel like I'm in some way to blame for this.”

She had already told him the story of Belir, sincerely and honestly. It was definitely too much to ask that she would tell him this story as well. He had lived long enough to rethink the traumatic events of his past and even if he never got over some of them, they were part of him. Elara was wise for her age, but she did not have thousands of years to think about these atrocious events.

"I love to tell my story - it'll even be funny, my brother and I were complete messes."

He swallowed hard, looked her in the eye and said: "How about telling me something about yourself. You've mentioned Lindenvale a few times now, I'm familiar with Belir. What do you say? Half my story, half yours, and then we move on?"

#☾ ━ ° I still remember the night I’ve counted your freckles [ELARA]#☾ ━ ° Stories have to be told /or they’ll Die [RP THREADS]#elara the bootblack #you realise how much you love your muse when you tell his whole story again #I just put our thread always under a cut because we both clearly love writing much <3

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worstfruit · 4 years

Text

Okay so i reworked this using bastardized doric, which i intend to lessen over time but i think its still a bit much

The tower wasn’t anything like what Gwen had anticipated. It was far too kempt for starters, and though it was deep within the woods outside of town, it was still just sitting out in a clearing. A bit too obvious for her liking.

And yet, on the opposite end of the spectrum it was far too subtle. There were no twisting vines or dead trees. No heads on pikes, no ribcages or femurs strung up on display. In her experience, that meant a trap. Dazzle camouflage—hiding in plain sight with how garishly cute the garden was. She’d never met a wizard who grew chamomile. But even after waiting and watching and sneaking around every angle, Gwen hadn’t triggered any sort of trip wire nor spotted even an open archere in the stone. There was a locked cellar just around the back, next to the small plot of tilled soil. The lock looked rusted to hell, likely from disuse. The garden, though brimming with wildflowers, was a bit out of order as well, and Gwen had to wonder if anyone even lived inside the tower. Still, it did meet the description the locals gave her (an unassuming but old stone pillar erected in the forests southeast of Backwater), and was exactly where the bandits said it would be (a clearing found left of a fresh deer carcass a short distance off the path’s second fork, the side with the big boulder).

She’d been a paladin long enough to learn that if it walked like a duck, and sounded like a duck, then it was probably a duck. Besides, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and at the moment, Gwen was in quite the pickle. Not three weeks prior had she been ousted from her Temple and indefinitely suspended of knighthood by her order. Taking down a necromancer, one that had alluded authorities for over 6 months, would be just the kind of deed she needed to get back in good graces.

Gwen readied her sword and stepped towards the stone structure, still anticipating some sort of magical barrage. An explosion, maybe even just a ‘hey you!’ But as she made her way up to the dry rotted entrance door, there was nothing.

Based off reports, she was half expecting hell itself. A fortnight prior to her expulsion, the temple formally briefed a number of paladins on the mission, recounted ongoing complaints of dug up graves, missing corpses, and robberies from the town of Backwater. It was a small and poor little stop along the way to Capitol; one of the few human villages between the Mission and High Elf territory, mostly used as a last minute night’s stay or provision pick up.

Tangent reports of missing cattle, children, and even the infirm were lumped together due to how small the townships outside of Backwater were. The bandits, who had tried to ambush her during her initial trek through the woods, informed Gwen of an elderly spell caster who conjured demons and brimstone from his own hands. The Backwater locals’ descriptions varied from vampiric in nature, down to common thugs, but all stories had a few principle things in common: he was old, he was in the woods, he worked with fire, he lived in a tower, and was evil. Taking in the scenery before her, Gwen sized it up. She certainly was at a tower in the woods.

For a moment, her manners almost got the better of her and she raised a gloved hand to knock. Thinking better, she gently pushed against the arched door to find it unlocked. It was ill fitted for the doorway, shrunken with age and it glided without touching the threshold.

Generally, necromancers were known to have a penchant for decay, dilapidation, just a general unkemptness that this tower absolutely did not have. The interior was lackluster to say the least; a bit old but otherwise rather mild in all regards. The floors were rugged with some dust in the corners, the stairs narrow but clearly well used, and there was even a small boiler with a little shitty kettle atop. Keeping her hands on the hilt of her blade, Gwen continued onwards, taking gentle steps so that her sabatons did not clack too loudly against the cobbled floors. She used to rugs to muffle her steps, stretching her short gait to match their haphazard patterns. She noticed a number of odds and ends befitting of her grandmother more so than a necromancer; things like doilies and little dried out gourds with sad little faces painted on them, a cracked tea cup here and there, some with tea leaves wet at the bottom. Still—Gwen had been spurned too many times to assume, perhaps the wizard was an elderly woman, or perhaps it was all a ruse. Cute or not, she had a job to do and a reputation to save.

Doing her best to ignore all the warning signs (or, lack thereof), Gwen pressed onwards, towards the spiraling stairwell. There were a few tomes laying about. She stooped to flip through one, noting that while the contents weren’t strictly of a necromantic nature, they were still damning nonetheless. Poison herbs and writing on anatomy, charts of stars and moon phases, a grimoire here and there and even one on exotic animals.

The stairs were lined with melted wax, an odd wick here and there sticking out like stray hairs on a bald man’s head. The tower, save the open door and natural sunlight pouring in from the top, was poorly lit and only so large; though there was no apparent latch door-- there may have been a basement along with the cellar; there was really nowhere else to go quietly but up. Even the archeres were boarded up with odd bits of rays poking through and spilling onto the bumpy walls and cracked wood; it made her ascent a bit difficult but Gwen was nothing in not cautious. She waited long enough for her eyes to adjust to the shadows before pressing onwards.

The next level was even more cramped than the first, and more of a resting area than an actual floor. Gwen froze just as her line of sight passed over a step and into the room—just around the curved corner of the tower’s central support pillar (a massive, cylindrical oak beam), there was a chair. Tartan fabric, frayed, with feather filling coming out about the seams and around the corners, but atop the chair sat…something. It was small, maybe the size of a medium hound, greenish skin and a shock of red hair and cloth curled around itself. She couldn’t quite understand the anatomy if it from the glimpse she got before concealing herself behind the beam, just that it was alive and likely asleep.

Gwen peaked back around just to confirm her suspicions. The beast was tiny and most definitely asleep. Oddly enough, it was also clothed in what appeared to be a little cloak, fit for a child. She could identify its head, its long and pointed nose, two bat like ears and two giant, but closed eyes. It breathed in a gentle rhythm, clawed paws and feet tucked by its side much the way the temple’s pet cat curled up on Gwen’s bed some nights. It resembled a sand imp, ghastly little creatures all wrinkles and teeth. She didn’t want to wake it up to find out if it had the very same fangs.

Next to the chair was a small rickety stool with a book atop, and on top of the book was a half-eaten apple, already yellowing. She looked as far as she could upwards. There was enough of a ceiling for her to guess the third floor was a bit more substantial. As quietly as she could, Gwen moved her foot upwards. She hesitated placing it down unto the next step; if the creature was anything like a sand imp, she did not wish to wake it. Even before she finished her step, she saw its ears twitch. Perhaps this was the warlock’s familiar, and perhaps she was lucky to have caught it sleeping on guard duty.

Rather than continuing upwards, Gwen considered her options. The thing was small. It would be a but a stain on her long sword. But, if it really was some sort of fucked up, green sand imp (perhaps it was rabid or jaundiced), then it was probably fast. Their claws were nasty and they were just intelligent enough to know exactly were to slide them between the seams of plate armor. It’s almost as if they were completely willing to die, just so long as they could make you bleed, even just a little. They had zero regard for their own safety, no sense of reasoning, and no hesitation. It would be like a setting off an alarm bell for sure; loud creatures they were. She hated them more than feral, rabid rats, and while she would surely be able to take one (yet alone a puny, runty, sleeping one), she would rather not.

Which brought her to the next option. The creature all but confirmed the identity of the tower’s primary inhabitant. What sort of old woman would live with a pet sand imp? And, by law, familiars and death magick were strictly prohibited and punishable by, well, death. Love or hate the elves, they had a moral code she could agree with.

Gwen didn’t like to play executioner often, but for her own sake, she was strongly considering the alternative to continuing forward to confront the villain-- which was to go back to town, rile up the locals, gather a shit ton of wood and hay and oil and slow burning lards, and light the sucker up.

Nodding resolutely to herself, Gwen slowly, ever so carefully turned to head back down the stairs. She was feeling pretty pleased with her decision making, a bit clever too (she had found the tower after all, and could report the deed back to her temple even if she wasn’t the one to personally kill the necromancer. The townspeople would think her a hero and she would be allowed back into the Order, surely), until the very same little, shitty kettle she had spotted earlier flew right past her head. Gwen didn’t even have a chance to duck. It clattered against the stone wall loudly, spewing scalding hot water and steam all about. Thankfully, her armor caught the brunt of it, though a few flecks nipped at the nape of her exposed neck and she felt a painful flush of wet air blossom against her cheek and eye. Without hesitating she lunged forward and tackled the offender. She didn’t have of a chance to get much of a glimpse besides a hunched cloak and some white hair.

Her shoulder made contact and the two hit the floor, Gwen’s plate and mail pealing against the stone like a muffled bell. She flipped herself over to throw him to the side so she could land face up. Whoever had attacked her fell by her side with a dull thud. She used the pause to grab at her sword and roll over so that it was against them in a warning. Gwen miscalculated this move, however, and instead of holding the sword to their throat, her adrenaline and weight forced her forward much more quickly than she had intended. The blade plunged into the figure’s middle like a paring knife into a mushy peach. She heard a weak ‘oof’, before she felt the give of steel against flesh. It took a moment for it to register that both of them had stopped moving.

She clambered away and regained her footing using the boiler to stand fully. The ‘necromancer’ was on the floor, staring at the ceiling with glassy, bloodshot eyes. It was an impossibly old man, clean shaven and white like porridge. He wore a fuzzy purple cloak and a blue, linen nightgown beneath. His middle was a burgeoning blossom of bright red, two sinewy legs poking out from beneath his sheer gown and thick robe, twitching in a way that reminded Gwen, once again, of the little black cat that slept at the foot of her bed back at the temple.

Remembering the sand imp, Gwen gasped and turned towards the stairs waiting for another attack. Instead, she saw the green thing poking its head around the corner, clutching the empty tea kettle to its chest and staring at Gwen with big, yellow eyes. Just like the temple cat, Pitch.

Neither she nor the creature moved. Instead it moved it’s eyes from Gwen to the dead old man and back a few times, before finally opening its mouth (to which Gwen could see that it indeed had sand imp teeth) and saying “Is ye the witch?”

The last thing Gwen expected to hear was a voice. Words, intelligible common! It even cocked its head, clearly surprised, clearly afraid, clearly upset but otherwise completely unmoving.

She didn’t answer. She was stooped, breathing heavy, and unsure how to even answer the question. So instead she stood up straight and opened her mouth, then closed it, then looked to the freshly dead man on the floor for an answer. Receiving none, she looked back to the imp and cocked her own head back it. “What?” was all she could muster, though the incredulity in her voice certainly carried other questions. The imp, a he based off the voice, which was scratchy and a bit high (yet so clearly NOT a child, she would have to hear it again to confirm how oddly inhuman yet…human it sounded) adjusted its stance in a way that suggested he was reminding himself of where he was.

“Ah. Er, Ah mean ye. He.” The imp pointed to the man with a shaky claw and let out a short, desperate kind of laugh, and then spoke so quickly that Gwen almost didn’t catch it, “Vern aye says the witch he mairriet fair go cum ben back fur his heid een day, sae, is ye her? The witch?” He retracted his hand and used it to clutch the kettle even tighter to his chest. “Ye're gonnae kill me neist? Gonnae get me head too!?”

Gwen didn’t get the chance to answer or even ask for clarification; the imp seemed to realize his own words and swallowed them faster than he had said them, and without any warning, he chucked the kettle, as hard as his little twiggy arms could, directly at Gwen.

This time she didn’t have the chance to duck.

Gwen saw stars. The kettle was cast iron, and the imp was stronger than she gave it credit for. It connected with her forehead and sent her sprawling back against the tower’s wall with another clang. Gwen threw her hands to her face, cursing loudly and sliding senselessly against the wall and floor as she tried and failed to gain purchase. The wet rugs bunched at her sabatons and the tea kettle kept getting caught underfoot and rolling her backwards. She heard, rather than saw, all four of his clawed feet scuttling up the stairs like a frightened dog beneath the sounds of her own struggle. With a scream, Gwen kicked the rugs free of her feet and the kettle clean across the room, shoving herself upright. The paladin screwed her eyes shut and threw her sword down.

“Come back down here!” she screamed, stepping over ‘Vern’s’ body so she could reach the stairs. She wasn’t expecting an answer. “I won’t hurt you!” Gwen added in a much quieter voice. That was partially true, she wanted to ask the thing questions, and generally liked to refrain from violence if it could be helped. Unfortunately for Gwendoline, it could rarely be helped, and her entire face was smarting. She waited a beat for a response and then began trudging up the stairs, ignoring the dull throb emanating from the impact zone throughout her entire head.

The chair she had seen earlier was empty, and she continued upwards to the third level, all the while speaking in as calm but loud a voice she could manage through grit teeth; “I need to know more about Vern, he may have been a very bad man! Let me ask you some questions, please, and I won’t take anyone’s head!”

The third floor was a bit less boring than the first two. The walls were covered by a bookcase, the wooden panels following the curve of the stone walls behind them. Each shelf was full of knick knacks and dust. Jagged chunks of crystal and spindly plant stems with fuzzy leaves, bird and fish and rat bones, metal instruments and trinkets and tubes set up in between all of the books. The shelves broke in the center of the room, an arched little cove cut into them where an oil lamp hung unlit. Beneath was a small table with various, incriminating things on it, like mortars and pestles and scales, all kinds of little glass vials and broken bottles, quills in dried inkwells. Enough to convince any layman of Vern’s profession, surely.

There was a latch door on the ceiling, but the rope ladder attached to it hadn’t been completely unfurled; instead it hung limply so that the rope was in a loose coil, stuck against the nail lock. The thing was still in the room.

Next to the stair entrance on Gwen’s right was a sad little bedroll, not even a cot, with bits of hay sticking out bellow the fur blanket on top of it. The blanket had a lump beneath it, and the lump seemed to have a long, pointed nose attached.

Even assuming it was out of tea kettles, Gwen didn’t want to alarm it. Instead of addressing the lump, she simply spoke with a steady, but softer voice, to the room at large.

“I am sorry if he was your friend, imp. I. I did not intend to…end his life. Honestly. He caught me by surprise. I am a paladin from the Order of Fragan’s Templar, to the north of Backwater. I was tasked to…investigate reports of a necromancer terrorizing the woods surrounding Backwater and the road to Capitol. I truly mean you no harm, so long as you intend none in return.”

The lump stirred, poking a claw out so that the fur could be pulled back to reveal a narrowed, yellow eye. This time, his voice was more level, accusatory even, than afraid.

“Seems like a gayand quick in-inspectigation.”

“Investigation. I was attacked.” Gwen bit back.

“Ah didnae hear ye cum ben in. Didnae hear anyain let ye in.”

“You were asleep. The door was open; I didn’t hear anyone behind me!” Gwen pinched the bridge of her nose, “I entered just to talk, but since it was dark I was on alert. I was told this man was very dangerous. I saw you and. Well, I became frightened!” She paced forward and stood before the bedroll, using a foot to kick the fur clean away from the imp. He remained bent over, looking up at her. “So, you are Vern’s…familiar? He was a practitioner of some sort, I see.” Gwen gestured to the room around her.

The imp sat up onto its knees, still staring up all small and pathetic.

“A wis his slae.” He said, simply. He seemed to chew the rest of her words over but remained silent otherwise.

“Slae-slave? Was he practicing the dark path?” She asked after a moment. The imp shot her a questioning look. “Necromancy! A wicked pact with some malignant force?” Gwen pressed.

“Uh, he. Ye mean, the witch? Fit path? The wids?”

“Did he raise the dead? Was your master some sort of evil wizard, or otherwise unlawful caster? Did he rob graves, steal towns children and sacrifice animals, consort with the spirits and the like? And please, annunciate this time.”

The imp seemed to understand this and nodded slowly, placing a claw to his lower lip.

“Nay, Ah dinnae think sae.” He adjusted himself to stand and crossed his arms over his chest as if he were self-conscious in regards to what he was about to say, “He mostly wrote mince doon in, uh, in books fur fowk fa couldnae reid. They’d pey him tae scrieve a lot, or make tae make queer balms an sic, stuff thon smellit odd or brunt bricht in jars, an sometimes he e’en conjured portals!” He relaxed a bit as he explained, seemingly distracted with his own tale, moving his hands about, “Or skin a coney--”

“A coney?” She had to pause this time around, though she initially noticed he talked a bit oddly, she hadn’t heard him say enough to catch the accent. Even still, it wasn’t familiar. Mostly understandable, when he talked slow. Perhaps similar to the Northerly elves at most, but very off.

“Jumpy fur craiter, wit the lang lugs an sic.” Fizzle mimicked whatever a coney was by grabbing at his large ears and making an unidentifiable face.

Gwen just shrugged, signaling the imp to continue.

“Deer too, but then he fair hae me skin it an take aw the coin an fur an then!? Guess on whit he dae. He’d gae an send it off tae the witch! He aye talkit aboot her! The witch! The witch I thoucht ye wis. But yer’re no? Yer’re no gyan…tae kill me, richt?” He finished, seeming to remember he wasn’t alone and looked up at Gwen like he’d just spilt milk.

Gwen found herself leaning in, even squinting as she tried to decipher just what the little creature was saying. She caught the gist of it all, up until this point, but he spoke so fast, and all of his words had a way of melting into each other, stumbling and lilting at the oddest moments. She almost wasn’t sure if it was common tongue.

She put her hand to her mouth and rubbed her upper lip. So. The man hadn’t been a necromancer. She eyed the imp a bit as it spoke. It could be lying, or perhaps not know the difference between a portal mage and a necromancer. She let his question linger in the air for a moment before regarding the creature with a sigh. Gwen at least understood that he did not want to die.

“No imp. I will spare your life.” She said, with a bit more monotony than she had intended. Had she not been so distracted with the current predicament, she might’ve found the way he perked up endearing, in a pitiful way. Like a pig spared the slaughter. But, instead, Gwen sunk to floor next to the imp (even when seated, it barely met her eye line) and pressed both hands over her mouth once more, staring straight ahead. “Vern. Vern was his name, you said?” The imp nodded. “Vern…did he have family? Friends, the like?” she asked from beneath her gauntlets.

“No…I dunno aboot the witch, bit, aside frae me an a puckle fowk, nae a body comes bi affen.”

“Fowk? Do you mean folk? The people. Like, towns people, from Backwater? Do they come often asking for things like portals and potions?”

The imp thought for a moment, his red irises rolling up to the side to regard a stray cobweb floating down in a beam of sunlight.

“Na, no anymore. Ah actually cannae remember fin we haed ane. Mebbe aroon lest hairst.”

“Huh?”

“Hairst! Neeps n pumpkins, ye ken?”

“Pumpkins.” She was losing patience. Luckily, Gwen dealt with her fair share of Northerners while posted at the wall, though the conversations were often limited to work related issues. “H-harvest? You mean the autumn, when the leaves fall?” Fizzle nodded excitedly. And in turn, Gwen nodded solemnly, then stood to pace in front of the imp. His head trailed after her movements. “Okay. Yes. We are getting somewhere, despite the clear barrier of tongues. And you, what is your name?”

“Fizzle.”

“Fizzle. Good. Yes. Were you, fond? Of Vern?”

Fizzle simply shook his head, a definite ‘NO’.

“He enslaved you, you said? Made you do things against your will and skin rabbits for no pay?”

“He foond me innae tree stump ane day an pit me innae sack! Ah was hidin an he still foond me. Ah dunno how! Ilky time Ah triit tae scowp awa faet, he wad aye track me doon an 'en dunk me intae the river till Ah cooldn’t stain it na mair!” Fizzle crossed his arms and huffed, looking away for a moment to consider his words before looking back up to the woman. “Aye, he did bad magick. But nae daith magicks.”

Gwen leaned forward excitedly, latching onto one of Fizzle’s words. “Okay, okay, so…would you perhaps say that he was a bad man? A mean man?” she asked, eyeing one of the many decorative squashes peppering the tower. It stared back at her.

“He wis mean an he lovit tae zap fin ah let kettle fussle afore fly cup. Een time he gart me boo like a bench, ower on ma hands an knees an he dane putten his feet on ma back, aw kis ah accidentally brunt his favourite stool!”

Gwen nodded eagerly as she walked around the room, and continued shaking her head to herself well after Fizzle had finished speaking. There was ample evidence supporting Vern’s ‘treachery’. From his choice in literature to the indentured servitude of a sick sand imp! Gwen was smiling to herself as she considered this: he probably enchanted the poor beast to make it sentient (and green)! She was sure the Order would not be pleased about that in the least. Truly a vile, vile man!

“Okay! Great.” She clapped her gloved hands together with a metallic smack, startling Fizzle; “Well, there we have it, my little friend! I came to investigate Vern. I followed the tips of the towns people, and two unscrupulous bandits who tried to accost me on the road here! They told me of his ways, how he had devils shooting fire from their hands. I entered his tower in search of him, just to talk! To confront him, and yet the coward attacked me without warning.” She paused her theatrics to turn and look at Fizzle, eliciting a nod from him which made her assume he was following along and compliant. “So I defended myself! And rightfully so, as I come to find, he’s put some sort of evil enchantment on you, to make you walk upright and wear clothes and speak as if you’re a regular halfling! What other forest critters he must have tortured!” Fizzle raised a brow ridge at this, but Gwen continued on, “The townsfolk will be happy to be rid of that man, of this I am certain.”

“Fit div ye mean, enhancement? On me?” he looked himself over, but saw nothing awry.

Gwen bit her lip. Was it cruel to tell a donkey it’s true nature? Certainly not if it, as donkeys ordinarily cannot understand you. But a talking donkey? Who ever heard of such a thing. Informing poor Fizzle as to what he was seemed akin to kicking a puppy begging for scraps. Needless cruelty (and Gwen had her fill of that for the day). But the imp just looked up to her, and despite her best efforts, she found herself relenting. She figured he deserved to know, and besides, she liked animals quite a lot.

“Well, you are but an imp, are you not? Never in my days have I encountered a walking, talking imp. Let alone a green one! And so far north.”

Fizzle was shaking his head before Gwen was even finished, “Am fae wye wye up north, past the waa.” Fizzle considered this for a second as he noted Gwen’s confusion, “The big, lang rock. Miekle rocks n sic! Man made.”

“The wall?”

“Aye! The waa. Vern wis buying dwarven wares n fit not, fin he fand me up near the mountains. Aire’s a lot o’ ma kin up aire. The caves an moors are ours. Belong tae us.”

“The north? The Great North, with dwarves?! I’ve never heard of sand imps living anywhere but south! In the salt flats and around the shores with those wild folk.” Now Gwen was shaking her head. “That would explain the accent, however.”

“Nae wi Dwarves, no, jis near tham. We hate dwarves an they hate us, an ah div nae ken fit the fuck an imp is, bit am a goblin, lady. A’ve nivver been faarer sooth nor here.”

“Repeat that last bit, where you just cursed at me.” Gwen asked, impassively. She was staring past the little thing, gears turning in her head trying to work out what he was saying.

“Err, Dwarves, richt? Sae, they hate me, an I hate ‘em. Dunno if they name us ‘imp’, bit Aim tellin ye, Aim a goblin.”

Gwen shook her head dismissively—semantics didn’t matter, and she was certain that whatever a ‘goblin’ called itself didn’t change the fact that it was an imp. She knew there were multiple tribes of elves who looked different enough from one another, and humans and halflings and dwarves had the tendency to range from an alabaster white to deep, rich browns and near blacks depending where they lived. Maybe sand imps weren’t just confined to the sands! Maybe they could be green?

“No matter, Fizzle, let’s just keep this between you and I. Those I answer too are not particularly fond of Northerners, and will have a much easier time understanding sand imps.” She filed away his strange account for later consideration; more important was the matter of staging the scene. Fizzle shrugged and continued to look up to her expectantly. It dawned on her that she wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. If the town’s excuse for law enforcement came to access the scene, they would surely want to get rid of the little guy. Gwen sort of pitied him. He had been helpful despite the kettle incident, and she didn’t exactly want to send him from his recent slavery straight to death. “But we will worry about that when the time comes. For now, I need your help.”

Gwen was not proud of this talent, no, but she recognized it as a valuable one nonetheless.

Over years of training under Thalodin Lldewig, she had learned many ways to…suggest things. Through dress, body language, gesture, facial expression, choosing words, and perhaps most importantly, through setting up bodies of evidence (as well as literal, dead bodies) to insinuate. Certain things. Many things. In fact, according to Thalodin, you could say just about anything, without actually ever saying a word. Things that may benefit him, and keep any officials outside (or sometimes, even inside) the Order from asking too many unnecessary questions.

Gwen didn’t like to think of this as lying. She detested lying. Every time she muttered even a white lie, she could feel the eyes of her patron saint burning a hole through her, even from a young age before she ever committed herself to the Order. But again, her mentor had the unfortunate habit of stretching the truth to such a degree that he was ‘forced’ to stage the occasional ‘crime scene’ in a way that may have ‘flattered’ him more than it should have.

It was something that took Gwen quite a while to come to terms with, but eventually, it rubbed off on her. She didn’t like to steal, to cheat or lie or kill, yet situations like Vern’s had been requiring her to do just that as of late.

She thought about her recent expulsion. The shame made her stomach sink and cheeks burn bright. But then the anger set in. Gwendoline was far from perfect and she was so keenly aware of this. It didn’t bother her, if anything it was a reminder and motivation to continue striving for grace; to earn redemption and pass it along to others who needed it more. There was nothing she hated more than injustice and while she knew it was not her place to enact revenge, seeing such wild imbalances in power such as the Elven nobility or even among her own temple’s magistrate made her blood boil.

So she killed an elderly man? It was an accident, and it was done. If she was smart, it could benefit her, and even Fizzle (though admittedly, she was far less concerned about that if she were being honest.) It would quell the minds of the townspeople and perhaps scare off whatever else was lurking in the wood.

She considered these things as she dragged Vern out of the tower. Fizzle helped Gwen to locate a wax dipped tarp Vern kept in the cellar. Together, they slid the tarp beneath his body and Gwen had opted to do the heavy lifting while Fizzle focused on cleaning. Once the blood was sufficiently cleaned and the floors decent, he was to collect all of the tea cups and gourds and doilies in the tower and put them in a sack. By then, Gwen would have staged Vern’s body; dressing him up in more practical battle attire and scoring the earth around their supposed fight stage.

#LONG #r

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sourwolf-sterek32 · 5 years

Text

Hurt ( Daryl Dixon Mini-Series )

Summary: You learnt very early that it wasn’t the dead you should fear, it was the living, especially the Saviours. It’s been six months since you managed to escape the Sanctuary with a little girl called Clementine. The two of you finding your old family farm, away from humanity. That was until you found a man named Daryl Dixon trying to hotwire one of your trucks.

Pairings: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: descriptions of blood, gut, physical injuries, slight reference to sexual assault, past abuse and child abuse (none of this written in detail)

A/N: For those of you who play The Walking Dead Game and know who Clementine is, picture Season 2 Clem. For those of you who don’t that is fine and doesn’t matter, just picture the little girl in the photo below when you hear the name Clementine.

Also I have written Daryl as demisexual in this fic and the reader as asexual (but this is only addressed in a later chapter)

Chapter 1-

It's been six months since the Saviours killed your whole group, but that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that you lived through it. He took you hostage back to the Sanctuary along with Clementine, who had become like a little sister to you over the years.

For the first week Simon had locked the two of you in an empty closet, stripping you of your weapons and clothes. Giving you a small blanket to share between the two of you, but you immediately wrapped the thin blanket around Clementine, trying to cover her up and keep her warm. She was only 11 years old, she was a child, she didn't deserve any of that.

It wasn't until a week later that you finally met Negan and he asked if you wanted to be his wife. You would have told him to fuck off, especially after his men killed your whole group, but then he started making you an offer. He told you if you said yes to him then Clementine would be safe and could stay with you, but if you said no then he couldn't guarantee her safety and said the two of you would probably be split up. So you said yes and hated every minute of it.

Eventually you managed to escape during the middle of the night with Clementine, but you had no idea where to go. The Saviours knew where your old camp was and that would be the first place Negan would look, so you decided to go back to your old family farm. It was fairly isolated from any major towns or highways which is exactly what you were looking for.

The farm needed a bit of work done to it since nobody had lived there for nearly three years when the apocalypse started. But the house was still in perfect condition along with most the barns and sheds on the property. Between the two of you, you managed to fix the broken fences and instal new ones to make sure no walkers could get inside the property.

But what surprised you the most was how two horses, two cows and a alpaca managed to survive. The small paddocks that they had been in had the tall cattle fences around it so a few walkers wouldn't have been able to break it down, which meant no herds had made their way through otherwise they wouldn't be still standing.

You taught Clementine all about living life on a farm, but the two of you still went outside the property to make sure you kept your skills sharp against walkers. You taught her how to ride a horse and milk a cow. You showed her how to fish in the small river that was located a few miles from the property. You also showed her how to shoot a recurve bow with your old targets and bow that your father used to teach you with when you were a kid.

After the shit you had to go through at the Sanctuary, the two of you absolutely loved the farm, but you never let your guard down even with the fences.

"Clem, breakfast is ready!" You shouted from the kitchen of the farm house as you finished cooking the powdered eggs. Your father used to love powered eggs before all this and you were suddenly glad he always stocked up on them.

"Why do I have to wake up so early? The world ended, can't I sleep in?" You heard the young girl question as she walked into the kitchen rubbing her eyes.

"It's important to have some kind of schedule even if the world has changed. Plus it's eight in the morning, it's not early." You responded glancing over at her before you poured the scrabbled eggs onto plates.

"You can't tell the time anymore." She argued, sitting down at the kitchen table as you placed her plate in front of before taking a seat opposite her.

"I liked it better when you weren't this smart. Seriously, pretty soon you're gonna be as tall as me." You stated causing her to grin happily as she began shovelling the eggs into her mouth. She had grown up so much since when you first found her. Back when all of this started you and your friend, Lee had found her hiding in a tree house, she had only been eight years old. No kid should have to grow up in this and it forced her to mature quickly, but she was highly intelligent for a kid her age and that definitely helped her a lot in this new world.

"Do you want me to give you a hair cut? You said it's getting a bit long the other day." You suggested between mouthfuls as you glanced over at Clementine as she ran her fingers through her dark brown hair that was now below her shoulders.

"Lee always told me to keep my hair short. Harder for walkers to grab it." She replied and you nodded in agreement.

"He always was the smart one." You said with a sad smile. Lee had died from a walker bite a year before your group ran into the Saviours and you were forced to shoot your best friend before he turned. It was ages ago, but it still hurt thinking about him.

"He wouldn't want you to be sad." Clementine suddenly said snapping you away from your thoughts as she stared at you with big hazel eyes.

"I know." You replied as you continued eating your eggs. "Eat your breakfast, then I'll do your hair before we feed the animals."

"There you go, kiddo." You said as you finished tying her freshly cut hair into two low pony tails as you placed her signature baseball cap on her head. You weren't sure what the letter 'D' on the front of the cap meant, but you knew her parents had bought it for her before the apocalypse.

"Thanks Y/N." She said fixing the hat on her head as you placed the scissors back in the bathroom draw.

"I reckon it's time to get to work and let the animals out the barn, don't you think?" You asked glancing over at her as she eagerly nodded and you smiled. "Can you go outside and turn the generator off first? I don't think we'll need it again until tonight, don't wanna waste fuel."

"Alright, I'll meet you by the barn." She replied racing out the bathroom as you made your way into your bedroom getting changed out your pyjamas and into your usual clothes. Jeans, white tank top and sleeveless flannel shirt, along with your cowgirl boots and your old cowgirl hat, that you found in one of the cupboards from when you were a teenager.

You slipped your recurve bow over your shoulders along with your quiver of arrows before strapping on your belt holding your knife and revolver. The Saviours had taken all your weapons, but luckily nobody had looted your family farm because your father had a whole gun safe full of weapons.

"Y/N!" Clementine's voice screamed in panic and your blood ran cold. The last time you had heard her scream like that was when the Saviours had showed up and began gunning down your group.

"Clem!" You shouted, sprinting out your bedroom as she ran through the front door and you knew by her expression that something was wrong. "What happened? Are you hurt?" You quickly questioned as you dropped down onto one knee, so you could look her in the eye as you scanned her body for any form of injury.

"There's a man by the barn. He didn't see me though." She answered pointing in the direction of the barn that was located a few hundred metres away from the house. Shit, how'd they find you? You made sure your tracks couldn't be tracked and its been months, how'd they only just find you now?

"Did you see anyone else outside?" You asked, but she shook her head and you nodded trying to think of a plan of attack. There had to be more of them, the Saviours never left the Sanctuary without a group. "Go upstairs, you remember how to get in the attic? Good, go into the attic and shut the latch behind you. Take this and you shoot anyone who tries to open it." You instructed handing her your revolver which you knew she could shoot after your many lessons with her.

"What if you try get in the attic?" She asked and you smiled slightly at her smart thinking.

"I'll call out to you, so you know it's me and not a Saviour. Now go." You ordered, watching as she raced up the stairs before you walked towards the front door, grabbing the double barrel shotgun as you opened the door quietly.

You crouched down, so your body was hidden by the wooden railing around the house as you peaked through the gaps of the rails, but you couldn't see anyone near the barn. Slowly you stood back up and began walking down the stairs in the direction of the barn when you heard a car door click open to your right. You quickly spun around, your gun raised in the direction of the vehicles you had parked in the old garage near the house. You couldn't see the man, but you figured he was near the old red pickup truck since the drivers side door was open.

You had two trucks and one small commodore, all full of gas and boxes of supplies in case of an emergency, along with an old dirt bike that belonged to your brother.

You quickly jogged over to the garage, your back pressed against the outside wall of the shed as you listened for any movement inside, but you couldn't hear a thing. Slowly you made your way around to the front of the garage as you peaked your head inside, noticing the truck door still open as you quietly made your way towards it, your gun raised.

As you reached the side of the truck you saw a man crouching down by the drivers side door, leaning inside the truck as he tried hot-wiring the engine from under the steering wheel. You knew the man hadn't seen you yet as you took a few more steps closer until you were standing a few metres behind him. You didn't recognise the man, with his shoulder length dark hair and very distinct leather vest with angel wings on the back, but there were a lot of Saviours at the Sanctuary, you could have easily not bumped into this Saviour before. He also he nasty looking cut on the side of his thigh, blood covering part of pants and you knew you'd be able to out run him if it came to that.

"Don't fucking move." You ordered, pumping the shotgun, your finger hovering over the trigger as the man visibly froze at the sound of the gun cocking. You could see his right hand slowly moving towards the car seat where you saw a crossbow sitting on seat right beside him. "You try grab that crossbow, you'll be dead before you hit the ground!" You yelled sternly and the man listened as he lowered his hand, his back still facing you as your mind raced trying to figure out whether to kill him or not.

"I don't want no trouble." The man responded in a thick southern accent as he slowly raised his hands trying to show that he wasn't a threat, but you knew better than anyone to not let your guard down.

"Who are you?" You questioned, knowing full well he would say 'Negan' if he was a Saviour.

"Daryl." He answered and you swore under your breath. He wasn't a Saviour. How the hell did he find this place? What were you going to do with him? If you let him live, he might come back with more people and try take the farm from you and you couldn't risk that. But, what if he was a good person? You couldn't kill an innocent man, could you?

"You alone?" You asked and the man nodded as you picked up his crossbow from the seat, inspecting the weapon for a split second before turning your attention back to Daryl. "Good." You commented before slamming the butt of the crossbow against the mans head as he dropped to the ground, unconscious. Now what were you going to do with him?

*One Hour Later*

"The man isn't a Saviour. He must have just stumbled upon the farm by accident." You explained between push ups as Clementine sat on the kitchen bench watching you. When all of this started you were just a college student studying Veterinarian Science, you knew how to shoot guns and bows from growing up on the farm, but you weren't fit or very strong and all that changed once the apocalypse started. Lee helped you train every day to get strong and improve your stamina, knowing it could be the difference between life and death, and now three years later, you had definitely improved.

"If he isn't a Saviour, then why did you tie him up in the horse stables?" She questioned as you finished your last set of push ups before grabbing your towel, wiping the sweat from your brow.

"We don't know what this man is capable of. Now, I'm going to check on him before I go out hunting." You replied, grabbing your bow and quiver off the table.

"Can I come with you?" She asked looking up at you with hopeful eyes, but you shook your head as you grabbed your cowgirl hat from the table.

"Not this time, kiddo. I need you to stay here and make sure the man wasn't lying about being alone. If you so much as think you see another person walking around the property you call me through the radio. But, don't go into the stables, alright?" You asked handing the young girl a walkie talkie before clipping yours to your belt.

"I can do that." She replied, taking the walkie as you pulled her into a hug.

"I'll be back in a couple of hours." You said, kissing the top of her head before you grabbed the first aid kit from the bench as you made your way outside.

You made your way into the stables cautiously as you walked into the first pen and you sighed in relief spotting Daryl still unconscious, sitting against the wooden post with his hands tied behind his back.

Slowly you walked into the stall, placing your bow and the first aid kit on the hay covered ground before you knelt down beside him, trying to look for any other injuries as you scanned his body only just realising how attractive the man actually was. He had a cute little mole above the left side of his lips hiding amongst the hair on his upper lip. His bare muscular arms were covered in dirt, but he didn't seem to have any further injuries other than the one on his leg.

"Please don't wake up, while I do this." You muttered to yourself as you pulled out your knife and cut the fabric of his pants around the wound. You figured he wouldn't want you pulling his pants down so he was gonna have to deal with a hole in the side of his pants.

It was a fairly decent size gash on his thigh and you were curious as to how he got it. You found yourself glancing back up at his face, taking in all the details before you shook your head. This was not the time, he could be a mass murder for all you knew.

"Don't make me regret helping you." You whispered as you began cleaning the wound with disinfectant before grabbing the needle and threat as you began stitching the cut. Once you finished you quickly wrapped a thick bandage around his thigh, to stop the wound from getting an infection before you double checked his restrains and left, heading out to hunt.

"Y/N?" Clementine's voice called through your walkie talkie, scarring away the buck that you had been tracking as you sighed pulling out your radio.

"I'm here. Everything alright?" You asked through the radio as you scanned your surroundings making sure there weren't any walkers nearby.

"The man's awake. I can hear him yelling."

"I'll be back in five minutes. Just stay inside, okay?" You replied, slinging the rope of rabbits over your shoulder. It wasn't a buck, but the four rabbits would have to do for now.

"Copy that." Clementine answered and with that you began making your way back through the woods towards the farm. You had taken Daryl's crossbow out with you, but after one shot at a rabbit with it you immediately slung it over your shoulder and went back to your recurve bow after missing the animal entirely.

As you jumped the back fence into the property, you made your way towards the wooden stables. You could hear Daryl inside, clearly trying get free of his restraints, but you knew he wouldn't be able to.

"Your crossbow is terribly unbalanced." You called out, walking into the stable Daryl was in to find him sitting where you had left him as his head shot up in your direction. You froze for a split second as you took in his piercing blue eyes watching you cautiously and you could tell he was trying to read you.

"Why were you trying to hot-wire one of my trucks?" You asked bluntly as you leant against the wooden wall opposite him, dropping his crossbow down beside you.

"I needed a vehicle." He simply replied in a deep southern drawl and you rolled your eyes.

"Well the keys were hidden in the glovebox. You didn't need to rip apart the inside of my truck to get the wires out." You responded as Daryl stared at you for a few seconds trying to figure you out. You watched as his eyes scanned up and down your body, not in a creepy way, but in a curious way.

"Why didn't ya kill me?" He questioned, realising that you weren't going to say anything further.

"I don't know. Usually I would have, but there was something about you that I can't quite put my finger on." You answered honestly, slinging your recurve bow off over your shoulder, leaning it against the wall beside the crossbow before you took a few steps towards him, but you instantly stopped as he sat up a bit straighter.

"Look, you said you didn't want any trouble and neither do I." You said, holding your hands up slightly to try show him that you weren't a threat as he scoffed.

"That why ya knocked me out and tie me up in this barn?" He snapped and you flinched at his sudden raised voice as you shook your head.

"Firstly, you're in a stable, not a barn. Secondly, you trespassed on my farm and tried stealing one of my cars, what else was I meant to do?" You questioned in annoyance adjusting the rope of rabbits over your shoulder as Daryl shrugged.

"What's ya name?" He asked, after a few minutes of silence, his eyes glancing at the dead rabbits before focusing back on you.

"Doesn't matter." You answered, shaking your head.

"What are ya gonna do with me?" He asked, but he didn't sound scared as he stared over at you, taking in your country hat and boots, realising you were definitely a farm girl.

"I don't know yet." You sighed, running your fingers through your hair. "Look, you're safe on the farm, no walkers can get in. I built the fences myself, as long as you shut the gate when you came in?" You asked, only just realising that the front gate could be open and you could feel yourself starting to panic at the thought of walkers walking around the property with Clementine inside.

"I shut it." He answered and you sighed with relief before opening the plastic bag where the first aid kit was as you pulled out a water bottle and unscrewed the cap as you knelt down beside Daryl, holding the bottle in front of him questioningly. He looked as though he was going to refuse the water before he thought better of it and nodded as you held the bottle to his lips allowing to take a few sips.

"Thanks, Rabbit." He said after a few seconds and for some reason you found yourself smiling slightly at the nickname, but you quickly shook your head knowing you were being stupid.

"There's gonna be someone outside the stable at all times with an automatic rifle, so don't even think about trying something." You lied, screwing the cap back on the water bottle before you grabbed the two bows and began making your way out the stable. "I'll be back later." You said over your shoulder, not giving him a chance to reply as you walked away. Shit. What the hell were you going to do with him?

NEXT CHAPTER

A/N: Tumblr is being really annoying and not showing posts with tags and links in them so you can find the link to my masterlist in my bio and I will reblog this with my tag list.

I hope you guys are liking this fic so far, it’s very different from my other fics, so if you do like it please like, reblog, comment etc because knowing you guys like my writing just really makes me happy and encourages me to continue.

#Daryl Dixon #Daryl Dixon x Reader #The Walking Dead fanfiction #Daryl Dixon Fanfiction #Asexual Reader #daryl dixon imagine #daryl x reader #twd #twd fanfiction #twd masterlist

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hipsofsteel · 5 years

Note

bro you gotta tell me more about chris

Gladly! The dad man is important to me. And so, we meet…

Christopher “Chris” Lewis Joseph, personification of Eastern Oregon/Nyo!Oregon

Credit to crikadelic, who will not be tagged in this post for reasons.

Physical Description

At 5′10, with dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a slightly olive skin tone, Chris is a very good looking man. He’s got well trimmed facial hair that can be a bit scruffy and thin, but he maintains it well. He’s well muscled from his work as a cattle rancher, and general farmwork. He is half Nez Perce (Nimiipuu) and half English, born in the area of present day Joseph, Oregon in 1806, and celebrates his birthday on February 14th.

Chris’s face claim is model Julian Schratter. He has no voice claims at the moment.

Personality

Christopher and Beverly were cut from the same cloth in some respects. Controlling either of them is nearly impossible. He’s a force of nature when he wants to be, stubborn and insistent and nearly impossible to be forced to do something he refuses to do. He’s as free-spirited and wild as he wants to be.

At the same time, he shows a remarkable degree of caution and thoughtful behavior that his twin sister tends to lack. If not caught in an urgent situation or in his own whirlwind of passions, he approaches things with well-thought out responses and is a calm and collected and highly intelligent man. He’s a great person to go to for advice.

He’s also very attached to those he forms close relationships with, either as family or friends. He’ll always have his twin sister’s back, and anyone who finds themselves in the position of being “adopted” as his child has just gained an ally and parental figure who will love them and defend them endlessly. Although, dispute it as he does, he does have a favorite child (Adam).

Sexuality and Gender

Behold, the one and only heterosexual cisgender OC I’ve made for my States. Chris is an incredible ally however, who openly supports all his friends and family.

Also, his type of women is as follows, so I promise you can trust him.

And he means it.

Religion

Chris has a personally styled fusion between Christianity and the indigenous religions he was raised around on the Columbian Plateau. He is not really big on explaining his faith as it’s a deeply personal and conflicting matter even for himself, so I don’t have much more to say than that for him. However, one of his two most irreplaceable objects he owns is a copy of Henry Harmon Spalding’s translation of the Book of Matthew into Nez Perce. Take from that what you will.

Employment

Chris has previously made his living as a farmer and for a brief while as a blacksmith, but nowadays, he owns a cattle range and is a full-time rancher, with a large range area in Central/Eastern Oregon. He also raises horses on the side, both as a secondary income and to continue traditions of horse breeding he was raised in with the Nez Perce.

Pets

I’ll try to keep this brief, but Chris has seven animals he considers close pets/his long lifespan has affected theirs, so I’ll divide it into sections.

Dogs

Zip and Lucky

Zip is Chris’s working dog, a purebred blue heeler who knows how to move a cow herd as well as he knows that when Chris puts on dark and clean pants, he’s leaving the house for meetings (sadness) and when he puts on less nice “farm” pants, they’re working stock that day (happiness!)

Lucky is based on Rincon, the dog owned by Chris’s faceclaim. Lucky is a beloved pet mutt and gets to come with Chris and Zip to work cattle, although his main job is to sit and stay since he has zero Cow Sense.

Horses

Jackrabbit, Strawberry, Juniper, and Celilo

Is Chris a dog or cat person? Neither, he’s a horse person (followed by dogs).

Jackrabbit is Chris’s horse he’s had the longest, serving as Chris’s warhorse during his youth. He’s one of the fastest horses any of the western states own, and he’s very selective about who’s allowed to ride him (Christopher, Beverly, Adam, and Helen are the only people who can). He’s a wild tempered buckskin Nez Perce Horse stallion.

Strawberry is a red roan Appaloosa that Chris has had nearly as long as he’s had Jackrabbit. She’s a gentle mare and very good with people.

Juniper is a Kiger Mustang mare, slightly more testy than Strawberry, and more prone to being spooked, but she’s a good horse.

Celilo is a palomino American Quarter Horse gelding, bought to be a reliable pack-horse for Chris. He’s as gentle as Strawberry and loves people.

Jackrabbits

Little Lady or “Lady”

Once upon a time, Chris and Juniper accidentally spooked a mother jackrabbit into the claws of a hawk, and then nearly immediately found her babies. Chris raised the three kits and released them into the wild shortly afterwards, but Lady stuck around his house. She appears pretty reliably every year, and seems to have been affected by his long lifespan, so he gave her a name and treats her a bit more like a pet than anything else.

He loves to joke that Jackrabbit met an actual jackrabbit, and everyone around him glares at him.

Relationships with other States

Family first

Western Oregon/Oregon

Credit to crikadelic again.

Sometimes, your twin sister is a lumberjack lesbian (quite literally on both counts) with arms made of steel and one hell of a right hook. Also she’s way more liberal than you, and politically you get dragged along with whatever she wants.

Ironically, once upon a time, Beverly wasn’t the main personification of the Oregon Territory. It wasn’t until American settlement picked up that the power of the state swung to her. Before then, Christopher held most of the power, but this was also when the Oregon Territory including all of Washington, Idaho, parts of Montana and Wyoming, and since Chris was entirely east of the Cascades, well, it made sense that he held the upper hand. Only later as the size of the land they represented shrank did power trade hands.

As independent as Beverly is, and as willing to tell her twin to fuck off, they have a very close relationship. They tell each other off, and sparks fly between them quite often, with Beverly usually being the one to storm off while Chris remains a wall of a human being. But they’ll quietly make up out of sight later, and then be right back to joking around and teasing each other.

And when it comes to advice, Beverly has no closer confidant than her twin, and often shows him the vulnerability that no one else sees. They trust each other implicitly, knowing that despite their differences, they won’t lead the other astray. No one could ask for a better twin sister.

Eastern Washington/Nyo!Washington

Credit to ME!

First off, he’s the one on the right, the one on the left is Idaho (we’ll get to him in a bit).

Adam Landes-Bush is the original cause of a radiation of dad energy that seeps from Christopher at pretty much every moment of every day. After retrieving Adam from the Whitman Mission shortly after the Whitman Massacre, Chris basically said “My weird looking white kid now” and ran with it.

He and Adam had to learn to live together fast with help from Helen, as Adam is mute, and Helen taught them both Plains Sign Talk. But Chris adored Adam and taught him how to shoot, hunt, ride, and accepted his limitations when he hit them. He did his best to give Adam a good life, even when it meant sending him away from impending war to live with Martha, who he barely knew then.

They remain close, sharing more culturally with each other and Idaho than they sometimes do with the western halves of their states. Chris was the first person Adam came out to, and the fact that Chris instantly accepted allowed him to embrace his identity as a gay man in a time that it was socially, at best, simply not talked about. Chris would and has killed to protect this boy, and would gladly do so again.

Western Washington/Washington

Credit to crikadelic

Martha, Adam’s younger sister, views Christopher as a father figure, and so, in turn, he’s a little nicer to her than he is to Beverly sometimes.

Christopher and Martha met at a crossroads in both their lives. Christopher had been involved in the Nez Perce War and come home feeling lost and alone. Beverly had taken off around the same time to run wild in the Southwest, leaving a still very young Martha to fend for herself and Clark, and now Adam. Martha was struggling to handle the load, and Christopher needed to find his place in this unfamiliar world, and fast.

They were able to cooperate quickly, Chris taking on the workload of the farm and helping with Clark, allowing Martha and Adam to start growing and learning the responsibilities they needed to run a state. And in exchange, Martha taught Chris how to read and write English, and helped him improve his skills in speaking the language.

To this day, they haven’t forgotten this point in their lives, and tend to critique each other much more carefully than they critique the other halves of their states.

End of Family, onto other states

Idaho

Credit to crikadelic

Ah, Clark Ashley, who exists in the most interesting little place in Chris’s mind. He’s friends with this guy, almost a father figure, hell, helped raise the little twerp. At the same time, he’s made Adam cry before, so he could also wring his neck.

Clark and Chris have a very good and amiable relationship in general, and enjoy the other’s company. Clark admires Chris a lot, and Chris views him like a much younger version of Beverly, carrying many of her same qualities of extreme stubbornness and rampant emotions, as much as Clark will say he’s nothing like her.

However, the root of Chris’s constant problems with Clark relies mainly on one fact. Clark’s internalized homophobia at himself that affects his and Adam’s relationship, which has swayed from deeply involved romance to barely tolerating being in the same room. When Clark and Adam get into spats with their push me, pull you, almost a relationship, Chris gets caught in the middle, and always takes Adam’s side in the fight. He’s tried to even discourage them from pursuing each other at times to end the constant back and forth, but it’s never worked.

However, as Clark’s started to accept himself in the 21st century, Chris has been the one person who’s been able to reassure him that , yes, for some crazy reason, Adam still likes you, and Chris thinks that this time, for real, Clark is unlearning the toxic culture he absorbed. So, he wishes that crazy kid lots of luck.

Southern California/California

Credit to crikadelic

To say Roberto and Christopher are antagonistic would be the nicest way of putting it. Despite pretty much being of equal levels of importance to Beverly in her family, they cannot tolerate each other.

Roberto blamed Christopher for some of the worst of Beverly’s behaviors in the 1870s and 1880s, and Christopher blamed Roberto for stifling Beverly so much that she hadn’t been able to emotionally mature. Both arguments had some validity, and yet, a divide in opinions had begun.

Nowadays, Chris and Roberto are mainly antagonistic on pure principle. Chris represents a part of Oregon that is noticeably more red, and Roberto represents 55 blue electoral college votes. Chris has been considerably affected by Californication (large real estate development projects generally seen as similar to those in California), and Roberto sees him as very set in the past and unable to move forward.

Let’s just say Beverly has to work out the holiday seating arrangements very carefully.

Montana

Credit to crikadelic

Helen Rankin has been a friend since Chris met her when the Nez Perce went to trade with the Crow. She taught him sign, became an unofficial mother figure to Adam, and, much later on, officially involved with Christopher himself (they dated from 1898 to 1927).

They’re close friends and allies still. Helen’s as strong as a mountain in more ways than one, and one of the few people who can sway Chris when he’s a storm of emotions. She can be just as stubborn as him, and yet he admires her just as she is, and she feels the same about him. She’s saved his ass so many times, and he’s saved hers a few himself. If they needed the other there, they’d be there in a heartbeat.

They also additionally have an “unofficial” daughter to accompany their unofficial son in Adam. I’ve been developing a Missoula, Montana OC (Mariah Welch), and she’s been heavily influenced by Chris over the years, and is about as damn close to him as Adam.

A quick note

Before I move on to my next section, I have been tinkering with my canon in the last several months, after a friend who had allowed me to entwine my Statetalia canon very heavily with theirs ghosted me, and this has affected this character significantly.

Christopher had been involved with their Nyo!Texas in the modern day, with Helen as his best friend. However, no longer comfortable with using this person’s OCs, I have yet to decide if Chris and Helen have, in the last few years, rekindled their relationship, or if my own Texas OC, who is a woman and in the earliest stages of development, is in a romantic relationship with him. This is going to take a long while to decide for personal reasons, and I’m okay with that.

Other States-Brief Thoughts

Northern California/Nyo!California- Inexplicably, he likes Alejandra way more than Roberto. Probably because of their little side project for the independent state of Jefferson.

Kansas- Nowhere near as antagonistic as Beverly and Evelyn’s relationship. He will agree with Evelyn to a certain point, but then he has to start defending his sister. Anyhow, she’s cute.

Nebraska- Logan’s a decent guy to have a drink with, definitely would have been a good guy for Adam if Adam hadn’t been so focused on Clark. IF he and Helen don’t end up getting back together in canon, he’s lowkey pushing for Helen and Logan to get together.

New York- Literally irrelevant to him, why are you asking for an opinion on that jackass?

Texas- Absolutely one amazing, ass-kicking woman, with the gift of aim from the gods, a smoking hot body, and God, she could step on him frankly. (I reiterate, my Texas OC is in development and this is subject to change).

RANDOM FACTS

-Sniper man! Christopher has served as a sniper for several wars. The Nez Perce were noted marksmen during the Nez Perce War, and one of the US’s most noted snipers was from Eastern Oregon.

-Additionally, Christopher has always served in the US Marine Corps when he’s been fighting for the US.

-He originally was given the same last name as Beverly, Joseph-Astor. He dropped Astor following the Nez Perce War as an act of protest.

-Chris has two “paired” names from when I created his character. Beverly’s middle name is Columbia, so Christopher and Columbia, after Christopher Columbus (something neither of them is very thrilled about nowadays), and his middle name of Lewis pairs with Idaho’s first name, Clark, in honor of that famous expedition.

-Has a knife that was from Lewis and Clark’s Corps of Discovery as a trading item. It’s his second most irreplaceable object.

-Speaks Nez Perce (Niimi'ipuutímt), Chinook Jargon, Crow, Plains Sign Talk, ASL, Russian, German, Spanish, Basque, and English.

-Has the most currently established tattoos out of any of my OCs.

#casuallyeatingrocks #oc chris #aph oregon #hws oregon #nyo oregon #ask hipsofsteel #long post

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theladyoflove · 5 years

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Newbie Devotee Challenge: Day 18

WE’RE COMING TOWARDS THE END! I realised this challenge will be completed just in time to begin Aphrodite April so AAAAAAAH

Day 18: More research! Today, research the deities that are either related to or close to your deity. Include family, friends, lovers, and enemies. Who is your deity closest to?

I have been reading this ancient texts for hours and they’re actually a lot easier to read than I thought they would be! I’m really enjoying having some harp music in the background while I read through these. I’m putting a read more so you don’t have to scroll for like 30 seconds to get past this post lol.

[WARNING: THIS IS LONG]

All of this information is thanks to theoi.com!

Aphrodite’s first lover was Hesphaistos, a crippled god of blacksmiths and crafts. She was given to him as a prize for freeing this mother Hera from a golden thrown he has purposefully trapped her in, in resentment for his treatment as a baby (he was thrown off of the mountain of olympus by Hera and Zeus for his disabilities). There are some texts which show a loving nature between them such as this one:

"Venus [Aphrodite] . . . spoke to her husband, Volcanos [Hephaistos], as they lay in their golden bed-chamber, breathing into the words all her divine allurement [persuading him to forge armour for her son Aeneas in Latium] . . . Since Volcanos [Hephaistos] complied not at once, the goddess softly embraced him in snowdrift arms, caressing him here and there. Of a sudden he caught the familiar spark and felt the old warmth darting into his marrow, coursing right though his body, melting him; just as it often happens a thunderclap starts a flaming rent which ladders the dark cloud, a quivering streak of fire. Pleased with her wiles and aware of her beauty, Venus [Aphrodite] could feel them taking effect. Volcanus [Hephaistos], in love's undying thrall [conceded to her requests] . . . Thus saying, he gave his wife the love he was aching to give her; then he sank into soothing sleep, relaxed upon her breast."

Reading this made my heart feel so warm, and it made me feel like at one point they did care about one another. However, after Hesphaistos finds out his wife was sleeping with Ares he demanded a divorce (not before quite amazingly and funnily shaming the lovers).

Her next lover was obviously Ares, who she is later on in the Iliad said to be the consort of, which assumes they were married. To him she bore Phobos, Deimos, Harmonia and Eros. I really love the pairing honestly. Two forms of passion, love and anger, makes for such a dynamic and beautifully destructive relationship! I feel with Ares she is the most happy and loved compared to all her other affairs.

During a one on one duel with Athene, Ares is badly injured and Aphrodite comes down to rescue him:

“...But taking Ares by the hand the daughter of Zeus, Aphrodite, led him away, groaning always, his strength scarce gathered back into him.”

Which I think is extremely sweet of her to put herself in the way of the most deadly (and most favoured) goddess in order to protect her lover. Later on in this text it also calls her, “ ...Aphrodite glorious-crowned, the Bride of [Ares] the strong War-god...”

Her next lover in the sources is Hermes, who famously bore him Hermaphroditus. Hermes fell in love with Aphrodite’s beauty (who wouldn’t), and advanced onto her, to which she rejected. Zeus, witnissing this, pitied him. He sent an eagle to steal one of Aphrodite’s sandals and give it to hermes. In return for her sandal she agreed to sleep with him.

A source to the short translated texts here

The next lover is... not really a lover. It details the attempted unconsensual encounter of Zeus. (I don’t want to use the other more blatant word because I know how strong it can feel to read that. But keep in mind, in ancient greece “r*pe” meant anything from out of wedlock, consensual sex to kidnapping.)

"Wild his [Zeus'] desire had been for Kypris [Aphrodite], when craving but not attaining he scattered his seed on the ground, and shot out the hot foam of love self-sown, where in the fruitful land horned Kypros flourished the two-coloured generation of wild creatures (pheres) with horns [Kentauroi (Centaurs)]."

Later on, Aphrodite sleeps with Zeus out of her out own volition. From him she bore the god Priapos. A god made ugly by the curse of Hera, Zeus’ second wife. Aphrodite hurled her hideious child onto a moutain where he was found by a sheppard, who claimed the child had genitals growing from his behind.

I can’t go through all the lovers but I’ll list the rest here and the children she bore them:

DIONYSUS - bore no children (though some texts say Priapos is their child). POSEIDON - bore him Rhodos and Herophilos. NERITIES - bore no children. ADONIS - bore him Beroe. ANKHISES - bore him Aeneas and Lyros. BOUTES - bore him Eryx PHAON - bore no children. PHAETHON - bore him Astynoos

The true story of Aphrodite’s birth is something that’s very confusing and the majority of mytho-nerds and hp’s alike have come to agree-to-disagree on which one if her main birth story.

Aphrodite Ourania is the Aphrodite who is said to have been born from the severed gentials of Ouranous. This is personally the one I am in favour of because I enjoy the idea of Aphrodite being above even the king of the gods in terms of kin. That love comes before all.

Aphrodite Pandemos is given the birth story of being the daughter of Zeus and the Titaness Dione, this story also gave her the epithets Aphrodite Diôniaia and Aphrodte Dios thugatêr

Now there is another text which states: “... he [Ouranos] also was the father of Mercury (Hermes) by Dia, and of Venus by Hemera.” However in the same text it also says: “ Out of the drops of his blood sprang the Gigantes, the Melian nymphs, and according to some, Silenus, and from the foam gathering around his limbs in the sea, sprang Aphrodite” So I’m not sure if this one can be completely trusted.

Aphrodite also has SO many people she has scorned and punished. So I also wont be able to go into detail on all of them or even give a brief description, but here are a small few:

MENELAOS - who had promised the goddess a hundred cattle heads for her blessings to wed Helene. However, when he did not keep his end of the promise, she enloped his wife with Troy.

THE SIX SONS OF POESIDON - Aphrodite attempted to seek refuge on their island after birthing from the ocean. They drove her away and as punishment gave them unheathy sexual drives which lead to their deaths.

EOS - As punishment for sleeping with Aphrodite’s lover Ares, she cursed Eos to have an unquenchable thurst for younger men.

PSYKHE - Originally to be punished for her beauty, she was destined to fall in love with the most horrible beast. But her son wounded himself with his own arrow and carried her away to be his secret bride. When she betrays his trust by gazing upon his face, Aphrodite gives her many seemingly impossible tasks which she succeeds all. In the end Aphrodite accepts Psykhe as her daughter in law and she marries her lover.

MAN THIS TOOK FOREVER BUT IT WAS SO MUCH FUN! I felt an overwhelming feeling of calm and joy and I think Aphrodite is very happy that I took so much time out of my day to read about her myths!

#newbie devotee challenge #devotee challenge #aphrodite

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yeetmetotahiti · 5 years

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Alright more of Thomas’ backstory

Thomas was born to a single mother after a short lived relationship with an outlaw. He grew up with her on the outskirts of a small town like Valentine in New Mexico. Growing up his closest friend was the daughter of a local rancher. He and her played all the time near the ranch, and that’s where his love of the outdoors and exploring began. They always went off to climb the surrounding hills and often borrowed(stole) her father’s binoculars to watch the local wildlife. Sometimes they’d make their way down to a stream and try to catch the various bugs and lizards that made it their home.

The rancher eventually thought of him as a son and took him aside to teach him the basics that’d he need to know in life, such as horseback riding, roping, and how to shoot a gun. After a few years, he got hired to work on that ranch, and one fateful cattle drive is when he got his first taste of the wild west. They were about halfway to their destination when some bandits held them up and tried to steal the cattle. Thomas was still just a young kid of only 15 at the time, so the bandits didn’t really perceive him as a threat. When they were distracted with the cattle and the other ranch hands, he drew his pistol and killed the bandits one after the other. The ranch hands praised and celebrated him, but Thomas was shaken. Yes, he had to do it to protect that cattle and the other ranch hands, but he was visibly shaking and mentally doubting if he really did have to pull that trigger. He was just a kid who had never truly experienced violence like this.

Once back to the ranch he was promoted and got a better horse, but Thomas still held that guilt of another person’s blood on his hands. When he came home and told his mother, she calmed his nerves and told him she was proud of him for protecting others. After more calming and praise from his mother that guilt started to fade, it was the only way, he didn’t have a choice. After that he started practicing with more guns and even throwing knives. This also got him more curious about his father, his mother did say he was an outlaw and gunslinger. Did he maybe get his talent and interests from him? His mother never talked about him as it was a rather sore spot, but he asked around town and got some small descriptions of the man. That night he decided that one day he would leave home to find him.

Nine years had passed since that day and in that time Thomas became a great horseman and gunslinger. He also developed a love for books and found some extra work in town from some questionable sorts. They did pay well though, so why should it matter what the work was. He developed a reputation as being reliable but for being involved with some not so trustworthy characters. In turn, their values started to rub off on him, and soon enough he take some odds and ends jobs from people, but if the person the job was against was paying more, he would switch sides. His mother saw this pattern of behavior coming and tried to steer him clear of that behavior and life, but soon gave up. He was turning into his father, and every day he looked more and more like him.

It was on one of those rather questionable jobs that Thomas got his signature face scar that runs from just above his left eye, down his nose, and ends at his right cheek. He was off stealing some sheep from a rancher out in the next county when the sheep made too much noise and attracted the rancher’s attention. He and Thomas ended up in a fist fight that devolved into the rancher using his last resort and swiping at Thomas with his knife. Thomas dodged the first few slashes sent his way before the rancher sliced his face, causing Thomas to stumble back, draw his revolver, and end the fight. He knew he couldn’t go to his mother to patch him up, so he went to his childhood friend. She stitched him up and lectured him for the better half of an hour before he made his way home. He and his mother got into it and that night he decided it was finally time to go off and find his father, probably join him too. The next morning he went back to the ranch, where he still held a job, got his horse ready, and left.

Some fun facts about Thomas:

He once beat half the town in a poker game that lasted the entire night.

When he was a child, he once brought home a coyote pup and kept it as a pet until his mother caught on that it wasn’t a dog or coydog.

He has a scar running up the length of his ribs on his right side from one of his first days working on the ranch. He made a young bull mad and right before he could hop the fence its horns caught his side.

He will NOT wear a hat, it will mess up his hair and ruin his day.

He decided to learn some knife tricks. This lasted all of 2 hours before he seriously cut himself.

One time in town he saw a person he fancied and, while still being distracted by staring at them, tried to dismount his horse but got his foot caught in the stirrup and face planted into some horse manure.

#my oc #rdr2 online #i did not proof read this at all

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unconventional-hero · 5 years

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Chapter 5-- A Cloud on the Horizon

Written by “Slug 5″

(In which Jack Morningstar-- the Real one!-- arrives in New York.)

* * * * *

The grand central depot in the heart of the great city was scene of dire confusion. The great engines, carrying their car loads of human freight, puffing, blowing, snorting, then backing, had suddenly come to a stand-still and the weary passengers began to descend en masse.

Those who stopped to look eagerly over the great multitude for some familiar face, or to exchange some kindly word of greeting with a long-looked-for friend, were jostled and almost thrown down by those who hurried forward to their destination and the rapidly incoming tide; there were hundreds arriving eager to catch the departing trains. All was hurry and confusion as the crowd mingled in kaleidoscope variety.

[Editor’s Note: the following passage contains archaic words and descriptions that are considered by today’s standards to be racist and/or offensive. I do not condone their use at any point in time, but have included the passage below the cut for historical and educational purposes.]

There was the slick-tongued Hibernian and the obese German; the turbaned Turk and the swarthy Italian; the moon-eyed Celestial with his baggy trousers; the negro, with his porcine lips and white teeth; while others, in endless variety, bespoke their Anglican, Gascon, Scandinavian and Andalusian blood. Above them all and by far the most numerous in number was the American, with his hurried step and independent bearing, and the tramp, tramp, tramp, of the great throng sounded like the deep thud of the waves breaking upon a shining beach.

“Trenton! Philadelphia! Harrisburg! Train No. 1, West!” and a sonorous voice rang through the long corridors, “All aboard!”

Hurried “good byes” and leave-takings of husbands, fathers, mothers, friends, and aye, lovers, perhaps forever, and the trains begin slowly to pull out of the station. “Grace! Grace Darling! O my God!” A cry of agony pierced the air and chilled the blood of those who heard it. The cry came from a mother whose child had escaped her sight and ran out into the street to secure her pet dog which had escaped from its chain. Unconscious of the danger around it, the child ran on and was directly beneath the feet of a prancing horse. Another step and it will be crushed to death but no, a strong hand grasps it and carries it out of all danger and lays it in its mother’s arms. The child meantime crying for “Fido! Fido!”

“O, my child! Hero! Hero! do you not know how bad you have been to disobey mama?” said his mother kissing him over and over again. “But to whom are we indebted for the preservation of our child?” she said, turning to the man at her side and extending her hand with queenly grace. “I feel as though I owe you a life long debt.”

“Don’t mention it, madam-- it’s nothing-- any man would have done the same for a life in peril.” He bowed confusedly.

“Nothing? it’s everything to me; Mr. Reynolds and I shall not soon forget the act! It was brave, heroic, manly! Shall we not have the pleasure of knowing our Hero’s protector?” He silently handed her his card and then, with graceful turn and gallant bow and lifting of his hat, walked quickly away.

“Jack Morningstar-- Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

“What a romantic name and how gallant he was! His eyes, too, are as bright as morning-stars. I wonder who and what he is.” With this touch of woman-like curiosity she grasped more firmly the hand of her child and walked to the coupe awaiting her.

Jack arrived in the metropolis two days ago and as yet had found no trace of his fallacious friend Jim Paxton. To be sure he had made it convenient to walk up Fifth Avenue quite often and as he neared the McClure mansion his heart would beat fast and his pulses quicken. Was he not destined to see the girl who for so many years had occupied his thought and who, unconsciously, had been the spring which touched the nobility of his manhood and prompted every good deed?

How many nights while herding his father’s cattle had he lain on the open plain, gazing at the blue sky and bright stars above, but dreaming of the blue eyes and golden hair which had grown so dear to him, until the morning light began to dawn in the far-off east and called him to his cattle and to duty.

As he grew on to manhood he suddenly became aware that the sweet child-face had enthroned itself too deeply in his heart ever to be effaced and he began to invest her with every charm he could think of belonging to true, pure womanhood, and would listen to no thoughts whispered in her disparagement.

True, his knowledge of the gentler sex was by no means extensive, but during his lovely life as a herder he had formed an ideal woman of his own to which none of the girls of the village ever aspired. Betty, he knew was good and true but she was lacking in “something” he told himself; he would never make out exactly what.

The short stay of the McClure’s at his home had given him an insight of better surroundings and, though young, all the desires and energy of his soul, so long dormant, were suddenly stirred to life and he began to wish for things beyond his daily routine of life and to make himself a fit associate for the gentle, refined girl.

It was this desire, perhaps, above all others that had made such a complete metamorphosis of his life; changing the rustic herder into the man of noble bearing; cultured in the purity and magnanimity of his thoughts.

In the depths of his dark, clear eyes lay the greatness of his soul and when he chose to look at you could read your innermost thoughts. They expressed a whole world of tenderness and generosity and love. In this open, frank expression and in the charming, healthy hue of his complexion could be read no story of dissipation, nor about his friendly cut, mobile lips were there any tell-tale lines of ill-formed habits or misspent days.

“Should he make himself known to the McClures? and how would Clyde receive him?” were questions that he asked himself over and over again. He longed to meet Clyde before Jim reached the city and explain all, then Jim’s stories would avail naught should he try his hand at deception on the McClures.

Had he dreamed that even now Jim was seated in the McClures’ drawing-room with all the ease of polished diplomat he would have lost no time but rushed pell mell to the mansion and disclosed his treachery then and there. But as it was he waited, somewhat impatiently however, until some more propitious mode of proceeding should present itself.

One morning some days after his arrival and the next after the scene at the depot, he had arranged his portfolio before the window overlooking Fifth-avenue and was busily engaged writing a letter to Betty when a knock at his door startled him. Upon opening it the porter handed him a beautiful basket of roses.

“You are mistaken; these can not be for me?” said Jack, raising the basket on a level with his eyes with so much unaffected simplicity and astonishment that the porter could not help smiling.

“For Mr. Jack Morningstar of No. 400.” and he left Jack standing in the door way too much astonished to speak.

“Now I say these are glorious! They beat our ‘Prairie Queens’ all to pieces!” as he received them over and over again and inhaled the delicate aroma.

He espied a small card nestling among the leaves; he turned it over and read, “Compliments of Mr. and Mrs. H. T. Reynolds, 507 Madison Square.”

“Well now, I never! I say that’s mighty clever; what would Betty say? I’ll first pack these up and send them to her; they’ll please her mightily.” He set the basket down tenderly upon a table before him and resumed his writing.

He knew it was a mark of respect; that these people appreciated him. He had never received flowers from anyone before and it pleased him. He loved flowers passionately because he said, “they reminded him of heaven,” and always guarded with tender care the few plants in his window at Bozeman.

The next morning Mr. Reynolds himself called upon Jack and expressed his gratitude and upon learning a great deal of his past history was so well pleased with his open, frank manner and utter self-forgetfulness that he shook his hand warmly at parting and said, “I should be pleased to show you our metropolis, Morningstar, and it it suits your pleasure shall call for you this evening half-past six.”

Jack thanked him heartily and said he would be very glad indeed as it was lonely going alone.

At half-past six therefore the two started forth. As they passed down Broadway and turned into Wall Street Jack was awed by the magnificent architecture and grandly dressed ladies far beyond his brightest imagery; and he wondered what these people were all thinking about and where they were all going hurrying along so fast.

“Shall we turn in here, Morningstar?” said his companion, after he had enjoyed himself for a while in looking at the inspired rapture of Jack’s face, and stopping before a lofty building above whose entrance the lights shone on the word “Casino.”

“Your scruples do not prevent you attending the theater eh? We shall see some tall acting tonight.”

As Jack had never attended the theater, except “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” which had been played in the city hall at Bozeman some years ago, he consented, little dreaming what seated in one of the prebendal stalls within was the Venus of his love. His time of waiting was nearer its close than he thought.

#Victorian era #period drama #1800's #late 1800's #An Unconventional Hero #volume 1 #Slug 5

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