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the-prince-of-professors · 4 years

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@tremendousdetectivetheorist at last, here is Part II of your story!! 🎻💌 I’m sorry it took so long, and once again this is not super polished and edited, but it’s already been so long and also, I hope it can cheer up your evening :) <333

(Part I)

Watson watched as the two lovers greeted each other, decided his presence would not be missed, and left the room in search for the conservatory. It was not difficult to find the set of beautiful, eye-catching glass doors leading into it, as they were close to the main entrance; but what business Holmes would have in there, Watson could not fathom. Nevertheless, he entered, and followed a stone path to the left past some exotic bushes and plants with colourful flowers, until he found the second palm tree as Holmes had instructed. Here he sat down on the small bench beneath it, and, closing his eyes to the soft sound of a babbling fountain somewhere nearby, he waited.

His thoughts effortlessly wandered to the case at hand, and to the two unlikely lovers involved in it. Before his inner eye he saw once more Stevens’ face as Webster walked up to him and placed his hands on his shoulders; the way his stern features softened when tender fingers stroke his cheek, and the way they both seemed to melt into each others’ presence, relieved not so much by the prospect of a solution as by seeing it through together. It was an unlikely love to the eyes of the outsider, that it was; but one peek behind the curtain, and who would ever again doubt its fierce authenticity?

He was pulled from his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder, and a breath in his ear; and he opened his eyes to find those of Holmes twinkling at him.

“Did I startle you?” asked Holmes.

“I was only dreaming.”

Holmes sat down next to him. For a moment or two neither spoke. Holmes hummed a quiet tune while idly inspecting his surroundings, and Watson patiently waited for some explanation for this odd meeting place.

“Are we waiting for someone?” he asked at last.

“Not to my knowledge,” Holmes answered.

“Then why are we here?”

And Holmes met his eye with a look Watson could not remember ever seeing in him before: it was as if every line on his face had smoothened at once, and his eyes had grown young with innocence, and his smile was that of a secretive school boy—and he lowered his gaze, and pointed to a spot on the worn and scratched piece of wood on which they were seated. Watson bent forward, squinting at the marks barely visible among less deliberate damages.

“S.H.”, he read, then looked up. “You?”

“Yes, Watson,” Holmes said with a chuckle.

“I don’t understand.”

“This house used to belong to my dear uncle and aunt. And this,” he continued, looking at his surroundings with a smile, “was my very own sanctuary, whenever I would visit them in town. I could sit here for hours; scribbling, or reading, or thinking. Webster’s father bought the place no more than ten years ago. I heard he had showed a great deal of appreciation for the conservatory upon buying, and I guessed he would have kept it much as it was: I am happy to see I was right.”

Watson looked at him, trying to imagine Holmes the boy hiding out under the protective leaves, lying stretched out with his nose in a book on this very bench, marking his initials in it with a penknife.

It was surprisingly easy.

“It is a very peaceful place,” he said, and Holmes met his eye.

“It was the safest place on Earth, in my world,” he said, and Watson could not decide whether the faint smile on his lips was one of sorrow, or of happiness.

So he took his hand, and pressed it firmly.

----- ♥ -----

It was again sunset, and again the two men made their way up the path to the house that had belonged to Holmes’ late relatives. Once again, the door opened almost immediately upon knocking, and Steven’s stern figure became visible. He showed the gentlemen into the morning room, where Webster was waiting—this time seated in the velvety chair, and tapping his fingers anxiously on the armrests.

“Mr Holmes!” he exclaimed, jumping up from the chair, “and Doctor Watson! Oh, am I glad to see you! It is a beautiful day, a happy day indeed—I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am!” And he shook both of their hands fervently, grinning with his whole face.

“I take it you have had a talk with Mrs Chaillard,” said Holmes.

“Indeed, why she left in a rage not an hour ago! There is a passionate woman, if there ever was one, and she was most upset—most upset! But I need not tell you more, since you already must know every detail of this business!”

“On the contrary,” Holmes smiled, “apart from setting the operation in motion, we know very little of its actual execution. Now,” he continued, taking a seat upon the divan, “it is clear that the solution proved successful; but if you don’t mind, I would very much like to hear the details.”

Webster looked wide-eyed at Watson, who nodded in agreement; and he clasped his hands together in excitement.

“Well! Then please sit down, Doctor,” he said, “and I will gladly tell you! She came her in the morning, as she had promised, asking me one last time if I would not accept her ‘most generous offer’. I did as you told me yesterday: I stuck to my initial decision and fully and wholeheartedly refused her.

‘My heart is not for sale,’ I said, firmly. ‘You must understand that, Mrs Chaillard. There is nothing in the world which will stop it from belonging to him.’

“She was disappointed, I could see that—I think she had held some hope all the way to the end, despite my constant protests. Well, she said I would be sorry, and she left—and as strong and unruly as I had been during our interview, I must admit that at that point, I was all shatters and shivers again. I could not help but think she had the advantage after all, and that she was on her way to ruin our little utopia like a locomotive running full force through a rotten picket fence—it was only the assurance in your telegram last night that we should not lose faith, and Stevens’ infinite comfort and support, which kept me from completely falling apart. Well, Stevens forced me to take some lunch; and then we waited, for what felt like an eternity. I know you were also anxious at that point, my dear—it was written all over your face,” he said, taking Stevens’ hand and giving it a squeeze; and Stevens raised his eyebrows the very slightest, in a way which with some imagination could be interpreted as agreement.

“But then,” Webster continued, “we suddenly heard a carriage stop outside, and before we had time to do as much as get up, there was a furious knock at the door. It was her, of course; Stevens opened, and she pushed right past him; and I shall never forget the look on her face as she entered this room, nor the feeling it produced in me, for I could see right away that something had gone horribly wrong on her end, which must mean horribly right on ours. She stopped right in the middle there, on the carpet; I raised to my feet; and she simply stared at me for some moments, with the burning gaze of a wounded tiger.

‘Mrs Chaillard,’ I said then, ‘you look upset.’

‘Upset? Upset!’ she cried, taking a step towards me—but I stood my ground. ‘How dare you stand there as if you know nothing of the humiliation I just went through in the office of the editor of the largest magazine in the city! What is this trick you have played on me?’ she went on, and held up the same velvety bag in which she had placed the photographs and the letters after waving them in my face the day before.

‘But I assure you, I do know nothing,’ said I.

‘Nothing of THIS?’ she cried; and she reached inside the bag, and threw its contents at me.

“And what was it?” asked Watson.

“Nothing but this!” said Webster, and laughed as he reached into his pocket and produced some small pieces of paper. “Some biscuit wrappers, and a few tickets stubs to Lord’s. You can imagine I had some difficulty keeping a straight face. But I looked her in the eye, and said very sternly:

‘Perhaps the trick is one you have played on yourself all along.’

“I was quite pleased with myself for that, especially since it caused an even stronger emotion in her. All she could do was stomp her foot and let out a scream like you’ve never heard before. That last part was not very pleasant on the ears, of course; but then she cursed me in at least ten languages, and I was never so grateful to be so thoroughly insulted before in my life. You see, until now she had—despite threats of my destruction—been nothing but affectionate and seductive and pleasant with me. It was the most welcome change of behaviour, I must say. At last she cried:

‘This is the last you have seen of me, Lord Webster—mark my words!’

“And she left the house. I sank down upon the sofa, for by then I was shaking again, though this time with relief; and Stevens, who had heard everything, came to sit beside me—”

“—I was very proud of you, my dearest,” said Stevens, this time with clear affection in his deep voice, and kissed Webster’s hand.

Webster stopped in his retelling, for a moment or two forgetting all but his lover’s touch, and the eyes gazing into his own.

“Well,” said he then, “after blessing our fortune that we were once again free and that this horrible business was over, we immediately sent for you. It is all over, is it not, Mr Holmes?”

“I dare say that it is, my Lord,” Holmes said softly. “She has nothing on you now, and I hardly think anyone would believe her story should she decide to try it anyway, which I don’t think she will.”

Webster put his hand on his heart, smiled, and took a deep breath, much like one would do on the very first day of spring. Then he raised to his feet, to once again clasp the hands of his rescuers.

“I thank you, Mr Holmes,” he said, “and Doctor Watson. I cannot begin to describe the happiness you have brought us both.”

“We played a very small part in it,” smiled Holmes. “I’m quite confident, too, in saying that the photographs and the letters will soon be returned to you in the most discreet manner. Take good care this time, that they do not fall into the hands of another ill-willed enemy!”

“You may be certain of it, Mr Holmes,” said Stevens, reaching out his hand as well, “and may I also express my deepest gratitude for what you have done for us both. I hope you know how much this means to us.”

“Indeed, I’m sure we do,” said Watson, shaking his hand.

“You know,” said Webster then, “this whole business has been such strain, and now I truly do feel like celebrating. I think I finally shall take the plunge, and travel to the continent. That is,” he continued, taking Stevens’ hand again, “if my valet would be so good as to come with me.”

Stevens carefully raised Webster’s hand to his lips once more.

“I would like nothing better,” he said.

----- ♥ -----

It was with a puzzled mind that Holmes again entered the glass doors to the conservatory—and that says quite a lot when it comes to the man in question. But Watson had asked him here, to meet below the same palm tree as before—the usual palm tree—and he would naturally oblige. So there he was, walking down the little stoned path, and sitting down on the worn wooden bench to the sound of the friendly fountain. And he had not sat there long when he felt a familiar hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Watson’s smiling face and twinkling blue eyes looking down on him.

“I hope I did not startle you.”

“Not at all.”

Watson sat down next to him, and again they both sat in comfortable silence for some minutes.

“Holmes,” Watson said at last. “May I ask you one thing?”

“Anything, my dear Watson.”

Watson turned towards him. With great affection, he looked him in the eyes for a moment; then he said, in the most serious manner:

“May I borrow your penknife?”

Holmes started a little in surprise. But he reached into his coat, and produced a small knife. Watson took from him—carefully, as if it was the most precious of relics—and then he got down on the ground and, sitting on his knees, he traced the wooden surface of the bench with his fingers. When he had found what he was looking for he put the knife to the wood, and carefully carved six scores in it. Then he sat back up on the bench, and handed the knife over to Holmes, who looked bemused upon the initials now next to his own.

“J.W.” he stated, placing the knife back into his pocket. “But… I must admit, John, that I do not quite understand.”

“I want you to know,” Watson said, looking intently into his eyes, “that wherever your safe place is… I will be there with you.”

And he smiled his kindest and most genuine smile, the one that will, I’m afraid, never be reserved for you or me, but is but for one person alone; and it was met with that special glimpse lighting up in Holmes’ eye—the one he had learnt to recognise.

----- ♥ ----- ♥ ----- ♥ -----

#holmes and watson #my writing #yes of course they had to be there too somehow ^^#again sorry it took so long #me saying ''i will do this soon'' is just not realistic #and if you'd like me to put it on ao3 eventually let me know #<3

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coldalbion · 5 years

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Troll Tuesday

"The implication here is that in the beginning Ögmundr was human, but under-went some kind of ritual or at least procedure, referred to as trolling (“trylla”) but never more clearly explained, that seems to have shifted him from one state of being to another.

There is no mention of him dying in the process, but some such transformation seems nevertheless to have taken place since the saga indicates that he cannot be consid-ered a human any longer, and also that he cannot die. Ög-mundr himself later admits that he has become inhuman,“nú em ek eigi síðr andi en maðr” (now I am no less a spirit than a man), and also states “ek væra dauðr ef ek hefði øðlitil þess” (I would be dead if it were in my nature). Ögmundr is said to be “svartr ok blár” (black and blue), a description used of many Icelandic ghosts, but he is never directly described using the words scholars commonly associate with ghosts in the sagas, although there is mention of “jǫtnar,” “fjandr,” and “troll” (giants, devils, and trolls) inthe diﬀerent versions of this saga. Even though Ögmundris referred to as a spirit (“andi”) but not a ghost, there is strong evidence which suggests he should be counted amongst the undead. Something of a medieval Frankenstein creature, having been re-animated like a revenant,it is stated that Ögmundr can no longer die — perhaps precisely because he can no longer be counted among the living. It is left up to the audience of Örvar-Odds saga to choose how they would like to refer to Ögmundr: as a devil,demon, troll, spirit, or ghost or perhaps all of the above in chorus. Providing evidence of the common indeterminacy of medieval terminology, this example also demonstrates that, when it comes to the paranormal, the more diﬃcult it becomes to classify or name a monster, the greater is the power that it might wield." - The Troll Inside You: Paranormal Activity in the Medieval North, by Ármann Jakobsson.

Compare:

The Old Man

What difference is there ’twixt trolls and men?

Peer

No difference at all, as it seems to me. Big trolls would roast you and small trolls would claw you; — with us it were likewise, if only they dared.

The Old Man

True enough; in that and in more we’re alike. Yet morning is morning, and even is even, and there is a difference all the same. — Now let me tell you wherein it lies: Out yonder, under the shining vault, among men the saying goes: “Man, be thyself!” At home here with us, ’mid the tribe of the trolls, the saying goes: “Troll, to thyself be — enough!”

The Troll-courtier[to PEER GYNT]

Can you fathom the depth?

Peer

It strikes me as misty.

The Old Man

My son, that “Enough,” that most potent and sundering word, must be graven upon your escutcheon.

[...]

The Old Man

This same human nature’s a singular thing; it sticks to people so strangely long. If it gets a gash in the fight with us, it heals up at once, though a scar may remain. My son-in-law, now, is as pliant as any; he’s willingly thrown off his Christian-man’s garb, he’s willingly drunk from our chalice of mead, he’s willingly tied on the tail to his back — so willing, in short, did we find him in all things, I thought to myself the old Adam, for certain, had for good and all been kicked out of doors; but lo! in two shakes he’s atop again! Ay ay, my son, we must treat you, I see, to cure this pestilent human nature.

Peer

What will you do?

The Old Man

In your left eye, first, I’ll scratch you a bit, till you see awry; but all that you see will seem fine and brave. And then I’ll just cut your right window-pane out —

Peer

Are you drunk?

The Old Man[lays a number of sharp instruments on the table]

See, here are the glazier’s tools. Blinkers you’ll wear, like a raging bull. Then you’ll recognise that your bride is lovely — and ne’er will your vision be troubled, as now, with bell-cows harping and sows that dance.

Peer

This is madman’s talk!

The Oldest Courtier

It’s the Dovre–King speaking; it’s he that is wise, and it’s you that are crazy!

The Old Man

Just think how much worry and mortification you’ll thus escape from, year out, year in. You must remember, your eyes are the fountain of the bitter and searing lye of tears.

Peer

That’s true; and it says in our sermon-book: If thine eye offend thee, then pluck it out. But tell me, when will my sight heal up into human sight?

The Old Man

Nevermore, my friend.” - PEER GYNT, Henrik Ibsen

#the old man #trylla #*odin #king in the mountain

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mythicallore · 5 years

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Bizarre Stories of Teleportation

Teleportation, to move over vast distances within the blink of an eye, has captured our imagination and remained a fixture of science fiction stories for years. Moving from one place to another instantaneously has an irresistible allure to it, and indeed has moved out past the boundaries of fiction to be seriously pursued by science in recent years. Yet are there those out there who have already somehow achieved this amazing feat through means beyond our current understanding? If some truly bizarre and mind-bending reports are to be believed, the answer to this question would be yes. These are cases that in some form or another seem to suggest the possibility that human teleportation may not only be possible but has already occurred, be it through interdimensional portals, mysterious doorways through perhaps the fabric of reality itself, somehow bending the rules of physics as we know them, or through some other strange force that we cannot even begin to fathom.

Stories of people mysteriously teleporting go back surprisingly far back into history and continue right up into the modern day. Some of the earliest accounts appear to have a rather folkloric or religious quality to them but are intriguing nevertheless. In the Bible there are many references to people traveling vast distances instantaneously, often said to be swiftly carried along by angels, and there are other early accounts of teleportation, such as the 1st century philosopher and physician Apollonius of Tyana, who was said to teleport over great distances to treat the victims of a plague.

In the 17th century, there were several such cases. One such case was written of in a 1692 book on Scottish fairies called The Secret Comnion-Wealth, by a Rev. Robert Kirk, which mentions a man who seemed to have the ability to teleport over short distances. One passage explains the phenomenon thus:

His neighbors often perceived this man to disappear at a certain place, and about one hour after to become visible, and discover himself near a bowshot from the first place. It was in that place where he became invisible, said he, that the Subterraneans [fairies] did encounter and combat with him.

There is also the story of a nun called the Venerable Mary Jesus of Agreda, who between 1620 and 1631 was claimed to have made over 500 teleportations from her convent in Spain all the way over to New Mexico, in the New World, an entire ocean away, for the purpose of converting the region’s Jumano Indians. At first these claims were met with skepticism by the Catholic Church, which called her delusional, but missionaries in the New World, as well as the Indians themselves, gave testimony that seemed to substantiate the fantastical claims. For instance, in 1622, a New World missionary named Father Alonzo de Benavides wrote a letter to both Pope Urban VIII and Philip IV of Spain claiming that someone had already been actively converting the Jumano Indians since long before before he had even arrived. When the Indians were asked where they had learned about Christianity they claimed that it had been shown to them by a European “lady in blue,” and that this mysterious woman had given them crucifixes and a chalice that appeared to be have come from Mary’s convent.

At the time, Benavides knew nothing of the claims that Mary could allegedly teleport back and forth over the ocean, and he would not hear these stories until he returned to Spain. So fascinated was he by the accounts that he personally interviewed Mary and supposedly found her to be quite sincere, as well as demonstrating an intimate, detailed knowledge of the Jumano Indians and the area where they lived far beyond what she could have possibly studied through books alone. Mary had apparently kept a diary of her mysterious jumps to the New World but had burnt it at the urging of the church and out of a fear of being labelled a witch. Nevertheless, logs kept by various other missionaries, conquistadors, and explorers in the New World proved to agree with and sync up very well to when Mary claimed to have made her visits and what she had worn there, as well as the activities she had engaged in. There were also claims from other nuns at the convent that Mary would sometimes vanish from her quarters, and that it was during these absences that she was described as being “off with the Indians.” There were also accounts by other disparate tribes vast distances away that gave reports of a similar mysterious European woman, and which were nearly identical despite these tribes sometimes being thousands of miles apart.

This all seemed to lend some weight to the amazing story, and it was also unlikely that Mary would be intentionally making it all up, as she had once almost been tried as a witch as a young girl and so was wary of admitting to her strange experiences, at times even seeming to outright deny them. Nevertheless, Benavides claimed that he had seen proof without a doubt that Mary was indeed able to make these mysterious journeys. At the time, Benavides’ account of Mary Jesus de Agreda became famous all over his country, and the case would become widely debated over the ensuing years. Did Mary Jesus de Agreda have the ability to somehow instantly jump over the ocean and hop all abut the New World through teleportation or is this all just religious myth and hysterics? No matter what the answer may be, it is a remarkable historical account to be sure.

Many early reports of teleportation seem to be inextricably linked with witchcraft or poltergeist activity. In 1661 a woman from Cork named Florence Newton was tried and accused of being a witch. It was claimed that Newton was prone to having violent episodes of demonic possession in which she would vomit all manner of strange objects such as wool or even pins, and would exhibit supernatural strength, easily hurling large men about like dolls. She would also allegedly be constantly barraged by stones that seemed to materialize from nowhere only to vanish once again after pelting her. Perhaps her most bizarre ability was teleportation, and Newton was claimed to often disappear from a room only to reappear moments later in another room or even on the roof or within a locked chest.

Poltergeists make an appearance in a variety of reports as well. In 1722, a farmer family in the small village of Sandfeldt, East Germany, was terrorized by a poltergeist that routinely tripped the children and picked them up to hang them in midair. The children also sometimes vanished into thin air, only to mysteriously appear in a totally different area moments later or sometimes several hours later. The case was apparently quite well documented. There is also the case of a man named Richard Giles, of Bristol, in the United Kingdom, whose children were menaced by a sinister entity that would push, shove, bite, scratch, and throw rocks at them, as well as whisk them away without a trace only to dump them in another location out of nowhere. Interestingly, although onlookers claimed that the children would simply disappear into thin air and reappear, for the kids themselves it was a decidedly more frightening affair, with one of the children saying that she had been carried by a “witch” dressed in ragged clothes who had held an odiferous skeletal hand over her mouth as she carried her along.

These eery early stories may be heavily influenced by myth, religion, fear, or exaggeration, but it shows how far back these ideas go, how persistent they are, and cases of teleportation have continued on in the years beyond. On June 3, 1871, there was a bizarre incident when a London psychic simply known as Mrs. Guppy allegedly spontaneously teleported from her home in Highbury England to land in the middle of a seance being conducted at a home around 3 miles away. Strangely, almost comically, Mrs. Guppy was reported as appearing out of thin air wearing nothing but her underwear.

#paranormal #teleportation #supernatural

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wackygoofball · 6 years

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Moodboard: Jaime x Brienne - No Reservations AU

Brienne is in a hurry as she drags her new dinner table up the staircase leading up to her apartment. She felt tempted to ask a neighbor for help, but since she is a strong woman to the point that she is oftentimes mistaken for a man, Brienne decided against it. She can handle herself just fine, after all.

However, looking at the time, she really ought to get finished – she has to be at the airport on-time, after all.

As she reaches the top of the stairs, Brienne sees her neighbor from next door rush up to her for help.

“You must be mad to drag such a thing all the way up here by yourself,” he laughs as they take the remaining steps together.

“Well, I managed,” Brienne answers. “But thanks for the help.”

“What’s the dinner table that big good for? I thought you live alone?” he asks. It is common knowledge, for all it seems, that Brienne is single, lives alone, and in general is the kind of person who will do anything by herself – even carrying dinner tables up the stairs.

“It’s not for myself, but for who is going to be here soon,” Brienne replies as they carry the table to her front door.

“Guests?”

“In a way,” Brienne answers. “Thanks another time.”

“Just make sure to ring next time you have to carry a dinner table all the way up here.”

“I will bear that in mind. I will manage the rest.”

The older man offers a smile before walking down the stairs. Brienne fumbles with her keys to open the door and then push the piece of furniture into her tidy apartment. Once it is in its designated corner, Brienne can’t help but look at the wooden table almost fondly, already thinking about how it will be initiated tonight with a first shared dinner, something she didn’t have for years.

However, Brienne then reminds herself that she has to get to the airport, and so she rushes back out of the apartment. Once there, Brienne practices her homely smile the best she can, well aware that the circumstances are anything but joyful, but wanting to stay positive as the passengers from the flight from Winterfell to King’s Landing finally pour into the entry hall.

Arya and Sansa Stark are anything but pleased with the overall situation, however, something that they don’t make a secret as they approach the tall, blonde woman they are now supposed to live with.

“I hope you had a good travel?” Brienne asks, forcing an awkward smile.

“Well, better than what our family had most definitely,” is all the older sister says before they prepare for a silent drive back to Brienne’s apartment.

“So… this is it,” Brienne announces once they enter the apartment. “I didn’t have the time to redo the rooms entirely. It’s really just the basics. But I thought that maybe that it’s for the better. So you have a chance to decorate the rooms yourselves? To make yourselves feel more at home?”

“I’d feel at home if they had let me to stay with Jon. But who listens to little girls ever?” is all she gets to hear from Arya, whereas her older sister remains silent – until she peeks her head into the bedroom to spot a doll Brienne put on the bed as a welcome present, which has her scoff rather harshly, though Brienne can see that there must be more to it than the red-haired girl lets on.

Brienne doesn’t know the girls that well, which makes it ever the harder for her to make things right – and she wants to make things right after all Arya and Sansa have been through. First, their father died during his work at the capitol, only for his wife, eldest son and his wife to drive to King’s Landing in a hurry – and get killed in a car accident. Brienne will never forget the phone call when she was informed of Catelyn’s demise – and the surprising news that her long-term friend put more faith in her than Brienne could even begin to fathom, naming her as guardian for her two daughters. Jon is far too involved at the Wall, which means he cannot take care of the two. Bran and Rickon, it was agreed, are meant to stay with their nanny Osha and Maester Luwin, whereas the two girls are supposed to stay with Brienne, as Arya and Sansa have been living at the capitol ever since Ned moved there, so that they can finish their school properly and so not to rip them out of their familiar environment.

Brienne still tries to come to grips with the fact that Catelyn entrusted her daughters into the woman’s care, even though Cat certainly knew that Brienne is more of a lone wolf kind of person who never thought she would have children and thus planned her entire life on the premise of being a single.

Yet, here they are.

Thus, Brienne tries to make the best out of the situation, even more so to honor what she considers a promise to Cat to take care of her daughters, but this task proves even more difficult than Brienne dared to hope. She is made painfully aware of that when her suggestion to have dinner together, since Brienne is a top chef in one of the most prestigious restaurants in all of Westeros, is met with total indifference, the girls rather wanting to stay in their rooms.

Thus, the new table remains abandoned, though Brienne doesn’t get to ponder that much as she has to get ready for work.

She took off for morning and afternoon, but wants to handle evening service, as per usual. And judging by the girls’ reaction when she says her goodbyes, Brienne reckons it might be for the best as they seem to care little about whether she is there or not.

However, arriving at her working place, the trouble just keeps on raining down on her, as the restaurant manager and boss informs her that she made some changes to schedule, knowing that Brienne may have to cut some hours as she has now “kids to take care of,” which is why the manager decided to hire a sous chef to take over when Brienne is not around.

Brienne couldn’t be more furious and frustrated. She does not need help from anybody, even less so because she feels like the manager just wants to replace her or interfere even more with Brienne’s menu plans, as she is looking for something “fresh and new” when Brienne finds her menu just right the way it is.

And so, she is introduced to her new sous chef, Jaime Lannister, an easy-going, suave kind of guy whom Brienne instantly hates to her guts. She doesn’t need one of those laidback troublemakers in the kitchen. Brienne wants order in her kitchen, discipline, a paradigm she lives by and demands from the other chefs to the same degree, even if that means that some take her for a cold-blooded perfectionist in turn.

“I don’t need a sous chef!” she insists.

“But now I am here, so we might just as well give it a try,” Jaime argues with a smile. “You may even come to like me.”

“I highly doubt that.”

Jaime, for his part, is also well known in the cuisine community, if in a different way than Brienne: He only started cooking after his professional athletic career was put to a drastic end after a terrible hand injury. To cope, he started travelling around the Seven Kingdoms and thereby discovered the secret dishes of the different regions, the notes of which became later on published as a book. Though Jaime knows that he hardly wrote the thing, as it only sold thanks to his brother’s massive editing to his scribbled notes. Nevertheless, the book became a bestseller – and he proved to be a natural when it comes to cooking, which is why he soon found himself welcome in the best kitchens around Westeros, of which some chefs certainly just hoped to get an honorable mention from the infamous Travelling Chef. His absolute favorites are the soul food dishes, though Jaime has just as much passion for the haute cuisine the likes of Brienne have on their menu, or as he tells her:

“You manage to bring the soul of the food into the haute cuisine in a way I never had it before. When I went to eat here for the first time, I had your Blue Sea Dish and I was right back to the moment I jumped off the cliffs at Casterly Rock as a kid. Gods know how you do it, but you have a way of cooking that I’ve never seen or tasted before. It’s a completely different experience from all that I got to know – and I got to know a lot on my journeys. And that was when I knew that if I ever wanted to start working at a kitchen… yours would have to be the one.”

While Brienne is flattered by the compliment, she cannot truly express it at that moment as she is just too caught up in feeling like an utter failure on the verge of being replaced by someone who is more charismatic and easy-going as she is.

Thus, the shift results in Brienne doing things just the way she usually would, not granting the new sous chef any kind of place.

“That is something you earn.”

“Hm, I do like a challenge, Chef. So you just make me want this even more.”

When the evening service is finally over, Brienne drives back home, but decides to go for a quick walk around the block to calm herself – only to return to the house to run into her new sous chef.

“What are you doing here?”

“Living here?”

“Since when?”

“Today?” Jaime answers with a grimace, about as shocked as she is. “I let my brother handle those things for me. He hired people to move in for me. So I just had to meet my new boss to return to a ready-made apartment. You know, the small comforts that come with being heir to one of the richest men in Westeros. So, seems like we are neighbors now, Chef. I will admit that I am surprised myself. I didn’t know you lived here.”

Brienne ends the conversation quickly thereafter and just wants to return to the comfort of her apartment, only to feel reminded yet again that she seems to fail in all other aspects in life – as the girls just silently sit in their rooms by themselves, Arya having video chat with Jon to tell him about how she would rather be anywhere but here, whereas Sansa just stares blankly at the picture frame with the last family photo they took.

However, things don’t just end there. Arya gets into fights at school, which forces Brienne to stay away from work and begrudgingly let snarky sous chef take over her kitchen. Sansa stays out late without telling Brienne where she goes and with whom, and won’t answer her phone calls, leaving the blonde woman in constant worry for the teenage girl whose protection she also vowed to when she took the girls in.

And if all of that wasn’t bad enough, Brienne finds her precious kitchen, her safe haven, increasingly under attack by the sous chef threatening to win over not just her working place, but also her team, as his charm earn him the hearts of the people within the shortest amount of time.

Nothing goes the way she had it planned and she can’t seem to help herself, even though Brienne is accustomed to solving her problems, no matter the effort, no matter the pain, but on this, she can’t seem to find a way out.

And at some point, even the tough chef finds herself breaking apart, only to find comfort from the person she expected it the least from – Jaime Lannister. After all this time, she finally has someone sit down with her on the stairs and listen to her, which forces Brienne into the realization that this sous chef is not the enemy she tried to make out of him.

Not that this makes him any less annoying, of course.

As the two grow closer and closer against the odds of their clashing in the kitchen on more than one occasion, Brienne finally gains some solid ground to stand on also with Jaime’s aid to get through to the girls, starting fencing classes with Arya to explain to her that staying with Jon is off-bounds and she has to take that which she can get, whereas with Sansa, Brienne has to realize that the girl feels massive guilt for what happened to her family, which is the reason why she keeps away so much.

Yet, not all turns bright all of a sudden as Jaime starts to have his doubts whether he is the right person to take over what he perceives as a surrogate father role. He had his disagreements with Ned Stark, to put it mildly, and as his secret family relations attest, he may be a good uncle, but not a good father, which requires more effort and responsibility than he dared to take before.

Brienne, similarly, has her doubts about her relationship with Jaime as she focuses so much of her attention on the job and the girls that she is not sure whether she can wait for Jaime to find his answers or has to move on for the sake of the girls, even if that means denying her own strong feelings for the man she came to fall in love with against all those many odds. She wants to put everyone and everything except herself first, and if Jaime cannot commit, she will not force him, even if that means she has to go back to where she started – alone to solve her own problems, no matter the efforts, no matter the pain.

And so, after the two got a taste of a different kind of life, it remains an open question whether that is their new cuisine or the sign that they ought to return to their own menu for life…

#jaime x brienne #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #game of thrones #got moodboard #got aesthetic #moodboard #aesthetic #wacky tries gimp #wacky tries fanfic #fanfic #ficlet #in smol

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hellomissmabel · 7 years

Text

Are you home? (FAMIWL part 5)

MASTERLIST

Based on one of my favourite albums “For a moment, I was lost” by Amber Run.

Pairing: Tony Stark x reader, Howard Stark x OC!Julia

Summary: Flashback to your first time with Tony.

Word count: 3.407 (Sweet baby Jesus!)

Warnings: MAJOR FLUFF AND SMUFF (fluffy smut, thanks to @mrshopkirk who came up with the term!)

A/N: This idea came to me after a feverish night suffering from food poisoning. In me delirium I might’ve come up with the best freaking fic I’ve ever written haha.

Disclaimer: I found these pics on Google, all credit goes to the respectable owners. I just put them together as cover art.

Part 1: Dark Bloom

Part 2: Spark

Part 3: Wastelands

Part 4: White Lie

Speech came easy And left us sane You know the faces But not the names This man inside Alive and unchained Are you home? Are you home?

You were nervous, bloody nervous. All dolled up in an undoubtedly expensive gown, a vintage 1950s off the shoulder deep red dress inspired by none other than Audrey Hepburn, your heels clicked against the oak floor adorning the venue Tony had booked for the MIT alumni ball with himself, of course, as the guest of honour. He was waiting for you at the other end of the red carpet leading you towards the main ball room, dressed to the nines in a three-piece Tom Ford suit, flanked by an equally elegant looking redhead that you’ve seen somewhere before but couldn’t quite put your finger on it, not until she introduced herself as Pepper Potts and asked for your name.

“Y/N,” you answer as confidently as you can muster, intimidated by the woman’s flawless make-up and regal poise, the way she held herself just fascinating to your eyes, like royalty and yet still with a certain humble and kind smile twisting your insides. How could you ever compare to someone like her?

“And you are Tony’s…?,” she asked you with a warm smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. You had almost forgotten that she is, in fact, Tony’s ex-girlfriend.

“She’s my girlfriend,” Tony quipped for you, lacing his arm around your waist and gently tucking you against his side, his fingers burning their way through the exquisite silken fabric of your dress.

“Yeez Tony,” she jokes at him, her eyes shooting from your shy expression to Tony’s beaming appearance. “Isn’t she a bit too young for you? At least she isn’t one of those models again.”

There was a playful tone to her words but there was clearly some hurt shining through as well, her jab towards you not remaining unnoticed, fully aware that you don’t have a size zero and are certainly not as tall as one of the runway models Tony’s been frequently spotted with in the past. But Tony didn’t let it get to him and you felt sorry for Pepper because it was clear to you that she still wasn’t over him and maybe, just maybe, if you were sabotaging yourself, you thought that he still wasn’t quite over her as well.

“Don’t worry, Pepper, she’s over 18,” he smiled and adding a wink on top, guiding you away from Pepper who clearly stood in as his event planner and was thereby glued to her spot the entire evening. You didn’t see nor speak to her anymore yet you couldn’t help but feel guilty over something you had no control over.

The evening went by smoothly if you may say so. Occasionally Tony was pried away from you by another big shot trying to extract some more money from him. Nevertheless, every single time they would come up to him for a business chat and steal him from you, he would peck your cheek first and murmur some sweet nothings into your ear that made you giggle lightly before resuming to the socialising.

It turns out that people were genuinely interested in who you are and what your current occupation was. Especially the MIT students, and not just the ones for whom Tony offered to pay their scholarships for, were intrigued to hear about your line of work. Maybe it’s because you’re not acclimated to the science scene but you were very fascinated by their research just as much as they were curious to find out about your escapades as a former travel journalist and how you stumbled into the life of a novelist.

As it was bound to happen one moment or another, the topic sometimes swung around to how you and Tony met. Since a lot of the attending guests didn’t know that you and Tony were dating, people wished to know more about your relationship even though frankly, you weren’t really sure what you two were up until earlier that same evening when he declared to Pepper that you were now officially to be called his girlfriend. This was your night of coming out as a couple and it thrilled you beyond belief.

You admired Tony throughout his entire presentation, how he easily wrapped the entire audience around his pinkie finger with just a simple one-liner and that self-confident smirk all Stark men seem to possess. Seeing Tony at his best, completely with his head in the game, it made you swell with pride that this beautiful man was yours and no one else’s. Afterwards all the ladies of course started swooning over him and if he had been single, he would’ve undoubtedly charmed their panties off but not tonight. Tonight he only had eyes for one woman and that’s you.

With his hand on the small of your back he showed you the way towards the hotel room he had booked for the night. He wanted this eve’s event to be special, not just because it would be your first time attending a big media event together but also because you had started dropping a few casual hints here and there about your more intimate preferences. Slowly but surely you and Tony had started teasing each other in a more sexual way, a couple clandestine looks here and there had over the course of your still fresh relationship magically transformed into heavy and hot make-out sessions on his lab table or the kitchen island. Not to mention when you first mentioned you might have a thigh riding kink and much to your surprise, he happily indulged your fantasies.

Even though Tony’s used to an excessive amount of female attention and having no trouble talking himself between their legs, he refused to pull any of his tricks on you. If you wanted to wait, he was more than willing to wait as well. He could, one day, see you as his wife and the mother of his children. The thought was new to him because he never for a single second believed he could actually pull it off, you know, being a dad and taking care of a tiny human being. He had been convinced that he’d never be ready for that much responsibility if he can’t even properly take care of himself. But you, you bring out the best in him. That’s why he is so adamant at waiting for the right moment, making it extra special for the both of you.

Because he’s madly in love with you.

Once enclosed in the privacy of your hotel room, your hands immediately fly towards the collar of his dress shirt and pull him in for a loving kiss. Never parting his lips from yours, Tony sheds himself of his dress jacket whilst your fingers make quick work of the buttons of his dress shirt. He reaches out towards the back of your dress, fingertips skimming the soft material before locating the zipper that will allow you to shimmy out of the night gown in seconds. But he refrains himself, breaking the kiss only to look you straight in the eye and ask you if it’s really what you want.

And it’s hard believing In a concrete thing Where you’re not conscious But you begin To learn to love the sickness in your skin Are you home? Are you home?

You’ve never seen Tony more serious than in this moment. Not only is he unsure of himself, he’s also a bit shy. Resting your hands against his now bare chest, allowing the warmth of his skin to soak through your own, it creates a frantic escape of wild butterflies in the pit of your stomach.

“Why don’t we take a shower first?,” you propose with a sweet smile to which his eyes crinkle adorably and a cute little grin exposes his pearly whites.

Taking a hold of his hand and intertwining your fingers with his, you take charge and lead him towards the marble bathroom where a rain shower is awaiting your arrival. When you turn around, a slightly uncomfortable Tony meets your line of sight and you are endeared by his sudden insecurity. Tony still cannot fathom that a woman like you, with soft pink flesh flowing into natural and delicious curves, a woman like you with an actual personality (unlike many other woman who mindlessly throw themselves at him merely for the fame of one night with the notorious Tony Stark) and a heart of gold can love a man like him, a man who deems himself unworthy of love.

Unbeknownst to him, you harbour the same anxieties and as you gently start to tug at his clothes, tenderly undressing the handsome man in front of you, you become painstakingly self-conscious of the love handles and other imperfections you’re sheltering underneath your gorgeous attire. It’s as if Tony can read your thought and he caresses your blushing cheeks with his thumb before brushing his chest against yours and planting a lingering and intimate kiss to your forehead, letting you know you have nothing to be ashamed of.

Looking down at you with a tender gaze, Tony’s lips slant over yours. “You want to go in or should I go first?”

You shake your head, telling him you would like to take the first step. Turning around so he can pull down your zipper more easily, you feel as the fabric falls down your body and pools around your feet. Unhooking your bra whilst still facing Tony with your back, the lacy undergarment follows suit as do your panties, gathering around your ankles and you can hear Tony gasping as he gingerly takes in the sight of your fully naked form. Looking over your shoulder, you see him biting down on his lips hard and with a teasing wink you step towards the shower, letting the water run hot first whilst he swiftly tears the clothes off his body so he can join you as quickly as possible.

When the water has eventually reached the perfect temperature, you allow it to immerse you from tip to toe. Feeling a little cold and alone without Tony, you throw a small peek into his direction, your eyes falling upon an unexpected emptiness. Merely a second later, a sturdy chest is pressed against your back as two arms encase your waist. A thrilling whisper fades into your ear as he acknowledges your beauty, burying his face in the crook of your neck and sighing deeply, inhaling your honey scent and committing it to memory.

There’s no way Tony’s letting you go now.

Swirling around in his arms, you come face to face with Tony who has still not ceased admiring your appearance. Both nude and wet (in more than one way), you make a rash decision and in one bold move, hook your leg around Tony’s so your sensitive folds are now caressing his already half hard length. Your eyes haven’t wandered downwards just yet, afraid of his substantial grandeur. But as his fingers grip the plump flesh of your generous bottom, slightly lifting you closer to his body, you get a pretty good feel of how generously endowed Tony Stark actually is and Jesus Christ, the rumours are true because this man is built like a God.

“Oh Tony,” you whimper as he pushes your back against the wall, one hand still firmly holding the right cheek of your ass as the other cups your face, his lips latching onto that particularly heaven-inducing spot right underneath your jaw. He has started moving softly up and down your soaking cunt, getting as hard as a rock and as stiff as a stick in the process, a couple beads of precum already leaking from the glistening tip.

“Please, fuck me. I’m clean and on the pill. Just please,” you pant against his lips, your arousal the highest it has even been. “Please just fuck me, Tony, fuck me now.”

“This is not how I want our first time to be, baby girl,” he replies in an equally strained and hushed moan. “I want it to be memorable,” he swallows thickly as your hips reply to his sudden jolt forwards, his cock brushing against your clit with a perfect amount of pressure. “I don’t want it to be a quickie in the shower, no matter how tempting the prospect may be.”

Tony insists, despite how loveable your pout and puppy eyes. He reaches for one of the bottles sitting a bit further away in a fancy little box and selects the shower gel, popping the lid open and squeezing a tiny bit of the moisture into his palm. He motions for you to turn around again and as he starts to massage your shoulders, both of you groan at the obvious tension straining your muscles.

When his fingers have finished working away the knots, you return the favour by tending to his temples and making sure he leaves the shower headache free. The past couple days he’s been complaining non-stop about this skull-shattering pain tearing his brains apart and although you suspected it was because of the stress, you also expect it has something to do with his presentation tonight.

I know, know, know, know, know That you’re fighting And I know, know, know, know You’re not hiding anymore And I know, know, know, know, know That you’re trying But are you home? Are you home?

Tony has dedicated so much time to something called B.A.R.F. and just because you didn’t understand much about the concept doesn’t mean you didn’t pick up on the message behind it. With this kind of technology you can hijack the hippocampus and alter traumatic memories, something you’re fairly sure he had developed based on personal experiences. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that Tony Stark has been chased by insurmountable demons for most of his life and you wish that if you could, you would protect him at all costs from similar events.

After you’re both as good as new, Tony gives you a helping hand and wraps you into a towel before taking one for himself. You sigh contentedly at the soft sensation and smile up at Tony who seems to have undergone a transformation of some sorts, judging by the carefree lights dancing in his dark brown eyes. He takes a few steps towards you and right as his lips collapse on top of yours, you swear you can feel the embers explode behind your eyelids like fireworks on the fourth of July.

You squeal as he picks you up bridal style, your legs and arms dangling in excitement. The bed is inviting when he carefully places you on top of the duvet and you assume his next move will be to hover above you but instead he bestows all his attention to the top of your thighs, barely covered by the fabric of the hotel towel.

“Look at you,” he whispers adoringly,” You are Aphrodite.”

His fingertips adorn the marks of cellulite as his lips trace up your veins towards the apex of your thighs, leaving you quivering underneath his scorching hot touch. When you release a breathy moan, his head snaps up and you lock eyes, a sneaky smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He then continues to trace your curves with the tip of his nose until the white fabric loosens around your form and falls limp on the bed, leaving you stark naked in front of, well, Tony Stark.

“Oh God, Tony, no, don’t say that,” you exhale whilst an embarrassed smile accompanies the rush of colour towards your cheeks.

“I only speak the truth,” he retorts, propping himself up on his elbows and seductively quirking an eyebrow, challenging you to object with an equally witty remark.

As words seem to fail you, he levels himself with you until his chiselled body is gingerly pressing down on yours. Carding your fingers through his short black locks, you guide his lips towards yours in a lasting kiss. Fidgeting with Tony’s towel, you manage to shimmy it off from his lower body and once again both your desires meet in a lustful dance of rubbing and stroking. Your hand snakes towards his pulsating shaft pressing up against your pussy and as you palm him softly, an approving sound slips past his lips.

“There’s a condom,” he breathes heavily, “In the nightstand.”

You nod and release him from your affectionate ministrations. Tony’s eager to tear open the package and roll the rubber condom over his proud cock but before he can do so, your hands stop him and take the condom from him, hinting that you’d like to roll it on yourself. Your featherlight touch exhilarates his skin and he’s back on top of you in no time, lining himself up with your entrance.

“If it hurts, you tell me immediately, okay?,” he asks you with a certain stress behind his voice. He is worried about your wellbeing and doesn’t want to hurt you, especially not during your first time.

“Okay,” you mimic in a shaky breath, your nerves starting to flow passionately.

I know, know, know, know, know That you’re fighting And I know, know, know, know You’re not hiding anymore And I know, know, know, know, know That you’re trying But are you home? Are you home?

After giving his cock a couple firm tugs, he gently pushes the tip in, parting your folds first before stretching you out a bit more. You gasp at the overwhelming feel of little Tony (who is anything but little) asking for permission to enter your most personal territory. Giving you enough time to adjust, Tony sheathes himself completely inside you with one more potent yet mild thrust.

“Y/N, you are so tight, I love it,” he moans lowly before kissing the corner of your mouth.

When you don’t reply, his eyes search yours instantly for any signs of discomfort. You’re pleased with yourself that you’re able to take all of him without too much difficulty. Nevertheless it requires some adjustment and it’s as if the struggle if evident on your face because he cradles your cheels in the palms of his hands, whispering a kind and concerned “If this is too much, darling, we don’t have to continue.”

“No, no it’s fine,” you ensure him. “It’s just that… I’m filled up to the brim with Tony Stark’s dick,” you laugh lightly before a more hearty laugh escapes your lips. “I’m about to get fucked by Tony freaking Star who is my freaking boyfriend!”

A bouldering laugh adorns the air when Tony has processed your words, unable to wrap his mind around the fact that you, even though he’s buried balls deep into your cunt squeezing him so lusciously, the only thing you seem to be focused on is that you’re about to have sex with a considerably – okay, scratch that – tremendously famous person.

“Y/N,” he says softly when you’ve calmed down from your abrupt outburst of exhilaration and disbelief. “You’re not about to get fucked by Tony Stark.”

“What?,” you ask in a high-pitched voice. Isn’t that exactly what the point is of this entire endeavour?

“Baby, honey, sweetheart,” he coos fondly with a tiny amount of seduction and sass, “You’re not about to get fucked by Tony Stark.”

He sounds somewhat hurt and you look away from his soulful eyes, unable to bear the honesty reflected in them. “I am not going to fuck you, I am going to make love to you. So tonight, you’re not going to get fucked by Tony Stark. Tonight, you’re going to be loved by your boyfriend who just happens to be Tony Stark because God forbid, I love you. I love you, Y/N.”

For a faint heartbeat, the atmosphere is dead silent and the only thing than can be heard are your laboured breaths as your body melts perfectly into Tony’s, the initial burn ebbing away and making way for a more pleasurable performance of a lover worshipping his muse.

Nothing else is said but those three words, frequenting the tenderness of their unison until the morning seeps through the curtains like a smooth criminal and sheds its light upon their two bodies curled into one another as their act of love has been repeated over the course of many affections and many, many more.

Tagging: the ever-wonderful @beccaanne814-blog @avengerofyourheart @a-little-hell-to-raise @unpredictable-firecracker @marvelingatthewonder @mrshopkirk @hardcorehippos @iiharu-kunii @knittingknerdy @winterwolf57 @winterboobaer @shamvictoria11 @thedragonblood @hymnofthevalkyries @feelmyroarrrr @justareader @ourpeachskies @austinamelio @howlingbarnes @4theluvofall @themcuhasruinedme @theoneandonlysaucymo @hymnofthevalkyries @amrita31199 @kiwi71281 @jaegers-and-kaijus @katbird787 @spaceprincessofmanygalaxies @marvel-lucy @volklana

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