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diejager · 3 months

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If you might be taking requests at all, I was wondering if you'd be up for the idea of a fic with sleazy König or Ghost in an arranged marriage to the reader. Reader isn't quite happy with the marriage, but they are. It could be dark or cute, but I'd love to read a fic about an arranged marriage where reader is completely against it meanwhile their new husband is not. They've been hoping to marry reader for a while and now that they have, reader is all theirs in more ways than one. Scares off any men reader tries to date on the side and is hell bent on showing their lovely spouse that this marriage is perfect and that they truly do belong together.

Sleazy husband!König Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, sleazy!König, arranged marriage, age difference/gap, scent kink, crusty balls, hairy König, tell me if I missed any.

König was a family friend, someone you’d seen a few times in your life, but had heard of many, many times that he was a commodity in your life, a subject you became familiar with without actually knowing the man. You’d caught glimpses of the giant when you accompanied your father to the military base for a quick visit, how he towered over you as a child and even more so now that you were an adult in your early 20s. You thought him an acquaintance, a trusted friend of your father, but you’d never thought of him in any other light. You saw him as someone dedicated to his duty, prideful and hungry for power and money, unbeatable and strong with his broad shoulders and gigantic stature. You wouldn’t have anything to do with him in your life, seeing how he barely glanced your way when you crossed path, he dutifully ignored you every time as if you were a plague.

And yet, you found yourself married to him; an arranged marriage. The colonel who avoided you and never seemed to like you had a private marriage with only your immediate family and a few men and women from the Company assisting to watch him embrace and take you home. A home you had no recollection of and were a stranger to. It wasn’t his flat, or the studio apartment you went to with your father. This big house was new and old, a newly bought house in with fresh paint and untouched furniture, in an old Austrian land with a beautiful and lush forest surrounding it. You didn’t even know the man, but you were married to him so quickly - in a month’s worth - that you were still too shell shocked to do anything about it.

How could your mother and father agree to it so easily? To marry you off to someone you didn’t know. Then you remembered how close your father and he was, life companions that had fought battles together, bled for one another and would die to save the other. That was the reason you were promised without your consent or knowledge until it was too late.

“Mein Herzchen,” he rasps, peering down at you, cold blues glowing under the darkness of his hood, “Come.”

König - your husband - was a man of few words, but wouldn’t stop talking if he found the right topic to touch, speaking your ears off about it. There were a lot you didn’t know about him, a mystery you didn’t dare try figuring out, but were forced to. You learned he was a dirty and immoral man, to have you marry him despite him being almost twice your age. He could’ve been your uncle, a man who’s age was near your fathers. You learned that he liked jerking himself to the sight of your open pantie drawers, an unwashed and stolen lace pressed into his face, the soft gusset pressed into his mouth and nose as he huffed and growled. You were repulsed by it, finally understanding why some of your underwearswere slightly crusty.

You learned that he never shaved after your first night, consummating your marriage in the bed you later slept on. You were shocked to find that his chest and arms were as hairy as the tuff around his cock, wild and unruly, a messy bush crawling up his abdomen and spiraling around his chest and covering his paler tint in auburn brown. You learned that he never showered after a sweaty and stinky work out, his musk stinking up the house wherever he went and that he loved pressing you against his naked and sticky chest, smothering you in his thick smell that nearly had you gagging and choking. You couldn’t find the words to describe a man like König, as big and burly as he was hairy and smelly, he was unmoving in his resolve and liked to touch you whenever he wanted to, whether you liked it or not, his word was law.

Your husband was a sleazy man and you couldn’t do anything about it, the golden bound diamond ring on your finger was more so a chain than a wonderful promise.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry

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sweetandgentlecreature · 10 months

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Friendly Fire

Author’s Note: Hello, again! I’d like to thank everyone who liked, commented, and shared my first little project. The love it received was overwhelming for a newbie to the fanfic scene, and I’m so grateful for the input and encouragement. This story takes place in the same timeline as my first installation, so if you haven’t had a chance to read Homeward Bound yet, you can find it here. Don’t worry, though! There won’t be a specific timeline to follow. The idea is to give little glimpses into an established relationship, so you’re not missing anything (yet!). We started with a reunion, so it only seems fair to take it back to where it all began. I can’t wait for everyone to meet the new woman in Sy’s life. Happy reading! Summary: Last night, Syverson met the love of his life. If only he could remember it. Pairing: Captain Syverson x Female OC Warnings: Brief mentions of alcohol consumption and weapons, adult language, and (almost) implied smut. Sy is his own warning. I am an adult, and due to the nature of this content, all works created by me will be rated for those 18 years and older. Minors, DNI.

“Oh, fuck me,” Sy groaned to himself. He threw a heavy arm over his face and sighed, doing his best to block out the sun as it creeped in through the blinds, but resistance was futile. Stupidly optimistic birds chirped their early morning songs, each shrill call rattling around in his skull like an angry swarm of wasps, wild and pissed off. His body felt heavy, his joints ached, and his stomach churned. “I’m gettin’ too old fer this shit.”

Sy could handle a little hangover. He’d done it before, and Lord know’s he’d do it again. In truth, he’d been burning the candle at both ends since he’d made it home. Sy hadn’t taken a leave since his first year in the military. His reasoning? 30 days go by too quick, no use in getting comfortable somewhere just to pack up and ship out again. This time though, he’d decided that he’d earned a bit of a break. That, and his mama was threatening to cut him out of the will if he didn’t show his face at least once this year. Not that he’d get much, of course; that wasn’t the principle of her empty threats. He knew it just as well as she did. She was starting to get up there in age, and time waits for no one. Especially not for Clayton Syverson.

Groaning softly, he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed, heavy limbs moving a little slower than usual this morning. He stretched and yawned, balling up a fist to rub the sleep from his bleary eyes. A thought crossed his mind as he worked to get those old bones moving again and he stopped dead in his tracks, hand still over his left eye and mouth still agape. “Wait…how the fuck did I make it home?”

Sy took stock of the room around him. At first glance, nothing seemed to be out of place. Everything was just as he’d left it. The tops of the dresser and chest of drawers were bare, as was the nightstand. The laundry basket that sat atop the trunk at the foot of the bed was still there, filled with neatly rolled t-shirts, socks, and skivvies. The only things that seemed to be out of sorts were his bed (since he hadn’t had the chance to make it yet), and his jeans that laid crumpled on the floor at his feet. “Weird,” he mused, and pushed himself to stand. Padding off to the bathroom for that blissful first piss of the day, he lifted the seat on the commode to relieve himself. Hold on. Lift the toilet seat? He hadn’t had to do that since he left home, nearly a decade ago.

“What the fuck is goin’ on, now?” Must’ve been a visit from the toilet seat fairy, since he couldn’t remember the last time a woman had stepped foot into this old house. Sy could feel the hair on the back of his neck start to prickle up as he washed his hands. When his eyes found his reflection in the mirror above the sink, he had to talk himself down again.

“Get a grip, dickhead. No one broke in just ta’ use the can.” Wandering back out to the bedroom, he’d almost made it out into the hallway, when he’d heard it. One more step, and he might’ve missed it. The soft creak of old floorboards below gave him another moment of pause. Sy held his breath as he listened intently for a moment, almost willing the house to groan again under the shift of weight. Nothing. A rush of wind left his chest as he sighed and shook his head. He swore himself off of corn liquor, never again, and took the stairs two at a time on his way down to raid the fridge for something to eat. “Hmm…somethin’ smells good. Is that–” Bacon. That ain’t no toilet fairy down there. Someone’s here.

Soft, tranquil humming echoed down the hall. Whoever it was seemed to like Fleetwood Mac, as they aimlessly flipped slice after slice of pork products into his skillet. A loud pop of grease made him, and the intruder, flinch. “Oww! Shit!” Then the tap squeaked, followed by the sound of rushing water, and Sy thanked God that he hadn’t had time to fix it yet. Good. He knew this old farmhouse like the back of his hand, so he knew exactly where the stranger would be standing when he'd walk in. They’d have their back to him, and he’d have the upper hand. Reaching blindly into the armoire to his right, he drew the revolver from the false bottom of the drawer and peaked around the corner of the doorframe. His thumb hovered over the hammer, ready to cock it, when what he saw gave him pause. Who he saw, was more like it.

“I know you.” The words came tumbling out before he could stop them. Her head snapped up from the sink as she turned towards the sound of his voice. She was just as startled as he was.

“Well, I sure hoped you would.”

Turning off the tap and reaching for a towel to dab at her scalded hand, she leaned against the counter like she owned the place. Her hair spilled down her shoulders and back in effortless, mahogany waves. The shirt she wore was stolen, and wrinkled from sleep. The logo was faded yet unmistakable, and the hem fell to about the middle of her sunkissed thigh. Why was she wearing his Skynard shirt? She watched as his eyes grew wide with realization, and it made her laugh.

“Don’t flatter yourself, cowboy,” the intruder smirked, and lifted up the shirt to reveal a pair of cut off levis beneath it. “You sure tried like hell, but…nothing happened. How’s the head?”

Visions of last night’s bonfire flashed through his mind. It felt like flipping through a stack of polaroids. Everything was blurry, all soft and fuzzy at the corners. One minute, he was leaning against the tailgate of his truck, nursing a beer and watching as his friends acted a’fool. The next, Johnny was passing around a quart of his homemade moonshine and calling him a pussy for trying to turn it down. Damnit, Johnny. Sy recalled that the eyes that stared him down from across the room now were the same ones that gleamed at him in the warmth of the flames that flickered between them the night before. If only he could remember how they got there.

As if to read his mind, she nodded as she spoke, returning to the stove just in time to salvage the last of the bacon. “You, uh…you went a little hard with that paint thinner Johnny had. I just wanted to make sure you made it home alright. Hope that’s okay.” Sy licked his lips slowly as he processed what she was trying to say, then gave a short nod. He removed his finger from the trigger and tucked the gun away again as smoothly as possible. He didn’t want to spook her. She made him breakfast, after all.

“Right. Thank ya, Miss.” Deeming it safe again, he crossed the threshold into the kitchen and watched as she turned off the flame beneath the cast iron on the stovetop. He felt out of place, like he should be doing something to help, so he crossed the room to grab the orange juice from the fridge.

“Merrin,” she finished for him, then reiterated. “I’m Merrin. And you’re…Sy? That's what they call you, right?” For the first time all day, Sy cracked a crooked smile her way and pulled down two clean glasses from the cabinet beside the sink.

“Yes ma’am, but my mama named me Clay.”

“Clay. Got it.”

Breakfast was served, and the two strangers sat down to eat it. Merrin filled him in on what he missed from the night before. Johnny bet Sarah that she couldn’t shotgun a beer faster than he could. He lost. Petey and Melissa snuck off to the woods to skinny dip in the creek and came back with poison oak in some pretty intimate places. Roscoe passed out in the grass, and Luke and James had to carry him back to the house. Nothing out of the ordinary for a Saturday night in rural Texas. He asked about her, where she came from and what she was doing in his neck of the woods. She told him how she’d moved to town about six months ago, how she’d bought that cute little split level on the corner of Oak and Adams street. All Sy heard, though, was that he could’ve been sitting here with her six months ago. Maybe he outta come home more often.

–

“So,” he started, rinsing the suds from the face of his plate as he stood at the sink. They’d demolished that stack of bacon and eggs and were working to clean up after themselves. “How’d you end up in my shirt?”

Merrin smirked as she dried a glass and tucked it away again. “You don’t remember?” She was all too pleased to share this story. Sy laughed a deep, hearty chuckle that rattled loudly in his broad chest and shook his head.

“Well…” she teased. “We’d been staring at each other most of the night. I’d been waiting for you to introduce yourself, but after a while, I just thought I must’a looked funny or somethin’.”

“Mhm…” he hummed, his eyes never once leaving hers. He’d had a cup of coffee and a handful of Advil with his toast, so things were a little clearer now. He remembered watching her from afar as she chatted and giggled with her friends. He remembered thinking he’d want to remember the way she looked when she smiled his way. How he wanted to remember the way the light danced in her eyes when she laughed. She continued before he could ask her to carry on.

“When you finally got the courage to make a move, you decided that I looked a little thirsty. You grabbed me a beer, crossed the yard, tripped over a tree limb, and…poured it down my back.”

Sy winced. Surely she must be joking. One look at the smile on her face told him that she wasn’t, and he groaned. “Well shit, sugar. I’m real sorry. At least let me–”

“It’s already in the dryer. Don’t worry, big guy. You can pay me back when you take me out to dinner Friday night.” She gave a playful pat to his chest and grinned, brushing by him on her way to clear the rest of the table. Sy turned to follow her, his eyes grazing over the curve of her backside as she bent down to grab a napkin from the floor. He smiled, stacked the plate into the strainer and tossed a dish towel over his shoulder.

“Sounds like a plan, darlin’.”

#henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill one shot #henry cavill fluff #henry cavill smut #captain syverson #captain syverson fanfiction #captain syverson fluff #captain syverson fic #syverson #henry cavill characters #syverson fluff #syverson smut #cpt syverson

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chaotic-good-hippie · 1 year

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a glimpse of us

Pairing: Jonathan Levy x AFABreader (she/her)

Summary: Trying to deal with her husband’s affair, our protagonist takes a glimpse at their story, wondering if he ever loved her or if he just liked the idea of being loved.

Word count: 3,911

Warnings: Angst, cheating, mentions of sex, no use of y/n, non-descriptive reader (but it’s kind of implied reader isn’t Jewish). Also, I'm not Jewish, so if anything related to their tradition is incorrect, please correct me.

Other chapters: Chapter 1 · Chapter 2

Note: I completely forgot to mentioned it earlier, but OMG, one of my fav authors in this site reblogged last chapter and I just wanna say how great that made me feel; I almost cried. Heads up to @foxilayde, please go and read her work; she’s awesome.

Chapter 3: Numbness & Anger

Upon waking up the following day, she feels as if the previous night the world had ended in havoc, only to restart as if nothing had happened with the robotic sound of her alarm. There's a moment of confusion in which her hands roam lazily over the sheets for his warmth, stopping over his pillow as her brain gets rid of its morning fogginess. She keeps her eyes closed, clinging for dear life to the memory of him sleeping beside her: unruly curls, fluttering lashes, agape lips, slow breathing.

"Five more minutes." He always whispers groggily, his arms enveloping her closer to his chest when she attempts to get up from bed. Except for today, if his mouth pronounces those words out of habit, it won't be her who answers but Mira. It just then she wonders, after two years of replaying the scene each morning, if this little perk of his is something he preserved from his previous marriage and she's just a substitute to its rightful recipient by default. If so, what did she use to say? Was she as weak in the heart to him as her? Did she leave his side and run away? Was she the monster Jonathan had always led her to believe?

A gust of wind sweeps away the sweet memory of the lie she lived in and makes her realise she left the windows open last night. She sits on the bed, staring at the dark, chilly street outside, feeling that this pain, the one eating at her heart, will be forevermore. She wants to go back to sleep, pretend as if everything was just a bad dream and wait to wake up with him beside her, in his spot, where he belongs.

Five minutes, she gets up and goes to the bathroom to take a shower. He usually stays in bed for another twenty minutes as she does her make-up and hair in the bathroom, occasionally snorting loud enough for her to hear him through the door. Then he gets up, wakes Ava for school, and enters the bathroom to shower as she goes downstairs to prepare breakfast. By seven, the house, their little corner of the world, is alive: she can hear Jonathan walking upstairs, closing and opening drawers; Ava's dancing to music in her room as she gets ready; and herself moving around the kitchen and arranging the table.

Today, the place is dead quiet as she drinks her coffee at the kitchen counter. She looks at the living room, expecting to see him or Ava arranging their stuff, but there's only air. The furniture, ornaments and photos hanging from the walls, she picked them all on her own, just like she did the house, with him and his commodity in mind. He couldn't bother to come to the showing; he was too busy packing stuff in his old house and finalising the details of the divorce arrangement. He didn't say that when she made the appointment, though, instead standing her up with a single text five minutes before the realtor showed up. Still, she didn't express her anger and never complained about it, taking it upon herself to make the moving easier for him. She decorated the entire house, even his studio, and changed everything he or Ava found inconvenient when they moved in without protest, even when she asked him a million times to look at the plans beforehand. She wonders what he'll take: the couches, the coffee table, the carpet; it doesn't matter. Just like the years she's given him, it's all meaningless shit they're dividing up.

She always arrives ten minutes before her shift starts, an advantage of leaving near the hospital, but today she's a half hour early when she parks in the garage in front of the ER. She sits in her car for long minutes, gathering all her feelings and thoughts and concealing them far into the depths of her mind, there where they can't hurt her or her patients. Holding the steering wheel with more force than necessary, she rests her forehead on it and breathes in deeply. She winces when her wedding band, sitting around her finger since yesterday morning, buries in her skin painfully, drawing attention to her hands.

"Magical hands", Ava called them when she was five.

Surgeon hands, healer hands, fixer hands. Because in the end, that's what her job reduces to: healing, fixing. She spends entire days and nights healing and fixing torn skin, sprained ligaments, busted organs, broken men… Ever the foolish, she's always been told she doesn't know when to stop or declare something (or someone) a lost cause. It only makes sense, doesn't it? That's what brought him to her, and somehow ended up being their doom.

Her phone rang in the middle of the night, awakening her from the deep slumber she'd fallen into when she reached her bedroom a couple hours before. It wasn't uncommon for a cell phone or a beeper to go off in some room around the house at the craziest hours of the night, so she didn't think much of it as she groped the nightstand in search of the device. She sighed heavily as she rubbed her eyes before answering, doing her best to shake the sleepiness from her body in anticipation of what she expected to be a late ride to the hospital.

"Hello?" She sounded hoarse and tired, just like the rest of her, but the feeling quickly dropped to the back of her mind when a panicked and rushed voice answered her from the other side of the line.

"Hey, hi." A man said her name in a nervous greeting. "I'm sorry for calling this late, but I didn't know what else to do."

"Mr. Levy?"

"Yeah. Again, forgive me for the hour, but my daughter, Ava, she…." He was panting, gulping every few words like he was struggling to keep himself from crying. "She's burning in fever, she's coughing so hard she even threw up… And… and I… I don't know what to do. I've tried everything, but she just keeps getting worse. Please, I'm terrified. Could you please come over here and check on her, please?"

She was already putting on her sneakers, quickly glancing at the clock beside her: 3 am. If this was any other person, she'd probably told them to take their kid to the ER and leave her to sleep the four sacred hours a day she got, but Jonathan Levy had a way of lurking his way into people's sensibilities she'd never seen before.

"I'll be there in a minute, Mr. Levy."

"Oh, thank you so much." He sounded so relieved, almost on the verge of tears. "Thank you."

It took her exactly three minutes to put on a sweater, take the emergency kit, step into the cold, snowy night and spring up the street to the Levy's house. Jonathan was waiting for her at his door, frowning and breathing heavily, an embarrassed look with a mixture of pain on his face.

"You're an angel; you have no idea how grateful I am."

"It's not a problem." She smiled softly at him as he scratched his beard, her voice slow and comforting.

"She's upstairs, over here." He guided her to the second floor, stopping in front of a pink room. She could hear someone coughing from the inside, followed by gasps for air. She entered the room with Jonathan following her close behind to the bed where a small child lay holding a stripped plush firmly to her chest.

"Hi, Ava." She introduced herself to the girl as she kneeled beside her. "I'm just going to check everything's alright, okay?"

The kid nodded, looking back at her dad for comfort and prompting him to sit on the floor on the opposite side where she was kneeling to hold her hand.

"How old is she?" She asked as she took out the extra stethoscope from the emergency kit they kept at home.

"Five."

"Vaccinated?"

"Yes."

"When did she start coughing?" He began to ramble, explaining how she had been perfectly fine all afternoon, how he didn't notice anything strange, that she started feeling bad at around seven, that he thought she was dying or something. "Don't torture yourself, Mr. Levy. She's going to be fine; kids are very resistant."

She asked a couple more questions as she checked her pulse and oxygen, noticing her nails were slightly blue, as well as her lips. She moved slowly as to not startle either father or daughter and explained step by step what she was doing to try to calm down the poor man, who occasionally murmured what seemed to be prayers under his breath. Even for a parent, she thought, his reaction was quite odd; he came off as guilty, even.

"Mr. Levy…"

"Call me Jonathan."

"Jonathan," For some reason, the name rolled off her tongue with more familiarity than it should, "everything's going to be alright; it's nothing serious. According to her symptoms and what you've told me, it's probably just bacterial pneumonia. I need to keep an eye on her for the next hours, but for now, let's try to get her fever down, okay?"

"So there's no need to take her to the ER?" He seemed relieved as he kissed his daughter's temple.

"Not for now. Let's see if her fever goes down first. Do you have a bathtub?"

"Yes. Do I fill it with cold water?"

"No, it's too sudden of a temperature change; it needs to be lukewarm. I can fill it as you undress her if you want. Tie her hair as well; it's better if it doesn't get wet."

"I want mommy." The girl suddenly said in a weak whisper, a tear sliding down her cheek.

"Is your wife working late, Jonathan?" She had no idea what Mrs. Levy worked on, but as someone who constantly found herself working at those ungodly hours, she didn't find it strange for another person to be out of home at such an hour. "Do you think she could come home? Her presence could help Ava a lot."

"Mira… My wi–" Both the name and the word he had said so many times before for the past decade tasted odd on his tongue. "Ava's mother's not… Not in the country."

It suddenly clicked why she hadn't seen her around for the past month or so. It wasn't as if they were friends, they were just neighbours who occasionally greeted them on their way to work, but it had been a while since she'd bumped into her at the supermarket or the local coffee shop.

"Don't worry, she has you; everything will be fine."

She stayed the remaining of the night by Ava's side against her better judgment, even after her fever went down a little. At some point, she didn't even know how, they ended up talking in whispers on the floor beside her bed, where, perhaps because he had no one else to tell, he confessed his wife had left him. She heard him, a broken man, retell the night it all ended, the morning she left, the questions she never answered, the things he regretted… Why? She'll never know. So, of course, when Winona called her at seven asking her where she was, she couldn't help but promise she'll come back in the night to check on the kid and him. She did, she came back that night, and the next, and the next, and suddenly she found herself in his house whenever Ava was with Mira till late hours, just talking. She had the feeling he didn't get to do that much often, let himself be vulnerable since he had to take care of his daughter and be strong for the both of them. She didn't mind hearing him; it was, in fact, the highlight of her day, which is the reason why, when he asked her if she knew any good therapist, she nervously gave him the number of a colleague with the fear she'd run out of excuses to see him.

Nonetheless, he called a few days later, asking if she wanted to hang out next Friday night when she returned from work and drink this new wine he'd bought recently. Weekends night, whenever she didn't have a night shift, became reserved for him, and it suddenly happened that she became interested in how she looked, smelled, and even talked and walked. One day, the silly crush became love, and she didn't even notice until she caught herself daydreaming about him, his eyes, his smile, his laugh, as she charted. Like a schoolgirl, she'd write his name on the corner of her books, giggle every time his name popped up on the screen of her phone, and smile whenever any of her friends mentioned him. But that's the thing about clandestine meetings and longing stares, they're born from just one single glance, but they die a million little times.

It's like she's on autopilot, walking up and down the hospital with a bunch of interns walking close behind and following her every order. Dislocated bone, busted organ, burnt skin, broken heart; her so-called magical hands can fix and heal all of these, but the last. So instead, she numbs it and tries to keep her mind off it by mending everyone else's ailments and hurts. The problem with this, though, is that doctors need to feel, to be human, as much of a contradiction as it sounds, to avoid mistakes and achieve perfection. In medicine, there are protocols and detailed instructions to repair what's broken, but sometimes, just as in day-to-day life, things go wrong, and one must act out of instinct. Throughout the day, she walks, talks and acts in a blurred haze, physically there but mentally drifting until a beeping sound brings her back to reality.

"She's crashing."

The resident in front of her tells her as she stares at her hands in confusion, blinking a few times to focus her sight. There are a bunch of people moving around her, moving stuff, cleaning, shouting: a resuscitation room.

"What are you doing?" She hears a familiar voice in front of her, and when she looks up, she finds Thiago looking at her in alarm as he holds a pair of large clamps to the cut. "What are you waiting for!?"

She looks down, where someone's daughter or mother, perhaps both, lies unconscious on a pool of blood. She's hands deep into her thorax, a cascade of scarlet liquid falling from the open wound at her side to the floor, staining her scrubs.

"What?" She doesn't know what she's supposed to be doing or what procedure her hands were working on without her even knowing. She examines the cut and the position of her hands in search of a clue as the beeping sounds of the machines warn her she doesn't have much time.

"Hold this tight. Don't move." Thiago tells a resident before quickly getting by her side to move her out of the way. "Take your hands out carefully."

Breath in. She pulls her hands from the patient's chest, holding back the tears. Breath out. Thiago shoves her aside and continues the procedure as he orders around. Breath in. One of her interns asks her if she's alright and if she should get help for her. Breath Out. She stutters something before leaving the room, looking at her gloved, bloodied hands, horrified. In the scrubbing area, she shakily rips the latex gloves from her skin, reddening it with the friction, throwing them into the trash along with her surgical scrub and mask. She washes her hands as she bites her lips so hard she draws blood, then sprints to the elevators in a confused daze.

Healer, fixer, surgeon

It had taken her 25 years to become a surgeon: 12 in grade school, 4 in college, 4 in med school, 4 in residency and 1 in trauma fellowship. A fourth of her life spent nose-buried in books; sleepless nights memorising names and definitions; countless hours cutting and stitching; and she loved every second of it, even the bad moments because this is what she was born to do, what her hands were meant for. She doesn't lose her temper; she can't. There are lives that depend on it. She'd always pride herself on it, holding reason when everything else is in chaos, but even that, he's taken from her now. Her head is spiralling, making her gulp to avoid throwing up as she presses a random bottom: What is she supposed to do? Go back home and tolerate it? Pretend she doesn't know and keep letting him believe he's a good player in his little games. Remove the dagger and leave their lives in ruins? Therapy? Could she ever trust him again? Because in the end, he'll keep seeing her; as the mother of his child, she'll keep being a constant in his life forever. What if he doesn't even want to stay? If this was his plan all along, if he's just been waiting for her to get the memo? What is she supposed to do, then? Help him pack his stuff and Ava's?

Fixer, healer, mother

Ava, her sweet little girl, ever so happy and bubbly, she illuminated any room she walked into. Whatever she did would inevitably affect her, and no matter how much Jonathan insisted that his and Mira's divorce didn't trouble her, she knew better. Ava had called her hands magical when she was five. Because she cured her, she eased her pain; she'd gone above and beyond to protect and save her from the fall of heartache. She wasn't her daughter; she'd never dared to call her as such out loud, fearing she might be overstepping her role and making Mira uncomfortable. Still, it was clear as day she saw the girl as her kid because in everything but in name, she was her mother.

"Is daddy coming back?" She asked her once as she drove her to school some weeks after they moved in together while Jonathan was in Europe.

"What do you mean, sweetie?"

"Is he coming back, or will I only see him on the weekends like mommy?"

"No, baby, he's coming back next week, remember? To the new house, darling, he's just working."

"And how long will you stay?" The question didn't make sense.

"We live together now, honey."

"I know, but how long are you staying?"

"Ava, baby, I'm not sure what you're trying to ask me."

"Adults are always leaving, like Poli. When are you living?"

"Oh, Ava." She parked the car a block from the school, unsure what to say as she turned to look at her. "Baby, I'm not leaving. Ever. I love you and your dad so much I'd never even think about it; I'm staying forever. Didn't Poli and your mom talk with you before he left?"

"They said they didn't love each other anymore and that adults sometimes stopped getting along."

"Yeah, that sometimes happens, but don't worry" She bopped her nose lovingly. "That won't happen again, I promise."

"Is that what happened to my parents?" The questions caught her off guard. Hadn't Jonathan talked with her about the separation?

"I think you should ask your dad or Mira about that, sweetheart."

Later, when she asked him about it, he admitted neither he nor Mira had ever brought up the subject with Ava, and even though she nagged him about doing it for days after he came back, she's not sure he ever did. It wouldn't surprise her; that's just how he is: constantly avoiding talking about important matters that make him uncomfortable, pretending everything's going well. She's never judged him for it, part of her nature was avoiding confrontation; as a doctor, she'd even been trained on it. However, all that repressed anger and frustration is now boiling up to the surface, and med school certainly never taught her how to save herself from it.

Wife, fixer, healer

She loves him, she loves him more than anything or anyone else in the world. From the day she met him, her heart had got captured by those brown eyes of his, begging to be loved. She had helped him, carried him through his pain without expecting anything in return. It was him the one who took the first step, and more than once, she asked him if this was indeed what he wanted, if he was ready to give her his all just like she was. When he popped the question, both her family and her friends asked a million times if she thought it was the right decision. It's not as if she didn't see the red flags; she did. She just chose to ignore them and blindly trust he could get to love her as much as she did someday. She had healed him, helped him fix the parts of himself he loaded and showered him in love in such a way he never felt unappreciated. It was her, not Mira, who gave him enough confidence to rebel against the deepest of his fears and insecurities and become the man he's now. She's given him so much, everything she has to offer, all while he sees her as a simple footnote in the story of his life.

"FUCK” She screams after slamming the employees' bathroom door behind her. "Fuck you, Jonathan! Fuck you!"

She clenches her shaking fists close to her chest as she slides down the wall to the floor, where she aggressively hits the ground.

"I'll take the morning train." She can picture him mocking her with Mira, laughing on his way to work, and patting himself on the back before entering their house because his wife is such an idiotic fool. She wants to put all the blame on her, believe she broke him to the very edge of survival, and that's why he had to become this to keep on living. But the truth is Jonathan is an adult, a 46-year-old man who is perfectly capable of making his own choices, aware of their consequences. Yeah, Mira is a terrible person, but right now, she couldn't care less about her; it's Jonathan, her husband, to whom her whole hatred is directed to. Jonathan, because he's, once again, putting Ava in the middle of his shit. Jonathan, because it's so characteristic of him doing and saying the most wrecking stuff in the worst moments. Jonathan, because he's made her a joke to his family and friends. Jonathan, because even now, she still loves him wholeheartedly.

"Sweetie…" Someone calls her a few feet away, and when she looks up, she finds Jenny worriedly looking at her; she hadn't seen her when she entered the bathroom. "Is everything alright? Did you have a fight with Jonathan?"

"Jenny…" She cannot recognise the teary whisper that comes out of her mouth when just a second before, her voice was so full of rage. "I… I'm pregnant." She doesn't know why she says that, but suddenly, the realisation hits her: it's not only Ava, it's also the child she's carrying in her womb who's gotten caught in the crossfire.

"What?"

"Fuck." She whimpers, hugging her legs to her chest, tears cascading down her face. Jenny, confused, sits beside her and allows her to lean on her shoulder until she's good enough to speak.

#jonathan levy #scenes from a marriage #jonathan levy x y/n #jonathan levy x reader #jonathan levy x you #angst #oscar isaac #reader insert

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tenjiiku · 2 years

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glossy

it is a rainy sunday, rindou had the day off, your internet was slow, and he was bored out of his mind. there were no other plausible reasons to explain why he had been standing under your bedroom’s door frame for the past 20 minutes — like a stray cat — watching you reorganize your dresser. not once did you spare him a glance, and you could tell it was getting to him.

he’d open for you in due time. this was the long established standard in your relationship.

when you get to your makeup drawer, and pour all of its contents onto the carpet you are seated on; is when he finally bites.

“what’re you doin’?”

“cleaning,” you do not even look up to see him as you speak, “duh.”

his footsteps are light against the floor. almost calculated. you would be intimidated if it were not for the fact that you beat him in connect 4 earlier this afternoon. he squats in front of you, wrapping his arms around his lanky legs. he reaches for the tube of lipstick that rolled towards him — like a crab reaching for bait with its claw.

he rolls it back and forth with his index finger, “what is all this?”

his tone is dead serious. it makes you smile, softly, knowing he is not quite addressing the contents laid across the floor. he knows what they are. he is being a baby.

“makeup, honey. s’what i put on my face.”

he scoffs a little at your sarcasm, eyes travelling from your face to the other items displayed before him. they narrow in on one peculiar-looking commodity. you already know what has captured his attention before he does.

“then what the hell’s this?”

he lifts said peculiar looking commodity up with his thumb and middle finger. he dangles it near you; almost as though to beckon your heed towards him, like one would to a cat with a red laser.

“an eyelash curler,” you murmur, brows furrowing when a certain smudge of black eyeshadow refuses to remove itself, “you curl your lashes with it.”

he ‘tsks’, looking at the strange object with furrowed brows — like it had personally insulted him. he tosses it to the side, near your foot, with a displeased expression.

“why’d ya wanna do that when mascara’s a thing?”

you rub your eye, “i dunno, just — it makes em’ even bigger and more… prettier, i s’pose.”

he huffs. you hold back a giggle thinking about how he would react if you introduced him to false eyelashes.

another product catches his notice — catching you off guard.

“this?”

you can sense that he is holding it in front of you. unfortunately, making eye contact was not a choice anymore. unfortunate, because you enjoyed teasing him.

you lift your gaze away from the palette you clean, eyes falling to the palm of his hands. you look up at him, lips twitching with an almost grin. you hold it back, though. it would make him mad if you found amusement out of this.

“primer,” you start, “you put it on before —”, then you trail off.

rindou raises an eyebrow at your action. you offer him a face of confusion, sighing a little as you set your eyeshadow palette down.

“why are you asking me all of this, rin?”

he shrugs his shoulders, “curious.”

you yawn, tilting your face to stare at him openly. it takes about 3 minutes of this to make him him start fidgeting. he cranes his brows to emphasize that he is — indeed — bewildered by your behaviour. you persist for a couple moments more, getting your fill of seeing rindou so flustered; though not so glaringly obvious (like a blush or anything physical) but something intrinsically known to you.

it was a feeling. a very strong feeling. sometimes it scared both of you.

you sit on your knees, leaning in towards him, “want me to do yours?”

“what? put that shit on my face?” he glowers, taking his whole palm, putting it over your face, and lightly pushing you away. “no thanks.”

he is sitting on his butt now, legs stretched with you in between them. you apply gloss over his lips, tongue sticking out for concentration. if it were not for the fact that he had ample view of your chest for a couple minutes prior, he would have thrown an even bigger tantrum.

he grimaces, “i am gonna kill myself n’ it’s gonna be your fault.”

“quit bein’ a baby and quit moving.”

he silently sulks — crossing his arms over his stomach. his torture soon comes to an end. you pull away from him, admiring your handiwork before reaching for a hand-held mirror.

“you look so handsome.” you whisper. his eyes widen a little.

“…really?”

you lean back even more, sitting on your knees as he takes the mirror from your hands — staring at his face in awe. your eyes squint, a gentle grin forming on your lips as you nod.

he looks away from the mirror, and looks at you. you think he knows that the various titles he had, were inconsequential to you within these 4 walls. you lived in a dingy place. which makes you wonder,

“ran was busy today?”

his eyes widen once more. you grow confused.

“no,” he is fidgeting again, “i just… wanted to stay here, a bit.”

your mouth opens, “oh,” and closes and opens again, “alright.”

the thunder outside is vicious. rindou sits only a couple inches away from you. rindou, is how he would remain. you did not own any other titles — had no other means of addressing him. you thought he would leave the morning after what he came for, but he was still wearing that terrible extra large shirt you got for his weekly — sometimes bi-weekly — stays from the dollar store. all because he’d made an offhanded statement one night about he hates how the suit he wears feels against his skin.

you would do so much for him. you think he knows that, now. it was a bit cruel.

he grabs your frame from the waist, tucking you underneath his chin, not saying another word. though you can almost taste the word ‘stay’. this position is new. riveting, even. you can hear his heart. he has one and it is so loud and so beautiful and free. you place your hand over it, and he lets you. you wish it was like this because of you. you’re really trying to make it because of you.

a hand touches your back. it is scared. you slowly wrap your arms around his torso. he would do so much for you, too, you realize. it makes you cry. he lets you.

daybreak, it stops raining. he stays. and that is enough.

#rindou x fem reader #rindou haitani x reader #rindou x reader #writing

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citrusreadstoa · 1 year

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Reading The Dark Prophecy: Chapter 18 (SPOILERS)

"Commode is named after you" Fun fact: the word "commode" means three things: a regular toilet, a portable toilet not connected to any plumbing, and a chest with drawers/shelves. One of these is not like the others.

"Spheres?" "Yeah . . . They're these round things." Yuhuh they are.

"How does Leo--I mean, how do we find the palace?" The one time Apollo doesn't realize it's about himself. "A huge decorated column thing in the middle of a plaza" You mean to tell me that there's been a giant ornate structure in the middle of a plaza and neither of these gals thought to suspect it as being linked to the Triumvirate?

"Just because I didn't want to play Marco Polo with you in the deep end with contact mines--" Yeah, I don't blame him. This makes Britomartis seem like she must either be the life of the party or the person no one ever wants to be stuck hanging out with. She's like the Stolls on steroids and injected with vampiric levels of bloodlust.

"I wasn't going to say that. Seemed too corny." "When I say it . . . it's poetry." Well, if the god of poetry so decrees it.

"in her hand, her last piece of bread had begun to sprout green tendrils of wheat." Wow, she really is getting a lot more powerful. In the last book, she needed actual seeds to produce any flowers in the anthill. Now she's reverse-engineering bread.

"If you come out alive, we'll catch a movie together. I promise." Coming from Britomartis, that movie date is a direct threat on Apollo's life.

"The great hall shook as if the Waystation itself had taken offense." Yeah, everyone is always saying "names have power, don't say their names" and yet nothing ever happens. It, like thunders once in the sky and then nada. Is something finally going to come of this name thing?

"We can take him." Doubt.

"I staggered to my feet" VISION TIME

"bringing me back to the day I committed murder." He's a god. What's new?

So I guess nothing is going to come of the name thing? Okay. Disappointed yet again, but okay. Nothing ever comes out of directly saying gods' or monsters' names.

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arantiques · 3 months

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Antique COMMODES & CHEST OF DRAWERS - Pair of early 20th C French painted oak commodes. 1930.

#Pair Of Painted Commodes #Antique COMMODES #CHEST OF DRAWERS

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frenchantiques · 6 months

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Commodes & Chests of Drawers - Superb, early 19th century painted commode , with later hand painted decoration in the Delft manner , with chinoiserie details. Wonderful colours and details. This elegant blue and white painted chest of drawers, will make a statement in most settings.

Visit us at : https://www.brownrigg-interiors.co.uk/product/antique-vintage-furniture/antique-commodes-chests-of-drawers/early-19th-century-italian-painted-commode-in-the-delft-manner/

#Chests of Drawers #Italian Painted Commode

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alliswyattonthewesternfront · 2 years

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I can almost always tell when a southern character is being written by someone who has never been to the south, by the way they write southern colloquialisms. shit like "butter my butt and call me a biscuit, look who is here!" you know. the shit that's for tourists buying giftshop tchotchkes.

in reality it's much less ridiculous and is often community specific. as a Tennesse Valley dirtbag, common things to hear are:

I swany (I swear, a way christian ladies get around actually cursing)

afterwhile (eventually)

over yonder (yonder is not one set direction, you will ask "where is it?" and if told "over yonder" almost always have to follow up with "over yonder where?" until you get to know the person a bit better)

commode (toilet)

slicker (raincoat)

chiffarobe (pronounced like shiv-a-robe, used for any nice chest of drawers)

wash your teeth (wash is pronounced warsh, to seperate it from washing up)

turrable (worse than terrible)

not an exhaustive list by any means, but as you can see it's much less cartoon prospector sounding. a lot of southern communities (especially in Appalachia) are more likely to use slang terms from a hundred years ago, than they are to talk like the dinner theater in Gatlingburg.

if I was going to write about a place I would probably go there and talk to at least 1 person first. just me though. anyways if you're from the south add the shit y'all actually say I wanna learn 👀👀

#also we really dont say bless your heart as much as yankees think #they're really hung up on that one lmao #somebody got their feelings hurt #tennessee #tennessee valley #blog #southern writers #southern slang

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levinletlive · 2 years

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I am Now a Week Out From Surgery.

Almost exactly, in fact, since I was released from the hospital around noon-thirty last Wednesday and I'm writing this as of noon-thirty today. I know I talked about my experience immediately post-surgery, but I thought I'd talk a little bit about the recovery too.

So, here are my notes from week one:

☼ Day One, Ground Zero ☼

I'm starting with the day of my surgery, from the minute I woke up. It has been exactly a week as of my writing this (or at least starting to write it) almost down to the minute, since it is now 12:32 p.m. and I was released officially at 12:34 p.m. the day of the procedure.

After I woke up, like most people after a surgery, I desperately needed to pee. I waited for a nurse to come check on me, but they didn't come by fast enough and I'm not ashamed to admit that I pissed myself because my bladder felt like it was about to pop. The nurses actually felt bad for not checking in sooner, and they brought a commode over because I was way too messed up to walk.

I think I set a personal record for most times peeing in a day following that. I went 3 times at the hospital and another 4 times at home. I was recovering from the anesthesia, but also on oxycodone and ibuprofen for the pain. The pain itself was pretty mild; it felt mostly like moderate menstrual cramps, and I was careful not to move around too much and find out how painful it could be. I basically just slept on and off the rest of the day and played on my Switch at night between microsleeps.

I did have to wear a pad for the first time since I started testosterone in 2019 because there was a bit of spotting, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Actually, pads fit remarkably well inside of boxers. The most uncomfortable thing about the boxers was that they pressed against the site a little, being elastic, but I just wore them lower than usual.

We had prepared my upstairs bedroom to be my recovery area, so everything I needed was at hand. I have a captain bed with three drawers, so I stocked them with snacks, medical supplies, and other items I thought I might want while I was healing. On the bed I had 4 pillows. Two went behind me to keep my head and chest elevated, one was on my stomach to protect me from bumping the incision sites, and another one was placed under my calves to keep my feet elevated and my back straight. It was weird sleeping on my back, but I wasn't comfortable enough yet to sleep on my side and it's advised to avoid sleeping on your stomach very soon after the operation.

☼ Days 2-3 Were a Blur ☼

I don't remember exactly which stuff happened on what day, but I do remember that when I woke up the day after the surgery, I felt pretty well-rested and relaxed. There was no pain outside of mild cramping, which I promptly tamped down with the oxy and ibuprofen. I was still swinging wildly between being awake and dozing off.

I couldn't move around a lot because I wasn't able to use my abs, and I had a cough from the intubation. I don't know if you've ever tried to cough without your abdomen, but I couldn't get enough pressure in my lungs to make a good, full cough. I mostly compensated by clearing my throat a lot, which made me sound like a garbage disposal. I managed the cough by eating some Werther's Original hard caramel candies. Those are a lifesaver when you have a sore throat and don't want to cough a bunch.

I was able to bathe myself by the third day. Even before surgery I had always sat on the floor of the tub when I showered because my hypermobility disorder makes me dizzy and breathless when standing for long periods, and a shower takes me (on average) 30 minutes to complete. I used my dandruff shampoo because my scalp was out of control, and I used a little bit of Dial Gold soft soap to just rinse off my belly and groin areas. I was still orange from the iodine they'd put on me in the operating room. It felt really good to be clean.

When I removed the velcro wrap the nurses had put me in, I was a little scared to look at the site. The incisions aren't actually that big. They're maybe a half-inch each, except for one longer one next to my belly button. That one is about an inch and a quarter. They're slim, like a cat's scratch. Not half as painful though, and no itching. A medical glue was used to seal them, and they're basically just scabs. They should be gone altogether in a week or two.

I still couldn't walk much, so I just paced from my room to the loft and back a couple of times each day. Other than that, I just watched Youtube videos and played on my Switch. I couldn't think straight enough to write and I my speech was a little slurred too.

My mom has been making non-stop soup. Chicken soup, potato soup, tortilla soup, beef stew, etc. The soup is nutritious and helps keep me hydrated and regular. I have also been craving cheese. Cheeseburgers and grilled cheese sandwiches, in particular.

☼ Days 4-5 I Fell and Couldn't Get Up ☼

My mom had a hysterectomy sometime last year, so she warned me not to do too much when I started to feel better. You'd think that I'd be laid up a lot longer, since an entire organ is now missing from my gut, but I was pretty alert by the following Sunday. I still couldn't walk much and going up and down the stairs took longer than usual. I had a friend over to hang out and she brought in some mail and packages I'd ordered, so I was having a good time opening them and checking out my new swag.

At one point, I tried to sit on an empty box to open the one I was previously sitting on. I don't know what I was thinking. As you might imagine, this poor, empty cardboard box could not support the load that is my absolute dump truck of an ass and it caved under me. I looked like a flipped turtle and couldn't get up without assistance. My friend had to pull me by both arms out of the box. I also had some additional spotting, which is a sign that I was doing too much and needed to chill out. So, we spent the rest of the day on the couch just shooting the shit and playing on our Switches next to each other, and that was nice.

The next day I started to realize I had some things I needed done that my mom wasn't able to do. I needed to have my sheets and blanket cleaned and replaced, but I couldn't lift my mattress so there were spots I couldn't reach without risking injury. I also had a couple of 40 lb. bags of cat and dog food that were still sitting cardboard delivery boxes and needed to be moved to the closet so the boxes could be broken down. And then, of course, the boxes were overtaking the living room so they needed to be chopped up and added to the recycling.

I was slow to get help, as usual, but did end up inviting the same friend back over to just do some of the house chores. I tried to pay her for the labor, but she refused the money. She's an actual saint. Thanks to her, there's no more cardboard in the living room, my sheets are clean, and the pet food is ready to go.

☼ Days 6 and 7 Went Too Slow ☼

By the end of the first week, I was starting to get bored and restless. I wanted to start cleaning my sewing room because I finally ordered some nice, new button down shirts for work. While my ass literally will not quit--no matter how much I beg it to stop hoarding resources--my torso is very skinny. My ribs and shoulders are so slim that a men's XS still fits me like a Hefty Force-Flex garbage bag. The disparity between my upper body and my lower body is one of the biggest factors in my dysphoria, but now I'm getting off topic.

The point is, by the end of the first week I was feeling restless. I wanted to do something, but most of the things I wanted to do required too much heavy lifting or would take longer than I could remain standing. I started to think about it and realized that I didn't have to finish any task I started; I could start, take the rest of the day off, and do a little more the next day. I can't do any lifting, but I can clean the clutter from the top of the tables. I can run a disinfecting wipe over the equipment. I can bag up Bear's old, half-empty litterbox. I can even use the shop-vac to pick up any bits of litter or fabric or whatever else has gathered in the corners of the room.

I can water my plants, I can sweep a little bit of the redwood detritus up in the backyard, I could put the tarp down after a few days of doing that, I could bring an empty bin outside and fill it with water and CLR and just let the grilling racks sit in it for a day or so, I could scrub them one at a time, I could get the mini-fridge on the dolly with some bungee cords and bring it inside, etc.

For the rest of my recovery, the game is just pacing myself. I didn't think I'd feel this good so soon after coming home because my other procedure was such a shit-show, but now I have all this energy and not enough outlets.

☼ In Conclusion ☼

As of finishing this article, I am 9 days out from the operation. Today, I was pretty content just to nap and play games or write on my laptop. I didn't even need to take the ibuprofen, and I stopped taking the Norco two days ago. There's almost no pain, but after being mostly laid up for a whole week I still get out of breath and dizzy after minimal activity. Today is a rest day. Tomorrow I have my first D&D session since the procedure and my players are excited to get back together again. We had a big reveal last time about one of their characters and we have 2 newbies joining us too, and on Sunday my sister is coming to visit me and help us out a little bit around the house.

So, I'm just going to start doing small things here and there and hopefully I can strike a balance where I don't feel bored or land back in the operating room.

As always, I hope anybody reading this can take some useful information away from it and if you have any questions about the procedure or the recovery, feel free to reach out! I love an opportunity to help out.

#hysterectomy #total hysterectomy #bilateral salpingectomy #post surgery #recovery #my transition #transgender #transmasculine #anecdote #anecdotes #my writing #written by me #my articles #journal

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