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drwcn · 3 years

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#9 【Carbon in the Steel】

cql au: everyone is an orphan except wwx; dark!twin jades

The Brothers Lan

There was once a little house, on the outskirts of a farming village beyond the tiered rice fields south of Meishan, far, far away from Cloud Recesses. Both Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji remembered that house. It was the house Father had built for Mother, and it was there that they were born.

It sat at the base of a hill where many tall bamboo trees grew, and in the garden, there had been gentians, indigo and violet, that bloomed beautifully every summer.

Lan Xichen would dream sometimes of that house and of the wonderful days in those early years.

Father, look!

Excellent form, A-Huan. Very good. Much improved. Now, remember to keep your balance on your front…

These days he could no longer recall Father’s face. His voice though, Lan Xichen still remembered as clear as a bell. On the other hand, his brother Wangji did not remember much of Father at all; instead, it was Mother’s smile that he could never forget.

Mother, can A-Zhan and I stay with you and Father tonight?

P’ease, Mo’her.

Lan Xichen remembered hugging his baby brother like a doll and strategically weakening his parents’ resolve using his baby pout and big puppy eyes. A-Zhan was always a trooper, so cooperative, so excellent at looking like a perfect toddler. Stoic though. So stoic for a baby. What a weird kid.

We had a bad dream.

Bad dweam.

Those were obviously lies. They never had bad dreams then; those would come much later, when their reality became worse than any nightmare they could ever imagine.

Jiujiu never needed to tell them that Mother and Father were dead, or what death was. They’d seen plenty of creatures die: the village’s cattle they butchered for the new year, the spinster's kittens that didn’t survive the winter, and the pheasants they caught and roasted for A-Zhan’s birthday.

Father had been a lifelong vegetarian, so eating meat didn’t agree with his stomach, but he never enforced such rules on his sons. In fact Father didn’t enforce any rules on his sons, except to show kindness where they could and to be true to their hearts.

Father probably didn’t anticipate just how difficult it was to be kind when the world had been so wholly unkind. Nor did he anticipate that he would die in such a violent and sudden manner without even so much as a goodbye.

I don’t remember what were the last words Father said to me. Wangji would confess to Xichen one day. I don’t even remember what Father looked like.

They were by the marsh catching lobsters with jiujiu when it happened. Mother suddenly appeared and spoke words that were foreign and frightening - Gusu Lan, cultivators, siege, pursuit, escape. Go. Now. She didn’t hug them or kiss them. Lan Xichen remembered Wangji reaching up towards her to be picked up and the confusion and heartbreak in his eyes when she pushed him back into jiujiu’s waiting arms.

A-niang...

At a certain point, jiujiu must’ve done something to them, because neither Wangji nor himself remember any part of their journey out of that village. When they woke up, they were somewhere high up and deep in the mountains. His little brother had looked at him and he had stared back and they both knew then that their parents were dead. Curled in their jiujiu’s arms, they cried themselves into another fitful sleep, and all the while, jiujiu didn’t wake up once, too exhausted by the endless days of travel.

To them, jiujiu - like all adults - was old, but it was not until they grew up that they realized that Zhao Zhuliu at the time of their parents’ demise had been no more than twenty years old, barely more than a boy himself.

Life with jiujiu was quiet, but after some time, they were able to find a sliver of happiness.

Zhao Zhuliu was a quiet man, always had been, and that didn’t change just because he now had two young children on his hands. But he loved them, his sister’s only blood left on this earth; by god, he loved them beyond reason.

Jiujiu was not a talker, but he was never distant, and though he was strict in his training of their cultivation and their swordsmanship, he was never harsh. So yes, life was quiet, but at least for a while there was a roof over their heads and food in their belly, and they never had to wonder where they would be tomorrow…

When jiujiu failed to return from his night-hunt, Lan Xichen knew that something had gone terribly wrong.

Lan Xichen was the older one; he was thirteen. Practically an adult, he told himself. If jiujiu never came back, then he was just going to have to take care of Wangji.

Whatever it takes.

His brother was not a needy child, but when he turned eleven, he seemed to have found his appetite and ate everything Xichen could get his hands on. Fishing was the easiest and hunting a big game lasted them a while if he could preserve it just right, but even if he collected berries in the mountains and wild herbs in the forest, he still needed grains, still needed new clothes for the winter, and still needed oil to light a lamp at night so Wangji could continue to practice his calligraphy.

He did try; you must know. Lan Xichen did try to do things the right way, but there was only so much money he could earn by book-keeping at a shop, or running errands for merchants, or even waiting tables at an inn. He was a child, and desperate, and nobody would pay him a dime if they could get away with a nickel.

It didn’t take long for Xichen to learn that the fastest way of earning money was often the most unsavoury and that he wasn’t above reaching for those means. There were no lengths Lan Xichen wouldn’t go to keep his brother safe and happy, no asset within his arsenal of skills and attributes that he wouldn’t hone and weaponize to make himself stronger. He got good at stealing, got great at cheating, and grew accustomed to killing. Every so often...if there were other offers available, well...Wangji would never need to know.

Morals do not matter if Wangji went hungry. I can’t let Wangji go hungry.

And, once a year, Lan Xichen would buy a box of osmanthus pastry, like the kind Mother used to make for them - flakey and fragrant, rich but not overwhelming - and he and Wangji would sit together under the stars and finish the box all in one go.

“Happy birthday, didi.”

Chewing slowly on the osmanthus pastry, Wangji would smile, and it would all be worth it.

“Thank you, xiongzhang.”

Then, three years after jiujiu was taken, a startling news broke out over the lands.

After years of internal strife, the dirty politics of Lanling Jin finally fractured the once glorious reigning sect. Jin Guangshan’s many children and their scheming “little mothers” formed factions and allied themselves with subsidiary sects all vying for control over Lanling’s seat of power. (小娘 xiao’niang = little mother, what one calls one’s mother if one’s mother is not the legal wife. The “real” mother of any children would always be the legal wife, while their birth mothers are ‘little mothers’.)

The details of Jin Guangshan’s demise was not entirely clear, but eventually it was his third son Jin Zitao who became the new Sect Master Jin. Being only eleven years old, it was clear to anyone who had eyes that he was a puppet, completely controlled by the whims of his regent mother, Jin Guangshan’s once favourite concubine, and the ancient respected Qin family who had promised their daughter Qin Su to be his bride once they both come of age.

People had praised Qin Su’s stepmother, Sect Master Qin’s second wife, for securing such an advantageous marriage for a daughter not even of her own blood, stating that with the Dowager Madame Jin’s clever mind and Sect Master Qin’s seniority and experience, surely the murky pond of Lanling would become peaceful once again.

The bigger question now was with three of the five major sects being led by minors - Qishan’s 14 year-old Wen Yuefan, Yunmeng’s 13 year-old Jiang Wanyin, and Lanling’s 11 year-old Jin Zitao - who then would become the next Chief Cultivator. Qinghe Nie seemed the most obvious choice at first glance, for they were the fiercest warriors, but given Sect Master Nie Heqiu’s most recent close encounter with yet another qi deviation, it seemed perhaps the real day-to-day leadership role was fulfilled by his first son Nie Mingjue. At seventeen years of age, he was certainly older than his contemporaries, but still a far cry from what was required to be His Excellency. (温越凡 Wen Yuefan = Wen Qing’s courtesy name)

Naturally, all eyes were drawn then towards Cloud Recesses, whose previous chance at obtaining the seat of Chief Cultivator had been dashed when its sect master at that time, Qingheng-jun, mysteriously vanished more than a decade ago. Now it seemed that Gusu Lan’s fortune was about to change yet again, when what once should have gone to Lan Cenrong now fell to his younger brother Lan Qiren.

News of his rise to power had spread far and wide, until every man, woman, and child knew his name. Until Lan Xichen heard from a gossiping bar-keep at a tavern. Until Lan Wangji heard from the children playing on the street.

One morning Lan Xichen returned to their temporary home to see Wangji sitting in front of the breakfast he’d prepared (when did he learn to cook???) and a purse on the table filled with silver coins and small gold nuggets.

“Wangji...where did you -”

“I don’t want you to go out at night again, xiongzhang,” said Lan Wangji bluntly.

Taken aback by Wangji’s tone and his implications, Xichen quickly gathered his wits and tried to maintain control of the conversation. “That doesn’t answer my question; where did you get the money?”

“I also went out last night, after you assumed I fell asleep and left.”

Xichen’s blood went cold. “You...went out? Out? In the middle of the night?! To do what?!”

Lan Wangji’s stoicism did not waver. “What one usually does to get paid at night. What you’ve been doing for years.”

In three long strides, Lan Xichen strode up to his little brother - his baby brother - and yanked him up by the collar. Grabbing his arms with both hands, he forced Wangji to look him in the eye as he exclaimed in a mad panic, “You didn’t! Tell me you didn’t!!”

God, Wangji, what have you done, what have you done - how could I let this happen - I should’ve done better -

Wangji did not blink, but after a long terrible silence, he said, “No. I didn’t. I just followed you. I saw.”

“You saw…”

There had been a man who eyed him with interest. Lan Xichen wasn’t looking for business - hadn’t been looking for months - but winter was coming and Wangji was growing so much he would need several new sets of robes. Xichen hadn’t been working as many hours as he’d been previously. He needed to train, to cultivate - they both did - so that one day they could do what needed to be done. The core melting technique was not to be trifled with lightly, jiujiu had warned them. They needed time to practice, to perfect it, time that couldn’t be used to earn income.

While yes he could steal and yes he could kill, Lan Xichen realized early on that those two options often caught the attention of local authorities or worse the local cultivation sect, especially if his activities were too frequent or too conspicuous. Sometimes it was just easier…

“The money, then?”

“Don’t you recognize the purse?”

Xichen turned around. He did. He did recognize that silk embroidered draw-string purse. It belonged to the man from last night. He had taken money out of it this morning to pay Xichen for his time.

And when they parted ways, Xichen had gone to a public bath house to get rid of any incriminating evidence on his body before going home to his brother. That was his routine... had been his routine for years…

“I shoved his body down a well. That should buy us enough time to get out of this town. You weren’t planning for us to stay that long anyway right?”

“Wangji…Wangji -” Lan Xichen turned away. He couldn’t face his brother, who now knew what he knew.

“Xiongzhang, don’t do this for me anymore.” Lan Wangji’s hand found his own, squeezing it tightly.

“It’s - it’s really not a big deal.” Lan Xichen tried to laugh it off. “I don’t do it that often. Really - I am your older brother, it is my duty to -”

“No. No more. From now on, if you go out, I go out. I’m old enough -”

“You’re thirteen, a child!”

“So were you.”

Lan Xichen closed his eyes.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know I’m done waiting.”

Lan Wangji was talking, of course, about their vengeance. It was what they spoke of on most nights when they couldn’t sleep. For mother and father and jiujiu, they swore they would not rest until they razed Cloud Recesses to the ground and burned the core out of every last one of their disciples before slitting their throats.

Wangji came around to face him again and stared him down with his brows furrowed tightly above bright determined eyes. “It’s not fair. The Chief Cultivator was supposed to be Father! The heir of Gusu Lan is supposed to be you! Instead - instead...”

Tears welled up in his little brother’s eyes. “They hurt you, ge, I saw. I saw.”

Choking with shame, anger and a pain he couldn’t describe, Lan Xichen pulled Lan Wangji into a crushing hug. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry Wangji. I’m sorry I couldn’t do better. I’m...” Words failed. As Lan Wangji cried into his chest, Lan Xichen looked up to their leaky roof and their bare, striped walls, and wondered what the ethereal Cloud Recesses would look like. All that should have been theirs, should’ve been his, belonged to someone else.

Lan Qiren is Chief Cultivator now. He’s still holding jiujiu captive. He needs to die. The people who killed Father and Mother; they all need to die.

“You’re right, Wangji, you’re right. No more.”

“So you won’t leave at night anymore?”

“I won’t. The world has taken everything from us, I think it’s time we take what we are owed. Once we are strong, we will save jiujiu and avenge A-die and A-niang.”

“And if people try to stop us?”

“Then we will destroy them and anyone else that gets in our way.”

#cql #the untamed #twin jades #lan wangji #lan xichen #cql ficlet #corie fics #carbon in the steel

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wrenhyperfixates · 4 years

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Of All the Places

Chapter 3

Pairing: Loki x reader Series Summary: Washing up in a small town in Oklahoma was definitely not part of Loki’s plan when he came to conquer Midgard. There is one good thing about it, though: No one recognizes him as the one who just wreaked havoc in New York. So, Loki plans to recover from the battle and move on with his life. The only problem? He’s not sure he can leave you. Chapter Summary: Loki battles with new thoughts and feelings as time goes on. While trying to convince himself to leave, he does his best to stop his growing connection to you and Matt. Chapter Warnings: some angst, but also fluff A/N: Third chapter done! For anyone wondering about James, there’s some more information on him in this chapter. And for anyone who saw that other post, this isn’t the super long chapter yet, sorry! Updates every Friday. As always, hope you enjoy :)

Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiantfavs @lunarmoon8 @twhiddlestonsstuff

✥ Start at Beginning ✥ | ← Previous Chapter | Next Chapter →

Disclaimer: Gif not mine

One week later, Loki was ready to leave. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. He’d done his best to keep his distance, and yet he kept getting roped into conversations with you. Surely, though, that was wholly due to your persistence and in no part because he was drawn to you. And this family breakfast he was at yet again? Simply because he was addicted to pancakes. It had nothing to do with you, or your family, or your kind eyes. Okay, maybe it had the tiniest bit to do with your kind eyes. The way you looked at him was like nothing he’d ever known before. Frigga had always done it with a gentle love, but it was always reserved and hidden behind a queenly mask. With you, he could see every thought that passed through your mind reflected in your eyes. He shouldn’t have enjoyed being seen as a bird with a broken wing, but the care you gave him was something he quite liked.

“Hey,” you whispered, nudging him in the side as the rest of the table laughed at something. “You ok?”

“Yes. Just lost in thought I suppose.”

“I hate to interrupt,” Mama curtly interjected, “but whispering at the table ain’t polite.”

Ah, now if Loki was looking for a reason to leave, he could certainly find one in Mama. Though you’d been the one to start the hushed conversation, she was looking pointedly at Loki as if he was the instigator. Then again, she acted like every bad thing that happened since his arrival was his fault, even things he had no control over. Maybe spiting her by staying was reason enough for his delayed departure.

“Sorry,” you said before he could deliver a withering insult. “It’s my fault.”

Mama just made a little humming noise in reply that obviously showed she neither blamed you nor appreciated you taking the fall. In the time that Loki had been at your farm, she either avoided him like the plague or dealt thinly veiled insults his way. It was grating on his nerves, but there wasn’t much he could do bar revealing himself as an all-powerful god. Or leaving. That was always an option, he reminded himself.

“Son, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Papa started, ignoring the tension like always, “I’ve misplaced that dang camera again. I’ll find it again soon though, don’t you worry.”

Little did he know, that camera’s disappearing act was entirely due to Loki’s magic. He’d hidden it around the house a number of times, never anywhere too outrageous as to avoid suspicion. Perhaps this time he’d just keep it in a dimensional pocket. Or let Taffy knock it over. Maybe if it was broken, you’d give up on the missing person ad idea. He’d worried that you would just use your phone cameras instead, but Papa was convinced that the quality would not be good enough.

“It is quite alright, sir. Your hospitality is more than enough. In fact, I really ought to be on my way soon,” he finished, throwing a glance at you to gauge your reaction, feeling an odd spark of happiness when you sank down in your seat.

“No!” Matt cried. “I don’t want you to.”

He crossed his arms as if that solved everything. It did, however, soften Loki a little. As it turns out, he was very fond of the little guy. On Asgard he’d never had much time to spend with children, but it seemed like he had inherited his mother’s natural ability to be good with them. Inherited is the wrong word, actually, he bitterly thought to himself. She’s not your real mother, after all.

“Matt, if he wants to leave, we really should let him,” Mama scolded, with an almost hopeful expression.

“Actually, I do not see why I shouldn’t stay a bit longer,” Loki said, flashing a false grin at the woman. “There really is no rush, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” she muttered. “No rush.”

“Well, Loki, since Matt has taken to you so well, maybe you’d like to watch him this afternoon?” Ana asked, pretending she didn’t hear Mama’s latest remark.

“It would be my pleasure,” he responded, surprised by the sincerity of that statement.

The family had still been avoiding giving Loki strenuous tasks, believing that he was just incredibly good at hiding his ailments. To keep up appearances, he pretended to have a particularly bad ache or pain every once in a while. Whenever he did, you’d instantly appear at his side and usher him to a seat. He’d try to get up, but you would tell him to stay put in your best stern tone, which he found rather adorable, though he’d never admit it. Then you’d fetch him a glass of water and watch over him for the next hour, or until you decided he was well enough to get up again.

Fifteen minutes later, it was time to start the day and everyone helped clear the table. Your family had made the process as efficient as possible. Mama and John would bring the dishes to Papa in the kitchen, who would hand them to you to put in the dishwasher after rinsing them off. Ana and Matt would put away all the leftovers and toppings from whatever had just been on the menu. Loki helped out where he could, but most days everyone besides Mama insisted he should take it easy, that he could help when he was fully healed. It was odd, he realized, that you were all planning on him being around that long. He felt that familiar, nagging, guilty feeling he’d been getting ever since he arrived. He was not a fan.

By the time Ana and John were ready to leave, Loki had already collected the eggs, the only daily chore he was given, and was ready to watch Matt. It was only as the boy was hugging his parents goodbye that Loki realized he wasn’t really sure what to do with the child for the next few hours. He was thankful that you seemed like you were planning on sticking around, too. It did make sense, he supposed, that they hadn’t completely trusted the boy with a near stranger.

“Aren’t you healthy, mommy?” Matt asked, clinging to Ana’s leg as she tried to get away. “Why do you have to go to the doctor?”

“Because you’re going to have a little brother or sister soon,” Ana explained in a sweet tone as she gently pried her son away. “Mommy and Daddy have to go to the doctor to make sure the baby is healthy.”

Loki’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He had not yet realized that Ana was pregnant. She must not have been very far along because she wasn’t showing much yet. Though, now that he knew to look, the god could see a small baby bump. Based on Matt’s reaction, he was already aware that he’d have a sibling soon, but he still couldn’t quite grasp the concept of everything that went along with that.

“Will you be back soon?” Matt questioned, finally giving up his efforts to keep his parents where they were.

“In the blink of an eye, small fry,” John said, placing a kiss on his head.

That seemed to satisfy Matt, who wandered over to Loki and put his arms up, clearly looking to be picked up. He hesitated for a second before scooping up the boy. It wasn’t that he was afraid of dropping him, in fact he was sure he wouldn’t, but he’d never held a child before. Up until a few days ago, he wasn’t sure he even had the slightest inkling how to be nurturing. And then there was the whole problem of Matt becoming too attached. Not to mention the way you looked at him when he did held him. That soft gaze was a problem for sure.

“Alright,” you said once Ana and John were gone. “What do you want to do, buddy?”

“Hide and seek!” he shouted. Then he put his small, chubby hands on Loki’s cheeks and used his most serious tone. “You’ll never find me. I have the best hidey spots.”

Loki let out a nervous chuckle. Truth be told, he didn’t know how to play this game. When he and Thor were kids, they played run and attack, but he felt like this was probably not very comparable. Midgard was a very different place, after all.

“Just count to sixty and then come look for us. We’ll stay in the house,” you informed Loki as he passed Matt off to you. “Oh, and just shout out when you’re starting to look.”

“Thank you,” he replied, turning around to face the wall.

It was odd, he thought, that he seemed to have said thank you more in the past week than he had in the last century of his existence. He’d never meant to let himself get so bitter, but here he was stewing in that awful feeling. When the flash of anger receded, the God of Mischief realized he was face to face with a framed family tree. Highest up were pictures of couples he could only assume were your grandparents. Next line down was Mama, Papa, and their siblings. You and Ana were in the next row, and it struck him just how much you and your sister looked alike. Matt and John were there too, but the person that most captured his attention was your brother. The middle child, he guessed, since the picture was in between those of you and Ana. He gently ran his fingers over the looping gold cursive of James’s name. Loki loved a good mystery, but he needed clues and evidence to solve one. He knew next to nothing about the guy, other than that he’d been wearing his clothes for the past seven days.

“I am starting to look now,” Loki awkwardly shouted, feeling self-conscious about seeming like he was talking to no one.

He thought he heard a small snort coming from one of the upper levels at his gawky declaration, so he headed up first. It felt odd to go rifling through things, so he mainly tried just to peer under furniture, though he did open a closet once or twice. He huffed and considered if he should venture into any of your rooms. If you weren’t there, though, he’d feel like he was intruding on something private and sacred. Hesitating with a hand hovering over the doorknob to your room, he noticed the attic hatch out of the corner of his eye. Standing still, he could hear a very subtle shuffling noise coming from above him, so either you were there, or you’d better call pest control.

As soon as he climbed the ladder, Matt started giggling, but Loki pretended he couldn’t hear. He loudly walked in between the boxes littering the floor, every once in a while dramatically peering around an old piece of furniture. It only made the laughs louder.

“Now where could they be?” he sighed in mock exasperation. “Maybe, they’re here!”

Then he jumped around the couch you were hiding behind and started tickling Matt. The boy squealed in delight and squirmed away. When Loki looked at you, he saw something shocking on your face. Admiration. It was something he’d longed for from so many people in his life, and here you were giving it so freely to him. He moved his gaze elsewhere before his mind could wander any further.

“What’s all the ruckus up here?” Mama asked, her head appearing from the door. After spotting Loki, her eyes narrowed. “Oh. It’s you.”

“We were just playing hide and seek, Mama. Don’t worry,” you said.

“Indeed. I must say, it is much fun,” Loki added, though more to annoy her than ease her mind.

“I’m sure,” she replied before taking Matt by the hand. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”

You shot Loki an apologetic glance as you headed out after her. Once Matt’s snack was finished, Loki partook in some coloring. He was oddly pleased to know the little boy’s favorite color was green, and you seemed fairly partial to it, too. Ana and John returned roughly an hour later, and Loki finished the day by doing chores around the farm. Another thing he’d learned about himself was that he really didn’t mind doing manual labor. Growing up in the Royal Palace Valaskjalf, he never had to lift a finger to help cook or clean or do anything much besides training and lessons, really. Now he found himself almost eager to get into the kitchen for a cooking lesson with Papa or help out in the fields, the latter of which definitely had nothing to do with showing off for you.

He’d been on his way to the kitchen that evening sometime after dinner, his infamous sweet tooth bugging him again, when he heard Mama’s hushed voice.

“I’m telling you Earl, something about that boy just don’t sit right with me.”

“Come on, honey. He can’t even remember nothing. It’s our duty to help him out,” Loki heard Papa reply as he hid just outside the door.

“He may say he can’t remember, but I ain’t buying it. We should get him out soon as possible.”

It shouldn’t bother him as much as it did, but there was nothing to stop him from feeling the sting of those words. He really should just leave; it had been his plan after all. As if they had a will of their own, Loki’s feet carried him away from the conversation, out the door, and off the porch. He never should have taken advantage of your family’s generosity. He regretted thinking about you, though, because it made his steps falter a bit. And then there was sweet little Matt. It hadn’t really hit him until now, but Loki actually enjoyed himself today. He couldn’t recall the last day he could say that about.

“I hope you weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye.”

The trickster god whirled around at the sound of your voice. He’d been too caught up in his tumultuous thoughts to notice you leaning on one of the porch’s posts.

“Certainly not,” he lied. “I just needed some fresh air is all.”

“In that case, I know the perfect place. Come on.”

You took his hand and led him away from your land. He tried not to pay attention to the feeling of your hand in his. In fact, he tried to block it out altogether, but to no avail. Eventually, you reached a peaceful creek and picked up a rock to skip.

“If I was going to leave,” he began after a few minutes of contemplative silence, “I really would be fine. I appreciate all that you and your family have done, truly, but perhaps it’s best if I go.”

“Look, I know you’re pretty much all healed up, but you still don’t remember anything. I cannot in good conscience let you out into the world like that.”

“I suppose that is fair. Your mother certainly does not agree with your assessment, though.”

You sighed. “If Mama’s the reason you feel you should go, please just ignore her. She means well and all, but... Well, let’s just say she has her reasons for acting this way,”

Loki said nothing but raised his eyebrows at you. One part of him felt bad to press you for more information, even if it was done without words. The much larger part of himself, however, was entirely too curious to not know.

“Okay, so remember when I told you about my brother?”

Loki nodded eagerly, ready to get some answers about what exactly had happened there.

“Well, he was... He was killed in an accident with a drunk driver a couple years ago,” you recounted, tearing up a little bit. “Mama had trust issues even before, but they’re much worse now.”

“I am so sorry, darling,” Loki said, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, but not daring to go any further than that.

He felt bad for your loss, but right now there were major alarm bells going off in his head. He’d just called you darling. It wan’t even something he’d thought about doing, it just happened. That, coupled with the fact he cared how you were feeling, had him panicking. His plan to leave after a week was already out the window, but leaving at all was becoming harder to fathom by the day.

“It’s ok,” you replied, wiping a few errant tears off your cheeks. “It was a little while ago. I’m alright now. Really.”

Neither of you said anything for a moment as he awkwardly pat your shoulder, not really certain of the correct way to comfort someone. He wanted to say something else, but he wasn’t sure what.

“I think I had a brother!” he shouted, giving in to his desire to confide in you, but his web of lies making it impossible to tell the whole truth.

“We have to put that ad in the paper then. So he can find you.”

Little did you know how awful that situation would be for everyone involved. Still, it meant a lot that you cared, especially when you’d just been saddened at the memory of your own brother.

“Maybe, but I do not seem to think we had a very good relationship.”

“All the more reason then. You never know how long you have, so you should try to make amends.”

“Perhaps.”

You lapsed into silence again, not really sure where to go from there. By now, the sun had been down for a while and a chill was settling in the air. Loki noticed you shiver and shrugged off his hoodie.

“Here,” he embarrassedly mumbled, holding it out to you.

“Oh, no. I couldn’t,” you refused. “You’ll be cold then.”

“Nonsense,” he insisted, “I will be perfectly fine.”

You reluctantly agreed and pulled it on. Though it had only been in his possession for a short time, his scent had already claimed the soft fabric. He acted like his attention was averted elsewhere, but was actually watching you out of the corner of his eye. You didn’t notice his gaze on you as you took a gentle sniff, trying to take as much of it in as possible. Sandalwood, leather and something otherworldly that you just couldn’t name, other than to call it heaven. He turned his head ever so slightly and you started sheepishly picking at your nails, hoping he hadn’t caught you. He expected to be appalled by the notion, but just found himself confused. Why would you enjoy something that was so distinctly him? Then he remembered you didn’t know the truth. That’s why he had to get out as soon as possible before he, or anyone else, got hurt.

“We should probably head back before it gets too late,” you said after a bit.

“I agree,” was all he replied.

As you walked away from the creek, he tried to leave the new feelings bubbling in him by the water, but they followed him all the way back to the house, and into his dreams that night.

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

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Witcher of the Night (Chapter 15)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

UPDATES FOR WITCHER OF THE NIGHT WILL BE PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY NOW IN MY TIME (GMT +8)

CHAPTER 14 (Link)

WITCHER OF THE NIGHT MASTERLIST

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Mornings with Geralt especially after a night full of bliss can keep your face burning hot from the discernment that he'd finally bed you. He was insatiable and also salty from dodging his subtle gestures---which can be quite entertaining to experience and also upsetting when it took him three days of keeping his distance. But, the witcher made up his absence by giving a gift that surely warmed your heart.

Warnings: Mention of Bucky, X-men and the Avengers. (Weird, I know. HAHA!) Suggestive content. Cheeky Geralt. Nudity. Salty Geralt. (LMAO XD) Shy reader. Kinda sweet Geralt? There's floof in this! Geralt unfamiliar with the feeling of holding hands. Heehee! Mention of bulge, nipples and punani? Also, a cunning reader. HA!

Words: 8.9k (It's a lot. I know. Sorry. The next chapter is actually smut again. Damn. It's also 10k words. I AM UTTERLY SHOOKTH. XD)

A/N: Chapter 15.1 will be smut. No plot shift for the rest 2-3 chapters. (Just relationship development for the reader and our white wolf) Let's just be happy with these type of chapters before I drop bombs, bb's! Also, let's just appreciate that Geralt is feeling happy (still being how he is tho) before shit goes down again and he's all brooding. XD Geralt deserves this! XD I don’t want the characters to just revolve around the idea and pleasure of lust because I know it is more than that.

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! Sorry for the grammatical errors and such because English isn’t my mother tongue!

Disclaimer: PNG’s used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi (GIF credits: witches-ground, white-wolf-of-rivia, demivampirew)

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

ONE HABIT OF YOURS THAT YOU WERE USED TO DOING IN THE MORNING IS TO STRETCH ALL THOSE KNOTS THAT HAPPENED TO BE ACHING WHILE YOU'VE SLEPT LIKE A BABY. The ravens that tweeted on the window side never seem to wake you up, but your body clock did.

No blinding sunlight has woken you up from your slumber this time. A lazy whine gurgled at the back of your throat; shifting on your side of the bed as you've turned sideways to sluggishly haul your arm on an expected empty space to surprisingly feel solid, chiseled, warm, valley of muscles that laid upon your palms.

You've swallowed your saliva, your throat feeling scratchy and drier than usual. A subtle clearing of your throat as you narrowed your eyes to presume that the white wolf was already out and about before you even were.

Well-knit arms and sturdy shoulders that were precisely sized like your thighs, crinite chest that you somehow managed to goggle once your half-lidded eyes blinked to straighten the blurry gaze of yours, eyesight now sharp as a cheetah. Perspective concentrated on the beefy man who had his blankets treacherously meeting the ends of his torso, mantling the parts he needed to cover for the sake of your stability.

You didn't even know your palms were already caressing Geralt's prominent abs when you've raked his body at a snail's time. Glowing, soft and amused amber eyes already focusing on your groggy state of mind.

"Good morning," the scarred hunk of a man huskily greeted, his timbre lacing with an unused pliant tone that certainly left your thoughts unprocessed as your hand cease its freedom from feeling his abs brushing beneath your fingers.

You've taken a dry gulp, impulsively carrying your weight with the help of your elbow, gaping at the witcher who had a stoic face but with unfathomable emotions filled within his eyes.

"I wasn't fondling with your abs, I swear! I was...caring and caressing your scars!" an arm was raised, like you've been caught by the police for creating a crime. The other supporting your weight against the mattress as Geralt seemed to be in a sustained position. Back wholly laying down with his face turned to your looming ones as he rested below you.

He sluggishly blinked, eyes slightly seeing something more worth to admire at as he looked down on your wonderful unclad chest before cocking a brow to skeptically admit with his eyes now focused on you, "That...didn't felt like there were any scars on that part,"

You could tell his mind was preoccupied as he licked his lips, taking a glance of what he was been looking at when you've seen breasts out in the open that made you emit a tiny shriek which got the witcher grinning a little. The blankets on you were hurriedly raised till your chest was covered; though, it probably had no use already from how you've seen the hickeys that were left all around you chest; convincing you that having a nipple slip wasn't the only thing uncouth.

A mortified look on your face had Geralt entertained first thing in the morning. A weird expression you pull whenever you're in the midst of feeling petrified for every new stuff that you experience in their world; never having to experience it back in your earth.

For all one knows, you were probably a reserved child or simply a staid that you haven't gotten a real man throughout your lifetime.

Geralt kept his mouth shut; as he always does and waited for you to vent and clear out your horrified burst of emotions. He knew you would calm down a little after saying what you needed to honestly tell, and so; he silently listened.

"Please tell me you've taken my clothes off because I needed a bath and because of whatever I was feeling last night---because, because---I'm so freaking redundant, I apologize--- Also, I gotta' say and ask you an intriguing question that you surely don't mind based on how you are lacking clothes right now---but, are you NAKED UNDER THE COVERS, Geralt?"

You couldn't believe you've taken drastic measures last night.

Face began to twist in embarrassment, it was like the morning wanted you to take the recording device and press the playback button. The horrible thread of wanton moans and utterances in the middle of being riled chimed in your head like your dignity was laughing at how you promised never to give in to the witcher because he was a fuck boy in their dimension.

Who's cackling now?

Right. Your strength of character was, because you didn't seem to be quite strong for lewdly moaning out his name like a prayer in the middle of the night. Those raunchy ugh's and oh's will continue to haunt you down.

Geralt's expressions seemed to be unreadable still, until you've seen his lips pucker a little, slightly tilting his head as he tried to sit up, "I'm taking the blankets off."

You tried to stop him and held onto his shoulders, softly clawing at the back of his disheveled, chalky white hair as the touch wasn't making you feel any discomfort for the first time; would you even feel uncomfortable after being bonked all night? you probably hugged him when he had rode you off to wonderland for a couple of times already.

"Wait---no!"

His unkempt head fell on his pillow with a soft thud, vaguely turning his head till you were within an ace of breathing each other's oxygen.

The witcher kept still and hushed. His gaze falling on your semi-dry lips as he quietly listened to all your questions; ceasing from saying anything less than his breathing, "It happened, didn't it?" he became more blasè when you've thrown your queries at him in a hurried pace, not giving him a chance to answer, "---I didn't have a wet dream or something?"

As more as you talk, letting the panic rise to your head because of the shame you felt that maybe he would feel used after being so in need for such a passionate impaling; the sex being done out of help or because there was no other choice for the pain to stop, those sly fidgety fingers of yours topped off his thatch of hair that laid upon his chest, tracing the notch of his medallion as you heard him lowly hum in delight.

Geralt only answered you with a lazy blink of his eyes, heedful of your fingers mindlessly caressing his skin because you were anxiety-filled as of the moment. He let you, always will; with eyebrows tightly furrowed together as he was trying to retain the image of your sweet, seraph face, scruffy hair and painted skin that was filled by witcher bites.

You pouted. Your lightly swollen, grouchy morning face go on about how your core felt sore from how it has been penetrated hours after hours end, "I'm sore. You sure I didn't just got prank by Jaskier and somehow stupidly sat on a pole that stabbed my reproductive organ?"

The sexy, hot, and stark naked white wolf subtly shook his head, his palm retracting from behind his head as he moved his thick arm, slipping beneath the white covers. Determined for his listless touches; strong fingers gliding behind to rest his palm against the small of your back.

His touchy-feely gestures made you swallow the collywobbles, rapidly blinking back as you hardly believed he was actually touching you back. Far as you remembered, when you hugged him while his hair was being braided, Geralt went stiff and still, never knowing what to do with your sudden, impulsive actions.

Your words stumbled after each other, slightly stuttering at the perfervid gaze he opted to give out of his wits, "Great! No...no more sacrifices of virgin women to witches now?"

Geralt was still voiceless as he remained speechless. Your image in the morning placing him in a trance. You awkwardly cleared your dry throat, wincing because of how stupefied he appeared to be. Your hand quickly came to cover your mouth, stifling the embarrassment because of how he seemed to be blown away by particular things you didn't know about. One of your guesses was that he was dumbfounded by your morning breath, "Oh, my morning breath. Explains why you're not talking, Rivia."

You've warily stuck your head in between the crook of Geralt's neck and clavicle after being forthright. The touch of your skin against his knocking him out of his reverie as he tried to turn his head to see your face, but failed to do so; your face thoroughly hidden in his peripheral vision.

"No. That's never happening." he hoarsely murmured; answering your 'sacrificing a virgin' question. His timbre awfully deeper and rougher than most of the time. This was his morning voice then, and you were sure your heart began to wildly flutter because of his fingers behind the small of your back; absentmindedly brushing his calloused palms against your delicate skin.

You mumbled against his shoulder, speaking tone more sotto voce and inaudible. But, the white wolf heard everything. Your tone turning pocket-sized because of how scandalous the question have been.

"I'm not a virgin anymore then?"

He granted your question with an affirmative hum, his answer felt like you were tickled under your palm as you were still being a scatterbrain.

"We'd really...?" you trailed off dubiously. The train of thought left like a scattered path that had an arrow as to what you really wanted to mean. You've felt his chest exhale a sigh before he lowly spoke and frankly continued the sentence for you, "Bed you?" the witcher grouched like he wanted to scoff from how beyond belief you sounded, "---Yes, midget. I did. We did."

Geralt felt your shoulders shaking, your mouth exhaling stifled, mirthful giggles as your face went flushed from the reality of your virginity being taken by the witcher.

A dashing mutated human who came from a different world. He was like a character that existed in a game or movie. The type of television series that you would love to watch despite of having many seasons for it based on how interesting his world have been. Less frightening through a gadget rather than experiencing it in real life though.

Your first experience with sex and it had to thankfully be with Geralt of Rivia.

"Oh..Ohohoho," you expressed your faint simpers, feeling Geralt's fingers turned still as he waited for you to continue like he always does, "---You're not serious."

He sensed the slight snigger in your tone, the disbelief somewhat dripping in strong because of the thought. Though, there was also a bit of worry to it because you were probably agitated of what would happen after this; like it was just the start of something bigger and you knew it wasn't just the girth that has piped you in like a broken faucet which is needed to be fixed all night.

"Geralt of...Mmmhia and me," you mused before feeling his fingers brush up your sides; the butterflies in your stomach tickling your insides making you partly squirm from his touch. Your body oblivious of the modest shiver of your body that has automatically responded to the witcher's touches.

A pair of soft, pillowy lips rested upon your shoulder, pecking your silky skin that somehow had a purplish bite and the witcher tried soothing it with a kiss.

"It happened. Even more than once."

You've tried hard to suppress your exhilaration from how the witcher has been acting. Staying in bed with you, saying good morning and most of all, boldly kissing you or in every parts of your body whenever you're together. It was an obvious notification that he was a lot more brazen with you alone, by preference; Geralt appeared to be like a person who lets his walls down when you're the only person he's with.

A deep, baritone chuckle was heard after your toned down squealing. You swiftly lifted your head to meet the diablerie eyes of the white wolf, his mouth in a tight-thin line before winding his long fingers around your nape, pulling your face close until his lips met yours, his vermillion avid to give you a passionate one when he planned to only give you a soft peck that would make his gluttonous cravings contented.

Nevertheless, he knew it wouldn't based on how he wanted to rile you up again, all day. Just those naive, coy innocence of yours was enough reason to continue his corrupting.

You've held a hand on his chest when he tried to deepen the kiss, lifting himself up with an elbow while he continued to connect your lips to his; smoothly molding as one before you've felt his hoary hair frame your face, paving the way till you were laid flat upon your back; Geralt's heavy, muscular weight starting to crush you. His soft kisses that turned choleric had a hidden agenda when he tried placing you under him, and you knew what strategy he was playing.

Your warm palms stopped his ministrations with a hand on his bewhiskered, chiseled chest. The look in your eyes savvy for what he was planning for; feebly doing it so as you were puny with just one aflamed kiss from the witcher. His spirited kisses were cut-short, a coquettish look within those glowing amber eyes that gave you the tingles when you were trying to grasp how you've fantasized to have his weight crushing you as he laid on top; then now it wasn't just a fantasy of yours as it turned into a reality.

"We actually did the birds and the bees then, if you're that comfortable with kissing me, Geralt."

His features appeared to be like he couldn't-care-less, until such time his taciturn self had slipped a small smile or two making you raise a skeptical brow. Geralt tried to put his lips back to where it came from before you've tutted with frisk.

The latter deeply groaned to himself, cocking his head to the side when you've received an unusual balk from a man who rarely expresses himself. He dejectedly rolled off you, seeing him raise a skeptical brow. Geralt's cynicism catching you off guard like he was an adult who has never been given what he wanted.

"I had you all night," he claimed, sounding totally point-blank as he sat his ripped back against the wooden headboard. The covers just below his torso as a trail of trimmed hair was hiking down a path that had your fingers cursory signing the cross like you were being whispered by the devil on your shoulders.

He didn't seem to mind showing you his sculpted body that was carved by the gods, after screwing with him, he became pretty much as bold as brass unlike you who was still sheepish about your naked self hidden beneath the covers. Well, if you had a chiseled body like Geralt of Rivia; you wouldn't be shy of it at all.

Geralt's lips were slightly curled up in a sneer as he sat beside your laying, timid form. You shifted across the bed, rolling off to the other side till you weren't facing the goading, ghost-voiced witcher---who sounded so hot nevertheless---and you saucily concluded, "It was just...a wet dream of me being one horny woman. Not real."

You can sense that he wanted to scoff, feeling his eyes tickling your back because you knew he was still staring.

"You begged for it," he spoke as a matter of fact.

Oh, he's wanting a debate in this one. You thought in the back of your mind. Discomfited by the truth that was set free. Much to your chagrin, his frank discussion made you jump on the bed, sitting upright with the blankets covering your chest as you let out an incredulous gasp, feigning the whole act that you didn't know the veracity held within his facts.

His gaze was entirely pooling with mischief and a little bit of pride as well. He was close-lipped when his features began to endearingly soften, ushering your heart to turn mushy from how evocative his gaze held; tinting your face with a blush that certainly couldn't be seen through the naked eye.

"It--It was the scar's fault! You didn't need to be so blunt about it!---also stop looking at me like that!"

Your heart was on edge like it was standing on the ends of the cliff, waiting for the catapult to just be done with Geralt probably standing below you with open arms. You've given him a faltering glare that consists of ambivalent emotions soaring high.

You didn't know where to look, eyes shun away from the man. Briefly shifting from the windows behind him; lately realizing that his wide ranging built actually had him covering the sunlight for you as you slept. A hand clutched the blankets tightly in front of your chest while the other hand had you fidgeting over the disarranged bed covers; tapping and tapping till it ceased when you've felt Geralt's fingers grazing along your chin, turning to look him in the eye and you swore breakfast was already served before you even know it.

"That wasn't the issue when you've left me alone in my chambers---trying to upset me when you've braided my hair,"

He deeply mocked as you feigned another gasp. It galled you that he was accusing you that you've left him upset yesterday. He wasn't just the only one who was aggrieved from the whole situation.

"Excuse me---?! What are you actually trying to point out here? Now, you think of me like I'm some...some woman who planned this all along and--and---!!" your train of thought was cut off midway, forbearing what you wanted to say as the witcher raised a brow in understanding; knowing what you meant.

A promiscuous woman. Geralt never thought of you that way last night when you were caught in the heat of the moment especially experiencing the effects of the Cicatrix. He found it definitely onerous mostly that he also could feel what you felt; happiness, sadness, fear, anxiety, vexation and a lot more that could vary. Though, the witcher would know what you felt when the emotions were already clouding up your mind; filling them until it was the only thing that runs in your heart before sensing it.

The whole intuition about sensing each other's feelings still had no answer. Though, both of you knew it was also because of that bizarre mark that was carved in between your breast; knowing full well that the hunger you had for each other causes it at the same damn time.

Geralt's lips curled into a faint, kindly beam that had his eyes glowing in odd compassion.

"I don't. You're still my midget,"

You tightly blinked, words jumbled all together with a disbelieving stammer, "Your---midget? Yours?" and subtly pointing a finger at him as you were entirely gobsmacked from his sudden admission and roundabout claiming towards the whole midget thing.

Does this mean he was your witcher then?

He averted his beautiful cat-eyes away, lowly humming beneath his chest and fleetingly shut his peepers, the isolation of being with you overwhelming him a lot. The solitude of being alone as much as possible; away from people except for Jaskier and Cirilla sounded calming. But, when you came along; your happy-go-lucky and naivity of yours swept himself off his feet no matter how emotionless he appeared to be.

Your sweet, bashful and intriguing presence was beyond overwhelming to his withdrawn behavior.

After hearing a hum from the witcher himself, you've hardly scooted away---thinking better to have breakfast in bed, no kidding---but chose to be practical and avoid a slip of your flushing face, turning your bare back away from Geralt; feet falling flat on the wooden floors as you straightened your back, lazily stretching as you softly mewled---that got the witcher burning holes on your back and also feeling himself twitch under the covers because he heard it so well.

You've felt his thick, long, calloused fingers brush against the small of your back, gliding along like he was insinuating at something.

"Another?"

He actually didn't mean...that, right? you silently talked to yourself, clearing your throat, ceasing your actions; gaze fixated at Geralt's used black buttoned tunic that was tossed to the floor.

"What do you mean, another?!"

Your tiny squeaks echoed around his chambers, chary of what he was hinting at that made your eyeballs pop out of your eye sockets from how he still wanted sex after having at least just two hours of nap. You were blissfully spent last night, utterly drained and here he was, the witcher was wanting more.

Was this one of his perks in being mutated?

His fingers gave you a slight tickle, rough voice turning velvety like silk, trying to scrub that determined but utmost wobbly state of mind when it came to your witcher. Geralt's fingers brushed along your spine, languidly tracing till the periphery of your shoulder blades that emitted a breathless exhale of your breath from his mere touch, "When I told you I would indulge your curiosity all night long and days thereafter, I wasn't lying."

Your skin felt so supple and satiny; the way he coveted all night wasn't enough to keep him sated. Satisfied. No. If it was possible to have you in a week of constant ravishing; he would delightfully do so. But, no. You didn't have his stamina nor do you probably feel comfortable by the sensitive feeling you were experiencing as of this morning.

Yes, you were sore. Very. But, the soreness was worth it in your perspective.

You hastily grabbed onto the used tunic, slipping your arms over the huge shirt in which Geralt loved seeing on you but he definitely wouldn't admit, "Oh! As much as I remembered, you never wanted this coochie in the first place! Telling me it was the Djinn effects or some sort!"

"---Midget," you've began your mockery, parodying his baritone timbre like a loser, trying hard type and Geralt couldn't help but place you under his scrutiny, his succulent lips curling into an amused smile as he silently watched you make a fool out of yourself, "---I don't deserve it. I'm guessing it's the Djinn's work that is talking---who's the liar now, huh?"

The witcher exhaled a long sigh, drowsily blinking as he added nonchalantly, "A shame." he stifled the amusement in his tone as you turned to see him slightly imploring to persuade that dead set decision of yours. Your reactions were priceless, even so; he kept his bulge twitching in anticipation for another wave of bliss because every breath he hears surprisingly makes him go gaga over you.

"---Spare me five minutes."

You looked at him like he has grown three heads. Unblinking from his risquè intimations of having your fantasies ticked down. It only needed a 'yes' from you and breakfast will immediately be served right thing in the morning.

Geralt of Mmmhia licked his lips, gaze narrowed as he was seeing the unwavering look within your eyes.

"Ten." he bluntly proposed, stifling a chuckle that made you want to just throw yourself at the witcher but you were a strong woman---though, your eyes have been a huge traitor against the strong will; raking along Geralt's body maybe more than once to admire him in the flesh. Yet, also the tragic experiences that his scars held.

You would ask him about it someday; deciding that you wouldn't want to ruin this rare mood of his.

"Must it be half an hour?" skeptically, he mumbled and blurted out in the open with a hum that snapped you out of your reverie.

"A liar indeed. You don't just take five minutes. Your five minutes consists of six hours or more! Probably even days!" you shook your head knowingly, subtly pointing down below as you sheepishly batted your eyelashes back to the staring witcher who was intensely doing it; with you who was gesturing to what he wanted, "---You're not having this,"

With a simple wiggle of your fingers he knew you wouldn't budge, nor was the white wolf even serious. Geralt was just sending a jest or maybe it also held a little bit of real talk if you would allow him for his wishes.

He'd feast ones eyes as you slid your feet off the bed, with bewilderment in his golden peepers. He opened both palms on either side, gesturing with his hands in astonishment from how you've curved him away, giving the morning bonking a miss. Geralt raked you from head to foot, having a thing about wearing his gigantic clothes that obviously didn't fit like a glove.

With the tousled hair, abnormally painted skin and body ache you were feeling, it was enough to get his agitating hunger firing up.

You heard him grouch as the bed squeaked, warning you that the witcher has stood up on his feet; unintentionally giving his exposed body a once over as the bare-assed witcher grabbed onto his leather pants, fumbling with the hem of it; looking out of the window as the sunshine hit his body in a staggering way. His derriere was phenomenal, the swell of his ass was remarkable; out of this world and you couldn't believe that he'd actually...finally...let you have him.

Pulling out an all nighter didn't kept your curiosity still; even then, you planned and wanted to have another soon when you weren't sore enough, if he'd let you.

"Yeah," he stated in point of fact, receiving a panicking yelp from you when he'd turn around; his disrobed nature never disturbing him despite with you in the room, a daring gesture that he certainly didn't mind if you would stare because you were free to do so. Your reaction got his lips curled into a small grin, the sun making your bruised skin glow in ways that got him complimenting his work of art.

"---Until that weird Cicatrix of yours starts giving effects, the domineering lady would waver,"

Alas, the cicatrix was not giving you effects. But, just seeing him standing buck naked; had your will shaking from the time out you opted to happen. It was probably a bad idea to even suggest a short suspension of the activities he wanted to receive.

Three days have passed. After your nightly penetrating with the witcher and the morning after when you've hushed his off-colored ideas, you didn't know he would be so salty about it.

Geralt was still Geralt; silent, unobtrusive and basking in his own solitude with his horse at all times. Regardless of his normal behavior for wanting to be alone, you understood that it was already a part of his personality that you've known since the day you've arrived.

When you meant that you wanted a timeout, three days wasn't what you tried to point out. The burning coil stirring and pooling below your stomach calmed down in some way or another when you've given in to the desires it wanted. Hence, after that carnal desires it controlled; it wanted another thing as well. Though, this time around; no Cicatrix was controlling you to feel this way.

You wanted Geralt's attention after spending most of his time with Roach rather than his midget.

He wasn't entirely avoiding you at all costs, pushing you off the side or something like that but his gestures were minimal especially with Jaskier and Cirilla hanging around. No hugs, no kisses or no touches when you both were surrounded with his family's presence especially that they had guesses about what happened that night.

Jaskier knew it all and heard what happened. With all the grunts and hushed moans in the middle of that particular night, he blamed himself for telling Geralt to just give in when he would've realized that his room was beside his. The constant whump of Geralt's headboard hitting the adjoined walls that he had with his made the bard grab all his pillows, deciding that it was better to sleep on the hallways instead.

Geralt's withdrawn behavior was a run-of-the-mill habits of him. You were beginning to ask yourself if it has ever been a dream; the nightly ravish and torrid kisses that has happened, but you were wrong because you've woken up one time in the middle of the night with the witcher behind you as you slept on his bed, feeling his burly arm surround your waist, and unexpectedly spooning you to sleep.

You knew it was him because you've jerked from his sudden touch; in the midst of a nightmare that got your heart palpitating as you turned in your sleep. He heard your troubled whimper, taking a peek from behind your back to see if you were deep in your slumber. You were, but he'd heard your heart beat abnormally thumping louder like you were being chased and the latter knew you were caught up in a nightmare.

He gently pulled you around, turning you to face him as you've unconsciously flutter your eyes open, seeing burnt out glowing amber eyes which made you thoughtlessly cuddle closer to his neck. Humane, baritone shushes rocked you to sleep, feeling more protected that you wouldn't have a nightmare of being chased by monsters anymore now that Geralt was beside you.

Be that as it may, his actions were baffling you because after that nightly cuddle session, he was out of doors; never telling you where he went as he came back home at around nightfall without anyone telling you where he went; not that Jaskier and Cirilla knew because they also had no idea where the he went.

Here you thought, witchers can't be petty over such a little thing.

Surprisingly, Geralt was going to be the living proof that they knew how to act like one. It was like he was having a manly period and acting complicated was one of the effects; would chocolates simmer his pettiness down? you doubt.

"Hmm." The witcher was crouched beside his horse; giving her a look before scanning through a half ripped parchment paper that had an awful sketch of his face and yours; one he had retrieved from the guards that tried to forcefully take him when he was away to hunt a Bruxa.

He heard your soft padded footsteps coming down the stairs. Geralt knew it was yours because you had your own pattern; like it was a pebble being thrown in the water. Faint, gentle patters that only you can do in the perimeters of his household. Thusly, he kept the paper close to him, slipping it through the band of his pants as he rose to his feet; the sound of your feet taking a hesitant step close once he'd felt you nearby. You were hesitating, shy or probably thinking too deeply again.

Hence, your bashful company has lifted a suppressed smile on the witcher's face before it fell in just a hot second.

"My...sweetheart of a witcher," You coyly poked through his silence, taking heedful steps close. Your boots lightly scraping along the pastureland, trudging to where you could see Geralt and his broad shoulders.

The endearment you had for him struck an involuntary cringe. He swiftly turned on his heel, facing you with his eyebrows tightly scrunched together like he didn't know what to truthfully feel about the whole pet name. You gave him an unimpressed fall of your forced smile, completely nonplussed that he seemed to be peeved.

"What's with that face? You don't like it? Is it that too cringey? you looked like you've seen Barney and realized he was an awful, scary dinosaur for the children!"

Geralt exhaled a breath out of his mouth before peering down at you; disregarding your modern references for now because he knew it was a banter, his eyes doing that beautiful narrowed smolder that made you want to smack his face...with your lips.

"You're doing it too."

You snobbishly crossed your arms across your chest, shrugging off the timidness as you held your head up high. Literally. The compelling sarcasm drizzling out of your mouth as you declared, drawling out your words like it sounded seething and with emphasis as Geralt couldn't help but tilt his head to the side, considering the snark that you wanted him to be aware of.

"Fine. I'm ticking that out. Honey, then? Cause you're as sweet as honey then became too salty and tried spending more time with Roach rather than your midget."

Who was petty about being subtly ignored now?

Y-O-U.

Geralt shifted his weight on both feet, the glint in his eyes telling you that he was finding the topic rather amusing when you're all riled up for being out of his reach. He'd done that for you. Isn't that what you wanted? space? a timeout? yet, why were you being mad about it then?

"My darling witcher," you started again with a pinch of sugar; the endearment sounding like a threat when you've seen his eyes subtly scanning your clothes. He'd given you a scowl. His gaze felt heavily dragging as he bore in mind at the image of your taut, hardening nipples that was poking through the tube part of your dress.

The crisp breeze of the wind passed through the air, licking up your spine that ignited a reflex from your perky breasts, your dress more see-through as Geralt inspected such a modest outfit which you never worn ever.

Nevertheless, its effects that you wanted to portray through the outfit got him eager for what plans you hold; appearing to be so innocent, demure and sweet with that princess-like sleeveless dress. You had plans. Cunning plans for the witcher, indeed. Sometimes, that naivity running in your veins contradicts with the threatening tone that somehow slips through your mouth; like a bane from a baby snake because of how innocuous you wanted it to be told.

Your innocence somehow had ulterior motives and dark shadows behind your cherub face and small height.

"Stop it." Geralt lowly grumbled in protest, the sight of your nipples stirring the heat inside his pants. You've caught a glimpse of his eyes rolling in disbelief, making you exclaim out loud, "I'm squeezing so hard for your sweetness to come out, Geralt. Pay heed for my effort, will ya'?"

The latter loudly sighed, turning on his booted heel to brush through Roach's mane; he tried to ignore your get-up. But, the dress was doing magnificent effects to your whole being. You were as pretty as a picture, captivating on its finest because of how effeminate its design was decorating your body.

Geralt gave you another once over, probably staring a little bit too long for his 'self-control' to shake.

"You're wearing a dress." he uttered a little bit dull for you to accept. Words frothing with lethargy as he continued to give his attention more to his horse that made you withhold a huff because of how you were feeling disregarded.

You went all the way out; wearing a pretty dress just for the witcher and here he was, brushing off your presence like he didn't like what he was seeing. You were sure you were dolled up from head to foot; even had Cirilla helping you tie the strings behind your back to keep your stomach in tact.

Jaskier even had a good start of the day to send compliments when all you've receive from him was insults; his words noting that you were looking rather feminine and pretty with the dress you've bought back in the marketplace and the witcher here couldn't even look straight into your eyes nor give you the attention you've been hoping for?

Your face fell from his lackadaisical response, eyeing Geralt in dismay who still had his back face-front. You were thoroughly disheartened, shoulders slumping while you stood beside the towering white wolf; voice sounding nasally from how dispirited you've felt.

"You sound like you're telling me I look like a whale in this pretty cute dress with that scowl on your face---Thank you for your kind honesty, my lord."

Geralt sauntered around Roach where his bag has been strapped to his horse, you've tailed behind him like a puppy. He rummaged through his leather bag, mumbling his reply in his most sluggish tone like a wiseacre.

"You want something from me. Obviously." he bluntly commented, digging in his bag for a thing he bought from Babeth.

You cocked your head to the side, shrugging your shoulders when you've heard Roach neigh through your honest confession induced with sheer sarcasm.

"Your attention.It’s what I only need! What else? It's like begging to a rock, I swear. You don't even hold my hand, give me back hugs, kiss me on my forehead like in the movies or those sweet gestures that men usually do. Roses! Daisies! Love letters! But, does your world have roses though?---What? you screw me all night in one day---wrecking my punani then ignore me the next? excuse me, Mr. Casanova---"

He briefly ceased his ransack, sparing you a glimpse of his impervious amber eyes; silently asking if you were actually serious with this complaining of yours before quickly revoking the admission with a snort.

"---Pfft. Okay. I'm shutting up."

Geralt went back on digging through his bag pockets, his thick fingers seeming to give him a difficult time as he couldn't help but deeply groan to himself, the scowl etching on his face growing tighter when he couldn't seem to find it. In the midst of searching through his bag, he could hear your toes softly tapping on the ground alongside with your fingers lacing behind your back and tapping against each other while you get a hold of what you were about to actually ask; like a child asking permission from her guardian.

"Jaskier and Cirilla will be visiting Cuthbert," you quietly started, uncertain of what his answer would because the last time you've tried jumping out of their household, he came home entirely maddened over the fact that you were wandering around the woods at night. However, today you would dawdle through the woods in the morning.

"---Can I come with?"

He talked under his breath, "No. Stay."

You slightly turned your head, jutting your ear his way because it sounded like an incoherent rumble of his voice that you didn't quite believed to hear and so, you repeated; much clearer and with emphasis.

"Jaskier told me they'll be bringing Kolby with them so he could wander around a little bit. If a Hirikka can come with them. Then, I suppose I can---"

Geralt cut you off in a curt manner, "Stay." he repeated his word more gruffly than the rest.

You instantly pouted from the dismissal of your request, glowering back at the witcher who was turning a deaf ear; still going through his stuff as he kept silent which caused you to sulk because of how he couldn't seem to get the bottom of why you were being petty like him.

"I thought you needed to do some monster hunting again?"

A strand of silvery hair fell from the side of Geralt's temple as he simply turned to give you an indescribable look in his eyes, tight-lipped but not much of a scowl and close enough towards a frown as he gruffly asked.

"Do you want me to leave?"

An immediate answer was sent to him; a hasty shake of your head as your features turned rigid while you quickly didn't hesitate to answer, "N-No! Of course, not!"

"Then, no. I'm not leaving you." he nonchalantly aforementioned. Finger brushing off a metal string he was finding for.

Geralt decided to stay a little longer before he went out and about to search for the Bloedzuiger he needed to annihilate for the town. He'd given Durriken a two week deadline before he finds the beast in the swamps. Though, the witcher didn't expect to actually take him a week before going on his way to kill this monster because he'd estimated his hunt to only be four days tops. Howbeit, he was stalling and chose to hunt for the bruxa that Jaskier lately mentioned near the ruins and close enough for him to go home when he wants to.

The white haired witcher never puts a brake with his job because he knew that this was the lives of people they were talking about. Yet, when he has encountered the chevaliers of Kaedwen, hunting for the Bloedzuiger that his old friend has requested somehow took him more than a week before actually starting his pursuit.

The day after tomorrow. Geralt would start to find this monster in the south swamps.

"You're not really going to let me go?" you utter so suddenly, huffing out a frustrated breath because you felt like you were being quarantined after the whole incident. It was fine if Geralt was thoughtful enough to entertain you; giving you a little slip of what was running inside his mind, talking to you instead of his horse and a lot more that could serve as entertainment for you.

There were no television, wifi, computers or places you know that were safe to jog in without being eaten by their monsters.

He clipped his bag shut, his fist closed as you tried peeking to what he was holding but his big hands made it difficult to snoop around. Geralt was tightly clutching onto the thing he was holding that made you cross your arms for the second time around, your eyes giving him a glare that didn't move him because he knew you weren't actually mad; just annoyed.

"Fine! I've wasted using a dress then. You know I never like wearing this type of clothes!"

"You're also wearing that because you have other things in your mind,"

Yes, it was to keep Geralt's eyes only on you and not his horse; trying to stir whatever you could for him to never leave your sight.

You rolled your eyes; trying not to appear like you were caught like a deer in headlights, "Great, now you're wanting to be adopted by the x-men or avengers," pause. "---You read minds now too?"

The latter softly exhaled a breath out of his nose. His muscles straining against the black under tunic he wore; sleeves folded till the ends of his elbows that accentuated those protruding veins in his forearms that looked so powerful and strong. You cleared your throat when he'd crossed his arms, the ends of his lips faintly curling when he'd lean his head to the side, quietly watching you fret.

You gave him a nod, misunderstanding his silence that he was trying to shoo you away, anxiously biting the insides of your cheeks, looking straight into his eyes as you thought out loud, "Alright, I'm not going to leave the house. I'll...try and find ways to spend the time,"

Turning around your heel, you were ceased from doing so as strong, thick and warm fingers held onto your shoulder; halting you from leaving him alone. Your heart skipped a beat as he did, his touch sending a bolt towards your stomach, electrifying the butterflies living inside to wake up.

"Wait." Geralt suddenly rasped.

"Did you change your mind now---"

You've tried to turn around, eyes hopeful that he wanted you to stay. His strong hand held you still. Silver met silver as it chimed from behind, a tiny grinding of metals faintly crashing against each other before you heard another grumble of curse words from the witcher who towered from behind.

As blasphemy left his lips, a string of metal looped around your neck followed after. His incoherent babbles quite fathomable as you could hear and comprehend that he doesn't do this kind of shit, complaining why did he even bought such a thing. Another low rumble of the word 'fuck' was all it took for Geralt to impatiently clasp onto the lock with his patience running low, taking him five tries before successfully connecting the hook; his thick fingers awfully difficult for the small jewelry to hold onto.

"Geralt," you were stunned, looking down to see the necklace that has caught your eye back at the marketplace.

It was still glowing like it used to, the coral green color beautifully twinkling against the sunlight. With an excited turn of your heel, you were feet close with the witcher; peering down with a compassionate haze in his eyes that made you grab onto the stone that lay before the valley of your breasts. His fingers still clasped on your shoulder, "This is---this was the fae necklace from Babeth. How did you know?"

Geralt avoided the question with a lick of his lips, taking a glimpse down at the necklace before staring back onto your face. The stone complimenting your glow that only you could radiate, "It'll suit you." Pause. "---The necklace also serves as an amulet to keep you out of harms way,"

"How did you know I liked this?"

You were dumbfounded; peepers quizzical and gaping at the colossal hunk of a witcher. He looked around the field as he breathed, trying to form words that he wanted to say but chose the savory answer of what he actually meant.

"I....just know," he trailed off, warmth trying to embrace you in solace when he let his words flow like a boat sailing in the ocean, smooth and steady; also direct to the point.

"---Your wishes for a man who could offer you a lavish life will never be granted. I can never be the man in your fantasies, midget. I'm not what you think I am; a prince or some nobleman in this world. I’m the least you expect or hope for,"

His jaw ticked as he continued to speak, amber eyes downcast as his face turned impassive; words turning slower than the usual, "I try not to be what they say I am after years end," pause. "---I am not entirely evil nor am I good. I've done things far more worse than any kind person would wail about. People have considered me as a monster for relevant reasons because I've killed their kind with my sword---specifically, fiendish people as I see fit,"

"---But, If I could choose one evil or another, I prefer not to choose at all."

Geralt never broke his gaze away, nor did you find any lies beneath the windows of his soul. Every word he say was the truth as he tries to truly explain what he was in their world, sending a message that he was the boogeyman living inside your closet or a monster haunting you under your bed. The horrible type of personification of what he actually was. Yet, you never see him as one.

With all words that has been said, you couldn't learn to despise him because you knew he was beyond more than that. Important. Valuable and also needed to be shown that ill will and animosity aren't the only sarcastic good that every world can offer. There was kindness; in which he shows no matter how he didn't seem to be aware of. Care. Love. Hope. Eternal happiness.

You knew your heart was screaming it; silently shouting back at the witcher that there was more to the world that it can ever offer and you aspire to be that person to show him what it is he seem to be rejecting.

The latter was heedful of how gentle you were gazing up at him. Thus, he continued, mindless that he was lost in his dismal thoughts of the life that was given to him, "The whole continent, they despise my kind and where ever I go, shit happens all the time,"

Geralt seemed to grit his teeth, humming in displeasure when his features curved into a wince for whatever he had to say next, "---It's the fucking destiny that was bound for me,"

A sudden heavy feeling crept inside your chest; crawling towards your throat and triggering you into throwing a hissy fit of sobs that pushed the tears falling right before your eyes. The abrupt shift from feeling sympathy turned into a mournful midget. Tears being an answer that you were with Geralt in this for whatever he was fighting for; having no idea that his fight could be total carnage and here you thought he was just like Bucky in the Marvel Universe.

People calling him that he's a villain when he certainly isn't because he was brainwashed or had no other choice.

Perhaps, Geralt could be like it. He'd done some kind of evil because he had no other choice too.

He could be a monster but also a hero.

"Why...are you crying?" the white wolf didn't know what to do. Should he hug you? wipe your tears? do men in your world do that when a woman cries? Geralt just stood tall and stiff beside Roach who had stepped back till she had her head close to him.

For anything Geralt can ever look for a horse, she'd somehow neighed and nudged his face; promptly hitting the witcher on the side of his face which caught him off-guard; quickly glaring at his horse as she offered another clear whinny which got another piercing glare from the man himself.

"I don't even know! I think it's because you're also feeling this way but you're not the one crying!"

You were in the midst of expressing your feelings. Your impulsive self hastily grabbing onto Geralt's hand that had him raising a quizzical brow. He momentarily took a glimpse of your fingers lacing in between the spaces of his. He'd never remembered that he had done such a thing before; holding hands while standing in the middle of the meadow, his hand that has tasted blood from different kinds of living creatures or people.

Those sensitive, delicate and sinless fingers of yours gripping his; connecting and enveloping against each other as one. He'd never expected for it to feel this way.

It was quite satisfying and calming; making him feel like he was protecting you in some ways because of how his palms were rather large against yours.

You sniffed your cries away, roughly wiping them with the back of your free hand. Stepping more to his side; his height towering beside your small form as you have given Geralt a look of query, "Why are you holding my hand, Geralt?"

It was a ridiculous joke that laced with sarcasm. He didn't seem to decipher what you meant and heard him sigh with a suppressed smile on his face; fighting off the beam.

"I didn't. You held onto it in the first place,"

"Oh, right. Heehee!" you simply shrugged your shoulders and puckered your lips, giggling after seeing the smile rising those tight-lips. You've waved the awkwardness off as the witcher didn't seem to know what holding hands meant. Add the fact that his hold didn't seem tight and comfortable.

"Isn't holding hands a thing in this world of yours?"

"No." He simply answered, wondering if he needed to clasp his hands tighter. Geralt was about to when you've patted his fingers to relax and grope yours, eventually slackening.

"Oh. Okay. Then, hold me like you're scared to let go, Geralt."

The white wolf mutely complied to your satisfaction; warmth that his hand could provide felt so secure as his grip turned firm like he never did wanted to let go if possible. He tipped his head to the side, watching your face contort into a felicitous image that he had already seen; recognizing the smile that he has seen in the dream that the Djinn wanted him to see.

A dream where he was also smiling the same way as you did.

You were definitely in a more jovial mood after receiving such an adorable gift from the witcher; gifts that he certainly wasn't used to giving, gestures that make him uncomfortable but he tries his best to show that he wasn't what people think he really is and that mindset was enough for your heart to jump in felicity. You've tightened your intertwined fingers.

"There. Better!"

Geralt heard the faint rustle of the winds; hitting you both in a chilling phantasm of the air hugging you in the cold. He heard a twig break from the far distance, it was imperceptible to the ears of a normal human; but not to him.

This wasn't the only time he'd heard things out of the ordinary, some were harmless animals but mostly were beasts that could harm people when hungry. The sound was faint and stealthy; sounding like this beast didn't want to be seen nor caught.

His head snap to where the sound came from, seeing nothing but an extensive lineage of trees swaying from left to right. You've given Geralt a look of doubt, seeing him narrowing his eyes at the far end of the meadow. A simple shake of your hands interlaced together interfered his perusal of something or someone lurking from behind the woods.

"Geralt, come on! I need to show you something and it's about Kolby! He's acting weird!" you tugged onto his hand, walking forward as you tried your hardest to pull his weight; he knew you couldn't and so his concern flew right above his head when you've looked back with those pleading doe-eyes of yours, receiving not anything less than a hum from Geralt as he'd fully had his attention diverted because of you.

"Hmm."

ANOTHER SMUT WILL BE ON CHAPTER 15.1 WHICH WILL BE UPDATED NEXT WEEK, OF COURSE! HEHEHEHEHE. FEEDBACKS ARE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED! CAN I JUST SAY THAT I WANT TO BE THE READER SO BAD?

Taglist for WOTN: @alyxkbrl @himarisolace @barkingbullfrog @ayamenimthiriel @hellodevilslittlesister @vania-marie @spookypeachx @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us @nympeth @amirahiddleston @gabethelobster @dreaming-about-starfleet @uncoolcloudyhead @melaninstylezz @psychosupernatural @missjenniferblog @dance-dreamer @marvelousell @kingniazx @angelias134 @tapismyforte @chook007 @covid-donotenter @winter-moons @cheesecakeisapie @silverkitten547 @angelofthor @carrieannewaywardson, @plantingmum, @stuckupstucky, @shesthelastjedi, @a–1–1–3 @gutfucks

Overall witcher taglist: @pizza-eater-i-ate-the-pizza

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remywrites5 · 4 years

Text

Sirius walked into his first class on his first day on University and was immediately distracted by a very cute boy sitting a few rows down in the lecture hall. He had tawny curls and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. In short, he was fucking adorable and Sirius wanted a reason to speak with him.

“Jamie, do you know that guy?” Sirius asked, pointing him out.

James shook his head. “No idea, mate.”

Sirius sighed wistfully and rested his cheek in his hand, staring at the adorable stranger. As if the guy could sense someone watching him, he turned around and his eyes landed on Sirius. Sirius quickly sat up straight and gave him a friendly wave. A small smile broke out onto the stranger’s face and Sirius couldn’t help but find it lovely. The guy ducked his head down and turned back towards the front.

Sirius spent half the lecture watching his new crush and the other half pretending he wasn’t watching him. He was going to speak to that guy if it was the last thing he did.

***

It had been weeks and Sirius had still not succeeded in speaking to his mystery crush. It seemed like the guy was perpetually late to the lecture, showing up just moments before the class was about to start, or sometimes after it had already started. He also seemed to fly out of there the moment the lecture was done. It made it impossible for Sirius to find time to speak to him or ask him for his number.

It wasn’t until James’ party that Sirius finally got to meet Remus – he had at least managed to learn his name in the proceeding weeks – even though he hadn’t expected Remus to be there. He couldn’t be wholly surprised though seeing as James had invited half the campus to the party. Still it had completely blindsided Sirius to find Remus standing in his living room with a beer in his hand.

Sirius quickly combed his fingers through his hair and walked over. Sirius didn’t normally get nervous around people but he felt something akin to it as he approached Remus. Perhaps it was the length and intensity of his crush that was making his insides do little flips. “Hi, I’m Sirius. I think we have a lecture together.”

Remus bit his bottom lip and shook his head slightly. He brought his hands up and began to say something in sign language that Sirius couldn’t understand.

“Oh shit,” Sirius said, feeling his heart sink a little. He didn’t know any sign language at all. He had finally gotten a chance to speak to Remus and they couldn’t actually communicate with each other. Then Sirius got an idea. He grabbed his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the notes app, starting to type away furiously.

Hi, I’m Sirius. I think we have a lecture together. Sorry I don’t know sign language. He passed the phone over to Remus to read and was pleased when Remus started writing back.

It’s ok. Nice to meet you, Sirius. I’m Remus. I can read lips but I’m not very good at speaking.

Their fingers brushed as Remus based the phone back and Sirius felt a little shiver pass through him just from the thrill of it.

I bet that’s not true but if you’re more comfortable I’m fine speaking like this.

Remus read what Sirius had written and gave a slight nod.

I appreciate it. Thanks.

It’s the getting to speak to you at all that I’m interested in.

Why?

You’re cute.

Remus made a face when he read that and rolled his eyes at Sirius.

You’re ridiculous.

Don’t judge me. I have a thing for freckles. And curls. And guys that are taller than me.

So you’re saying I’m your type?

I’m definitely saying you’re my type. Can I have your number?

I suppose that would be ok.

Maybe a date too while you’re at it?

Are you always this forward?

I figured I might as well go for broke.

Remus chuckled when he read that and the sound of it surprised Sirius just a bit. His laugh was low and raspy and Sirius desperately wanted to hear it again. He smiled up at Remus and raised an eyebrow at him. “Well?” he asked, holding the phone out for an answer.

Remus took the phone back and quickly typed something. He handed the phone to Sirius and then leaned against the wall, taking a sip of his beer. Sirius quickly glanced down to read Remus’ reply.

I programmed my number into your phone and I’m free next Saturday. Text me.

Sirius smiled triumphantly and held the phone against his chest. “I will.”

***

Sirius had spent the entire week leading up to his date with Remus watching every Youtube video he could find on learning BSL. He still was clunky and awkward with his movements but he could sign his own name and a few other things. Although it wasn’t much it felt like a start.

Sirius did his hair and slipped into the well-worn leather jacket he’d had since he was sixteen. He couldn’t help stopping to look at himself in the mirror and make sure he looked good for his first date with Remus. He’d never forgive himself if he looked a mess.

He felt like he had when he’d gotten crushes on guys back in sixth form. Dizzy and light as if he could float away at any moment. He’d never been terribly good at relationships because James was always his priority. But there was something about Remus that made him want to put in a little extra effort, even if that meant learning an entire new language. He had learned French easily enough as a kid. It couldn’t be that difficult to go from being bilingual to trilingual could it?

Sirius quickly texted Remus to let him know he was on his way and grabbed the keys to his bike. It was just a short walk across campus to the housing Remus lived in but Sirius wanted to take his bike. There were only a few more months he could ride it before having to put it in storage for the winter. Besides, he knew he looked cool on the bike and he was aiming to impress.

When he pulled up in front of Remus’ building, he pulled his helmet off and shook his hair out. Remus was already sitting on the steps waiting for him and noticed his little display. He smiled warmly as he descended the steps towards Sirius.

‘Hello’ he signed and Sirius copied him.

Sirius’ hand movements were unsure as he tried to sign to Remus. ‘Hello Remus. You look beautiful.’

Remus blushed and played with one of his curls. ‘You also beautiful.’

Sirius grinned and made a fist, putting his thumb in the bottom and then pulling it out, doing the sign he learned for shit. Remus laughed and Sirius felt his chest puff up with pride at having caused it. He pulled out his phone and quickly shot Remus a text.

So I think I’ve pretty much exhausted all the knowledge I learned off Youtube. Don’t be too disappointed in me.

Remus shook his head and started typing back.

You did well. I can teach you some more if you’d like.

Yes please. Where would you like to go?

On that thing?

What’s wrong with my bike?

Never been on one. Will it be safe?

I’m not in the habit of injuring cute boys on the first date. I’ll be careful.

I’m not sure that was a reassuring as you meant it.

Remus. Look at how beautiful my face is. Do you think I would risk messing it up?

Are you always this humble?

We can walk if you’re that nervous. But I promise you’ll be safe no matter what.

Remus chewed his bottom lip for a moment, shuffling his feet awkwardly. After debating with himself, he brought his phone back up and began typing something. Sirius waited with bated breath to receive the message.

Do you have another helmet?

Sirius grinned and pulled his spare out of his bag, handing it over to Remus. Remus put it on and then swung his leg over the bike, coming to rest behind Sirius. He put his arms around Sirius’ waist to hold onto him and Sirius couldn’t remember a time when he’d been happier.

With no idea where he was going, Sirius kicked off and sped off down the street, making sure not to go too fast for fear of scaring Remus. He had a feeling this was Remus’ first time on a motorcycle and was just being a good sport. Sirius wanted to make sure he had a good time on their date so maybe he would get another one.

He finally pulled up in front of a diner that he and James usually went to on morning they were hungover as fuck. He knew the food was good there and it was more casual. Parking the bike, he let Remus get off first, stumbling slightly on unsure feet. Sirius reached out and steadied him and Remus shot him a grateful smile before doing the sign for ‘thank you’.

When they sat down at the table, they both pulled out their phones so they could talk to each other. Sirius couldn’t wait until he could speak BSL better so they could speak properly to each other. It felt important.

The waitress came over and Remus pointed to what he wanted on the menu so Sirius could order it for him. Sirius got pancakes and sausage since they served breakfast all day while Remus got soup and a sandwich.

Once their menus had been cleared away, Sirius put his hand in the middle of the table palm up. He wiggled his fingers a little in an invitation and Remus blushed slightly before taking his hand.

Difficult to type like this.

Don’t care. Tell me about yourself.

What do you want to know?

What kind of movies do you like?

The kind with subtitles.

Very funny.

Remus chuckled and gave Sirius’ hand a squeeze.

I prefer books. Conan Doyle, Douglas Adams, Neil Gaiman, Jane Austen, Oscar Wilde. I’m kind of a nerd.

But a very cute nerd.

Please stop making me blush.

I like it when you blush. I’d like to kiss you.

Not here. People will see.

So?

After food. Maybe.

Sirius sat back in the booth and crossed his arms over his chest, looking at Remus challengingly. Remus met his gaze with an amused grin on his lips. Sirius raised an eyebrow at him and enjoyed that they were able to communicate non-verbally even after knowing each other for such short a time.

Remus grabbed his phone and texted something quickly, not breaking eye contact with Sirius. Sirius felt his phone buzz on the table and he grabbed it.

I’m not snogging you in public so you can just stop giving me bedroom eyes.

I didn’t actually know I was doing that.

Sure you didn’t.

Maybe those are just my normal eyes.

You’re so full of it.

Remus waited until he had Sirius’ attention and did the sign for shit. Sirius barked out a laugh and found Remus smiling in return. He really was having an amazing time with Remus despite the fact that he couldn’t sign very well. He had thought maybe things would get awkward but they’d found ways to talk to each other and keep up the conversation.

Their food finally came and they ate in a companionable silence. Sirius texted Remus to ask how his food was and Remus assured him it was good. Sirius might have eaten his food a bit quickly because he wanted to get outside and finally get a kiss from Remus. However he couldn’t make Remus eat faster and it was wholly frustrating.

When the check came, Sirius quickly threw down enough notes for the bill and the tip before grabbing Remus’ hand and tugging him outside. He did the sign for kiss, bringing his fingers together and mouthing the word for Remus. It was one of the few he’d made sure to learn before the date. Remus chuckled and shook his head before tugging Sirius forward by his jacket and capturing his lips.

Remus’ lips were soft and Sirius moaned appreciatively at finally getting the kiss he’d been craving since first seeing Remus in the lecture hall weeks ago. He put his arms around Remus’ neck and held onto him, drinking him in greedily. When Remus broke the kiss to finally breathe, Sirius took the opportunity to press kisses to the freckles on the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks. Remus huffed out a breath in amusement as if he knew exactly what Sirius was doing.

Sirius pulled back and swiped his finger across his chin, doing the sign for boyfriend, the other one he’d made sure to learn before the date. He pointed to Remus and then did the sign again. Remus bit his bottom lip and nodded emphatically. Sirius beamed at him and stepped forward back into Remus’ warmth. He closed the distance between them and hugged Remus tightly. He would continue to close the distance until they could talk without phones and without barriers, just the two of them.

#wolfstar #I write things #unprompted #long post #fluff #deaf Remus #BSL #pining #university au #modern setting #getting together #I may have just finished watching the society and Grizz and Sam ruined me

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chiseler · 4 years

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BUTTER KNIFE SLIDE

In the early ’90s, I was the Editor-at-Large at The Welcomat, a Philadelphia-based alternative weekly. I was living in Brooklyn at the time, but every Thursday I would hop on a NJ Transit commuter train for the three and a half hour trip to Philly. After arriving at 30th Street station, I’d walk across the river into Center City to the paper’s offices, which were housed in a building on the corner of 17th and Sansom. I’d make a right in the building’s small lobby, take the elevator to the Third floor, and walk to the back, where the editorial department was located. Even before saying hi to the other editors, I’d drop my bag on my desk, step over to the office boombox, sort through the small batch of cassettes stacked next to it, throw in Delta bluesman Cedell Davis’ debut album, Feel Like Doin’ Something Wrong, and punch the play button. Without fail, once those first notes hit the air, an audible and pained collective groan arose from every throat in the room.

While my own aesthetic sensibilities were just as offended as my co-workers’, over time I came to have a real and solid affection for Davis, the same way you come to cherish a middle child with a droopy eye or a pet rabbit with the mange.

To the uninitiated, the first moments of the opening track on Davis’ album, “I Don’t Know Why,” might have been produced when a large bull walrus with a head cold and an untuned autoharp were tossed into an enormous blender together. Those same listeners might even cynically conclude the album’s title was a direct reference to the last thing Davis muttered before stepping into the recording studio. At the very least, Davis’ caterwauling guitar and his own strangled yelping vocals might be seen as proof positive there really is such a thing as an authentic Delta Blues singer who is absolutely godawful. As one friend put it, “If you’re bad enough, you get to be ‘authentic’.’”

That said, over the years Davis idiosyncratic style also earned him some fierce, high-profile defenders. Love and respect him or cringe at the mere mention of his name, no one can deny Davis had a legitimate claim to the blues.

Ellis Cedell Davis recorded Feel Like Doin’ Something Wrong for Fat Possum Records when he was sixty-eight years old, but his career as a workaday delta bluesman began roughly half a century earlier.

Davis was born in Helena, Arkansas, in 1926. At the time Helena was a bustling Delta port town, where his father ran one of the city’s countless juke joints and his devout Evangelical mother, while working as a cook, was better known among locals as a faith healer. Perhaps on account of all the sordid temptations waiting around every corner in Helena—it was a town rife with bootleggers, gamblers and hookers—young Cedell was sent a ways upstream to live with his older brother on the E. M. Hood plantation. There he became friends with Isaiah Ross, and the pair, only seven or eight at the time, began playing blues. Davis’ mother insisted the music was the handiwork of Satan, but it was the music that surrounded them, it was the music they knew, the pair often sneaking into local juke joints to catch live performances. Davis began with the diddly bow, a single wire nailed to a wall and plucked, before moving on to harmonica and guitar. Ross, meanwhile, stuck with the harmonica and would later be signed to Sam Phillips’ Sun Records as Dr. Ross, the Harmonica Boss.

When he was ten, Davis contracted a severe case of polio which left him nearly paralyzed. He returned to Helena, where it was hoped his mother’s healing powers might be able to save him. Well, Davis survived, but the muscles of his legs were so deteriorated he was forced to walk with crutches. Worse for the budding musician, he lost a good deal of control over his left hand, and his right was gnarled and completely useless. Being a right-handed guitar player, this was bad news.

In the early ’80s, Davis told New York Times music critic Robert Palmer—a tireless champion of Davis’ music—that it took him three years to figure out how to play again.

He flipped the guitar around to start teaching himself to play left-handed, but even then, with his right hand unable to work the fret board, he knew he needed something to use as a slide, so swiped a butter knife from his mother’s silverware collection, using the handle to work the frets.

In 2017, shortly before his death, Davis told an interviewer. “Almost everything that you could do with your hands, I could do it with the knife. It’s all in the way you handle it. Drag, slide, push it up and down.”

To unsophisticated ears, the grinding shriek resulting from the butter knife slide working the strings might be reminiscent of a cat in heat caught in a ceiling fan, but Mr. Palmer, being a rock critic, recognized its virtues, describing it as only a rock critic could: "a welter of metal-stress harmonic transients and a singular tonal plasticity.” Palmer also argued that Davis’ wholly unique sound wasn’t merely the untuned inchoate noise so many claimed, noting the subtleties of the guitar work remained consistent performance to performance.

In the early 1940s, while in his teens, Davis started playing on street corners around Helena, sometimes working as a duo with Ross. Soon enough he found himself booked in the local juke joints, playing house parties, and appearing on local radio blues shows. He became friends with a number of the era’s most notable Delta Blues luminaries, including Sonny Boy Williamson, Big Joe Williams, Robert Nighthawk and Charlie Jordan. In 1953 Davis teamed up with Nighthawk, a famed slide guitarist in his own right, and the pair began playing all over the Mississippi Delta region, eventually relocating to St. Louis. Davis, it was said, had a Buddha like presence on stage, a radiant calm that seemed to defuse even the most unruly of crowds. It apparently didn’t always come through.

In 1957, while the pair was playing a gig at a bar in East St. Louis, someone in the audience pulled a gun. This sparked a panic in the crowd that only escalated when cops raided the place. Davis was caught in the resulting stampede, and trampled under lord knows how many feet. The bones in his legs weren’t merely broken, they were shattered, confining him to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

Just as he was determined, for better or worse, not to let polio and a ruined right hand stop him from playing music, he didn’t let the wheelchair slow him down either. Shortly after he got out of the hospital, he and Nighthawk returned to Helena, where the duo continued performing together. When Nighthawk snared them a regular house gig at a nightclub in Pine Bluff, Arkansas in 1961, Davis picked up and moved there.

(As an interesting side note, Pine Bluff was home to an enormous U.S. Army chemical and bioweapons storage facility. It’s unclear if these two things are connected, but if you take Davis at his word, the town also boasted the fattest women in the world, an observation that inspired his song, “If You Like Fat Women,”)

Davis and Nighthawk went their separate ways in 1963, after ten years of playing together. Davis would remain in Pine Bluff for the next few decades, still playing the juke joints around the Delta.

(As another side note, throughout his career Davis remained adamantly vague when it came to questions about his marital status. He might have been married twice, or maybe not at all. It’s unclear. He knows he had a few kids, maybe even some grandkids, but he was no longer in touch with any of them.)

In the mid-’70s, like so many other folklorists inspired by Harry Smith and Alan Lomax, Louis Guida began trolling the Deep South with a tape recorder, hoping to make field recordings of some as-yet-undiscovered authentic blues legend along the way. In 1976 he stumbled across Davis playing in a bar, and those first recordings appeared on Guida’s compilation album, Keep It to Yourself: Arkansas Blues Volume 1, Solo Performances, which came out in the early ’80s.

And here we go. Robert Palmer heard that album and headed to Arkansas to catch Davis’ act, writing the first of many stories about him for the Times and other publications. Over the course of the decade, Palmer’s endless championing of Davis earned the man with the butter knife slide gigs not only all over the country (including a multi-night stand in NYC), but around the world as well. Suddenly Davis, who prior to that had ventured no further than St. Louis, was starting to get some recognition within the international blues community. Not all of it was as laudatory as Palmer, but still. In 1993, it was Palmer, not surprisingly, who brought Davis to the attention of Fat Possum Records.

The indie label had been launched by three white college buddies from The University of Mississippi in 1991, their goal being to promote (which sounds so much better than “exploit”) previously unknown bona fide aging black Delta blues musicians. Along with R.L. Burnside and T Model Ford, Davis became one of the earliest acts signed to the label. In 1994, with Palmer himself producing and assorted label mates like Burnside acting as sidemen, Davis went into the studio to record Feel like Doin’ Something Wrong, which featured a smattering of classic vlues covers mixed in with Davis originals, including “Murder My Baby” and the above mentioned “If You like Fat Women.”

Going back to the album now for the first time in roughly twenty-five years, it doesn’t seem nearly as comically awful as it did back in The Welcomat’s editorial office. In fact it’s pretty good, if you’re a fan of unpolished, dirty, gritty roadhouse blues. If you aren’t conscious that he’s playing with a butter knife, Davis’ guitar work merely sounds a little squeaky and rough, but not all that different from what you might hear from others of the time.

If there is a downside, it’s that the album’s a little one note and generic. Apart from the covers, Davis relies on the same simple blues progression for nearly every song, which, yes, can be a little tiring if you’re listening carefully. But if all you wanted was some generic roadhouse blues to put on as you go about doing other things, it fits the bill.

In a strange move considering he’d only put out a single album at that point, the following year saw the release of The Best of Cedell Davis, this time spearheaded not buy Palmer, but by popular jazz fusion bandleader Col. Bruce Hampton, one of Davis’ newfound fans. None of the album’s ten tracks appeared on Feel Like Doin’ Something Wrong, so I can’t say for sure if these are new recordings or songs taken from his appearances on earlier Delta blues compilations, but a couple, like “My Dog Won’t Stay Home” and “Keep Your mouth Closed, Baby,” are kind of fun.

Shortly after the Best of came out, Palmer died, and Davis lost his most influential benefactor. But Palmer had gotten Davis on the map, and it was up to Davis to carry on as he always had.

In 1998 he released Horror of It All, an album whose title once again played right into the hands of the Davis naysayers. In fact, It’s an album, despite promising song titles like Chicken Hawk,” “Keep on Snatchin’” and the mind boggling “Tojo told Hitler,” that seems determined to prove the naysayers were right all along. With the exception of a new iteration of “If You Like Fat Women,” there are no drums, no side guitars, nothing but Cedell and the naked glory of his butterknife slide. It’s Cedell laid bare, and it can be painful, especially as Davis keeps playing those same simple blues progressions over and over. Yes, he has an absolutely unique sound, a bit like Joseph Spence, but ouch. It really is godawful, but like the equally godawful Godzilla vs. Megalon, may be the album that cemented his reputation among blues critics and fans who weren’t Robert Palmer.

(Oddly, Horror of it All is the album I keep returning to, as it best captures my initial impressions of the Davis sound.)

After Horror of It All came out Davis decided to take a break from recording to write more songs and return to playing the juke joints where he was most comfortable.

It’s a funny thing. If you don’t know the back story, Davis’ music, while perhaps not as awful as I once maintained (and countless blues critics still insist), doesn’t get much beyond the merely adequate. When you do learn his story, though, well, that elevates things, right? Knowing he’s confined to a wheelchair and using a butter knife in his crippled right hand, it’s really something he plays as well as he does. It also sure makes for a swell and effective marketing gimmick. He may not have been the worst bluesman who ever lived, but without that gimmick he was nothing. If he’d merely been blind it would’ve been no big deal—blindness just comes with the territory—but Davis was all messed up, and never let it stop him. Again, for better or worse.

As has happened so many times before, if you have a performer whose abilities make at least a stab toward the adequate, then add a mental or physical disability on top of it, all you need do is step back for a few moments and wait for the hipster celebrities to start lining up, hoping to get their claws in him. Consider the cases of Larry “Wild Man” Fischer or Daniel Johnston.

Sure enough, when word of Davis’ condition began circulating along with those first couple Fat Possum discs (the label having become quite popular among white hipsters), the white hipster celebrity musicians began clamoring to get on board.

Davis’ returned to the studio in 2002 to record When Lightnin’ Struck the Pine. The accompanying press release claimed he had personally signed R.E.M. guitarist Peter Buck and Screaming Trees drummer Barrett Martin to be in his backing band. Why do I find it hard to believe a 76-year-old black bluesman from Arkansas had ever heard, let alone heard of, R.E.M. or the Screaming Trees, or that he would personally sign a couple white hipsters to be in his band?

Well, whatever. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it really did happen that way, and there wasn’t some heavy conspiring between Buck, Martin, and the white boys who ran the label to get them in on those sessions.

Well, however it came about, the resulting album was, much to my amazement, um, pretty good. The sound is as grungy as ever, but much fuller than it had been on his earlier albums, with the addition of organ, piano and sax together with Buck and Martin. And as it should be, Davis vocals and butter knife slide are front and center. The energy level’s been ramped up considerably, and best of all, Davis, both in the songs and a few candid recordings from the studio, seems to be having a fine time of it.

Three years later in 2005, Davis had a stroke and was forced to move into a nursing home in Hot Springs, Arkansas. This time it was definite and final—he could no longer play guitar. But if polio hadn’t stopped him, and crushed legs hadn’t stopped him, it’s little surprise a stroke and no longer being able to play the guitar wasn’t going to stop him either. He could still sing, and so kept writing songs and recording. And the hipsters kept piling on.

His 2015 album, appropriately if ironically entitled Last Man Standing, featured an 88-year-old Davis working through a greatest hits set in front of a backing band that again included Barrett Martin, as well as Jimbo Mathus and Stu Cole from the Squirrel Nut Zippers and noted blues guitarist brothers Greg and Zack Binns.

The resulting album, as you might expect, was a far cry from his debut. The production was clean and sterile, with the all-star band’s three guitars pushed to the front of the mix and Davis’ butter knife clearly absent for obvious reasons. At least none of the involved made the mistake of trying to recreate his trademark sound. It sounded like a bunch of white hipster musicians playing standard blues riffs behind an eighty-eight-year-old mumbling bluesman.

If you hadn’t smelled it already, to drive the Bad Faith of the whole project home, the album also contains three or four tracks of Davis just talking to the band in the studio, clearly trying to tell stories about his life and career to these youngsters who not only don’t know who the hell he’s talking about, but can’t understand what he’s saying. While similar tracks had been included on Lightnin’, this, unlike those, had been recorded after Davis stroke. The clear intention was to say to listeners, “Hey, get a load of this crazy old mumbling Southern black bliuesman! Is that authentic or what?”

Somehow, the following year he released yet another album, Even the Devil Gets the Blues, this time with someone from Pearl Jam in his backing band. Then in September of 2017, Davis had a heart attack, and died from complications a week or two later at age 91. Not surprisingly, at the time of his death, he was still scheduled to play a gig at the end of the month.

I’m not sure who the final Great Cosmic Joke is on, those hipster musicians who thought playing with a bona fide authentic Delta bluesman would bolster their street cred in some way, or poor Cedell—whom I adore and admire more with each passing day—who might have been conned into believing all that support from white institutions from the NY Times to R.E.M. would push him over the top. Whatever it may be, a mere three years after his death, and after seventy-five years of making a go of the blues against all imaginable odds, Cedell Davis remains virtually unknown and forgotten, even among serious blues aficionados. In fact it seems, and this may be the saddest thing of all, he’s only remembered nowadays by people like me.

by Jim Knipfel

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ill-skillsgard · 5 years

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Sweet Peach - Henry Deaver x Mistress

Guys...

So many great ideas and asks about this little strange universe we’ve created that I can’t possibly fit them all into the timeline. But here’s just a little something to hold you over until we get into some more heavy shit. Because you know that’s how I do. Thanks for reading!

Warning: 18+ sex/mature themes/cheating/coarse language/ *this part contains ass-worship. Please read at your own discretion.

Read more Henry x Mistress here > Masterpost

You weren't you anymore. Not while he was in the same room. Voices of reason still existed, but you found them flippantly easy to quell. Especially when he clung to your body like that; so helpless and desperate. This man wanted you terribly, and it hurt in so many ways you couldn't hope to fixate on just one pang of guilt.

It shook you. The adrenaline in your body that had burst in your chest when Henry's wife came in had now gone stale, and you were slowly dropping like a half-dead fly. Of course, you didn't want to call a cab and wait in the lobby where it was cold while he blew up your phone, begging you to come back upstairs. Or worse, he could have tried following you out and it would surely cause a scene.

No, you had already had your heart set on staying and getting a good night's sleep in his wondrously soft bed.

But you were still pissed off. Pissed off at him, yes, but also with yourself. Surely, you had been taught better. A strong woman would look at Henry, appalled by his pitiful protests and whimpers for you to stay. Perhaps you weren't feeling particularly strong. Although there was a certain tilt when he begged you not to go. He was wholly yours and the morbid realization posed more than a passing thought. If you would do this, it would be the way you wanted it.

You could have the conversation another day; the inevitable ultimatum. But he had squabbled about expensive lawyers and how fast a bad divorce could drain your bank account and leave you financially debilitated. You believed him because Henry knew about money, the law and a lot of things you had little grasp of. Yet, he still submitted himself to you and that was when you had to stray away from the moral high ground. You were as much a player in the game as he was.

"Baby, please say you'll stay." Henry pulled on your work shirt.

You couldn't help but draw away from him, but he followed and tugged at the first button of your shirt until it popped out of the eyelet. He came up close again, and you had less room to move. The wall was a foot away, and he had both of his fingers working to undo the rest of the buttons of your shirt. Swallowing back all arguments of right and wrong, you pushed Henry's hands away and closed the gap between you by grabbing his belt buckle and tugging him in.

"Will I be expecting any more interruptions?" You asked calmly.

"No. The door's locked."

"Spare key?"

Henry leaned down to kiss you but you clutched his scratchy chin and kept him away. He sighed, deflating slightly. "Had them changed last week. And there's security."

"Good. Get naked and get on the bed."

"Really? You're going to stay?"

"Not if you don't start listening to me right now," you warned.

Henry's eyes widened and he began to strip off all his clothing until he reached his underwear. Looking up at you, he couldn't decide whether to proceed right there or wait until he was closer to the bed to rid himself of his last garments.

"I said get naked," one of your eyebrows popped up expectantly.

He shoved his boxers down and kicked them off before realizing his socks were still on. Hooking them off as well, he stood before you and waited with a clenched breath in his chest.

"Bed!"

"W-why. What's happening?"

You stifled the urge to shake your head and pointed a finger past him instead. "You're being taught a lesson and so far, you're failing."

"Okay, okay, I'll get on the bed!"

While his back was turned, you allowed yourself one fraction of a satisfied smirk. He climbed onto the bed and sat in the middle with his long legs crossed like a child sitting in a circle in kindergarten. You closed your eyes, bit your bottom lip, suffocated the giggles that longed to come up and then released a breath through your nose.

"Lay on your stomach," you commanded.

"Babe..."

"That's not my name."

"Come on-"

"You'll address me as Mistress tonight. Yes, mistress. No, mistress. I want to be a good boy for you, mistress. Understand?"

Henry was on his stomach by the time you explained to him the parameters of the evening but he still wasn't understanding the setting. You approached the bed, waited for him to be unaware and clapped your hand down on his ass.

"Ow! What the hell? What are you doing?" He cried out

"You've been bad," you explain plainly. "Bad boys get spankings."

"Oh..." Henry tried not to chuckle. "Okay."

You hit his ass harder this time and he tried not to flinch.

"Yes, mistress," you corrected him.

Henry twisted his upper body to the side so he could continue searching your face for signs of playfulness and when he saw none, he licked his lips and sighed.

"Yes, mistress," he relented.

"Good. Now turn around."

"Okay— yes, ma'am. Mistress," he turned away with reluctance slowing his movement.

When Henry was finally face down, you took a moment to analyze the curvature of his back. Pale skin stretched over so many supple inches, bowing down into a delicate valley before rising again. Hairless and smooth, you ran your buzzing palm down the gentle dip of his back, coasted over the left cleave and continued down until the hairs of his leg ran with the motion.

"Wow," you sighed. "Such a great body. What a gorgeous ass."

Henry wanted to make a doubtful comment but he held his tongue and let you stroke him from shoulder to ankle down his left side. You paused to pinch his ass along the way, and he wiggled from the toothless bite.

Climbing up on the bed, Henry looked at you again, but you raked your fingers up the back of his neck and shoved his face back into the pillow. He mumbled something that you chose not to listen to and straddled his thighs.

"Don't you have such a nice ass?" You asked.

Henry said nothing and that earned him another hard spank.

"Ow! Oh my god," he yelled into the pillow.

"I asked you a question."

"Yes? Yes, mistress!"

"Who has the nicest, pinkest ass?" You leaned over the great length of his body, hands pressing down below his shoulder blades so you could whisper in his ear.

"I do, mistress," Henry choked out.

"Yes. Yes, you do. So soft and juicy... Like a sweet little peach."

You watched his eye wander as his teeth cut into his bottom lip. He let out a strangled moan when you placed all ten of your fingernails on his shoulders and pulled down, leaving faint white marks that quickly turned rosy as you went. You didn't stop at his ass or even at his thighs where you were perched. You brought your fingertips back up and watched the goosebumps rise all over him.

"Who has nice, sweet bum?"

"I do."

"Yes. Who needs to be spanked because he was bad?"

Henry rolled his response on his tongue and relinquished when you squeezed him hard. "Me. I need to be spanked, mistress."

He acted shocked when you swatted his rear again yet couldn't hold a sour expression for too long after receiving a couple more good whacks. You started to giggle, and he went red in the face.

"Mistress, I'm sorry for being bad."

"Oh, I'd really love to believe you, sweet boy but... You're just not all that convincing."

"I promise," he said.

"You're just saying that because you don't want any more spanks."

"No, I don't want anymore spanks."

You cooed as you climbed off of his legs and rested a hand on the ditch of his left knee. "But I'm not finished with your ass."

"Please, mistress. I don't want anymore."

"Very well... No more spanks. But that still doesn't mean I'm finished with you."

He tried to roll over but you stayed him with a tough glare and a squeeze of his thigh. You thought it was sweet that he assumed he could turn over and that would be the end of it. A flutter of a laugh escaped you and he watched fearfully as you continued stroking your hand up and down his body.

"Get up on all fours," you told him.

Henry blatantly refused to do so at first. The look on his face was one of embarrassment that filled up your satisfaction meter to nearly bursting. He scrabbled for a response that didn't break character but didn't explicitly comply with your demand.

"Why... I thought... You said no more," he reasoned.

"Yes. No more spanks and I meant that. Mistress does what she says and says what she means."

He shifted back onto his knees, brought his arms up and lifted off the bed. You got a look at the muscles shifting under his skin and felt the back of your tongue moisten. He looked every bit as delectable as he had the first time he had strolled into the cafe. Only now he was without a stitch and waiting for your next move, ready to flinch at any sudden movement you made. The power tasted delicious.

But your attention couldn't be taken from his backside and you made it a strong point to remind him the topic at hand. You grabbed, squeezed, pinched and purred against his hip as he withdrew but kept up on his knees.

"Nice bum," you whispered.

"Mistress," Henry whined.

"God, if I had a cock... I'd fuck that beautiful ass."

"No," he murmured.

"Yes," you corrected him. "It's just so perfect. And you have no idea how much I think about it. When you come into my work dressed in your nicely tailored outfits and you have no clue how sexy you really look."

He scoffed and let his head dangle between his arms. The way his spine arched gave way to his mounting frustrations. Every time you touched him, he pulled back an inch out of fear of what might become of his exposed skin. You slid over, rose to your knees, framed his cheeks in your hands and pressed a kiss to each dimple flanking the base of his spine.

"Oh, no, no, no," Henry recoiled. "No."

"I hate it when you tell me no," you said with a smile.

Before you could venture further, Henry turned over; evidence of a leaking hard-on glaringly obvious contrasted with the worry on his face.

"P-please don't. Not yet. I'm... I don't think I'm ready for this."

"What? You don't wanna have that ass eaten?"

Henry's cheeks aglow, he sighed and looked around like somebody was watching. "I, um... It's been a long day and I don't know if I'm prepared to... I haven't ever... You know. I—"

You quieted him with a gesture of your hand. "Don't worry, sweet boy. Mistress can take no for an answer."

"Thanks. Thank you," he croaked.

His entire body relaxed now that his ass wasn't in the open air where your predatory hands could explore with too much enthusiasm.

"But you're still in trouble and you're still a bad boy."

"I know," he admitted.

"And even though I want to fuck that ass... We can wait."

"Why can't you just fuck my cock instead? That feels good."

You grimaced. "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Selfish boy. Only ever thinking about his own pleasure and no one else's."

"That's not true," he defended weakly.

And it wasn't. Henry was wonderfully in tune with your body and capable of eliciting orgasms from you that temporarily shattered your sense of being. But tonight, you could only see him for what he was; a beautiful, lying son of a bitch.

#henry deaver x mistress #henry deaver fanfiction #bill skarsgard fanfiction #castle rock fanfiction #au fanfiction

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buzzdixonwriter · 4 years

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Why White People Don’t Know Their Place

To minimize offense to innocent bystanders, I’m going to be very euphemistic and clean up the terminology here.

I mean really clean it up.

In the bad old days in the antebellum south, plantation owners divided their workers into two groups: Field Hands and Household Servants.

(Boy howdy, how I’ve cleaned this up…)

Now, I’m going to sidestep the specific racism to focus on the real underlying problem: Classism.

American racism is like the caste system in India, samurai and peasants in ancient Japan, nobles and serfs in medieval Europe: You are born into a specific class through no effort or fault of your own and are expected to stay there your entire life.

It’s possible to drop down in class under such systems, but not to rise above one’s current status.

(There are exceptions in history; the Roman and Ottoman Empires allowed upward mobility as a reward for exceptional service, and that served as a safety valve for their societies.)

The Field Hands in the Ol’ South understood this; they didn’t like it, but they understood it.

They knew they would never be allowed to rise above their race-imposed class status, but they also knew they could improve their condition within their class.

For Field Hands, it would be as a work gang boss, or as a skilled worker would could earn slightly favored treatment as a result of their specialty.

And if they dreamed big, they could become Household Servants.

As onerous as we would find the working conditions of Household Servants today, it sure as hell beat chopping cotton.

From the accounts the plantation owners left behind and other documentation, we know they spoke of Household Servants as beloved members of their own extended families.

Uncle Ben and Aunt Jemima deliberately play off that trope.

The conceit being that Household Servants were part of the ruling elite, that while there might be some minor physical differences between them and the plantation owners, they were actual kin, and as such, something special, something better than the poor Field Hands.

While the Field Hands sure knew where they stood in the scheme of things, among the Household Servants there was occasionally some confusion.

Many -- perhaps most -- were smart enough to recognize how precarious their positions were and carefully walked that tightrope, knowing they could slip and fall in the blink of an eye.

More than a few recognized their true position re the plantation owners yet still gloated over their less fortunate brothers and sisters and cousins in the fields. The expression “cotton-pickin’ hands” came from that divide, the sassy Household Servant looking down with disdain on the lowly Field Worker’s coarse and calloused hands.

But a few Household Servants -- arguably the saddest and most pathetic of that lot -- actually believed they were part of the plantation owners’ extended families.

That was delusional thinking, of course.

Bullshit of the most odiferous kind.

The plantation owners would sell a Household Servant down river in the blink of an eye if it suited them, and while there might be a few perks and privileges associated with being a Household Servant, heaven help any who dared act as if they were entitled to anything.

Especially if that entitlement was actually being an official part of the plantation owners’ families.

(Elsewhere, in the Latin American portion of the Western Hemisphere, grandees ruled over peons in a similar arrangement, the key difference being that like the Roman and Ottoman Empires, there was some provision for peons to rise in class; not much, but some.)

Now, like a satellite view of the Earth, let’s pull back one order of magnitude and look at the situation more clearly.

Every ruling class needs a middle class to act as a buffer between it and the lower class.

Sometimes that buffer is a privileged member of the lower class -- a factory foreman on first name basis with the CEO -- but typically it’s a management class set in place to take the onerous task of actually running an enterprise off the hands of the owners.

In the Ol’ South, that was every white person who didn’t own their own plantation.

The plantation owners knew full well what they were doing.

Those who actually lived on the plantations they owned kept their Household Servants close to cater to their whims, but they hired white overseers to handle the dirty business of actually running the plantation.

A dirty business of blood and sweat and tears.

Those not hired directly by the plantation owners found indirect employment with them.

They ran the trade in enslaved labor, they served in patrols and militias that enforced white rule, they wrote for the laws that benefited the plantation owners and voted for the politicians who passed them.

And those not directly or indirectly employed fought the plantation owners’ battles at great cost to themselves, they provided millions of eyes and ears looking out for any sign of uprising, they gleefully joined the lynch mobs that terrorized those Field Hands “uppity” enough to demand the same basic human dignity as the lowest, meanest (in every sense of the word) white person.

What the white people in the Ol’ South never realized was they were no better off than the Household Servants.

Oh, they had their delusions of equality, they loved to think of themselves in the words of John Steinbeck as “temporarily embarrassed millionaires”, they all believed that someday -- someday!!! -- they would be rubbing elbows with all the high class plantation owners, sipping mint juleps, watching their thoroughbreds race at the Kentucky derby, etc., etc., and of course, etc.

And if their specific aspirations didn’t reach that high, they took solace in the idea that no matter how lowly their position, the plantation owners and other elites saw them as equals.

There’s a verse from the musical Oklahoma! That epitomizes this perfectly:

“I ain’t sayin’ I’m better than anybody else But I’ll be danged if I ain’t just as good!”

This is where America’s myth of the classless society began, because if one denies class exists, one can pretend to be the equal of those at the very top especially if the upper class rewards you by agreeing you are better than all others not like you.

A purportedly classless society can only discriminate and reward a select group while oppressing all others by claiming such discrimination is based on something other than class, such as race / gender / orientation.

We claimed to be classless -- yet our foundational laws excluded women and native peoples and African-Americans and men who didn’t own property.

By definition, that’s a class based society.

But we do possess the mechanisms to create a more perfect union, and however hesitantly, however tentatively, we’ve been taking steps in that direction.

The main obstacle to that has been white America, which by and large is pretty much in the same camp as the delusional Household Servants who thought they actually were a part of the plantation owners’ families.

By and large, whites in America have eagerly bought into this idea, sacrificing enormous advantages they have, enormous rewards they could reap in exchange for a mocking fictitious promise: ”Hey, you may be poor, but at least you aren’t black!”

This is where American racism set back the country for white and minorities for centuries.

To recognize that they were genuinely to better off that African-Americans, native peoples, or Latin / Hispanic Americans you require white Americans to surrender the one thing they thought they possessed that could never be taken from them: Inherent superiority.

That was a phantasm, of course. A lie perpetrated on the gullible for the benefit of the 1% at the very top.

The African-American and Latin / Hispanic American communities suffered a lot, but at least they never had the belief of inherent superiority promoted on their behalf by the wealthy upper class.

Indeed, while they cover a diverse range of the political and social spectrum, by and large those communities never succumbed to the illusion they lived in a classless society.

Oh, no; far from it.

As a result, come 2048 -- when whites in America will drop to 49% of the population, the largest minority in a nation of minorities but a minority nonetheless -- they will find themselves bulldozed by the far more vigorous and politically astute African-American, Latin / Hispanic, and other minority communities.

It’s a day too long in coming, and it can’t get here fast enough to suit me.

When it arrives. The former white majority will at long last be forced to recognize they ain’t “family” but Household Servants, and Household Servants ain’t no better than Field Hands.

I’ll close with another euphemism, a Firesign Theatre paraphrase of Buddy Holly’s infamous but wholly accurate and trenchant observation:

“I think we’re all bozos on this bus.”

#race #racism #race relations #America #American values #morals #ethics

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x0401x · 5 years

Note

If you didn't read the last chapter of Tsurune don't read the ask: OMG! I almost get killed in this "Masa-san lightly pinched Minato’s cheeks and pulled them" and in the car scene.I laughed so hard on minato he's really didn't think about hiding his feeling lol. what do you think about the chapter?

Took me almost two full days to reply to this, and if that doesn’t speak volumes about how wild this chapter was, then I don’t know what would.

I’d read spoilers of volume 2 right after it came out so I already knew what was gonna go down, and being very honest, the cheek pinching was something I’d actually expected to see at some point after reading the summaries of volume 1. And rather than wishing for it, I was waiting for it because it seemed so obvious to me that this was gonna happen one way or another. I mean, it’s just so much like Masaki to do something of that sort, lmao. But I admit I expected it to happen in a daily-situation scene and not… like this. As always, Ayano surpassed my expectations on the unapologetically huge amounts of gay.

I’ve mentioned this topic in my post about the differences between the novel and the anime. Minato may keep a lot of secrets from everyone, yet Masaki has been the sole exception to this ever since they met. I mean, look at volume 1. It’s basically Minato hiding nearly every important thing from literally everybody except his conveniently-there-by-narrative-default master. Volume 2′s chapter 3 is basically a massive meme based off this plot device, like:Shuu: *touches Masaki*Minato: Sir, that’s my emotional support coach.Anyway, my point is that Minato doesn’t hide anything from Masaki, ever. Not even the most embarrassing shit.

The chapter was very interesting. It was rather entretaining to see how inept Eisuke actually is regarding himself. The novel often references Amanojaku, so I was wondering if we’d ever get an Amanojaku-ish character, and sure enough, here he is.

Other than that, good God. Minato is such a fucking embarrassment. I adore this walking fivehead so much. Had to put the extent of my love for him and this chapter under a cut because it’s probably the lenghtiest ask response I’ve ever written.

I think I can’t even pinpoint what the best thing about this chapter was. Like, the details are very subtly placed in all the right spots as always, and this is probably what leaves the bigger impressions on me. And by “details” I mean the subtext and symbolisms.

For starters, Ayano knows very well how to fuck with plant language nerds. She’s used a lot of it with Masaki and Minato, and it feels like the bar just keeps going up. First it was oaks (strength and knowledge), then bamboo (inspiration), then azaleas (developing passion), and now it’s freaking bellflowers. What’s more: the ones that Minato stopped by were spotted bellflowers. They’re known for their heart-shaped foliage. In flower language, bellflowers stand for gratitude and unwavering love. And sure enough, Minato doesn’t waver at all before going into that bakery and buying a batch of cinnamon buns (did it really have to be that of all things, omg) for Masaki, specifically.

I can’t stress how wholly, completely, utterly unnecessary that was. There’s no heterosexual explanation to it. I mean, there’s no heterosexual explanation to a lot of things about these two, but the romantic connotation was really heavy on this one. You have to use a fucking magnifier to find the platonic in this bullshit, and it’s still hella hard to ignore the implications. It’s even harder when Minato is berating himself for buying the buns on impulse when he heard that they go well with coffee and thinking about how irritated he feels when Shuu is around Masaki. He doesn’t even try to pretend that he’s not jealous. Be more like any other oblivious sports anime protagonist and let me die in peace, for fuck’s sake.

I’m just trying to pretend that I don’t know cinnamon is associated with romantic love and often used to inflame passion, because that’s too fucking much.

On other news, I’m highly pleased that we get SeiKai hints even when Seiya and Kaito don’t show up together. Kaito mentioning Seiya’s name every two or three sentences and approaching Minato simply because he saw Kuma and thought that maybe Seiya was there was gold, tbh. It was a good break before the mattress fire that happens right after.

The way Minato found out that Masaki meant well and didn’t want him to become like he was in the past was just so priceless. Take this shit straight to the face, son. Get fucking wrecked by how much he cares about you.

It’s also really freaking hilarious to me how everything that concerns Minato’s relationship with Masaki involves shoujo manga tropes. Envious of your rightful rival being too long around your master? Check. Learning the hard way that it was all for your sake? Check. Getting frustrated and shouting like a bitch at the irony of it? Check.

Minato is Minato, though, so of course he acknowledges that he wants Masaki by his side in spite of this. Did he have to do that while lying in bed, though? I think the fuck not.

And cue Masaki texting him immediately while he’s doing that, because Masaki always shows up when he wants to see him, and because this has turned into a romantic comedy, apparently? Love me that age-old cliché where the main character goes to the window after getting a message and finds the person who’d been occupying their thoughts standing there by sheer unadulterated coincidence, and they fucking heard you, you little shit.

This comes in a set with the “first visit and you’re already inviting him to his room” trope because why not follow all the way down with the romcom narration structure since we’re already at it? Double entendrees every three phrases or so because go big or go home.

“Dad isn’t home yet, so should we go upstairs?”

Yeah, lmao, that’s what about every shoujo heroine says before getting lectured on how they “shouldn’t make that sort of invitation to a guy”.

“It feels great. Thank you, Masa-san.”

It doesn’t feel so great not being able to overlook this, Ayano.

“Well, I may not look it, but I am your master after all.”

SHUT THE FUCK UP, JESUS CHRIST.

Seriously, this shit only loses to Fifty Shades of Takehaya and his more than unasked-for lines about “punishing” and “thoroughly training” Kaito. Sure, none of this is on the level of dirty jokes, but the subtleties are still too many.

The fluff is what gets you good, though. Because that was fluff right there. No, it doesn’t classify as hurt/comfort. These bastards fluffy. I just wanna know who managed to stay upright after reading about Minato feeling his heart ache because it had been too long since the last time he’d seen Masaki smile at him, ‘cause I sure as fuck didn’t.

No time is wasted before they off their asses to the place where they first met, which is basically a world of their own at nighttime (it’s named Yata Shrine for a reason; fuck that reason). And of course there had to be your usual load of elusive language in the middle, where the destination is pitch-dark but the road there is all wildlife and stars and this sparkly wave of light at the end of the tunnel. Welcome to the land of bitch, this isn’t a shoujo, stop acting like one.

Or don’t. We’re indulging. Screaming internally the entire time, but still indulging.

The dialogue is so obviously crafted to seem like something else that it’s useless to pretend it wasn’t inentional. I already knew what was coming but reading about the whole thing was an experience.

“I’m happy that you became my coach at Kazemai but I’m also not, because I don’t get to keep you for myself.”

Did he have to say it like that? Abso-fucking-lutely not. But he did anyway, because since when does Narumiya Minato give a flying fuck about ambiguity versus precision?

Six kinds of gay here. And all of them confirm that Minato’s “mixed feelings” when seeing Kaito being so familiar with Masaki from the get-go were, in fact, pure jealousy. It’s not even envy, because that’s wanting something someone has and you don’t. Minato was even closer to Masaki than Kaito was at that point, so it was all just his Masaki-exclusive greed speaking, plain and simple.

This is what gets me about this scene, tbh. It’s so much like Minato to say that, but it’s so alien to read it in a shounen novel. I don’t recall seeing anything so direct and raw in any sports franchise aside from Yuri on Ice. The most we get is “I wanna do [insert sport here] with you”. But this case is a blatant “we’d be doing the thing we like together one way or another and I’d have preferred if no one else were involved”.

And this comes right before we get a reminder that Minato doesn’t like it when Masaki treats him as a child, again. That’s… something. I hate this something a lot.

Also, it feels like the two of them are having completely different conversations with each other. Masaki is talking about his struggle coaching Minato and pointing out the crap he has to deal with in having a student whose last words are probably gonna be something stupid like “oops” or “oh, shit”, and Minato is countering with apparently completely unrelated arguments.

“But didn’t you let Shuu touch your belly, Masa-san?”

The fuck does that have to do with anything? How is that of any relevance to the conversation? What is this gay nonsense?

“If anyone else heard only that, I’d sound like a pervert, wouldn’t I? Did you want to touch it too, Minato?”

JUST DISMISS IT, YOU MOTHERFUCKER. DON’T ENCOURAGE HIS FOLLY. LET IT DIE.

“I’m no pervert, so I’m good.”

And now the moment of crushing honesty is over. Time for lies and derision because we all saw earlier in this chapter that (I can’t believe I’m actually writing this) Minato did, in fact, want to touch Masaki. Boy just called himself a pervert, indirectly. Gotta congratulate him for playing himself for, like, the hundredth time, I guess.

Of course Masaki would get emo in this scene sooner or later, because the fact that he’s dealing with the most reckless character out of the cast is apparently not a pertinent reason for things to have ended up the way they did. And of course Minato was gonna do something about it. It’s almost obligatory by now that they lift each other up.

WHY LIKE THIS, THOUGH?

Like, there’s just too much here that doesn’t translate into a master-student thing. Okay, I can totally see that in the dialogue but the actions are screaming something else entirely. Obviously, as I always say, I’m not gonna label it as romantic. What I’m talking about is: this isn’t the behavior of someone interacting with a teacher, but of a person with another. I mean, no matter how you look at it, there would have been a lot to consider here regarding the minimum of restraint that one should have around their mentor or at least around their elders, but Minato is basically saying “fuck you” to all of this.

Yeah, sure, go reach out to grab his hand and gently brush his bangs off his eyes simply because you can’t help the urge to look into them. No big deal. It’s just the affection of a disciple. Anyone else would have done the exact same.

I JUST WANNA TALK, AYANO. I JUST WANNA TALK.

Not trying to stereotype or devalue the worth of teacher-student relationships. Just back to my previous point: you don’t do this shit to a teacher, realistically speaking. And even if anyone hypothetically had any gall to do that, neither the teacher nor any onlooker would disconsider it an advance. Anybody would find it a little bit out of place at the very, very least.

Also, that declaration? Literally Minato swearing he would have Masaki be the one teaching him for the rest of his life? This after having said similar bullshit like claiming that he would never let Masaki go or that he’d follow Masaki to the grave. The bar just keeps going up. So, in short, “you don’t have to be my master but I’ll be damned if you’re not my master forever”.

Ayano, you’re murdering us. You’re murdering your readers.

“I feel more relaxed when I talk to you, Masa-san.”

No news here but thank you for saying it anyway. There had to be icing on this cake. And the cherry on top was Masaki’s explanation about the word “talking”. Are you telling us that these idiots hand their hearts over to each other every time they open up like this, Ayano? IS THAT WHAT YOU’RE FUCKING SAYING, AYANO?

Love me all of Minato’s non-existent heterosexuality being killed with fire.

I imagine that Minato must have made the cutest face when seeing Fuu again. Fuu, the owl with a heart-shaped face, showing up at the most convenient time. Because heart-shaped leaves weren’t enough, apparently.

The end of this chapter made me feel a tiny bit bad for Shuu, though, because it was one more instance of something that he and Minato and no one else had in common that got overwritten and outshone. It’s definitely a parallel to when they were little kids learning under Saionji and hiding it from everyone until a certain point, yelling at the top of their lungs and being competitive while taking things seriously to an extent. Here, we have Minato and Masaki in perfect sync, reproducing the exact same thing that Shuu and Minato had learned so many years ago but with experient successfulness and also complete harmony. And this time, it’s 100% their secret only, taking place at night without the knowledge of anybody, with no audience, no parents and no teacher.

It’s… too much, lmao. In every sense. Shuu literally stands no fucking chance next to Masaki and I love it. *broadcast lady voice* Fujiwara Shuu. Repeating; Fujiwara Shuu. Your wife Senichi is waiting for you at Kirisaki High.

And of course, the chapter had to be closed with a finishing blow. God fucking dammit. Minato packing coffee to share with Masaki would have been enough, but nay, Masaki also had to bring the fucking oyaki. From the fact that they’ve had oyaki together before at the shrine and that these oyaki are from the bakery where Minato had bought the cinnamon rolls without a second thought, it’s sort of really obvious that Masaki bought them to eat together with him.

I didn’t ask for any of this and now I need to lie the fuck down.

#tsurune #tsurune kazemai koukou kyuudoubu #takigawa masaki #narumiya minato #sfw

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nctdreamsquad · 6 years

Text

NCT OT18 Ranking

Hello there! For a while now I have been thinking about NCT and its concept as a whole and watching how it has progressed since debut in 2016. While thinking about I noticed a lot of irregularities (heh…) between members and how it has affected how the boys and the entire group is perceived by the public. Of course, that has been done by how SM promotes them and how they individually value each members’ talents. So, I thought it would be interesting to see with the content that we have at hand, how each member ranks in terms of importance to least importance for SM.

I decided that to have an accurate ranking it would need to be based on different factors. Certain members might have more advantages when it comes to a certain field but disadvantages compared to another member in a specific field. The categories are line distribution (how often they sing/rap on the discography), screen time (how often are they shown in MVs or in the photo album), and benefits (who gets to do solo schedules whether that be MCing/Songs/etc.). I will take the 3 different rankings of each category and then average each boys rank to find their proper place.

Also, certain members like Jaemin & Jungwoo I projected more of where I thought they will be in the future, seeing as they haven’t been here as long cause of Nana’s injury and Jungwoo only coming in this past year. Of course, this is my opinion and how I think SM views each boy and if we have different thoughts that is completely fine. Whether we agree or not on this subject, I would love to hear other peoples’ thoughts and discuss.

*Little add-on: The boys are ranked from 1-18 but there might be bigger or smaller gaps of how much SM values them between each ranking. (Which I will try to inform you when I believe that happens.)

Most Important

1. Mark

I don’t think this will come to anyone’s surprise that Mark is the most important member in NCT (in SM’s eyes). It is evident in how he has been in every unit since NCT’s debut in April of 2016. Mark always has had a large number of lines in whatever song he is in (title/non-title + unit). He has been able to have his raps and compositions that he wrote published in every album (except for the Japanese album). He has been able to promote individually on variety shows (music related vs. pure variety). It is very obvious that Mark is one of SM’s favorites in general when it comes to all SM groups but especially in NCT.

2. Taeyong

Taeyong’s ranking is very similar to Mark’s, in fact, the very small margin that makes up the difference between 1st and 2nd place is that I think SM personally likes Mark more. Taeyong is also privileged in that he gets lots of lines in songs, screen time, multiple SM Station songs, and other solo schedules. However, I get the feeling that SM views Taeyong as a person that they employed and someone who makes a good idol whereas Mark seems to be a little more integrated into part of the “family” aspect.

3. Doyoung

Doyoung is the first member where the advantages and favoritism gap is slightly wider from him and Taeyong. He still has a lot of benefits compared to the boys lower down the ranking but I do believe SM sees Doyoung as most useful when it comes to MCing and being a spokesperson. An integral part of NCT but not the first name they want you to think about when you think of the group. This might sound a little rude, however, another reason why I think Doyoung is higher up in the rank is that SM likes to have people who will listen to them and won’t rebel and Doyoung fits that very well. For example, if something unfair happens to one of the boys I’m sure that Yuta or Johnny will be more likely to speak out about it than Doyoung would be.

4. Jaehyun

Honestly, I think Jaehyun lucked out when it came to getting his position in NCT. I love Jaehyun and his voice is one of my favorites but, although he’s consistent, there is a member who excels more than him in every category. Vocal (Taeil, Haechan, Kun), Rap (Taeyong, Mark, Jaemin), Dance (Ten, Yuta, Jisung), or Variety (Johnny, Haechan, Renjun). However, the fact that his voice sounds very different from other members helped him stand out more. Also, he fits the “boy next door” concept very well and I think that’s another reason why SM likes to give him more focus than other members.

5. Ten

Now, I know that Ten’s place is NCT is rather open-ended seeing as the only NCT songs he has been in is 7th Sense/BDS. However, I think it’s obvious that SM does like Ten and values his talents so much so that he has gotten 2 solo songs. Not only that, but both songs came out at almost the same time a year apart which usually means that SM planned it to hype people up even more. Also, Ten has had continuous activities in South Korea and Thailand. I do think that his injury may have caused a pushback with him promoting in a unit or doing more NCT related activities. However, I do strongly think that Ten will be in NCT China and will play an important member in their success. Also, with the dancing capability and performance talent that Ten has there’s no way that SM can keep him locked up forever.

6. Jisung

You might be a little surprised that I placed Jisung so high up in the ranking and if I had made this post months ago I would also not agree with my decision. However, with the addition of “GO” and especially with the release of the “We Go Up” album I can see the path that SM are putting Jisung on. From the beginning, I could tell that Jisung was going to be important when it came to MVs and playing a main role in them but with the lack of lines that he had, I thought it would be much more “visual” based. I was proven wrong with him getting to go on solo schedules like “Why Not?” and “Dancing High” + the fair amount of lines he is now getting in the recent Dream album. I will say that of the members I have listed so far, Jisung and Ten are the two that I am completely fine with getting more individual shine/recognition and will wholly support as they’re a few of the most talented boys in NCT (not just talking about their dancing). He still is extremely young and has a lot to learn and experience but I can already see that Jisung is going to be a wonderful person and performer in the future.

7. Haechan

Haechan is the last member that I will place in a more advantageous position before the favoritism gap widens a lot more. I do want to start off by saying that Haechan does have more privileges than others below but mainly when he’s in Dream, otherwise he’s kind of at the lower middle of the group. As you will see how I ranked each member individually in each category below later, Haechan was very much saved by the amount of lines + screen time he gets in Dream. I don’t think SM uses him as well as they could when it comes to 127 and I still don’t understand why he hasn’t been in a NCT U song yet (I WANT THE OG 7TH SENSE WITH HYUCK IN IT). Haechan is another member that I believe to be incredibly talented and I hope that he gets what he deserves and stays amazing.

8. Yukhei

Precious Yukhei. I was honestly surprised and am still awed at the amount of media attention SM is letting him have by going on different variety shows. He’s a newer addition but of the time he has spent in NCT so far, I think Xuxi is in a comfortable position. I do think SM will rely more on his personality than his performance abilities to bring in fans, however, he’s the only rapper we have for NCT China at this moment so that bodes well for him. It’s a little early to say but I’m confident that Yukhei will be a prevalent member in the whole of NCT and popular in NCT China.

9. Jaemin

FINALLY! We finally have NaNa back and it has been so great to see him with the other dreamies. It was obvious from the beginning that Jaemin was supposed to be an important member in Dream (after Markhyuck) but his back injury put him out of the running. I think SM tried to fill the void by splitting what would have been Jaemin’s parts to Renjun/Jeno/Chenle. However, now that he is back we can see that SM is steadily placing him in the center position when it comes to dancing & screen time. The “We Go Up” album has been very gracious towards NaNa & Jisung and I think it will be common to see more and more of them in future comebacks.

10. Taeil

Moon Taeil, a much needed but highly underappreciated voice in NCT 127. I think Taeil benefitted more back in the SMROOKIES days with his solo song and the early beginning of NCT’s timeline. It was during Limitless era that we can see SM pushed Taeil into singing the high bridges notes and flashy rifts during the last chorus. While the more main vocal parts that he used to sing got handed off to Doyoung. Which I find interesting since Doyoung and Taeil have eerily similar voices but (IMO) Taeil has the richer color in his voice while Doyoung can sound a little flat sometimes. Although I would like Taeil to have more singing parts + screen time, I do think he’s lucky in the fact that he is a part of NCT 127 from the beginning. Whereas Jeno, Jaemin, and Jisung are kind of in a weird place where they obviously can’t be put in 127 after they graduated from Dream but SM most likely won’t make another Seoul Unit until they have established other units in separate countries.

11. Jeno

I would say that Jeno is the younger version of Jaehyun for Dream. Jaehyun is definitely more capable and talented (at this point in time) than Jeno. As I stated before, I think Jeno benefitted from Jaemin not being in Dream because what would have been NaNa’s screen time went to Jeno. SM tried to make up for lack of lines with him being able to be a MC on The Show and giving him good amounts of screen time in M/Vs. However, out of Triple J, I am most worried about Jeno’s future and gaining a spot in a new unit. 127 is getting bigger now that there are 10 members and I don’t think SM will be added anymore. So unless there’s a new Korean unit (which wouldn’t really make sense since we already have 3ish units) Jeno should try to learn a new language and hope for a spot in a foreign unit.

12. Jungwoo

I believe that the middle area of being important to NCT + SM started with Haechan and ends with Jungwoo. My summary of Jungwoo is the most theoretical because of how recently he was added to NCT, but I do feel confident in his ranking. It seems that he trained longer and with most of the OG members (Hyungs + Korean Dreamies) but didn’t make the first cut so he had to wait for the next opening. However, I think that SM is leaning towards giving him a fair amount of lines and with him being added to 127 I think that is very telling of what they think of him. I will say that Jungwoo is highly competitive and it’s obvious that he works very hard to be included so I wouldn’t be surprised if SM rewards him for that whereas Kun or Yuta could do the same thing but I don’t think it would work out as well for them.

13. Chenle

I would say that Chenle is similar to Taeil in the sense that they are both incredibly talented when it comes to singing but aren’t used enough for what they can do. Chenle does get a good amount of lines that show off his abilities but the parts are usually repeats of what Haechan has already sung, therefore giving the illusion that Chenle is good but not as great as Haechan. He’s obviously not SM’s golden child in S. Korea but I am certain that with the introduction of NCT China he will be an important member. Chenle had already started off his singing career in China before joining NCT so it would make sense to build off his existing fanbase in his home country.

14. Yuta

Nakamoto Yuta. I always feel so frustrated when I think about Yuta’s position in NCT. He’s proven to be extremely versatile by having the ability to sing, rap, and dance well. His variety and charisma skills are endearing and overall he’s a nice boy. Unfortunately, something happened that ensured Yuta would always be unheard and unseen. I’m not sure if Yuta was a prime candidate for an important position and then a new boy came along that SM liked better or if they have always disliked Yuta. It’s obvious by the lack of lines and screen time that they don’t think he’s necessary to grab in new fans. Which is interesting since he is their ONLY Japanese member (as of right now) that they have and if they want to promote in Japan PROPERLY (not that 127 Japan ish) then they should invest time/attention on him. I worry for Yuta’s future as SM has no plans to debut a Japan unit (that we know of) and he’s just stuck in 127, while other foreign members will likely have more opportunities in their home countries. We don’t really have any say in what SM does and who they promote but please support our takoyaki prince who deserves the world, Nakamoto Yuta.

15. Renjun

I personally didn’t think that Renjun was going to be so low on the list but after going through the separate categories it seems to be that way. He has always had a consistent amount of lines in the Dreamie songs but I have noticed that SM loves to not give him screen time. Ironically, it is very similar to what SM does to Yixing in EXO’s M/Vs + live performances. When Renjun is singing his part, it is very common for the M/V to switch to another member doing something or show a specific object related to the plot, but not showing the member who is singing? It’s the same with live performances when it’s his turn to sing the cameramen will start shooting a wide angle of the whole group or pan to another member and it really ticks me off. Renjun will obviously be put into the China unit but with the probable addition of Xiaojun, Hendery, and Yang Yang it decreases his chance of getting a main position. Which is unfair since he and the other China line members have been working longer in NCT than the new three. I’m not pitting the new and old members against each other but I do think seniority should come into play a little bit.

16. Johnny

No one is surprised that Johnny is almost at the bottom of the list for how important SM thinks they are to NCT. I remember being SO EXCITED when I found out that Johnny was added to 127. He was finally going to have his chance to shine and then I watched the Limitless MV… It’s obvious now that SM added him because of how insistent fans were getting at Johnny not having debut yet. After the Cherry Bomb album came out it was pretty solidified that SM was not going to use Johnny as well as they could for NCT’s sound + image. Honestly, if Johnny wasn’t so outgoing and willing to look like a fool for the camera then we would never have gotten NCT Night Night and all the other silly memes we have of Jonathan. He is very much underappreciated and for his sake, I hope he gets put into a foreign unit because I know he is open-minded and will work hard to succeed.

17. Kun

There’s not a whole lot to say about Kun (not that I wouldn’t love to endlessly chat about this precious bun). He’s hasn’t been on SM’s radar for S.Korea but more like bait for the fans who want a Chinese Unit but have to wait indefinitely for it. Thankfully, it is confirmed that we will have NCT China and I know that Kun is capable of being a leader + main vocal material. Also, I think his personality would work well on Chinese variety + talk shows so if SM isn’t a complete idiot they will promote NCT’s Mama well.

18. WinWin

Last and most certainly least in SM’S eyes is our lovely Dong Sicheng. I honestly don’t know what SM had in mind when they decided to debut WinWin in 127. It’s not that I don’t love him, cause I do, but they literally have never used him for ANYTHING in NCT. The only lines he has ever had are always layered/harmonized with another member’s voice, he is never dancing in the center (even though his position is technically a dancer), and for how pretty they say he is they don’t give him any solo screen time. Touch was literally unbelievable because of how much focus Sicheng got in the MV and the live performance. It still does not make up for how much BS he has to go through with being in a group where he has nothing to do. Going back to why SM debut him if they wanted China Unit bait they could have just used Kun seeing as they would probably let him sing more than Sicheng’s nonexistent lines. The worst part is that even if he gets a decent role in the Chinese Unit, he still has to endure 127 for the rest of his idol life (if they don’t take him out and focus him in other units, which I think would be better for him). I adore his relationships with the other 127 members and in NCT in general but I want something more for Sicheng, somewhere he can really shine.

Least Important

Here are the categories that I used to make the final ranking.

Line Distribution:

*This is done by units so NCT U, 127, Dream…

Ø Main Vocal/Rappers (Has many lines whether it be Title/Non-Title + what unit they’re in)

- Mark

- Taeyong

- Doyoung

- Jaehyun

Ø Lead Vocal/Rappers (Fair amount of lines, usually used in bridges of songs)

- Haechan

- Taeil

- Renjun

- Chenle

- Jaemin

Ø Sub Vocal/Rappers (Small amount of lines, usually the transition parts or repeats)

- Ten

- Jeno

- Jungwoo

- Jisung

- Yuta

- Yukhei

Ø Vocal/Rappers (Almost no lines whatsoever; usually will be ad-libs or harmonized/layered)

- Johnny

- Kun

- WinWin

Screen Time:

*Mainly based on MVs, but also incorporating solo/duo magazine shoots, photo albums

Ø Face of the Group (Lots of screen time, supposed to be an important member in the group)

- Taeyong

- Mark

- Ten

- Jisung

- Jaemin

Ø (Members who consistently get screen time/solo shots)

- Doyoung

- Jaehyun

- Haechan

- Jeno

- Jungwoo

- Yukhei

Ø Obligatory (Is a member of the group so they need to be shown, usually in more group shots)

- Chenle

- Taeil

- Yuta

- Renjun

- Johnny

- WinWin

- Kun

Benefits:

*Based on writing/composing for NCT music, Songs outside of NCT, MCing, Variety Shows, general freedom to pursue what they desire

Ø Unlimited (SM picks/asks them first if they want a project, usually is able to try new things)

- Mark

- Taeyong

- Doyoung

- Yukhei

- Jisung

Ø Limited (Does the projects that SM gives them, might be able to try out something they like)

- Ten

- Jaehyun

- Johnny

- Taeil

- Jeno

- WinWin

- Yuta

- Jungwoo

- Jaemin

- Chenle

Ø Restricted (Is not given outside projects, will likely be looked over for projects, only in NCT schedules)

- Haechan

- Kun

- Renjun

Now as a wrap up to this exceedingly long post, I just want to say I am not trying to pit the members up against each other. I am not trying to put the boys’ fans up against each other either. I just wanted to show (IMO) what each member’s career as an idol has been like so far and whether SM has played a positive or negative role in it. I just want fans of NCT to be aware that you can have your faves in the group but their members (that they care about deeply) might not have the same successes and as easy of a time. Furthermore, support all units AND all members of NCT.

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ruminativerabbi · 7 years

Text

Being Who We Are and Aren’t

What is Jewishness exactly? We talk about it regularly as though it were a heritable genetic trait of some sort, one that—for some reason—is solely passed down from mothers to their children. Indeed, even when people argue the point and try to make a case for patrilineality as a valid determinant of Jewishness, they are merely arguing along the same lines and insisting that “it,” whatever “it” actually is, can be passed along by men to their offspring as well. Of course, the fact that conversion is permitted seriously undermines the genetic argument: if we’re talking about something akin to DNA that you either do or don’t have, how can any behavioral or attitudinal factor override not having it? But, it turns out, that doesn’t mean that there isn’t any a genetic component to membership in the House of Israel…and therein hangs an interesting tale.

I read a remarkable story in the Washington Post last July about an Irish-American woman from Chicago, one Alice Plebuch, who took one of the various “just-for-fun” DNA tests available on the market because she wished to learn more about her father, who had died many years earlier, and about her father’s family. (You can read the article by clicking here. You can also visit the websites of three of the larger companies that offer this kind of service to the public by clicking here, here, and here.) The results, however, were not at all what she expected: about half her DNA results confirmed what she already knew about her descent from people who hailed from various regions within the British Isles, including Ireland, but the other half pointed to a combination of Eastern European Jewish and Middle Eastern ancestry. One of her parents was apparently not as Irish as she thought…but which one? That was what she now felt herself obliged to find out.

There were, of course, lots of possible explanations for the unexpected test results. One set of her grandparents could have been Jews from Eastern Europe who so totally shed their previous identity upon arriving in Ireland that just a generation later there was no trace at all of it, and no recollection on the part of anyone at all that they had ever been anything other than “just” Irish. Alternately, one of her grandmothers could possibly have had an extra-marital affair and then simply allowed her husband to presume that he was the father of the child she subsequently bore. That, however, would have led to a quarter of her DNA being labelled as Jewish, not half. Could both her grandmothers have had affairs with Jewish men? Imagining such a thing about one of her grandmothers was hard enough, but about both felt wholly impossible. There had to be other some other plausible explanation!

Plebuch talked her brother into being tested, plus one cousin on her mother’s side of the family and another on her father’s side. Her test and her brother’s yielded the expected result indicating that their mother and father had to have been the same people. But the tests involving the cousins yielded one interesting piece of data and another that was truly confounding. The interesting information came from a comparison of the two cousins’ results and made it clear that the Jewish component in Alice Plebuch’s DNA came from her father’s side of the family. That was what she suspected anyway, but a far more amazing piece of information than that came from a comparison of her own DNA with that of one of her cousins, the son of her father’s sister, which effort yielded the categorical result that they had no blood relationship at all! In other words, reading her own DNA results against her cousin’s yielded the conclusion that her father and his sister were unrelated by blood.

I won’t describe the rest of the story in detail—although I really do recommend that Washington Post article as riveting reading—but the short version is that, after a lot of very detailed sleuthing, Alice Plebuch was able to conclude categorically that her father and another baby were switched at birth, or shortly after birth, at Fordham Hospital in the Bronx where they were both born on the same day of February in 1913. And she somehow managed to identify that other baby and to find his still-living daughter too, whom she felt honor-bound to inform that her father was an Irish Catholic at birth who was simply raised as a Jew by the Jewish people he came to know as his father and mother, neither of whom had any idea that they had brought home the wrong baby.

It sounds like the plot of a made-for-television movie—and not even that believable a one at that. And there surely are a lot of obvious questions to ask about how such a thing could ever occur in real life and who, if anyone, should be held accountable after all this time. But the question that the story raises that matters to me personally has to do with the nature of identity. The Irish Catholic baby brought home by a Jewish family turned into Philip Benson and was raised as a Jewish boy in a Jewish home, then grew up to become what any of us would call a Jewish man. Was he “really” Jim Collins, as the Jewish baby brought home by Irish Catholic parents and raised in their faith was known to the world? Was Jim Collins, the man Alice Plebuch knew as her father, “really” Philip Benson? Were both their lives essentially lies lived out against backgrounds that neither recognized as false but which were, historically and genetically, wholly untrue? Were they both essentially phantoms, men who were neither who they were or who they weren’t? It’s hard even to say what those questions mean, let alone to answer them cogently. Since there’s no reason to think that, had Alice’s grandparents brought the correct baby home from the hospital, that he would eventually have become would have ended up marrying Alice’s mother, Alice Plebuch’s very existence seems predicated on a mix-up that any normal person, other than her husband and her children and all her friends, would easily label a tragedy. Does that make her existence tragic? It’s sounds vaguely right to say that, but I’m not sure I could look her in the eye while I was saying it.

We all believe, or I think we do, that there are character traits that inhere in the shared genetic heritage of any recognizable group. Such talk often veers into tastelessness bordering on prejudice when we “assign” qualities, and usually negative ones, to people based on their race or ethnicity. But does that mean that there are no shared traits that the members of groups with a common genetic heritage all share? (And, if that is the case, then why should those shared traits be uniformly positive? Surely negative traits can also be shared!) But what is the precise boundary between identity and shared heritage, between the autonomy of the individual and the shared genetic heritage that inheres in that individual’s DNA? Surely, both concepts impinge upon each other. But in what specific way and to what precise extent—that is a far thornier riddle to solve.

From a Jewish perspective, the issue is even more complicated. The man the world knew as Jim Collins was born to a Jewish mother and so was, according to all Jewish authorities, a Jewish baby. The Talmud has a name for a child who is spirited away from his parents at birth, or shortly after birth, and raised without reference to his “actual” heritage: this is the famous tinok she-nishba of talmudic lore. Nor is this treated as a merely theoretical issue: the Talmud goes into considerable detail with respect to the specific laws that apply to such a Jewish individual raised in total ignorance of his or her Jewishness. Most of those discussions revolve around intricacies of halakhic obligation when a particular infraction is repeated over and over in the course of years or even decades by a Jewish individual who, unaware of his or her Jewishness, has no inkling that some specific deed is forbidden to him or her by the Torah. Such a person is technically a sinner, but our sages understood easily how wrong it would be seriously to attach that label to someone whose sins are completely inadvertent and who lacks even an inkling of his or her real status as a Jewish individual. The debates are interesting. But there is no debate at all about the Jewishness of the tinok she-nishba, just about the specific way the law should apply to such a person.

Was Jim Collins a tinok she-nishba? Labelling him that way would seem to oblige us to consider Philip Benson a non-Jew. When viewed dispassionately, that sounds almost reasonable, particularly since any rabbi could “solve” his predicament easily enough with a trip to the mikveh, a visit to the bet-din, and a few minutes with a mohel. But let’s imagine that the truth about Philip Benson never came out. Would we really consider it a tragedy for a man raised as a Jew from birth, circumcised on the eighth day of his life, provided throughout his childhood and adolescence with a Jewish education, the husband of a Jewish woman and the father of Jewish children—would it truly be a disaster if the truth about his “real” parentage never came out? Part of me thinks it would be. But another part can’t quite embrace that level of ex post facto harshness.

Most of the time, it’s probably wisest just to allow people to be whom they appear to be. Mostly, we already do this. When I walk into the Kotel plaza in Yerushalayim and join a minyan for Minchah, no one asks me if I am really a Jew, much less if I am really a man! I look like a man, so that’s good enough for them. I apparently look like a member of the House of Israel too…and that too is good enough even for the guys who hang out at the wall wearing their giant black hats. (I don’t push it, however, by also self-identifying as a Conservative rabbi.) Ultimately, we are all Jews by self-definition…and that, really, has to be the bottom line. Sometimes, real wisdom lies in stepping away from the fine print and being content just to read what people possessed of normal eyesight can see, and then leaving it at that.

Should I buy one of those DNA test kits and find out where my people really come from? I haven’t decided one way or the other. But if I do…I promise (maybe) to share the results with you in a subsequent letter.

#DNA #Jewish identity #matrilineality #patrilineality

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monstersarealwayshungryrpg-blog · 7 years

Photo

Congratulations Emily! You have been accepted as The Lover! (FC: Lily James)

Our competition for The Lovers came to two amazing apps, but Emily, your application absolutely blew us away. Celeste is beautifully developed - from her name to her history - but still with so much room for growth and exploration, and she’s just absolutely perfect for this role! Make sure to follow the checklist and send us your account within 48 hours! WELCOME TO THE ARCANA RING, EMILY. WE HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR STAY.

Name: Emily

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 21

In Character Information

Skeleton Applying for: The Lovers.

The two figures in the Lovers card are blessed and protected by the angel in the clouds above them. Angels, in general, represent the refinement of earthly desires. This angel, in particular, is Raphael, the angel of Air. One of the associations of Air is communication, necessary for a healthy relationship. The purple cloak on the angel represents royalty, a symbol of how important communication is. The sun shines brightly over the couple, bringing warmth and security. The earth at their feet is green and fertile and suggests life and happiness. The snake in the fruit-laden tree behind the woman suggests the story of Adam and Eve, the fall of humanity from grace, and the temptations of the world. The snake is also a symbol of the senses. The flames behind the man represent the flames of passion, indicating the primary concern of the man. There are twelve flames, representing the twelve zodiac signs, the symbol of time and eternity. The man looks to the woman, who looks to the angel, indicating the path of the conscious to the subconscious to the super-conscious, or from physical desire to emotional needs to spiritual concerns. The mountain is a phallic symbol, while the water is a feminine symbol, indicating balance between the two. (X)

Faceclaim: Lily James, Margot Robbie

Character’s Full Name: Celeste Lucie Fontaine

CELESTE: This French name is based on the Latin caelestis meaning ‘heavenly’. She’s often been compared to an Angel, a creature floating down from the stars, shining just as bright. Someone who occasionally appears to be not of this world – or at least, not fading into the background of the one she does inhabit – it is wholly appropriate that Celeste’s middle name speaks to the skies up above and all the weight that they carry. Although she laughs when people call her an Angel or ask when she fell from heaven (she’s always had a weakness for cheesy, corny chat up lines), such a comparison is enough to make her heart dance. It was her clients who first began the trend, but it has quickly spread to the mob members she calls family – who perceive her to be a slip of relative innocence among their ranks and someone to be cherished. Made pure by her desires (to love and be loved in return, to have sanctuary, to be happy and blessed and beautiful) she truly represents a heavenly creature. But Celeste doesn’t know to be wary. She doesn’t know to be afraid. She doesn’t know that even Angels can fall.

LUCIE: In French the meaning of the name Lucie is: Light; illumination. There’s a serenity to Celeste, a brightness that refuses to be dimmed – in spite of the darkness’s of her childhood, in rebellion against her endless heartbreaks or the chaos and destruction of the mob that surrounds her. It would be easier, simpler, to become swept up in said darkness’s – to give into the most carnal of desires and become a tragic parody of herself. It takes a certain strength to remain resilient despite that and an even brighter light to keep shining through the seemingly never ending darkness, chaos and destruction. The world can change, circumstances can change – but the most fundamental parts of herself, her desires, dreams and hopes – they remain the same, all fuelled by the same internal light that shines bright enough for anyone. There have been too many times in her life when Celeste was forced to become her own beacon of hope, her own lighthouse calling out to the ships in the bay. From a young age, she learnt to find the light inside of herself – and believed in it wholeheartedly, never giving up, for lack of other options. But, likewise, she has become that light for everyone else – or whatever they have needed from her, shifting and giving a little into their desires. Hardship might make it dim, but it will never fade, not completely. These days, in the solace in the arms of a soul mate, it shines brighter than ever.

Age: Twenty-six

Gender and Sexuality: Cis-gender female (She/her pronouns) + Pansexual/Panromantic.

To Celeste, sex and gender are fluid and without meaning, fading in significance when held in comparison to the person themselves. She has loved people who identify as men and those who identify as women – and those who don’t see themselves on the spectrum at all. Labels are such silly, limiting, affairs – and she has no time for them. Besides, labels do not matter as much as what is inside of a person – the measure of them, the way that they cherish her and whether they whisper I love you as they tangle between the sheets. It’s for this reason that Celeste firmly identifies as pansexual/panromantic – and does so with pride.

Character Bio:

(Tw: Abuse, Neglect, Prostitution)

PAST:

Some children are counted as blessings, cherished from their first breath and held close to their parent’s chests. Some children fulfil legacies, or fill an aching hole. And some, a tragic few, are born without a second thought, hardly wanted and forced aside as if they are a burden of their own making. Without being given a choice, Celeste was assigned the second category. Even the circumstances of her birth hinted at the struggle to come. She was born early, learning to howl through fragile lungs, limbs as delicate as a lambs as they shook for attention. She was to learn that such a kindness would not be easily granted – and would have to be sought out. In the beginning, there was only one parent (whose repeated absences would convince Celeste she had no parents), a mother who had no right to the title, who carried a child she had little love for and who paid far more attention to a throng of boyfriends, neither of which treated her very nicely either. Brought home and raised in a poky little flat in central Lyon, Celeste soon learnt that there was very little love to be had. It was an absence that caused agony and one that would define the years to come.

Growing up, she hungered for three things – affection, attention and escape. The first two were hard to come by – and would defy her grasp for many years to come. But the third was remarkably easy to find, among the pages of books at the Public Library. In the hours after school and on weekends when she was old enough to remember the route, Celeste could be found tucked into the corner between two shelves, fingers tracing the outlines of the beautiful princesses and repeating their stories under her breath. Their lives appeared to follow a journey similar to her own. They faced adversity as a child – Snow White was tormented by a wicked Step-mother, Cinderella’s father died, leaving her in the clutches of evil and Rapunzel was locked high in a tower. Then, they escaped. They found happiness – and they found it in the arms of a Prince. Young and impressionable, with nothing else to base her fantasies on, Celeste quickly became enamoured with the idea of a fairy tale ending. She imagined herself to be Snow White and brought to life by true loves kiss, to be Rapunzel and torn down from her prison by the love of her life and to find a glass slipper that fitted. Internalising fantasies, they quickly became a sort of reality, a safe place to go to in the midst of chaos – whenever her apartment was shook by shouting or the doors slammed enough to shake the entire building.

Her life became fixated on the idea of something better. From the time she could go to school, she noticed the gaps in her own life and those of her peers. They had parents, in various shapes and forms, who loved them. They had big houses with multiple bedrooms and a well-stocked fridge. They were warm and safe and loved. Was it so wrong for her to want that for herself? Sat hunched over drawings, she imagined a palace of her own – a big house with an endless wardrobe (sat in tatted second-hand clothes with holes in, was it really so horrible for her to dream of gilded possessions?) – and someone to come home to her. They would sweep her up unto their arms and caress her until she was safe, worshipping her as Goddess. Some days, those ambitions were the only things that kept her alive – nourishing her until the dream figure found a face.

As a child she had been too tall and a little too slender. But as the girl became a woman, so she grew to fit her features – blossoming into a natural beauty. Suddenly, people began to notice her. Eyes would follow her when she walked across a room. People began to leave notes in her locker. She was asked to dances. They saw her. An invisible girl was beginning to come to life. Believing that her beauty was her ticket out of a life of desperation and poverty, she began to fixate on the ideals – waking up at five AM to get ready before school, pilfering through unsuspecting friends closets to sell their hand-me-downs, even occasionally shoplifting for make-up. It was vanity – but for the purest of intentions – and Celeste remained proud of her actions. If this was what it took to get her out of this life, then she would do it all.

Eventually, her work paid off. The first person who truly noticed her was an older boy at school, eighteen to her tender sixteen. At first, he was charming. He carried her books to class, gave her a corsage at prom – even held her as she fell asleep in his arms. And when she asked him to take care of her, he said he always would. Besotted and eager to impress, Celeste quickly shaped herself in his desired image – believing that if she succeeded, he would never hurt her. One day, about four months after they had started dating, he asked her if they could have sex. She told him that she loved him – and asked if he felt the same. When he nodded, she inclined her head too, giving him permission. The sex had been sweet – but it was his words she fixated on the most. He loves you. He loves you. You won’t have to be alone now. Unfortunately, people lie. Three days later, he told her that they were done. He was the first to break her heart – but he wouldn’t be the last. In the aftermath, some people might have turned bitter, or darkened their heart against the possibility of love. But Celeste, more resilient than even she knew, was determined not to let him define her.

The next three followed in a similar suit – she gave her heart to people who were reckless with it. Perhaps that was why she failed to see a future in Lyon – and that when she graduated, given control of her freedom for the first time in her life – she left, bound for Paris. In her imagination, Paris was the city of romance, the place where dreams came true and the most beautiful city in the world. If she couldn’t make it there, then there would be nowhere else to go. Taking a low-paid job as a waitress at high-value and exclusive events, she felt more like Cinderella than ever before. Life was not kind to the poor pretty girl. It gave her a tiny, rat-infested, apartment. And unlike in the fairy tales, they did not befriend her. But, like Cinderella, she found her break. It was a Tuesday night – and she had been working for hours. But somehow, she caught the attention of an older woman, dripped in jewels, who liked to collect treasures of her own. Approaching her at the end of her shift, she offered a cheek in greeting – and a generous offer. Come and live with me. You won’t ever want for anything. They were the words she had been waiting a lifetime to hear. Greedy for a different lifestyle – and throwing caution to the wind – she accepted.

After that, her life became unrecognisable. She immediately moved into the woman’s apartment and was showered with indulgent fabrics and jewels, all for the very small price of indulging her as an intimate girlfriend. It was every fantasy she had ever imagined. It was her happily ever after. In time, what was initially a business arrangement began to feel very much like true love and she learnt to blind herself to the inequalities in their relationship. In time, any boundaries began to erode, as Celeste learnt everything there was to know about the woman she called her soul-mate. Her wealth came from a number of places – some unsavoury. There is a ring called the Arcana, she had said, three years into their tryst, I would like you very much to meet them.

Agreeing, Celeste was the beautiful girl on her arm the night she was taken to L’Empire Rogue. It was there that she first became inducted into the ring – meeting the Empress for the first time. Beautiful, but deadly, Celeste was immediately intrigued – drawn towards the world she promised. Given a tour around L’Empire Rogue, Lucienne surprised her by offering her a job, curling her lip and saying she could be a stripper or an escort, whichever she preferred. Staunchly loyal towards her benefactor, Celeste shook her head – Merci, but I could not possibly leave my love. Lucienne had smiled, the sort that inspires, as well as terrifies you. Pointing down towards the main floor, Celeste blinked back tears as she watched her beloved being taken back to a private room by a beautiful girl. And in that moment, her heart broke for the fourth time. Comforting her, Lucienne said that she didn’t have to rely on one person, that she could have an entire family – filled with people who cherished her. Clients will fall at your feet, they will worship you. Nothing bad can ever happen to you here. Seeing little other option – and truly wishing to buy into the life she painted with her words – Celeste agreed.

The next night, there was a new girl in the club – one with the eyes of the world upon her. Where other workers changed their names and became Star, Bunny and Rose, Celeste opted to keep her own, looking for honesty from the clients who would pay for her pleasures. There are those who would look down upon her and her profession, but for Celeste, the entire experience was one of empowerment. The gaze of desire in their eyes sparked a new sense of life inside of her. They ravished her with their tongue and bodies. They attended to her, touching her intimately, as if they would never let go. She was being worshipped. Each night, she would fall a little more in love with them. Within a few months, Celeste had climbed up the ranks and become of Lucienne’s top earning girls – and a personal favourite. Whilst people, usually her fellow workers, assume it is ambition and greed that drives her, they hit far from the mark. Although she would never deny how good being at the top feels, it isn��t cutthroat ambition that drove her journey there – but the constant need for approval. Having never been the best at anything, never particularly sharp with intellect, or loved the way she deserved to be (heart and soul), it felt good to be at the top, to know there was nowhere further to go. The Queen at the top of her power, she won’t allow anyone to knock her down.

In time, what began as a profession quickly became a life – and one worth living. True to her word, Lucienne introduced Celeste to the rest of the Arcana Ring. Initially nervous (fearful that they might despise her, judge her or simply hate her), Celeste quickly found her place within their ranks – and distant strangers became treasured friends – and then family. It was the only sort she had ever known, a different sort of love than one to be found between the sheets, but one just as pure. They all came from different walks of life, with different talents, expectations and goals, but were drawn together by a common thread. Throwing herself head first into the relationships she cultivated with them, they each hold a treasured place in her heart, never to be torn out or replaced. She grew to cherish the monthly dinners at the estate and in time, the life she had chosen for herself. Finally, she thought, I am safe. There were smiles. And there was laughter. But to be truly happy, she knew she needed one more thing.

Love.

It was a lesson that she had failed to learn time and time again. But a heart that bled as heavily as hers could never truly be stilled. In the arms of every lover she took, she was always searching for something more. She longed for a relationship that lasted longer than a night, for someone who took the time to get to know her, that would cherish her the way she believed she deserved. Was it so much to ask? She would think, tears rolling down her cheek. But, although she left a piece of herself in each client she took, she failed to find the one – and it was all so temporary. Some were ashamed of her. Some objected to the crime ring she counted herself a part of. In the end, she hadn’t figured out that the person she was looking for had been under her nose the entire time. It was late one night – and Remy was a surprise guest. Celeste had begged the last one to stay, swearing they could make it work, but had been left alone anyway. It was Remy who had caught her, with that damned smile of theirs. No one can understand this life. Not like you or I. I would never be ashamed of you. Celeste had raised her eyes to meet theirs – and found herself falling.

The rest, as they say, is history.

PRESENT:

Happiness has been a long time coming – but finally, it has fallen within Celeste’s grip, never to be surrendered. You cannot call her a Queen, but she’s something of a Princess within the Arcana Ring, adored by the masses, occupying the top rung at L’Empire Rouge and blushing with the flush of true love. They say that beauty fades, but Celeste’s is blossoming. She is magnificent – and she knows it. Vanity and pride are ugly, but they look appealing splashed across her features. Blissfully ignorant to the stirrings of war at her side, her focus is consumed wholly by the woman who occupies her bed and holds her as she falls asleep – a loyalty that no one – and nothing – could ever break, which is probably why no one has even tried. Although currently blind to the rumblings of change around her, she cannot remain ignorant forever and soon, war will find a place at her doorstep. Should that happen, no one would even need to question her stance – for her heart will always win. Despite that, the Arcana Ring is her family – and she would never wish to see them fractured. To Celeste, sticking together – and uniting behind Remy – is the best course of action. In the midst of war, she would be the white flag, a little naïve as she advocates for peace and reconciliation. But should fighting break out, should she be forced to gear up and smudge paint across her cheeks, she knows what side she’s on.

PERSONALITY:

So much of who Celeste is has been shaped by her past experiences. She is very much a product of her childhood and the legacies that it has carved out upon her body. She strives for safety and security, investing so much of who she is in people and putting stock in them – because those are the things that were denied to her as a child, so have become what she craves. It’s a little naïve of her at times – but is very much an active choice – fulfilling the promises she made to herself when she was just a little girl – and didn’t know any better. Despite that, Celeste is a myriad of complications. She is something of an idealistic dreamer, the girl who believes in soulmates and happy endings, who wants nothing more than to impress everyone, under pressure from their expectations, but possesses something of a hidden edge too – a desire to remain on top, as well as being a little vain – craving the comfort of beautiful material goods. And yet, ultimately, those flaws stem from her childhood experiences, from the denial of things and forever desiring denied attention and affection. Ultimately, Celeste is someone who wants the simplest pleasures in life, a family to adore, to love and be loved in return. And in that sense, she is the most human of us all.

Extra:

Mockblog: X

Personality Analysis: X

Anything Else: Nope!

#accepted #the lovers

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