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gvfgal · 1 year

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1. Homeward Bound

Barbarian. Biker!Jake

18+ minors evaporate!!!

A/n: As promised, here’s chapter one! I’m doing things a little different this time, telling the story more from Jake’s point of view than the readers. It works well for this story, and I think you guys will enjoy the way it plays out. Also, no disrespect to Genoa, NV! Never been, I’m sure it’s a lovely place, but for the sake of my story, it’s a shithole.

Content Warnings: Drinking & Smoking (constant theme throughout), language, mentions of death, Jake and reader are a couple of sluts but we love them for it, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (please don’t be like them), fingering (f rec.), dirty talk, Not really a warning, but I use the words tavern/ bar/ and or “Riley’s” interchangeably, they’re all the same place.

Word Count: 6.2k

Jake always loved the open road. It was the only time he truly felt like himself, the only time he felt truly invincible. The last time he traveled down Route 95, however, he was headed in the opposite direction, escaping the very life he was about to throw himself back into.

After Ace’s visit and a night of drinking, Jake finally settled on the decision to return home. He put most of his belonging into storage, only packing what would fit on the back of his bike. As far as his job, he wasn’t too worried. He had a sit down with Hank a couple days before he left and explained the situation. “You know you always have a job should you decide to come back,” Hank told him. Jake turned in his shop keys, and that was the end of that.

On the night before his departure, he tracked Kira down at some seedy motel and told her he’d be leaving town, to which she began to cry, begging him not to leave. In all honestly, it made him want to vacate even more.

The next morning, before the sun even had a chance to rise, Jake was on the road, homeward bound.

The desert stretched out before him, a vast expansion of rugged beauty underneath the unforgiving sun. The roar of his motorcycle engine echoed through the emptiness, punctuating the silence that came with the open road. As he ventured deeper into the heart of Nevada, the land seemed to hold it’s breath, anticipation simmering in the air. Dust clouds billowed in his wake as he leaned into the twists and turns, feeling as if he were becoming one with the machine.

Finally, after a couple more hours of riding, the small wooden sign came into view, signaling his arrival.

‘Welcome to Genoa. Nevada’s oldest town.’

The outskirts of the tiny dot on the map loomed into view, it’s familiar silhouette etched against the sky. He slowed his pace as he entered, taking in the scenery that was almost identical to the way it was when he left. His town, a decaying relic in the desert, clung stubbornly to it’s dilapidated existence. The streets stretched out before him like veins choked with neglect, lined with crumbling facades and and fading signs that once promised prosperity. Shuttered business stood as silent sentinels, bearing witness to the ebb and flow that was Genoa.

Nature, too, had woven it’s touch, with wildflowers defiantly blooming in forgotten corners. A gentle reminder to Jake that even in death, life finds a way. The sight filled him with a mixture of disgust and an odd kind of loyalty. Despite it’s decay it held the indelible marks of his roots, memories were etched deep within it’s neglected corners. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, Genoa was still home, a bitter reminder of the life he’d never be able to escape.

Using only his memory, Jake continued through town in search of Ace’s house. Just when he thought he was lost, the row of bikes lined up outside of an old rundown manufactured home proved his memory wasn’t so rusty after all. He parked near the end of the line before making his way up to the front door. He could already hear the rambunctious group of men far before he was on the porch, and he figured knocking would be no use. Besides, it was only Ace’s house, and Jake knew he was welcomed in as if he lived there himself, which he did, at one point.

When he swung the door open, the buzz of conversation came to an abrupt halt, and every head in the room turned to look at him, staring as if they’d seen a ghost.

Ace was the last to look at him, and when he did, a large grin spread across his face.

“Jake! You made it!”

The rest of the men erupted into cheers, glad to see their beloved Barbarian prince return.

“Jake, you remember Steeljaw right?” Ace bellowed as he gave him a shove forward into the crowd.

Jake smiled, “how could I forget? It’s good to see you man.”

Steeljaw was never very affectionate, and the life altering incident he encountered did little to change that, if anything, it had an opposite effect. But when it came to Jake, there was always a soft spot. He tolerated most people, but Jake, he actually liked. He could never figure out why, and in the end, he never tried to.

Jake expected a rough handshake or a punch in the shoulder, but was pleasantly caught off guard when Steeljaw scooped him up into a hug.

“It’s good to have you back.”

Ace went around reintroducing Jake to the guys, each of them in turn giving Jake hugs and handshakes and ‘welcome backs’. Hellhound. Snakebite. Madcap. Django. Renegade. And so many more. With each of these men, Jake carried a special memory. He loved each and every one of them, that was something he couldn’t deny. There were his family, other than his mom (another interesting story for another day), the Barbarians were all that Jake had. They all seemed to really miss him, and he missed all of them too.

Well, almost all of them.

“And of course, Nicky No Name.”

Ace pushed the tall slender guy forward, mouthing a ‘play nice’ to Jake behind his back. Jake’s disdain for Nicky went far beyond the fact that he was an overall awful person. For him, Nicky’s face was a reminder of the loss of the one person who’s presence he missed the most in that room, and it wasn’t Rex.

Jake gave Nicky a tight lipped smile, “Triple N, we meet again.” He knew how much he hated that nickname, which is why it felt that much better to say it.

Nicky narrowed his eyes at Jake with a scowl, before correcting it almost immediately. “Jake Kiszka. Prince of the Barbarians.”

Nicky also knew how much Jake hated that nickname.

Ace knew that was just about as polite as the two could get, so he quickly dismissed Nicky and returned his attention to Jake.

“I’m surprised you actually came.”

“You and me both.”

“How was the ride?”

Jake shrugged, “long.”

Ace chuckled, knowing good and well that anytime Jake was on the road, he had a blast. But he was never one to admit those kinds of things out loud, so he left it be.

“What do ya say we head over to your old man’s house? Get that out the way now?”

Dread crept into Jake’s veins, entwining with grief, as he realized that returning to his childhood home stirred a peculiar turmoil within him. Overshadowing even the weight of the impending funeral. He swallowed it down though, if only momentarily, to respond to Ace.

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

The men hopped on their bikes and began making the short ride down to the old trailer park that was once Jake’s kingdom. Cactus Creek Village, quite the kingdom to be sure. The chipped paint on the entry sign proof of just how much the place had to offer.

Images of the past flicked through his minds eye as he inched his way through. The laughter that once echoed through the trees, riding his bike with his friends, pretending they were motorcycles until the street lights came on. All the joys of his youthful innocence. But beneath the surface of those fond recollections lay layers of pain, unsealed wounds, and fractured connections. Those feeling were all the more solidified as the house came into view.

A house whose walls were etched with both solace and strife. As he put his bike in park out front, it felt like a collision of two worlds, grief and nostalgia intertwining in an intricate dance.

“Look the same?” Ace asked as he got off his bike and came to stand with Jake.

He squinted his eyes at the structure, noticing that most of the damage that he left behind was still there. “Too much.”

His eyes grazed the lackluster trailer park with a neutral expression. Scenes of his complicated childhood played like mirages on front of him, sublime memories that still haunted his dreams. He wondered for a moment if coming back there was a bad idea.

Several feet away, the door of a trailer swung open, hitting the wall so hard that the sound sent a stray cat scampering from underneath the disheveled porch. You stepped outside, an already burning cigarette hanging between your plump lips with disinterest. Those lips, so perfectly pink and inviting, stole the air from Jake’s lungs. His mind flashed briefly to the things that mouth could possibly do behind closed doors.

But he wasn’t able to focus on that for long before his eyes began to take in your attire (or the lack there of). A wife beater, clearly with no bra underneath. Your nipples stood erect against the thin fabric. Your breasts were in no way large, but just big enough for a handful, and that was good enough for him. Your bottom half was no more modest, a pair of gray cotton bikini underwear, nothing more. The curve of your hips was only slight, so slight, some may not have even counted it as a curve at all. But whatever the hell it was, Jake liked it, really liked it.

A pair of brown cowboy boots covered you from the mid calf, down. The scuffed leather on the toes led him to believe that you wore them often.

You were unaware of their presence at first, making your way down the stairs mindlessly before your eyes finally locked with Jake’s.

Yours were red and glossy, not from tears, that much was certain. Jake was sure that you’d realize your exposure and rush back inside to hide yourself like any normal girl would do. But he was quick to find out you were anything but normal.

You blinked once at him, expressionless in your affliction, and raised you fingers to your lips to remove the cigarette. Your nails were chipped midnight blue, hands appearing like fragile petals of a flower. You ashed the cigarette onto the ground, eyed never straying from his.

Admittedly, your stare was a bit intimidating, heavy and laden with something so intriguing it was as if you were hypnotizing him where he stood. You wedged the cigarette back into your mouth before tearing your eyes from him, returning to the task you set out to accomplish.

“Who’s that?” Jake asked, never removing his stare from where you were. He watched as you bent over to pick up a sun bleached watering can, surprised at the size of your ass. He hadn’t expected you to be carrying something like that behind you.

Ace shuffled up beside him and gave you a good once over, “that’s Riley’s girl. When he got sick, she came down here, kinda popped up out of nowhere, to take care of him till he passed. Never left after that.”

Jake turned and looked at him with a furrowed brow, “Riley’s dead?”

Ace laughed, “you really have been gone a long time, haven’t you? He’s been gone about two years now. Pancreatic cancer. He fought long and hard,” he nodded his head in your direction, “she took over the tavern too.”

Jake’s eyes found you again as you lazily poured water onto the foliage outside of the trailer. For it to be Nevada, you did a great job of keeping up your garden.

“She’s a bit quiet, doesn’t really talk to us much, but she’s a sweet girl.” He retrieved a key from his pocket and placed it in Jake’s hand, “I gotta get back to the guys before they burn my damn house down. Take all the time you need.” He hopped back on his bike and his engine roared to life, “we’re all hanging at the tavern later, if you wanna stop by.”

Jake nodded and watched as he backed out of the driveway and started down the road. Once he was out of sight, he turned back to watch you water your plants, his eyes tracking every dip and curve of your body.

When you noticed him staring again, you stood straight and faced him, raising your middle finger.

He smirked. Spitfire. Giving his dad’s house one more look, he decided that wasn’t a hill he was ready to conquer, not yet anyway. Instead, there was a wide open Nevada desert calling his name, and that was a call Jake could never stray away from. Tucking the key away in his jeans, Jake mounted his bike and cranked it to life. He pulled into the street until he was parallel with your trailer. You watched as a mischievous grin appeared on his face, his gloved hand raising to shoot you the finger right back. His bike screeched as he pulled off at a ridiculous speed, kicking up dirt behind him.

You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him drive away. Using context clues, you figured he was your neighbor Rex’s son. You’d heard stories about him from the gang hanging around the bar. The Barbarian Prince, they’d joke. You’d spent plenty of time with Rex, and although he was always pleasant with you, you knew any son of his had to be trouble.

But you were a magnet for trouble. It’s allure and consequences were woven into the very fabric of your existence. Trouble had been your steadfast companion, the architect of your tumultuous journey.

Trouble, is what landed you in Genoa in the first place.

But when it came to the mysterious beloved Barbarian, trouble never looked so good.

Most of the gang was already at Riley’s by the time Jake arrived. He’d spent his afternoon riding through the winding outskirts of Genoa, allowing himself some much needed alone time before the next few days ahead. Pulling his tasseled hair into a messy low bun, Jake nudged the door open with his boot and stood at the threshold to scan the bar.

He quickly spotted Ace’s large frame seated at one of the barstools, but just as quickly, he noticed you. Your hair tied in a messy bun on the top of your head as you hustled behind the bar, mixing up drinks for the waiting Barbarians scattered about the space. A group of them huddled around the pool table drank and talked loudly, demanding their voices to be heard over the loud rock music playing from the old fashioned jukebox positioned in the corner. Jake gave them a quick assessment before returning his attention back to you.

You were wearing a muscle tank, if he had to guess, the same one from earlier, only this time you decided to put a bra on. Good Girl. The hot pink straps peaked from underneath the tank ever so slightly, he liked that even more. With a smirk plastered on his face, Jake made his way through the dimly lit bar, perching himself on the stool beside Ace and patting him on the shoulder, his eyes staying trained on you. You hadn’t noticed him yet, too busy fulfilling another drink order for a waiting couple. There was a thin sheen of sweat covering your body that, mixed with the contrastingly bright lights of the neon signs behind the bar, made you appear like an angel on earth. Glowing like a beacon, a beacon calling directly to Jake.

Before even glancing at him, you were talking. “What can I get for you?”

Jake chuckled at your obliviousness as he leaned forward onto the bar.

“Whiskey. Neat, please.”

When you finally turned to look at him, realization setting in, your face dropped, but Jake’s never faltered. He was a lot more handsome up close, something you hadn’t expected, but still relished in.

“Well, if it isn’t my Peeping Tom neighbor,” you smirked, wiping your hands on the towel that hung at your hip.

Your voice was like like honey. Smooth, rich, and pleasing to Jake’s ears. The very sound of it melded with the music filling the room made the hairs on his arms stand upright. It was as if every word you spoke was uttered with the intention of seduction, and it was working.

Your right eyebrow peaked on your face as you waited for his reply, arms crossing over your chest.

“If I remember correctly, you’re the one that came out of the house half naked,” he teased, his eyes boring directly into yours.

“You didn’t have to stare,” you quipped right back.

Jake shrugged, “how could I not?”

His response stunned you into silence, but not in a negative way. Being the object of his gaze, as good looking as he was, was enticing.

You’d never let him know that, though. So instead, you rolled your eyes and turned to pluck at the screen behind you.

“You want your tab opened, or closed?”

Jake was staring daggers into your back, still wearing that sly grin. His eyes traveled down to your ass, being hugged tightly by the black denim shorts you wore. They traveled further, all the way down your exposed legs and back up.

“Open…”

Ace turned his attention to the two of you, patting Jake on the shoulder, “no need, first rounds on me, sunshine.”

You smiled sweetly at Ace before pulling a glass down to prepare Jake’s drink.

“So, you’re Rex’s kid?” you asked.

Jake nodded, “the one and only. I think.”

You chuckled at his statement, knowing that when it came to Barbarians, that was probably a real concern. “Sorry to hear about his passing.”

He gave off another shrug as he retrieved his usual duo, a cigarette and his lighter, “wish I could say the same.”

This comment may have been off putting to others, but to you it was more than relatable.

You finished pouring his drink and slid it across the counter on a thin coaster.

“Well, he’ll be missed around here, anyway,” you glanced around the bar before focusing on Jake’s face, “but it seems like everyone’s glad to have you back.”

Jake’s attention was focused on getting his cigarette lit, and once it was, he looked back at you, noticing the way you were drinking in his features,his lips curled up around it.

“Glad to be back.”

He took his glass and raised it towards you, a silent confirmation that you were the reason for his satisfaction. You held each other’s gaze for what felt like forever, both grinning, yet silently assessing the other.

“Why do I feel like you’re nothing but trouble?” you questioned Jake, a hint of teasing in your voice.

Jake freed his mouth and leaned into you, and you instinctively did the same, your faces now hovering inches away from each other. The smell of tobacco on his breath was so intoxicating you could’ve kissed him in that very moment.

“Why do I feel the same about you?”

For a brief moment, you though he actually was about to kiss you, your mouths so close, all it took was one small movement to initiate. But just before it got to that point, Jake pulled away, standing from his seat and crossing over the the jukebox.

You watched as he flipped through the catalog, taking a sip of his drink in the process. Finally, Lick it Up by Kiss began playing loudly as Jake increased the volume. Turning back to you with that same smirk from before. He began nodding his head in an animated fashion, causing a real laugh to bubble up from inside of you. Something that didn’t happen often.

“He really is Rex’s boy!” Ace shouted over the music, calling out to everyone in the bar.

He raised his glass as everyone cheered, following suit. And once again, Jake looked to you, raising both his eyebrows and his glass.

You shook your head with a smile, “trouble.”

It was well after two am by the time you got off. Most of the gang had stayed right until close, and with only you and your coworker Angela left by the end of the night, closing took a lot longer than usual. And to make matters worse, you were now stranded at the gas station. Your old clunker had only managed to make it two miles up the road before it sputtered out, and now, it refused to start.

The cold desert air chilled your bones as you did your best to inspect under the hood, but with little to no knowledge about cars, you weren’t hopeful.

“Raggedy piece of shit,” you cursed as you kicked at one of the tires. You pulled your windbreaker tighter around your body and leaned back against the car, debating on whether or not you could conquer the mile and a half walk back home.

But just as the idea started becoming the best option, the sound of a motorcycle could be heard coming up the road. You watched as the driver pulled into the gas station, knowing well that it had to be a Barbarian, they were the only gang in the area. But what you didn’t expect was for that Barbarian to be Jake, still smiling as he pulled up beside you.

“You don’t look too happy.”

You wanted to roll your eyes at him, but his smile was beginning to grow on you. So much so, that you could ignore his smart ass comment.

“My car won’t start.”

Jake turned off his bike and climbed off, not saying a word as he leaned down to look into the engine compartment.

You took in the way the muscles of his arms flexed as he gripped tightly on the sides of the car. The thought of him holding you that way sending a separate chill down your spine

After a few moments of inspection, he faced you again, just as you diverted your eyes to something else.

“Where do you want me to start?”

Your dropped your head into the palm of your hand, “fuck.”

Jake chuckled, “it’s alright. I might be able to fix it,” he sounded hopeful, though by just looking at it, he' knew it might be beyond saving, “have to get it towed first, though.”

You cursed again, you didn’t have the money for that.

“But for the time being, I can give you a ride. After all, we are neighbors.”

You glanced backup at his smirking face, wondering if he ever wore any other expression, “on your bike?”

He nodded, “what, you scared or something?”

Quite frankly, you couldn’t have been further from. Excited? A little turned on? Yes. Scared? Never.

“What’s your name?” you asked, deciding to ignore his statement. He took a step towards you and extended his hand, “I’m Jake. And you are?” You shook his hand softly and grinned mischievously, “wouldn’t you like to know?”

You removed your hand and climbed onto his bike, making sure to arch your back more than necessary.

That image of you on his bike that way was the first time Jake actually believed here might be a god. You were all too regal, even in your most natural state, he’d even dare to say perfect. And something so perfect had to be meticulously constructed by an all knowing power. He didn’t even care if he knew your name.

“I gotta run inside. Stay pretty.”

He left without another word, dissapearing into the store and leaving you out in the cold air. You waited patiently for him to return, and when he did, he climbed on in front of you. His already familiar scent filled your nostrils, and without though, you moved your body closer to his. Once he brought the bike to life you hesitantly wrapped your arms around his torso, bringing you a comfort that you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Will you be alright without a helmet?” he asked, shouting over the roaring engine.

“It’s only a mile and a half. I’ll be fine.”

He put the bike in drive, patting your thigh twice, “well then, hang on.”

He pulled out into the street slowly and began making his way down the long stretch of road. Releasing your hair from its bun, you leaned into Jake’s ear, “you can’t make this thing go any faster?” You were aware that he was doing the gentlemanly thing and taking it easy, but feeling the rush of the wind and the vibration of the road traveling through your body had you craving more. The freeing feeling that speeding down the road on the back of a bike was enticing, but so was the danger of it. That feeling of gambling life itself for a few seconds of exhilaration, it turned you on, the tense energy radiating off of you and onto Jake.

You couldn’t see it, but he smirked, reving up the engine as he began picking up speed, causing your adrenaline to spike. Once the deteriorating buildings that lined the street started becoming a blur, you released you hold on Jake’s waist and spread you arms out wide, tilting your head back to greet the night sky. The wind whipped your hair across your face, blinding you every few seconds, but that didnt deter you one bit.

A genuine laugh escaped Jake’s lips, “you’re a wild one,” he exclaimed, his voice barely audible against the roaring wind.

Cactus Creek was still when you and Jake returned, the loud hum of his engine feeling out of place in the quiet night. Jake could’ve easily parked in his own driveway and let you make the 50 feet walk back to your place, but instead, he parked right outside your front door, a little too close to your flowers for your liking. After helping you off, the two of you stood face to face. The thrill of the ride had yet to wear off, and all those feelings you felt while in the back of his bike were still very much alive inside of you.

“You seemed to have enjoyed yourself,” Jake chuckled as he removed his own hair from its bun. Never in your life had you seen such tangled locks look so good, you wanted nothing more than to run your fingers through it, preferably with his head between your legs.

A small grin appeared on your face as you took a step closer to him, “what can I say? I love a good ride.” He pulled you close as soon as you were in arms reach, letting one of his hands snake around your hip, just shy of your ass. His opposite hand found your hair, pulling back on it gently until you were looking him in the eyes.

“Is that right?”

Your lips ghosted against his as you spoke, “who doesn’t?”

Jake liked that answer. If the twitching of his cock that was pressed against your leg didn’t give it away, the look on his face sure did. His mouth dropped to press firm kisses along your collarbone. Your eyes fell closed when his tongue appeared to lick a long strip up your neck. He continued until his mouth was hovering by your ear.

“Something’s telling me you’re no good for me,” he whispered, nipping at your earlobe to punctuate, “should probably stay away. But somehow that only makes me want you more.”

You pulled away to look him in the eye, shaking your head solemnly, “you don’t want me, Jake. I’m not the kind worth loving.”

He took a mental note of that statement, replaying it over and over in his head fo months to come. But for the time being, it remained tucked away. He smirked at you, “who said anything about falling in love?”

The look of lust in his eyes and the grip he still had on your waist was the nail in the coffin. With both hands, you took ahold of his fac and crashed your lips into his, nothing but primal desire behind it. He kissed you back immediately, his tongue delving into your mouth like it were seeking out shelter in the rain. You all but climbed him, tangling you legs around him as he made his way up the steps. You never locked your door, there was nothing in that place worth stealing, and your hand searched blindly behind you to open the door.

Once inside, Jake quickly cleared your entryway table— its contents clambering to the ground as you pushed the door shut. He sat you down roughly as his mouth returned to your neck, much less graceful than the first time. You pulled and tugged at his jacket until it slid off his body, leaving him in a plain black t shirt. Your finger clawed at it, pulling it up so that you could feel more of his skin against yours.

“Still not gonna tell me your name?” he huffed as his hands began groping your chest.

You sighed heavily, “nope.”

Jake chuckled, “that’s fine,” he squeezed your chest a little tighter, causing you to hiss, “I’ll jut have to come up with my own name for you then.

He licked into your open mouth slowly, making sure to really taste you as he did so. “Hmmm. How about Cherry?”

“Cherry?” you gulped, “why?”

Jake smiled at your moment of innocence, the way your eyes pleaded for an answer made both his cock and his heart ache.

“Cause you taste just as sweet as one.”

Before his compliment had a chance to make it’s way to your heart, you yanked him closer by the collar of his shirt, “are you gonna stand here and talk all night, or are you gonna fuck me?”

Jake’s smile fell, a carnal look taking over his face. His rough fingers began undoing the button on your shorts, not even taking a moment to pull them down before they were sliding into your wetness. An almost silent gasp left your mouth as your head fell back against the mirror, threatening to send it crashing down.

“Yeah, Cherry? Is that pretty little pussy ready to fuck?”

You nodded, once again clawing at his back as his fingers continued to skate about.

He removed his hand from your shorts and brought the digits up to his lips, slipping them into his mouth. Yeah, Cherry would do just fine.

“Let’s not keep her waiting then. I’m dying to meet her.” He hoisted you off the table and began walking towards the only door that could’ve lead to a bedroom. As soon as your feet hit the ground, you began making quick work of your clothes. Jake doing the same. He was undressed before you were, and your eyes immediately zeroed in on the myriad of scars that adorned his body.

Each of those scars held a story, some twisted, god awful story that probably came with a mental scar to match. You couldn’t help but wonder what kinds of things he had seen, lived. You had a moment of clarity then, of how similar the two of you were. Both marred by scars of the past, yet still somehow standing.

Something you’d noticed from the very beginning was how tired Jake’s eyes were. Though he smiled often, you could tell there was a heavy weight on his shoulders. And seeing him there, in all his raw naked glory, you wanted nothing more than to take some of that weight off, if only momentarily.

With enough time to recover from the putty like state he had you in earlier, you finished undressing yourself and pushed Jake down onto the bed with only a finger.

He grinned up at you, enjoying where this was headed. You slowly made your way up the bed, eyes locked on his as your fingers began grazing along his skin. You were so occupied with taking in the rest of him, you hadn’t even taken a moment to look at his cock. But just as you suspected, it was as perfect as the rest of him. Radiating a cherry shade of red from the tip, like it was made just for you.

Straddling his waist, you raked your fingers through your untamed hair, Jake’s hands came up to massage your ass, “you did say you loved a good ride, huh?”

One of your hands began stroking along him gently, collecting the pre cum from his tip to ease your movements. The goofy grin he was wearing faltered as he let out a shaky breath.

Raising your hips, you peered down your nose at him, “don't worry. I’ll hang on.”

You sank down on him in one fluid motion, both of you moaning loudly at the way you fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. Jake’s fingers dug into your skin, and you welcomed the pain, throwing your head back in ecstasy as he stirred inside of you. When he loosened his grip, you took that as an invitation to begin moving, and using his chest for leverage, you began grinding your hips against him. He allowed you to do so for awhile, laying his bed back out the pillow as he watched you move against him eagerly. His hands felt their way up your body, one of them snaking up into your hair while the other came up to your mouth. You welcomed his fingers, sucking them past your lips as you clawed at his exposed chest. When Jake noticed you tracing on of the scars on his abdomen he looked up at you, searching for disappointment in your eyes. But there was none, not even an inch.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered to him as you raised you hips to slide off of him, just to the tip, before sinking back down with a gasp.

Jake was never one to take compliments well, but he could tell you meant it. He grabbed ahold of your hips again and began thrusting upwards into you, speeding up the tempo at which you were moving. It was obvious that this wasn’t something that was meant to go on all night long. Both of you were clearly in need of blowing off steam, and by the way both of your bodies were reacting, you knew the end was coming soon.

He sent a harsh slap to the side of your thigh, his teeth bared as he tried to maintain his composure. “You take dick so fucking good,” he complimented as he watched the way your tits bounced from the force of the movement.

Your head lulled forward to smile at him, “I know.”

Jake returned the gesture, a soft groan escaping his mouth, “I’m gonna cum, Cherry.”

“Me too, Jake,” you wined, “don’t stop.”

He sought out your clit, rubbing slow circles against it as he continued to pound up into you. “Yeah. I bet you make the prettiest faces when you cum. I can’t wait to see.”

Your hips began faltering, and Jake could feel you clenching around him, causing a deep growl to grumble up from inside of him.

“There it is. I feel it, Cherry.”

“Cumming,” you sighed, “I’m cumming.” With one final bounce on his cock, you were cumming hard and loud. You were never one to be ashamed of being loud during sex, it made it feel that much better. And Jake enjoyed it thurrougly. The way your brows were knitted together, head thrown back, nails carving angry marks into his chest beside his scars. And your moans, to Jake, they were the sweetest sounds to ever come out of Genoa.

He fucked you through to your end before wrenching you off of him and pumping along his shaft. You were laid out beneath him, both of you watching each other as he continued jerking himself.

Jake’s eyes grew dark, “you want it, don’t you? In that sweet little mouth?”

Your jaw fell open, inviting him to do exactly what it was you were both think. The sight of it sent Jake’s release crashing into him.

“Such a nasty thing, aren’t you Cherry? Oh fuck… fuckkkk.”

Hot spurts of his release began dripping down into your mouth, some of it landing on your breasts and cheeks, but you caught as much of it as you could.

His legs were shaking by the time he was empty, and he collapsed back down onto the bed beside you, fighting to catch his breath. His hand searched for his discarded t-shirt, bringing it to wipe away the remains of the mess he left on your skin. You smiled up at him as he did so, “thank you.”

He took a moment to look at you, really look at you. Your eyes held a certain softness that captured his attention, yet, there was something lurking behind that gentle facade, something that hinted at a hidden depth. It was as if there were an entire secret world behind your eyes, one that Jake coould’t decipher.

There was no denying the allure you possessed, your beauty and your aura were nothing short of captivating. But he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that behind that beauty lay a trail of buried skeletons.

Getting reacquainted with the Barbarians was trouble enough, a path filled with danger and uncertainty. And intertwining himself with you seemed to add another layer of complexity. Despite all of that, though, he couldn’t help but be drawn to you like a moth to a flame. There was a magnetic pull, a force that defied reason and lured him further into your orbit.

But he’d leave that alone for now. He had to burry his father tomorrow, and that was a burden of its own.

He lowered himself back onto the bed, pulling the sheet up over you body as you slowly began drifting off to sleep, hoping that he could do the same.

2. Our Old Friend, Death

Taglist: @myownparadise96 @writingcold @jordie-gvf

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andreas-river · 11 months

Note

🐝 here again! I loved the Soap one you did!! It scratched all the right spots in my brain and I giggled like a schoolgirl while reading it.

Now for something more serious >:)

Picture this *holds up fingers to create a frame*

Ghost is romantically involved with someone who works in technology or whatever. Like she’s not used to physical combat in the slightest. Somehow, a bio agent got into her office and he has to watch her slowly deteriorate and possibly die from this manufactured illness.

Ofc she survives because she’s a tough cookie and he’s just so relieved that she’s okay.

(Reader could be gn but some spicy things in the end would be cool. Your smut is so well written 💜$

Lighthouse [Simon "Ghost" Riley X F!Reader]

TW: character death but not really, mention and description of sex, mention of violence, bio agents and medical inaccuracies, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff.

A/N: hello 🐝! I'm really, really sorry it took me so long to write this. Sometimes I struggle with myself and my mental health, and I literally start malfunctioning. Anyway, I hope I met your expectations on this one!

You were working like every other day, the humming sound of the machines and the bright screens of the computers felt almost like a second home to you. Your first home? It wasn't a building, nor an apartment: it was a man, his name Ghost – Simon, for you. But it was complicated, to say at least. It took months to go over all those walls he put around himself, to protect that one side of him, the real side of himself, and often just climbing them resulted in other walls even higher than the previous ones. But you kept going persistently, and often Ghost could not understand why you cared so much about him, how you had all that strength to destroy his walls in such a short time, since he had taken years to build that armor that he now wears every moment, never taking it off.

And at the end, Simon felt it. You became his lighthouse, for a sailor lost in the middle of the ocean, at the mercy of the waves of his nightmares that haunted him during the cold nights. But now, it wasn't night and he wasn't asleep. It wasn't his job to understand how it happened, but he felt something between anger and sorrow coursing through his veins when he found you laying on a bed in the medical wing, alone, fighting something that weren't bullets or knives.

He felt anger because he couldn't do anything to help you.

He felt sorrow because he couldn't protect you.

Some medications were being pumped inside your veins – he counted at least three of them, but when his eyes landed on yours, the world around him stopped, he couldn't breathe anymore, but then he heard your voice, tired and strained from the fatigue. "Those packages," a cough stops you for a moment, and it takes you some seconds to stop it. "Something was inside them. I didn't know.."

He raises his hands, stopping you as he closes the distance between you and him, sitting on the edge of the bed. He didn't bother to explain that everything was being taken care of, and that those packages were already being tracked down.

He holds your hand, noticing how it felt against his callous fingers: the outline of your bones was more evident through the thin skin, as your grip was not as firm as it once was. But he still felt it, he still remembered how much stronger you were, how your hands held his broad shoulders as he sank inside you less than a week ago, hiding in the woman's showers – that were fortunately empty at midnight. He still felt your legs around his waist, and how much they were shaking at the end as you held onto him for dear life, gripping him with so much strength that he felt like he was fainting while still being buried deep inside you.

But for now, as he stares at your weakening form, he just wants you to be alive, to feel you alive, laying at your side and holding you between his arms.

As days turned into weeks, Simon remained at your side day and night, never leaving you alone for a second. He couldn't do anything else except witnessing how your body deteriorates and grows weaker and sicker, the internal war you were facing even more monstrous than the countless battles he faced on the battlefield.

He couldn't sleep anymore at the thought of you laying there, it was driving him mad, and watching helplessly through all of that didn't help at all.

When he walk back to your room after a debriefing – after Price repeated to him that leaving your room for an hour would not change the situation, his heart stopped as he saw some nurses running and entering no other than your room, and quickening the pace takes him outside the door, his heart shattering in a million pieces as everyone surrounds your bed, one of them pressing a defibrillator on your chest, the constant beeping from the machine at your side is the only thing he hears.

He breaks down, knees hitting the hard floor at the foot of the bed, a scream echoes inside him – or did he really scream with his voice? He doesn't understand while a nurse tries to move him away, everything is blurred except from your eyes, he just wants to see them open again, at least once, at least forever.

And then it happens – you gasp for air as if you were underwater, eyes wide open and coughing, and he starts to breathe again with you, oxygen coming back in full force.

He doesn't hear anything else, not even the nurses around him saying that you will feel better and that you will heal soon, his legs almost give up when he literally jumps on you, his arms holding you so tight like he fears that you might disappear.

For the first time in weeks you don't feel pain anymore, the ache that lingered inside you was only a distant memory on the back of your mind. You let yourself relax under his body, feeling through the fabric his muscles flexing around you.

"Simon-" your voice came out raw, but he instantly moved to pick some water that you didn't even see.

He's gentle while he holds it for you, removing the bottle from your lips, seeing his gaze lingering one more second before shifting back again at your eyes.

"You will be fine." he whispers, slowly tracing circles on your cheek with his finger. His eyes never wander from you, swearing to himself that whatever it is that almost killed you, he would travel the entire globe to find the person responsible, and make them pay, no matter the cost.

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #simon ghost riley cod #cod #ghost call of duty #ghost x reader #ghost x female reader #ghost x f!reader #cod mwii #call of duty mw2 #request #request open #cod mw #simon riley

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it-was-funeral-grey · 1 year

Text

And away (Al Haitham x F!Reader)

Prequel Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Extra 1 Masterlist

Summary: now that all that's settled, it's time to head back to vimara village. (all hail imaginary kaveh)

Warnings: mentions of medicine, the meat industry and its processes, economics macro and micro, boat travel, awkwardness, denial, internal battles, vulgarities, mild injuries (sprained ankle), carrying, mentions of sanitary pads, ect, spying on friends .

Word count: <4.3k words

Inspired by: Telephone - Waterparks

"I know we only just met, so why do I feel invested?"

Author's note: i had to dig out all my economics knowledge for this lol. i still almost failed econs so just pretend that i make total sense for the sake of the story pls. Also, i may come back and mass re edit this.

Thank you for all the lovely comments for part 3! it really made my day! i'm sorry if this part isnt as good as the rest! I tried

Please give criticism! Also, if i missed any warnings, do tell me so i can add them!

Out of all the issues Al Haitham has to deal with, Port Ormos is the most pressing and the source of many other problems.

No trade means no business. No business means no jobs. No jobs mean no work, which means no income for both Sumeru and the people. And especially since Port Ormos is Sumeru's main port, national income has taken a hard hit. Akademiya economists have been sending him report after report about their concerns about Sumeru's economic forecast. It does not look good.

In addition, no trade means that Sumeru doesn't get new resources anymore. While Sumeru is mostly self-sufficient food-wise, many resources still cannot be obtained locally- or are mostly imported. And since Port Ormos is both Sumeru's largest and main port, lots of imports are not coming in anymore.

For example, there's currently a national shortage of cold medicines, which Sumeru usually imports from Snezhnaya. Particularly during monsoon seasons, cases of colds, dengue fever and the flu increase amongst the population. But Snezhnayan traders and businesses have pulled away from Sumeru after the Akademiya scandal. Bimarstan had gotten so desperate for cold medicine that it had begun asking locals to donate their leftover medicine. To ease the burden on the Bimarstan, Al Haitham had ordered Amurta to help mass manufacture medicines. However, this is only a stopgap measure. He needs to find a way to solve the root cause of the problem.

Furthermore, inflation has been a growing issue. The situation isn't so bad in Sumeru city, as its tiny port is still running- albeit not as smoothly or vibrantly as it used to. But in other parts of Sumeru, it's a whole different story.

Everything is connected in a way. Just because Sumeru isn't reliant on imports for food doesn't mean food prices are not affected by the lack of other resources. For example, to produce fowl meat, you'll need a few things:

Either machinery (mostly from Fontaine) or workers to slaughter the fowl.

Appropriate packaging to pack the fowl meat.

Transport to carry your produce to marketplaces throughout Sumeru.

In this case, most issues lie with step one. Most farmers in Sumeru had taken to using Fontaine machinery to mass slaughter poultry. It was much cheaper than hiring workers and way more efficient. The only trade-off was that these machines ran on a specific type of oil that only is sold in Fontaine. So, manufacturers would sell the oil alongside it.

But now, Fontaine traders and businesses are gradually pulling away from Sumeru. That means a lesser supply of oil, which means a decrease in the supply of fowl since machines are not able or cost more to run. A shortage means that prices go up. People buy less or cannot afford fowl at all. Farmers make less money, which prevents them from hiring more workers (or results in them letting go of workers if they don't use machinery) to increase the fowl supply. A case of cost-push inflation, similar to other case studies Al Haitham has read up on.

This is just one example out of many. The inflation and unemployment rate are growing. Adding everything up, including the current political climate, Sumeru is becoming less and less attractive to traders and businesses, causing them to pull away, worsening the Sumeru economy. It's a vicious cycle that Al Haitham needs to break.

If Al Haitham had to list all the issues Port Ormos has caused him, he'd be able to write himself all the way to an economic degree. Which he'll be able to sign off, now that he thinks about it. He's the Acting Grand Sage. He'll announce his own name. Present the degree to himself. Shake his own hand.

But anyway, the main point is that if he's able to revitalise Port Ormos, many other issues will resolve themselves. He had finally had a lucky break that Thursday and was free to head to Port Ormos to speak to the trade supervisors. But then, of course, stuff happened, and he wasn't able to do all that.

Which is why he's heading back to Vimara village again today. He specifically worked through the entire night in his cold office, wet clothes clinging uncomfortably on his body just so he could make time today for this. This time, he's going to make sure he speaks to the trade supervisors and settle this once and for all. He's ready to negotiate to hell and back to ensure the port reopens.

No surprises today, he'll make sure of it.

"Oh! You're heading back to Vimara Village?"

Well. Never mind, then.

The rising heat only hits the moment he walks out of the tavern.

Treasures Street is empty tonight because of the heavy rain. Shops have closed early- the only exception being the tavern. But even so, Al Haitham feels too exposed. He doesn't feel cold anymore. The heat blooming in his cheeks and all over him makes sure of that.

Al Haitham quickens his pace. There's still a long walk to the Akademiya. The faster he gets there, the more time he'll have to finish whatever he has to do.

The faster he gets there, the less time he'll have to think about what just happened.

Let's review.

First of all, he fainted. Presumably right in front or around her house- so that's how she found him. Fine. He can't fault himself for that. He had been running on less than three hours of sleep that week. The cherry on top had been that four-hour trek he had to do on top of that. He was exhausted. The human body has its limits.

But then he woke up and bawled his eyes out like a baby. In front of her. A total stranger. She pushed a bowl of the best meal he ever had (and his only meal in two days) into his face, and he cried. He cried so much that he passed out. Again. Until the following evening.

It takes a lot of willpower from Al Haitham to not squat down and cringe in the middle of the street.

Archons, he's pathetic.

His cheeks burn, and he instinctively moves a hand to cover his face. The movement is accompanied by a crumpling sound, which reminds him of the snack he was given before he left the tavern.

Taking cover under Menakeri's Treasure Shop, he removes the neatly bundled wrap from its paper bag. The rain isn't letting up. He couldn't be more drenched, but thankfully, the wrap is still dry- courtesy of the paper bag he took from Lambad's counter.

The wrap is still warm, and he curses when the rainwater on his hand seeps into the napkins. Removing it quickly, he holds the wrap in his hands.

Wait. What's he going to do with the wrap?

He should throw it away. It's a terrible waste of food, but he can't afford to eat and feel sleepy later. He has to finish everything and then some, so he'll be free to head back to Vimara village tomorrow.

She held out the bundle with trembling hands.

The wrap suddenly feels heavy. Looking around, he spots a rubbish bin just a step away outside the shop.

She had left her warm, comfortable spot just to make sure he had something to eat.

He should really get going. Throw it away. And then leave for the Akademiya. But his feet refuse to move.

"They're worried about you, you know?"

Why don't you worry about yourself instead?

"Oh! You're heading back to Vimara Village?"

You weren't expecting to see the Acting Grand Sage again. Much less on the ferry Cyno had arranged to bring you back to Vimara village.

If the Acting Grand Sage was surprised, he hid it well. Slowly turning to face you, he coolly leans against the railings of the small, wooden ferry. But the piercing sound of creaking wood jolts him back up almost immediately.

"Yes." he hastily answers, turning around to check on the railing, pushing it back and forth, then squatting down and repeating the action.

A curt answer. What are you supposed to say to that? You can't even hum in agreement or find an opening to make small talk before you politely excuse yourself to take a seat inside.

The only sound filling the air now is the creaking of wood as he scrutinises the railing. You're not sure what he's checking for- it's just a loose railing, but you admire the dedication nonetheless. A minute passes.

An alternative course of action is to simply walk towards the seating area without saying anything else. But he's blocking the entrance. Taking a step forward, you shift closer to gauge how much space you have to move through it.

Nope. No way to pass through at all. His large build completely obstructs the entrance. There's no way to pass without saying anything, and you're not sure what you can say that isn't awkward.

"Uh, excuse me. I'm just going to pass- yeah, oh- you don't need to stand, just- sorry."

Yeah, say that, and proceed to simmer in uncomfortable silence with him in the seating area for the next hour and a half.

"...You're also heading back to the village?" there's another creak of wood as he shifts it from left to right now.

"Ah! Yes," you reply, eager to stave off the growing awkwardness. "I, uh, live there."

He stiffens at your answer and brushes a hand over his face. You see his shoulders slacken as he sighs.

Did...you say something wrong?

If you did, he doesn't comment on it. Finally standing up, he's turning around and-

"I'm just going to head in first!" you blurt out, taking the opportunity to rush past him into the seating area.

But of course, just as you finally get into the seating area, the ship suddenly rocks, throwing you off balance and onto the hard floor.

Al Haitham's face is on fire. It must be because of the new soap he used this morning. Kaveh had pestered him for money to buy that brand, and he had finally caved. Yes, this is all Kaveh's fault.

No, he is not blushing. Why would he be? He isn't ill or feverish. Neither is he embarrassed.

It's just the soap. A mild allergic reaction, perhaps. But he isn't allergic to anything. Perhaps he should book an appointment at Bimarstan to confirm that. Allergies are dangerous.

Why can't he turn around?

There's a loud, rhythmic pulsing in his ear, which strangely is in phase with the beating of his heart. Is that his heartbeat he's hearing? Why is it so loud? And so fast? Also, why is his heart beating so hard?

He knows the answer. He just doesn't want to admit it.

Al Haitham is not embarrassed. Why should he be? It matters not what she thinks of him. She isn't causing him any trouble. She isn't someone he needs to work with. If anything, she is just another person now. She doesn't affect him or his life. To think about her is meaningless. It serves no purpose.

He doesn't care about her. She means nothing. She's just another stranger.

Oh, so this is about her, Kaveh's voice rings in his head. You're too embarrassed to face her!

Great. Now imaginary Kaveh is here. But, thankfully, logic is Kaveh's worst enemy.

And Al Haitham has a lot of logic.

Ok then, Kaveh, Al Haitham shifts the railing with more vigour. Let's say I am embarrassed.

You are!

Then what would I be embarrassed about?

Well, about the whole fainting incident! You made a fool of yourself right in front of a total stranger!

So? I'm only a human being. My body has limits that I'm not ashamed of.

You know that's not what I'm talking about.

Oh? Whatever do you mean?

About the whole crying and-

Nope. Al Haitham immediately cuts his internal debate with imaginary Kaveh short. He is not going to think about that now. But of course, you can never stop racing thoughts. Particularly ones provided by imaginary Kaveh.

Don't wanna think about it?

I've already gone through that with myself yesterday.

And what did you find out? That you-

That it was simply tears of relief, Al Haitham lies. In regards to getting good food and rest. A natural human response.

Ha! Yeah right-

Imaginary Kaveh is interrupted once again by the sound of shifting behind Al Haitham. It must be her. Waiting for him to say something back.

Well? Turn around and talk to her!

Why should I?

Unbelievable! Not even going to thank her for helping you?

He knows he should. He wants to. But his voice isn't working. Plus, he can't even turn to face her.

I wonder why.

It's because I'm inspecting the railing. Boats in Sumeru must pass the Sumeru Maritime Port Authorities' safety check, and one of the basic-

It's just a loose railing, and you know it! You're fiddling with it as an excuse to not-

More shifting behind him. What is she trying to do? A quick glance to his left tells him the answer.

Hey, you idiot fungus. You're blocking the entrance to the seating area!

Shit, Kaveh is right. Imaginary Kaveh, that is.

Stand up and move!

Wait. But wouldn't it be weird to just stand up and move? Without saying anything else? That would imply that Al Haitham was paying attention to her but not speaking back. Wouldn't that be strange? Rude, even?

Oh, worrying about weirding her out? And since when have you ever cared about niceties?

Shit, imaginary Kaveh is right. Again. This isn't like him. At all.

Ugh! If you're not going to move, at least say something! You're making her feel uncomfortable!

Say what?! Why don't you suggest something helpful for once?

I don't know? It's your conversation! Not mine! Just ask something! Anything! Before this whole situation becomes too awkward beyond repair!

In a haste, much to imaginary Kaveh and Al Haitham's absolute horror, Al Haitham's mouth decides to go off on its own and ask the most stupid, brain-dead question.

"...You're also heading back to the village?"

Oh, Archons.

Al Haitham shifts the railing from left to right. Maybe if he does that enough, by some scientific principle that he has not come across yet, it'll be like a lever, and time would rewind and-

When I said to ask anything, I meant something like "Slept well last night?" or "Were the toiletries I bought for you sufficient?" not whatever you just asked.

"Ah! Yes," she replies. "I, uh, live there."

Great. Now she thinks you're an idiot, you idiot.

What kind of question is that? The answer is obvious. So obvious, that Al Haitham feels the need to redeem himself. A prickling sensation on his face spreads from his cheeks all the way up to the tips of his ears, and Al Haitham uses a hand to try to rub it away.

Archons, even asking what her name is would have been a better question than that!

Enough yapping! How can I fix this?

Al Haitham can't believe he's asking Kaveh, even if in imaginary form, for help. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And Kaveh-like problems require Kaveh-like solutions.

Well, start off by actually turning around to talk to her! Even imaginary Kaveh is surprised by his request for advice. Ask her what her name is! That sounds like a good way to kick-start a less awkward conversation. And save this whole interaction.

But I don't want a conversation. I-

Do you want her to feel even more uncomfortable than she probably already is?

With a deep sigh, Al Haitham tries to compose himself. Willing away the heat in his face, he stands back up. His knees ache a little, but he ignores the pain as he turns to face her but-

"I'm just going to head in first!"

And there she goes, bolting towards the now unobstructed entrance, leaving Al Haitham alone on the deck, momentarily stunned by her sudden departure.

She's barely two steps into the seating area when the ship rocks. Al Haitham catches his balance with practised elegance, but unfortunately, the same could not be said for her.

With a loud thud, she crashes into the ground as the boat begins to turn.

"Are you alright?" all earlier thoughts disappear from Al Haitham's mind as worry fills the gaps. Rushing over, he kneels at her side, watching her as she turns around with a hiss.

"It's fine." she winces, turning over before extending both legs.

"Your left ankle is starting to swell," Al Haitham mutters, comparing the size of her ankles through the straps of her sandals. "A sprained ankle."

"Well," She shifts to sit upwards. Leaning over, she takes a closer look at her ankle. "It doesn't look as bad as it feels."

"It may soon if we don't take care of it," Al Haitham shifts closer to her ankle. "May I?"

When she nods, he gently removes her footwear. Looking around the seating area, he frowns as he realises the absence of a first aid kit. That means no cold compresses or bandages.

"We'll have to elevate it," Al Haitham mutters. "Let's move closer to the benches."

"Ah, ok," she kicks her right leg inwards she pushes her weight onto it as she tries to stand. "Well-"

The boat wobbles, and she nearly falls again. , Al Haitham catches hold of her arm, steadying her.

"That isn't going to work," Al Haitham states before she could thank him. "Sit back down."

She does so, giving him a questioning look. Gently moving her legs so that her knees are outstretched and bent, he hooks an arm under her knee and uses the other to support her back as he stands.

"Woah!" her arms begin to flail.

"Calm down," Al Haitham moves his face away from a hand that nearly hits him. "Just- put that arm here."

"Where?"

"Shoulder," he huffs as he bounces her to secure his hold around her. "Hold on."

The boat rocks, but the Acting Grand Sage doesn't seem worried about falling. In fact, he walks on as if he's on flat ground. All while carrying you.

He gently places you down on the floor next to the nearest metal bench before kneeling next to you again.

"I'm just going to put your leg up here," he assists your ankle up on the bench. "Leave your ankle like this."

"Thank you," you murmur. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

He sighs, heading back towards the entrance to retrieve your sandals. You can't look at him as he walks back to you.

This is so embarrassing.

It was bad enough that things were already so awkward. Oh, Archons. You've already made a faux pas earlier at the deck. Now with this? He must be furious.

Then, in a move that proceeded to stun you- and honestly scare you a little he sits down.

On the floor.

All the benches around, and he chooses to sit on the floor with you.

"No need to thank me." the Acting Grand Sage releases another sigh as he relaxes his shoulders, leaning on the side of the bench beside yours.

He then pulls out a book from somewhere behind his cape and begins to read.

"Would you…prefer to sit on the bench? I'm sure it's much more comfortable there."

"It's a metal bench. It'll feel just as hard as the floor."

Again, another curt response.

Biting your lip in shame, you feel a heat roll up your cheek.

"Acting Grand Sage, I just want to apologise for-"

"Al Haitham."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"My name," he shuts his book, turning his head to face you now. "It's less of a mouthful compared to that. And you are?"

Name. Yes. You can give that.

You tell him your name, trying your hardest to keep your voice as stable as possible. You really don't want to embarrass yourself further.

He repeats your name with an almost contemplative tone. He said it softly, compared to the surrounding noises of the ship. But it's the only sound that fills your ears.

"You have nothing to apologise for," the Acting Grand Sage- no, Al Haitham says. With yet another sigh, he continues. "It's actually me who has to apologise."

"What do you mean?" you frown. You don't recall him doing anything wrong.

"I," he pauses, placing his book aside as his hand rubs against the back of his neck. "I'm sorry if I've made you feel uncomfortable."

He shifts slightly, fidgeting with the ends of his cape.

"I also have to apologise for getting you into this mess," he goes on. "And for not thanking you for helping me back then."

"There's no need to thank me for that!" you answer. "And there's no need to apologise as well. Everyone has been kind to me. This was all a misunderstanding."

And just like that, the awkwardness is gone. Instead, a soothing silence envelopes the space between the two of you. You finally get the courage to glance at him, and now that you're relaxed, you notice something a little strange about his attire.

He isn't wearing anything different than yesterday. But the cape-

His cape!

"I passed your cape to Cyno when I got to the hostel," you say, voice laced with worry. "Did you get it?"

That cape looked expensive. But more importantly, you don't think you'd be able to show your face to anyone ever again if you lost the Acting Grand Sage's cape.

"I did," you let out a sigh of relief. "Cyno passed it to me yesterday."

"Did you work through the night?" you ask.

"Yes. I managed to finish everything by dawn, so I went back home to rest before heading out again."

"At dawn? So you did work through the night then!" you huff. "You have to take care of yourself! If not, you'll pass out again."

"I was well rested after I fell asleep at your place."

"You did not fall asleep. You passed out!"

"Well, it was rest either way."

"Then, did you at least eat the wrap we gave you?"

He stills. Suddenly, the chatty vibe between the two of you had disappeared.

"I," he breaks the stillness. "I ate a little bit of it. On the way back to the Akademiya."

He looks a little guilty, but you let it go.

"I'll take your word for it."

Another silence fills the air. You wiggle the toes on your left foot. It aches, but not as much as before, thankfully. But it'll still be a pain to deal with on the walk back home.

"Did you rest well last night?" he asks, breaking the silence again.

"I did," you recall, thinking about that room you were given. "Do all Akademiya students live in rooms like that? Everything was provided!"

You had thought a student hostel would have only the bare essentials, like a bed, wardrobe and a desk. But in the room you were led to, everything you could have possibly needed was there. Soaps, room slippers, sanitary pads and tampons, and even snacks!

"…Yes," he stretches his neck. "I'm glad you got a good night's rest."

"You should get one too, you know?" you say, turning to face him. "Your friends are worried about you."

And they really are. To the rest of Sumeru, he may just be a temporary authority figure. But to Kaveh, he's his housemate and closest friend. And to Cyno, he's his rival and fellow comrade.

"I know they are," he shares. "But we all have jobs to do."

He looks up, out of the window, far out into the blue sky. It's a sunny day today.

"We should be back at the village in about an hour's time."

"Well, why don't you go get some rest then? I'll wake you when we arrive."

"Thank you." He gives your ankle one last look, making sure nothing got worse. Leaning his head back onto the side of the metal bench, he closes his eyes.

You pray to the Dendro Archon to make his dreams sweet as you watch sleep take him away.

"Did you get it?"

"I think so?"

"Oh, it's blurry! Let me try!"

"Kaveh, wait! Don't lean on that or-"

For an architect, Kaveh is surprisingly terrible at guessing the relative structural integrity of objects. This is why the boxes Kaveh thought were stable (and then proceeded to lean on) come falling down, much to Cyno's dismay.

Naturally, the shopkeeper was furious about Kaveh destroying a whole batch of new wares. Kaveh had racked up quite the bill (which Cyno feels will end up being paid for by Al Haitham), but-

"But it's all worth it. Look!" he gloats, showing Cyno the printed picture.

"Well, would you look at that? Told you this was a good idea!" Kaveh continues.

Well, Archons be damned.

Cyno isn't one who would usually follow Kaveh's pranks or ploys. But if it's going to keep producing results like this, he may consider calling Tighnari to join in on the fun.

"Told you I would be able to get them on the same boat," Cyno smirks, handing the photo back to Kaveh for safekeeping. "What now?"

"Now, we wait," Kaveh takes one last look at the photo, admiring their handiwork before shutting it together with the kamera inside his briefcase. "And when he comes back, oh, it will be fun."

Little did these two know what they have started.

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#al haitam x reader #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham genshin impact #alhaitham #al haitham #genshin x reader #genshin impact #hereandnow

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miguel-ohara-wifey · 10 months

Text

I’ll find you

Chapter 2: Jobless Monday

Cowboy!Miguel O’Hara x fem!Reader

Rating: 18+, Angst, Hurt + comfort, & fluff

Warnings: portrayal of grief, portrayal of depression, mention of dead animals, mention of domestic abuse, mention of child labor, mention of child abuse, murder plot, misogyny, spoilers for Jane Eyre I guess

Word count: 2.6K

~~Fifteen years and 6 months ago~~

“It’s the only way to get the future we deserve…” Thomas whispered to you in the closet. Huddled by cleaning supplies and frail brooms. You both were cloistered in a cleaning supplies storage room in your soon to be father in laws factory. Thomas’s family were chemical industrialists, they mass manufactured perfume, bleach, and gas. Even more known for being disgustingly rich.

But considering what Thomas just told you. The stuffy humidity between you two wasn’t all that held your breath under your throat. You didn’t go along with what was asked of you just because it was your wealthy fiancé.

“What?” You managed to choke out, scanning Thomas’s well kept visage. Oily slicked back hair, topping the man in a freshly trailered suit. He was pale and fidgety under all the fancy dress.

“I know-“ “YOU KNOW WHAT!?” You screamed back at him behind the cover of the breaking wooden door. Still keeping it down enough for anyone on the other side not to catch anything. You kept on.

“How could you even fucking ask me that!?” You reviled back at him. “He’s a wretched man!” You roll your eyes so far in the back of your head you swear you catch a glimpse of your brain.

“Well I’ll believe that he’s an industrialist, he pays the kids here a nickel an hour…” your arms fold into each other below your chest. His father is a piece of shit, considering he called you “his son's whore” right as you first meet. Not even glancing at how he treats his employees as much as his property as the machines they operate for him. Thomas was a far kinder and more reasonable man.

However, to help murder a human being, to place their heir to take over. This is some French novel bullshit Thomas desperately tried to convince you to help him with.

He then lightly tangled his fingers with yours, breaking the wall you created between himself and you with your arms. Locking his eyes with yours in another soft embrace.

“I have no one else to turn to, fathers treated me like his property his whole life. His dutiful little worker, like he has everyone else in this fucking place…you can help me change that. The minute he dies this is all ours, we can change it…”

He moves a stray hair from your bun to behind your left ear, “I’d do the same for you. All you have to do, is get me that poisonous plant…and when my parts are over. All these people will have whole new lives…” He then traces his hand over your stomach. A vague shape of a bump can be felt forming.

“And for our baby too…” he finishes as your noses are now inches apart. A hole in your rib cage formed, despite the romantics of the scene. What it truly entailed, a weight was bound to your legs. As you flew down the waters of conflicting emotions and wishes.

Thomas explained how couldn't shut down the factories but he’d improve conditions and explained his plans for increasing the workers' pay. All these mental schematics of what he’d do the moment the factory was written in his name. But in your hearts, the factories would be yours.

~~That Monday afternoon~~

You were awake for a couple of hours, but the weight in your chest kept you sinking in Miguel’s guest bed. Your face is dirtied by messy blush and dried tears, your face looking like a shitty canvas. As you look through the window you feel asleep staring at. The black of the Sunday evening with heavy sprinkling of stars. Was totally enveloped by the milky clouds of the daytime, with just a few small puffs of the pure blue sky escaping through the colorlessness.

As your mind submerged in the gray sea of grief, being pushed down so deep all you could visualize was black. You recall when Mona learned to ride a horse, how she named her first horse snowball. The dimples framing her every smile, the pun book she carried around for years. How she’d collect plants to artistically study them, practicing drawing on dandelions. You had to carry her to bed when she fell asleep by her drawing desk many times.

You couldn’t help but smile at the thoughts, at the memories swimming beside you. It was a comfort. Then a gentle knock on your open door threw you back to reality.

“Hey, you didn’t eat breakfast. You should come out and get the lunch I got for us. Got some good rabbit…” Miguel sheepishly offered, you knew he was trying to help. You pushed yourself off the top of the comforters out of obligation of hospitality. You wiped your eyes after a long yawn.

“Okay, thank you.” You whimpered, Miguel gave a polite smile as you made your way past him down the hall. Once at the table, he neatly set out the plates. With some freshly roasted rabbit topped by garlic and basil. With lemonade in a see through pitcher centering the round table. His plate with the same sat across from yours. Once you meet the chair on the right of you, he sat on the other.

The clammer of metal utensils against porcelain plates, you lazily tore apart the seasoned rabbit with your teeth. You shot your eyes open, “Oh god this is so good-“ not meaning to sound so surprised in your compliment. Miguel smiled again “Thanks, took me half the day to catch it….” The hunger crushing you under your ribcage hit you twice as hard. Compelling you to shove as much of the meat into your mouth as possible. He started laughing, “Easy now no one's gonna take it from you…” you proceeded to eat like it anyway. The garlic giving a nice savory sensation across your tastebuds, meanwhile the basil a fresh sweetness splattered in your mouth.

Despite spending a lot of your life eating fancy meals prepared by great chefs. This simple meal tasted better than all of it combined.

“Thank you again, this is really good. I’m starving…” the rabbit you were currently chewing muffled your words. Miguel barely touched what was on his own plate. You spied so soon and stopped your assault on your own meal.

“Yes?” Enquiring puzzled, he shook his head with a nervous grin “Nothing.” He blatantly lied with an anxious crease framing his face. But considering all he’s done for you, you’d respect that he’d rather not say anything now.

“I have questions…” you abruptly state, he tears off his first piece of the rabbit putting it past his lips. “Ask away.” He responds casually, you point at his fingers “How the hell do you have claws?” He paused after swallowing his cooked kill, considering what to say. “Its a long story, short version being I created a liquid that gives me talons. As well as inhuman strength, stamina, endurance, and so on…” he said as if it wasn’t the most insane explanation you’ve ever heard in your life. Not like you’d anticipate a normal reasoning to how a human man can grow talons through each of his finger tips.

“Okay….” You breathed out, onto the next question “Just, who the hell are you?” Miguel raised his eyebrow at you, almost somewhat threatened by the question “What do you mean?” You frantically clarify “Who are you!?” That was a bad attempt at clarification. You’re sure Miguel won’t actually answer what you’re asking. But that doesn’t kill your persistence.

“How are you here!? Why are you here!? Do you work for the government!?…why did you save me?” The real question escapes from your lips after a few moments of quiet. Miguel’s suspicion dropped, pity rested in his blocky face.

“For the last one, I saved you cause I saw someone in danger. So I helped…” Miguel's hand brushing against your shoulder that was nearest to him. You realized just how big he is compared to you, at most an inch above six foot in height. And his muscles make his visage dwarf you by a lot. His hand can cup almost your entire shoulder too. But it was a comforting size, considering he’s used his body to do nothing but shield you and save you. The feel of his skin against yours only shoots a warmth from your heart to the rest of your body. How his touch moves through every nerve and muscle in your form is intoxicating to boot. But you snap out of it when he breaks away.

“But for the others, I’d like my privacy.” You nodded still somewhat dazed from how he touched you moments ago. But regardless you decided to respect that. You look down at the two helpings of meat left on your plate, as Miguel’s barely started with his. From then on you two embrace the silence. Just enjoying a lovely meal with company.

You can’t help but be intrigued by Miguel regardless. Wanting to dig behind his dark almond eyes to see the man beneath the mask. You don’t fear his intentions, he’s done the opposite of harm to you. Even if he did have bad intentions he’s had more than enough opportunities at this point to exploit you. But he hasn’t, you then spy around his home.

You noticed how empty it was, sure there were the basic necessities of life. Stove, bed, toilet, and kitchen sink. However besides that and a few bookshelves, there’s nothing filling this cabin. You certainly haven’t heard anyone else inside the house besides Miguel. Not even a dog or cat, it’s truly just Miguel boxed into this lovely abode. With quite a few miles of thick forestry severing his connection to the rest of humanity.

Miguel’s surely a character, all this skill and power, looks to boot. Yet he chooses nature as his only companion, but kept a guest bedroom in case anyone wished to fill this space with him. But by the partial dust that rubbed against your body as you laid on the guest bed. Something tells you you’re the first to do so in a long while.

He hides his loneliness well, wearing polite awkward smiles to greet you. Humbly allowing you to make your presence known however you wish. But never pushing or begging for it. However his dimples are always carved by a hopefulness you’d come closer. That you’d speak with him for more. Even when his introverted silence and private exterior would suggest otherwise. You know Miguel’s type, you’ve been that way too for many years.

So you throw him a bone, “For the sake of conversation, what do you read?” Miguel perked up, his dinner half done by the time you speak up. You swear you catch him blushing. “Not as much as I want to that’s for sure, can barely remember what I have read. What about you?” He’s hoping you can keep this going. His puppy eyes in your sights makes your heart flutter. This almost feels like a date.

“Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice is my favorite of her work. Jane Erye’s just okay….”

~~One heated rant about Jane Eyre later~~

You and Miguel were sitting beside one another on the couch with tea cups centering the coffee table. As cooled green tea fills your cups, you conclude.

“THATS why the twist with his wife being in the attic this whole time is ridiculous and out of left field.”

Miguel was entranced by you, just hearing you speak about the nutritional value of rice and he couldn’t look away. He’d barely be able to space out, just you yourself is enough to glue his mind to you. With his red button up shirt has a couple of its top buttons undone. With the sleeves folded back behind his elbows. You can’t help but be tangled by the sight of him, his laps spread about to massage his large thighs. Both his arms lining themselves along the top of the furniture you both sat on.

You knew he was good looking, but he can make even sitting on a couch look hot. You then cough realizing how long he’s been listening. Slightly embarrassed you await whatever response he has.

“Thank god you spared me having to read it then…” he chuckles, indulging your info dump. You gratefully smile as he grins back.

“Miguel…” you say, tasting his name on your lips. As the joy of the moment dropped. “Sorry, I overstayed my welcome, haven't I?” You let your head fall at your feet. Becoming anxious at the thought of Miguel becoming annoyed with you.

“No you haven’t at all…I’m guessing you have nowhere else to go?” You shake your head solemnly. As he continued, “You can stay here until you work something out…” you leered up to meet his eyes ``What? I can’t ask that of you-“ Miguel contradicted you “You’re not asking, I’m offering…” he bent down his head slightly. To make up the head and a half gap between your heights, even when sitting down. He eclipsed you by quite a margin.

You knew you couldn’t tell him no, even if you had other places to shelter you. Being with Miguel is just euphoric. You haven’t felt this way since before you met Thomas. And the feeling hasn’t come back since Thomas…changed.

You never felt a crawling under your skin at the sight of him. You didn’t jump upon hearing the sounds of his steps throughout the house. Miguel never would give you the silent treatment until he needed something from you. Even with a gun strapped to his thigh you never felt safer in your life. So you nod, swallowing tears back into your eyes saying.

“Okay, thank you…” Miguel’s smile fills his entire face, eats away the whole room so you can’t look at anything but the curve of his lips. After a moment of looking each other in the eyes. You spot the break of sundown through the window. You’ve talked for long yet it felt like a precious moment.

Miguel had his own question, it hung out from his bottom lip. You could tell. So you cut to the chase “I’m sure you want to ask something..go ahead.” Miguel swallowed and moved his arms to his sides. His posture is notably stiffening.

“Why did your husb-Thomas, want to kill you?” You grunted, a small volatile flame combusted under your collarbone. Igniting your heart like a match in a powered barrel. But it was muffled by your skin and bone, as well as your calm response. “I tried to run away with Mona, he found out. And tried to have me killed and make it look like an accident…” Miguel nodded understandingly. His hands folded together as his fingers nervously tangled themselves into each other.

“Did he want to kill Mona too?” He almost whispered, like one would try to gleam their feet as gently as possible on the breaking ice of a frozen lake. From what you both saw it looked like she was shot in the crossfire. Neither of you knew his plans for her, and why he was in such a hurry to leave with her.

“I….I don’t know.” You eventually choked out, a loud sniff punctuating your admission. You explained further looking down, “He never once paid attention to her when she was a baby or growing up. If there’s one thing Thomas despises it’s something or someone he can’t control….I assume he cared enough to try and kill me for leaving. But I just don’t fucking know.” Miguel apologetically frowned at you, nodding with a “Okay, thank you for explaining to me.” One socially inappropriate smile at him you chuckled

“I appreciate it, Miguel.” He nods standing up, cracks his back the second after. Then get up to start the dishes. You don’t feel tired at all, you straighten your legs after pushing yourself off the couch.

“Hey, let me help you.”

#Miguel O’Hara #Miguel ohara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #spiderverse #spiderverse au #I’ll find you #18+#cowboy!Miguel #cowboy au #au #miguel 'ohara x fem!reader #miguel ohara x fem!reader

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boundinparchment · 1 year

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Dream a Little Dream of Me - XXXVIII

Celestia had a cruel sense of humor. He knew this, even before his days as a student. But to be given a soulmate? Now, when he openly blasphemed against the cursed island in the sky? He would outlive you and the dreadful fated bond that haunted your shared dreams. There was little point in this. He could at least put a Vision to good use. People were nothing but disappointments. He had no use for you. Until you pulled the bow across your instrument and awoke a part of him long buried by self-hatred and arrogance. Soulmate AU; Il Dottore/Female reader w/ established personality and backstory. Slow burn. Lore and world speculation and interpretation within; follows canon story where possible. On AO3 here.

So far, your combat trials were some of the most impressive sessions he’d seen in a while.

You weren’t perfect. Far from it. Your aim needed work. You had a hard time leveraging the claymore properly. Such things only came with time, when one knew the weight and balance of a weapon as well as they knew themselves.

A second shining blade made itself known with the first, pure Geo energy so refined that it passed for diamond. Pantalone would be jealous, certainly. In the first few trials, he speculated that your abilities mirrored his own, in that his claymore became unnecessary and he could freely wield his Cryo needles without a hand on his weapon.

He was half-right. You required the claymore in order to retain the Geo swords, however. You had to direct the Geo energy somehow and despite the lack of familiarity with your powers, you moved as if you knew exactly what you were doing. If he counted just right, it always seemed as though you were following a very specific rhythm when landing your blows. Your claymore’s swing was accompanied by the lightest enhancement of a particular pitch, depending on how you swung it.

Your combat abilities weren’t the only thing subject to musical structures. Silence that prevailed too long was filled with humming, sometimes fragmented until you found the right note and flow. Occasionally, the repetition set his teeth on edge. But when he addressed it and your head snapped up from the book you were reading (probably something left behind by a stray assistant), he realized from your expression that you had no idea you were doing it.

Music was as much a part of you as machines were for him. He lived and breathed moving parts and systems and the perfection with which they operated; no doubt, music was as precious to you as your own blood, something he knew but never saw in practice, not even in your dream-shares. Then again, you’d had a proper outlet for such energies and now all of that desire had nowhere to go.

Zandik looked down at the work table in front of him, the surface littered with parts and wires and drawings. Omega was handling everything with Akademiya, as expected, which left him with time to look over the schematics for weapons manufacturing. Easy work, really. Boring work.

He’d given the plans all but five minutes of his time before he found himself examining the cello neck again. You’d handed it over but not without several questions, all of which were understandable. This remnant was precious to you, even if it only seemed like a chunk of carved and varnished wood to him.

You…directed…your elemental energy…almost as if you were conducting…

Something you’d never done, as far as he was aware. If you had, it was an experience you did not impart to him in any way.

What if…

Ah, such a thing would be simple enough. A receiver on both objects, intended for long distance, sensitive enough to acknowledge even the smallest nuance in motion. He’d attempted something similar before he’d learned how to control his claymore without such interference. The Akasha modifications were a more taxing option and he’d paid the price for it heavily before finding a more efficient solution.

A tool like this might make it easier for you to wield; better still, it might make you more sure in your strikes, confident in your abilities.

As for the other problem…

Zandik sifted through a few stray notes on the table. He’d had to go by memory for the shape and the size, and it would require far more research, but this posed its own set of problems.

Wood would, of course, be best. He could hear Sandrone and Pantalone criticizing his prototype based on the material alone, let alone the notion of construction. It would be more efficient to trust another in this particular area. But the urge to create something unique, something no one else would ever be able to recreate, sat in his very joints and made his muscles itchy.

So many of his advancements were attributed to others, his contributions pushed aside because of his moniker of outcast .

But this?

A cello so clear and radiant that it would only be rivaled by the Tsaritsa herself (and maybe not even then). The material didn’t carry sound well on its own but an amplifier and a transmitter were easy additions. It wouldn’t be possible to start until he returned to Snezhnaya. Hard enough to keep you from spotting anything you shouldn’t as it was.

He heard a soft groan from the small lounge chair nearby and looked up to find you stretching, your nose still buried in whatever novel you’d found to occupy your mind. Although your eyes had yet to leave the page, you were poised to get up, flex, find something else to do.

Case in point.

Zandik placed the instrument neck down and smoothly shuffled the various pages in front of him just as you came up beside him.

“Don’t stop on my account, Zandik.”

“There’s little to be done right now that cannot wait until I have proper facilities.”

“You heard a composition meant for you way too early; the piece you overheard was far from finished. I always enjoy hearing you sort out ideas, what you’re working on…”

You were shrewd; you would still be in Omega’s dreamcycle if you weren’t. Hiding this from you wouldn’t be viable forever.

Especially when you looked at him like that . Earnest, curious, encouraging and genuine in every aspect of it, despite everything you’d endured.

He could deal with politicians looking out for their own self-interest. He could deal with the other Harbingers just as vicious in their ambitions as they were towards one another. The dreams had been nothing more than another experiment and he never anticipated they would truly result in you . Finding you had been a happy coincidence, a pet project, an outcome he considered but never anticipated.

The plea at the end of your words had been slight, easy to miss if he were anyone else. In your defense, you had little to occupy you for the moment and he was, for all intents and purposes, your only other connection for the moment.

That, too, would change upon your arrival to Snezhnaya.

A caged bird would never sing and he knew better than anyone what it meant to have the freedom required for creation.

Zandik turned and reached a gloved hand to brush your neck as he leaned down to whisper a teasing, “I don’t think so,” against your skin.

He heard your breath hitch but you didn’t pull away, didn’t move, and he longed to bury his nose in your hair. You smelled of sweetness, of summer flowers, undercut by sensations that dreams could never capture. He steadied himself with his other hand on the table and swallowed as you moved your head slightly towards him, cheeks brushing before you looked at him out of the corner of your eye. His heart shuddered.

What if…

The distance to be crossed was negligible, so miniscule that neither he nor you needed to lean before your lips met. He willed his heart rate to slow, not that it would listen, your lips soft and warm.

It was over as quickly as it began. His lips tingled and then burned, his breaths short but steady. You had yet to move, to pull away, your hands seeking amongst the straps and ornaments of his coat. He could not bring himself to step away, not yet.

Zandik pressed the lightest of kisses to the corner of your jaw, just below your ear, where your pulse seemed to be thrumming.

Everything was a delicate balance and while he never minded exploring opportunities, this was…precarious.

The sigh that escaped your lips was the closest sound to bliss he’d ever heard in his presence; the flip in his gut was unsettling, too unlike a moment of piloting a Ruin Golem, and yet he felt as if he would endure that sensation eternally if you…

Zandik caught the slightest movement out of the corner of his eye, the doors to the workshop open a fraction and a boot just barely through the doorway. He flicked his eyes up to find Omega, mask off, ruin core spinning, hesitating . For once, the Segment was acutely aware of itself, its place.

Nothing from the Segment network, no attempt to communicate.

The Segment retreated, its boot disappearing from the doorway before the doors closed silently.

He felt your hands against his chest, seemingly smoothing out his lapels, tracing the decorative edges of his coat. Eternity in all of a minute.

Oh, how he wished he could preserve this.

#dottore #il dottore #il dottore x reader #dottore x reader #dottore x female reader #il dottore x female reader #genshin impact reader insert #soulmate au #yes i changed the summary and yes i should fix it retroactively #will I? debatable #dottore/female reader #il dottore/female reader #dottore/reader #il dottore/reader

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reasonsforhope · 1 year

Text

"How much safer has construction really gotten? Let’s take a look.

Construction used to be incredibly dangerous

By the end of the 19th century, what’s sometimes called the second industrial revolution had made US industry incredibly productive. But it had also made working conditions more dangerous...

One source estimates 25,000 total US workplace fatalities in 1908 (Aldrich 1997). Another 1913 estimate gave 23,000 deaths against 38 million workers. Per capita, this is about 61 deaths per 100,000 workers, roughly 17 times the rate of workplace fatalities we have today...

In a world of dangerous work, construction was one of the most dangerous industries of all. By the 1930s and early 1940s the occupational death rate for all US workers had fallen to around 36-37 per 100,000 workers. At the same time [in the 1930s and early 1940s], the death rate in construction was around 150-200 deaths per 100,000 workers, roughly five times as high... By comparison, the death rate of US troops in Afghanistan in 2010 was about 500 per 100,000 troops. By the mid-20th century, the only industry sector more dangerous than construction was mining, which had a death rate roughly 50% higher than construction.

We see something similar if we look at injuries. In 1958 the rate of disabling injuries in construction was 3 times as high as the manufacturing rate, and almost 5 times as high as the overall worker rate.

Increasing safety

Over the course of the 20th century, construction steadily got safer.

Between 1940 and 2023, the occupational death rate in construction declined from 150-200 per 100,000 workers to 13-15 per 100,000 workers, or more than 90%. Source: US Statistical Abstract, FRED

For ironworkers, the death rate went from around 250-300 per 100,000 workers in the late 1940s to 27 per 100,000 today.

Tracking trends in construction injuries is harder, due to data consistency issues. A death is a death, but what sort of injury counts as “severe,” or “disabling,” or is even worth reporting is likely to change over time. [3] But we seem to see a similar trend there. Looking at BLS Occupational Injuries and Illnesses data, between the 1970s and 2020s the injury rate per 100 workers declined from 15 to 2.5.

Source of safety improvements

Improvements in US construction safety were due to a multitude of factors, and part of a much broader trend of improving workplace safety that took place over the 20th century.

The most significant early step was the passage of workers compensation laws, which compensated workers in the event of an injury, increasing the costs to employers if workers were injured (Aldrich 1997). Prior to workers comp laws, a worker or his family would have to sue his employer for damages and prove negligence in the event of an injury or death. Wisconsin passed the first state workers comp law in 1911, and by 1921 most states had workers compensation programs.

The subsequent rising costs of worker injuries and deaths caused employers to focus more on workplace safety. According to Mark Aldrich, historian and former OSHA economist, “Companies began to guard machines and power sources while machinery makers developed safer designs. Managers began to look for hidden dangers at work, and to require that workers wear hard hats and safety glasses.” Associations and trade journals for safety engineering, such as the American Society of Safety Professionals, began to appear...

In 1934, the Department of Labor established a Division of Labor Standards, which would later become the Occupational Safety and Health Administration (OSHA), to “promote worker safety and health.” The 1935 National Labor Relations Act (NLRA), which legalized collective bargaining, allowed trade unions to advocate for worker safety.

Following WWII, the scale of government intervention in addressing social problems, including worker safety, dramatically increased.

In addition to OSHA and environmental protection laws, this era also saw the creation of the Consumer Product Safety Commission (CPSC), the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA), and the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health (NIOSH).

OSHA in particular dramatically changed the landscape of workplace safety, and is sometimes viewed as “the culmination of 60 or more years of effort towards a safe and hazard-free workplace.”"

-via Construction Physics (Substack newsletter by Brian Potter), 3/9/23

#construction #osha #workplace #workplace safety #workers rights #labor rights #occupational health #nlra #collective bargaining #united states #us history #labor unions #industrial revolution #this is why unions and regulations are so fucking important by the way #if you have not studied late 1800s and early 1900s labor history in the US #you really can't grasp how incredibly dangerous things used to be #and how much proof we have that corporations suck #government regulations

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flashyourgreeneyesatme · 2 years

Text

Sick as a dog. <Bradley Bradshaw x reader>

This is my first published piece of writing but my baby, Reese Withoutaspoon aka @greatbigshiningstar is sick with Covid, and I want to make her feel better even if I’m not where near her. Love you doll hope you can imagine Roost with this.

I hope you enjoy and anytime any one of you are sick just remember Bradley would buy you your favourite soup and cut your bread exactly the way you like it!

pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x (f)reader

word count: 1846

warnings: Mentions of feeling and being sick, Bradley’s awful dad jokes, way too many curse words and sexual references (if you really squint hard enough – haha hard)

summary: The reader is home sick from the flu she got from work (can be whatever job you want I’m not going to explicitly describe what job she does) and wants to just curl up and die. Will Rooster let her be alone? No! He protect. He attack. He’s got his baby’s back! Just a cute little drabble of Bradley looking after her.

Pain. Pain is all I could feel, coursing through my body and destroying everything in its path. It's like if you gave the basic flu weapons and said, 'have at it!'. Now all I can think about are cartoon germs with machine guns shooting at my immune system until there is nothing left to destroy. Now, I'm an averagely smart person I obviously know that they don't have weapons and aren't shooting me from the inside but right now if you told me to stand up straight and count to ten, I'd be doing the macarena and wouldn't even notice the difference. I go to cuddle my pillow until I realise, I'm not even in bed I'm in my car and have been since 3 pm. 4 hours in my car just sitting there. No music. No phone. Just sitting. When did I get home? How did I get home? Did I accidentally kill anyone on my way home? I guess we'll never know.

I decide that I need to go inside and curl up and live my life in a quarantine-like staycation where I will not be talking to anyone, my best friend will be my cold bathroom floor and kid's drowsy cough medicine because I only like the strawberry flavour and apparently adult medicine manufacturers thought Let's make it taste worse than their own vomit and make them take it 3-4 times a day. Yeah, no thanks I'm okay with my kiddie medication, maybe that's why I'm always asked for parenting advice by new mums in the pharmacy. By the time I actually am able to get my dead legs out of the car, it's been 27 minutes and I stumble into my shitty home like a newborn deer learning to walk. All because of Jaida from work.

That bitch Jaida can get the flu, have a few sniffles and get on with the day. But puts everyone else at risk. Like okay, Jaida you've got a good immune system we get it! She gets to continue her day whereas I am reenacting the exorcist when I even try to drink water. How is it fair? I enjoy my job. I want to be at my job. I unscrew the top of the medicine bottle and simply drink it like it's an energy drink, the door to my bedroom opens and I just lay on the bed.

Suddenly I hear the front door open once again. All this time I've been thinking about myself when I forget I share this shitty home with my amazing boyfriend who has such an important job and if he gets sick, what if he can't go out on a flight and countless people die because of it? Okay nope, he's not allowed near me it is decided I am going to reenact another film, Contagion.

"Honey I'm home!" I hear the naval officer yell throughout the house. The silence is deafening in response. He starts whistling about as if his version of echolocation will be able to locate me within the house. I stand up to back myself against the door so he cannot enter which feels like the biggest task I've ever completed. I hear him try to push the bedroom door open and fail imminently. "Why are you up against the door? Are you naked? You know I don't mind it's nothing I haven't seen before." He goes to push against the door once again.

"I'm not naked. I'm sick." I weakly croak out just enough for him to hear.

"Okay? So are you going to let me in or?" His voice is laced with confusion, boy take a hint, I love you but not happening.

"I'm not letting you in because if you get sick you might not be able to work and if you can't work then Mav might personally send firing jets to shoot me." He can tell there's a frown on my face even behind the oak door. By now I'm sitting on the floor leaning against the door because all my energy is drained. I hear Rooster's knees drop to the floor and look to see him looking through the gap at the bottom of the heavy door and hear a little giggle. "Fuck off it's not funny!" I can't help but laugh which causes my chest and throat to hurt more. "I'm dying of influenza in here and you're laughing about me. Some widow you'd make Bradshaw." Again a fucking giggle easily escapes that man's mouth.

"Right then if you're dying might as well get some things I've been meaning to say for a long time but never had the courage to say." He sighs and sits with his back to the door as I am also doing. A light tension fills the air. "You're a stupid bitch and I hate you. You're ugly too."

"Right now I want you to get sick you dickhead." I lightly hit the door soon realising that hurt my whole body more than I reckoned.

"Then open the door all you have to do is open the door and let me get my karma." His voice sounds tempting. He's got that charm that could sell the internet to an elephant. Not sure if that makes sense but I'm feeling like dumbo on wine right now so I don't really mind if my idiom makes sense or not. That man knows exactly what he's doing. Is it reverse psychology or is it gaslighting either way it's super enticing. I push myself off the floor and open the door. "Ah, a hideous monster!" He yells as I open the door. Bradley sees the upset and frustration on my face and knows I'm about to slam this door in his face. "Wait no! I'm sorry!" Allowing him to walk into our shared bedroom felt illegal to me. I keep my distance from him baking away as far as I can go before hitting the bed that stood in the centre of the room. "Am I not allowed to be near you?" I shake my head in response.

"I'm not getting you sick dude that would fucking suck! And you're a child when you're sick so I'm not willing to play nurse. Love you, not that much." Rooster puts his hands up in a surrender-like fashion and stays where he is. His dark brown eyes scan me up and down. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm a dying puppy." My lips form into a pout.

"I want to look after you. That's all I want. I won't come near you I promise." His fingers form into a cross behind his back.

"And how do you propose that you can look after me without coming near me." I'm sceptical about his methods.

"Get into bed." A little smile forms on his face.

"I don't see how having sex is going to help bud." Scoffs pass his lips as he has given up with my bullshit. Before I can even process what is happening his long arms have been placed onto my shoulders and pushed my back onto the mattress. A small yelp escapes my lips. "I have no energy for this." I feel the mattress consume my weight as I sink in slowly but surely.

"Get under the duvet and I'll be back." He's off! The room is suddenly quiet as I give in to his demands and get settled under the heavy duvet which I can't decide if it's too hot or too cold for it. The first noise I hear is the fumbling noise of the cupboards and then the slamming of them. Instead of Bradley coming back to the room the front door once again opens and closes. I want to get up and see where he has gone but this bed has grown more comfortable by the second and not to my recollection my eyes start to close and I doze off.

I don't know how long it's been while I've been sleeping but I am slowly awoken by the smell of rich chicken wafting its way from the kitchen. My eyes slowly open and I am alerted by Bradley's figure standing in the doorway. My body does a small tense reaction to his terrifying stature. "Hey, sleepysauras. Temp check!" He works his way over to my still comatose body and sticks a thermometer into my mouth. A hmmm noise comes from my chest as I feel the cool plastic on my tongue. "Okay! 101*. You, little lady, have a fever."

"That's mean." My eyes roll around my head.

"I made cheddar broccoli soup. Just for you. Because I love you!" I stick my middle finger up at him. His laughs fill the house as he goes to fetch the amazing-smelling soup from the kitchen. The soup enters the room before he does as he is holding it out at an arm's length. "So I don't have to come near you!" Weak fake laughs come from my mouth. The tray is set on my lap and the bread is cut my way. "Even though I'm pretty sure it's a felony I cut it horizontally because you're sick and I have to spoil you." I try not to break out into a smile and or cry because it is so stinking cute. "Now eat it up."

"Yes sir, Lieutenant Bradshaw, sir!" I give him a small salute. He goes to leave, "What you're not going to spoon-feed me as well?" He stops in his tracks and does a little 180* spin on the spot. The speed of his run could be considered inhuman, he could put the flash to shame. Instead of simply walking around the bed as a normal person would, Bradley leapfrogs over my side of the bed to his side. The metal spoon is lifted from the white ceramic bowl into his hands.

"I'm going to be honest with you I have already taster tested a lot of this soup. For your protection of course." My head shakes up and down in a mocking gesture.

"My hero!" Rooster's lips move closer to the spoon, which holds the cheddar broccoli soup, and lightly blows on it. Aeroplane-like noises advance from the aviator's lips as he spoon feeds me like a child. "It's nice." Dark brown eyes squint at my choice of words. "It's delicious, Gordon Ramsey would be proud!" Pride fills his expression as he seems very impressed with his amazing cooking. As I demolish the food in front of me my stomach churns only slightly enough to make me gag but not to be physically sick. Rooster goes white as a ghost in front of me, not very well-known fact is that Roost is a huge Emetophobic. Reassurance washes over his pale complexion as he realises I wasn't going to throw up.

My anxieties of not wanting to get him sick are gone as I open up the duvet for him to get underneath with me. He willingly does so and joins our bodies together. The warmth from his body and his arm wrapped around me sends me back to sleep.

I hope you enjoyed!

#bradley bradshaw x reader #topgun #bradley bradshaw

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hummus-tea · 1 year

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The debate about AI art is the exact same one as the fight the Luddites had about the introduction of weaving machines. Because it's not about the specific technology, it's about worker control over said technology. The Luddites—skilled weavers themselves—weren't even against the use of those weaving machines in general! But they recognized that, if they weren't the ones in control of the manufacturing, they would be open to exploitation by the factory bosses. And they were right. Now they were being paid for speed—piece work—instead of for their expertise and time. Their wages dropped, they became replaceable, fewer of them were needed to produce as much output, they lost the ability to negotiate for wages and worker protections. And they were derided for being afraid of progress, afraid of the future, of the power of technology to improve our lives. And that's how they're remembered. Sound familiar? The power of capitalism is that it wants to twist anything into its service, including movements against it. The Luddites' movement to protect the value of their labor becomes an insult meaning "scared of technology and science." Artists pushing back against AI art are being called elitists (or Luddites themselves) who just don't want poor people having access to art. The key, now as in the 19th century, is worker control. NOT "does AI art count as art" (too easy to get derailed into arguments about what art even is), NOT "how do I stop my art from being used in training" (a preventative/reactive measure, not a plan for future action). Framing the argument as an issue that affects all workers builds solidarity, instead of letting us get pitted against each other. No one is free until we're all free, and all that.

#ai art #labor theory #luddites

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gerec · 10 months

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Hi! Do you have recommendations for fics in which Charles is older than Erik？Extra kudos for Bottom!Charles

Thank you in advance, and thank you for all the amazing cherik fics esp the hooot porns :-))

Hi Anon! Sorry for the delay it's been a little crazy this week :D

I think the combination of older/bottom!Charles might be this fandom's unicorn lol. BUT these are all amazing fics with older Charles that I hope you enjoy!

Give me your stars to hold by pearl_o

Charles returns home from college and figures out why Erik has been so distant since he’s been away.

Counting Bodies like Sheep (To the Rhythm of War Drums) by cm (mumblemutter)

Erik was born broken, their father always told Charles.

Wind and Words by velvetcadence

Lord Charles of House Xavier has been out-manipulated by Queen Emma into a marriage with her cousin. Still, there are worse fates than having to wed a handsome child.

Casual Encounters by SharpestScalpel

Charles is a busy professor in his 30s - busy enough that a craigslist casual encounter is really the only way he's going to get laid any time soon.

Erik is a 19-year-old virgin with an internet connection and no social skills.

Letters for His Majesty by motleystitches (furius)

When Charles the Gentle, King of Westchester, was nineteen years old, he killed a man named Shaw and rescued a boy he gave to the MacTaggerts’ to raise. Twenty years later, he has almost forgotten the incident. With a wife he loves as a sister, no heir, and a war going badly, Charles falls quickly and inappropriately in love with the knight Erik Lehnsherr.

wait (they don’t love you like I love you)

Charles is a bad guy (head of some shady criminal organization) and Erik is the kid that grew up in his household (his mother is the help? so they maybe live in the servant’s quarters). Anyway Charles likes Erik a lot and assumes that when Erik grows up he will end up working for Charles (maybe he recognizes some violent streak of potential in Erik). Only then Erik decides, while Charles is away on some sort of shady business deal overseas, to go away to college. So obviously Charles has to go and drag Erik back because Erik is his and his alone.

David's Dad (Has Got it Going On) by afrocurl

Charles doesn't know what to do with the crush his son's best friend, Erik, has on him. At least not until Erik all but forces himself into Charles' lap one night.

An Arrangement of Soulmates by Fullmetalcarer

King Charles III of House Xavier gazed at the painting of his betrothed. Strong jaw, wide, thin lipped yet sensual mouth, straight nose, high cheekbones, intense grey-green eyes, short auburn hair.

tonight is all we need by Oxsa05

Erik has just come of age and soon will be trapped in an arranged marriage against his will. Before losing some of his freedom, he wants one night for himself so he can fulfill his true desires. Charles, an expert and famous prostitute, will make sure Erik has a lovely evening and forget about his troubles for a while, giving him everything he asks for.

Machine of a Heart by traumschwinge

Thirteen years ago, when he was just recovering from an incident during one of his deployments, Logan met Dr Charles Xavier. Dr Xavier, who'd just decided that Logan, while still unconscious, was perfect to try some physical improvements as a proof of concept for the large military project he was, back then, co-heading. Now, Logan's mostly a spy, tangled up in whatever mess Charles and his superiors think necessary to involve him with. It doesn't matter that Logan has feelings, about Charles' project, about Charles himself, about just altering other people's bodies without their consent. What'll matter soon, however, is stopping some harebrained weapons manufacturer from causing the consumption of the entire biomass on planet Earth.

twenty four hours from tulsa by intentation

After having self-emancipated (aka run away), Erik's been holing up in a shitty motel while he figures out his next step. When Charles Xavier moves into the room just down the hall, Erik discovers his new favorite pastime: sex.

Drunk Night, Sobering Days by issabella

Erik is drunk, naked - and standing in the kitchen of Charles Xavier.

Yet what comes easy to do and say while drunk to the gorgeous man with the blue eyes, seems suddenly filled with awkwardness the next morning. Erik feels like a fool though the proverbial silence is golden is not always the best advice, especially if one is quickly developing a crush.

How Prof. Shaw’s Grammar Nazi Ways Got Me Laid and Helped Me Find True Love by jasminetea

Charles is a professor. Erik is a student. They meet through Craigslist.

#gerec rambles #cherik #fic rec #gerec's fic rec #older!charles #also thank you so muchly about my pornz :D

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ryucreates · 2 years

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im making headcanons again for star wars and you cant stop me -the first time Anakin tried Obi-Wan's "tea" he had to spittake because what the kark, Master, why is it s p i c y ? Anyways, turns out spending a year or more on Manda'yaim gets you real into behot teas, and Obi-Wan has had a soft spot for Shig ever since he was introduced to it while on the run from Kyr'stad. - Growing up in the temple on Coruscant was fun and all, but what was even better was sneaking out of the temple- and in turn, seeing how far away Obi-Wan could get from his minders before eventually having to turn back. We may think of Obi-Wan as some sort of pinnacle of control, boiled essence of mastery of the force- but in reality? He was Chaos Untold on the creche masters.

-Jango Fett was never particularly "willing", per se, to make a clone army. While he had fallen, yes, while he had suffered, yes, he was a Mandalorian still- even exiled from Mandalorian space, even Dar'Manda as he named himself, even as he divorced himself from the crown of Mand'alor. He was Haat'Mando'ade, and he followed the super commando codex. There's this one line, said by the Kaminoans- something about how the best way to control a slave is to make it think it is free- and we all know of Dooku's machinations. Do you really think Jango would not recognize the man who slaughtered his people at Galidraan? Do you really think he would agree to manufacture child soldiers for the Republic? Even- no, especially after being enslaved himself, how could anyone believe him capable of turning on his own morals like that, without serious Sith Majicks afoot? - I'm not saying that there aren't force sensitive clones, but I am saying that midiclorian counts are pure bullshit for actually measuring one's connection to the force- i would think that they are somewhat like a different organism all together, some symbiotic being that can congregate around force users, but doesn't always- meaning there are force users with low midiclorians but high control in the force, and those with high midiclorians but seemingly no control of the force at all. Midiclorians are also likely not genetic, if they are a symbiotic single cell organism. - ki adi mundi is a bitch and i hate him - While the Mandalorians do not trust the Jedi, that does NOT mean that they are unkind to force users- yes, Kyr'stad may have a harsher view of them, but Kyr'stad is a terrorist group first, and Mando'ade second. Most Ad'e see force sensitives as seers, wise ones, and gifted warriors- they have special training, and special positions, they become treasured guards and Goran'e and Baar'ur'e, Alor'e of tribes and clans due to their visions or gifts. No Mandalorian worth their salt would ever give up a child due to their abilities, ka'ra blessed or not. - Most clones refer to themselves as the Vod'e- or the Vod'e An- Brothers All. First generation clones, trained by the Cuy'val Dar and Jango Fett himself, learned Mando'a straight from the source, and when the Alpha and First gen rank clones began teaching the next generations, they passed on the knowledge as well as they could. Most clones are at least passably fluent in the spoken tongue, and can, at a glance, finger count up to twenty in the language. Only the first few generations can reliably read Mando'a, and as far as is known, writing in the language has just been contained to the Nulls, and a select few of the Alphas. (i wrote over 8k characters part two incoming

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sirfrogsworth · 2 years

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I said I would be posting more now that I have a laptop upstairs, and I will. I haven't posted much yet because I was still getting used to the keyboard and trying to get to a more comfortable typing speed that didn't frustrate me.

I actually bought a MacBook Air. I borrowed some money from my dad that I will be paying back over time. It's my first Apple product if you don't count the iPhone I got for my parents. It's a wonderful computer. The M1 chip is super zippy. Battery life is amazing. My former 12 year old laptop lasted about 2 hours per charge. This thing lasts me basically all day. The construction is very impressive. The aluminum body feels very sturdy. The screen is beautiful and gets way brighter than I need. And while they don't have any bass, I can't believe how good these tiny laptop speakers sound. My old laptop sounded like a super quiet AM radio. This thing hasn't gotten even mildly warm yet (though I am not rendering video or anything). It is very light. I feel comfortable taking it with me around the house if I need to. The old laptop was about 12 pounds and I think this is 2.75 or so.

Apple just makes good laptops. They always have, though they weren't always a great value. But I think the M1/M2 models are actually competitively priced as long as you don't get too many upgrades. The upgrade prices are still bonkers.

The OS has taken some getting used to. But for basic functions it's fine. I haven't had any trouble navigating. And the search function is much better than Windows. As is the aesthetics.

I don't really get into those technology pissing contests. I considered a Windows laptop, but there were just so many PC laptop choices and I was overwhelmed with the research required to find a good one. Not only can quality vary from manufacturer to manufacturer, but it can also vary from model to model. There are shitty Dells and fantastic Dells. I just didn't have the energy to figure out which was which. But I knew the new M1 Macs were all well reviewed and would serve my needs. So, that's what I got.

One bonus is that all of my friends are on iPhones and so now I can use iMessage and not turn into a dreaded green bubble. I still think Apple should make texting with android not crappy, but I'm happy to have a less frustrating way to communicate with my friends until that happens. If it ever does. (C'mon Europe, force Apple to fix that!)

Choosing tech these days is just about your needs and preferences. Brand loyalty is bullshit. All of the companies basically suck as far as business practices. Google might even be eviler these days. Microsoft has always been shit. And Dell has some of the worst customer service around. In this particular instance, Apple was the least evil choice for my needs and preferences. And anytime I need to do something only a PC can handle, I can just pop downstairs and use my desktop machine.

My only complaint so far is that I don't like how the scroll wheel functions with my bluetooth mouse. I like to scroll 3 lines at a time and Apple has this weird scroll acceleration feature that scrolls really slow at first and then crazy fast the more you scroll. I think there is a workaround but I haven't had the time to figure it out yet.

I'm excited to test out Photoshop, as I've heard the M1 version is about 50% faster. I just haven't had the energy to edit any photos recently.

So, that's my Apple experience so far. It's a good computer that I hope will last for many years. I also like that they maintain decent resale value if I need something different down the line.

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justforbooks · 4 months

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The novelist Christopher Priest, who has died aged 80 after suffering from cancer, became eminent more than once over the nearly 60 years of his active working life. But while he relished success, he displayed a wry reserve about the ambiguities attending these moments in the limelight.

In 1983 he was included in the Granta Best of Young British Novelists, a 20-strong cohort, most of them – such as Martin Amis, William Boyd, Kazuo Ishiguro, Ian McEwan, Salman Rushdie, Graham Swift and AN Wilson – significantly younger than Priest, whose career had begun almost two decades earlier, and who had at least 15 books and 50 stories in print by the early 80s. He clearly felt that it was not so much the quality of his work that delayed his “promotion” to the literary establishment, but his reluctance to deny, when asked, that he wrote science fiction.

His large body of work never fitted easily into any mould. Only in recent years has it become widely understood that the sometimes baffling ingenuity and thrust of his fiction has been of a piece, no more detachable into convenient genres than, say, Amis’s or Ishiguro’s tales of the fantastic.

Like them, he wove visions of Britain drifting into a post-empire future without secure signposts. Those stories, and the characters he let loose without a paddle, sink and dodge into realities that no longer count. Lacking much in the way of science-fiction gear, even his early work seems to describe the point that we have now arrived at.

His first novel, Indoctrinaire (1970), jaggedly initiates that scrutiny of a near-future, self-hallucinated Britain that terminated only with his last novel, Airside (2023). His next, much more mature, tale, Fugue for a Darkening Island (1972), is the first of several to envision Britain as islanded both literally and in terms of the traumatic solitude endured by those who live in it. It depicts a land devastatingly isolated by ecological collapse, threatened by uncontrollable waves of the world’s dispossessed. The tale is broken into 69 sections (or islands) in no chronological order.

Inverted World (1974), a brilliantly realised study in how perception can transform a world, and The Space Machine: A Scientific Romance (1976), a wry but genuine homage to HG Wells, step away from his central focus. But in A Dream of Wessex (1977), in some stories from An Infinite Summer (1979), and in a further novel, The Affirmation (1981), he created what he came to call The Dream Archipelago, a sequence of tales set in a variety of similar Britains, all transfigured into differing landscape-dominated worlds, sometimes enjoying a Mediterranean climate, each individual tale following paths into watery labyrinths.

The influence of Richard Jefferies’ After London: Or, Wild England (1885) is clear. The protagonist of The Glamour (1984) is so islanded from reality that he becomes literally invisible.

Born in Cheadle, Cheshire (now Greater Manchester), Christopher was the son of Millicent (nee Haslock) and Walter Priest, a senior executive in the firm of Vandome and Hart, manufacturers of weighing machines. On leaving Cheadle Hulme school at the age of 16, he became an accountancy clerk, work that he was able to leave in 1968. Much later he published the stories he wrote from this period as Ersatz Wines (2008).

The first significant hint of a way forward into his mature vision seems to have come through reading Brian Aldiss’s Non-Stop (1958), a tale whose disruptive questioning of science-fiction conventions borrowed from the US, married to a loud pessimism about humanity’s hopes of dominating any future world, was electrifying.

The boisterous Aldiss soon introduced him to the small but intense literary world in Notting Hill Gate, west London, that Michael Moorcock was beginning to create in the early 60s through the magazine New Worlds.

In an early piece, Priest himself first applied the term New Wave to the experimental fantastic narratives of this era, but was ambivalent about how much he wanted to identify with what he found in New Worlds. He gave up clerical work, began to write full-time, and in 1969 married Christine Merchant. They moved to London and divorced after four years.

The New Worlds/New Wave vision of a world that had lost all sense of itself, with no stories to show a way out, was inspiring: but from the beginning Priest recognised the central influence and mentoring genius of JG Ballard, who made hypnotic stories out of the seemingly unstoryable, for his uncanny intuition that past, present and future were an “inner space” we must explore and live with.

Though his works are formally more ingenious, everything Priest wrote acknowledges his mentor’s foreknowledge that we now live in that inner space, where the lighting is treacherous. His last book, not quite completed at the time of his death, is a study of Ballard.

After the US author Harlan Ellison withdrew one of Priest’s stories from his indefinitely postponed blockbuster anthology Last Dangerous Visions, Priest published The Last Deadloss Visions (1987). It was a ruthless documentation of Ellison’s failure to release this volume, while retaining at least 100 stories, some from as early as 1972, and all the while promising immediate publication (when Ellison died in 2018, the anthology was still in manuscript). Priest treated the vituperation from Ellison’s followers as an inevitable consequence of his honesty, but shrugged it off. Others in the US respected him for speaking out.

In 1981, Priest married Lisa Tuttle; they divorced in 1987. The following year he married the writer Leigh Kennedy, and they had two children, Elizabeth and Simon.

His novel The Prestige (1995), about two feuding 19th-century magicians, won both the James Tait Black Memorial prize and a World Fantasy award. The successful film adaptation by Christopher Nolan (2006) starred Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale as the illusionists sparring over a teleportation stunt.

Responding to this new upsurge in his reputation, Priest wrote about the experience in The Magic: The Story of a Film (2008). Meanwhile, The Separation (2002), a dark alternate history of the second world war featuring Rudolf Hess and Winston Churchill, won an Arthur C Clarke award.

He and Kennedy divorced in 2011, and he and the writer Nina Allan began to live together, soon moving to the Isle of Bute. They married in 2023.

His remaining years were prolific. The Islanders (2011) was soon followed by three further and summatory Dream Archipelago tales. An American Story (2018) takes a contrarian view of the assassination of JF Kennedy. Expect Me Tomorrow (2022) plays an intricate game involving doppelgangers, geology and climate change.

His last novel, Airside, conveys with eerie aplomb the seemingly simple tale of a Hollywood star who escapes the potential wreck of her career by travelling through something like an escape-hatch housed in the Heathrow “airside”: an Escherian space, neither here nor there, that any traveller must somehow traverse without becoming abandoned.

The French director Chris Marker’s most famous film, 200 stills comprising the 20-minute La Jetée (1962), which Priest cites in this novel, is partially set in an airside where past and future intersect. The sadness of that intersection is fathoms deep, serenely knowing. The voiceover for that film, and the narrator of Airside, speak to us in the same tone of voice: a tone that seems to grasp the future in hindsight.

At the end of his career, Priest had finally brought off his greatest trick: to bring us home to where he awaited us.

In his written work, he could be acerbic and taxing (though usually persuasive). My own friendship with him, which deepened over half a century, revealed an urgently kind man, witty, loyal, amused, gregarious. He had the rare gift of taking himself fully as seriously as he warranted: but no more. His laughter was infectious.

He is survived by Nina and his children.

🔔 Christopher Mackenzie Priest, author, born 14 July 1943; died 2 February 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #christopher priest #in memoriam

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