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atopvisenyashill · 2 months

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so if lyanna had lived and Robert had died and Rhaegar had lived..... and yknow what someho so did Elia and her kids

WHAT HAPPENS THEN? your hcs please l love them <3

thank you for the compliment <3

I've essentially answered this one before here and here with the general answer being that Lyanna's best bet is always the rebels winning, and Rhaegar does not have a clean "win" on his side (and also Ned dying makes me sad for Catelyn and Lyanna so I try not to think about that scenario lmao). Since you didn't say Ned dies, let's get more specific and also I’m just gonna make some executive decisions in a few places here-

Rhaegar kills Robert at the Trident, the Northern host breaks and runs for the hills to regroup. The nearest castle to the Ruby Ford is Harrenhal and while the Whents are friends to Rhaegar they are also related to the Tullys. I can't recall any specific information on what the Whents were doing during the war but I do wonder if there's a kind of Dayne situation going on here ie Oswell is still loyal to Rhaegar and the rest of the Whents are like "dude what is your problem he kidnapped a teenager." I think Ned probably takes what's left of his host to Harrenhal to regroup and figure out what the hell he does from here.

Again, Catelyn is at Riverrun, pregnant (just about to give birth even? the timeline here is a little fuzzy) and the moment she hears the Trident didn't go their way, she's gearing up for a siege. Probably she's trying to figure out how to get into contact with Jon Arryn, Ned, Hoster, and the Blackfish, if only to get an idea of where their heads are.

Poor Stannis and Renly are at Storm's End, increasingly desperate and increasingly stubborn. Stannis is now Lord of Storm's End and technically speaking, Robert’s claim to kingship has fallen to him.

Rhaegar imo doesn't bother following anyone after the battle though, he goes straight back to the capital to deal with his father. He only came out of hiding because the Kingsguard came to get him and said "hey your dad has Elia and the kids at King's Landing, they're all in serious trouble." Still likely imo that Jaime has killed Aerys (he was planning on blowing up KL long before Tywin showed up at the gates) so Rhaegar is now King.

Now king...and facing three separate sieges. Regardless of the Westerlands joining Rhaegar, the Stormlands, the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands are still in open rebellion, and he's got a hysterical teenaged Kingslayer who his wife is insisting be spared.

If Rhaegar wants to seem different from his father, he might send terms: something like Ned (probably Stannis too) goes to the Wall, Renly becomes Lord of Storm's End, Lyanna is given equal status to Elia as a Queen, Catelyn and Ned's kid can be Lord of Winterfell. But the thing is - Dorne is gonna be pissed off at the idea of Lyanna being an equal Queen, they will want Jon to stay a bastard and probably raised not just far away from Lyanna but far away from King's Landing as well. Ned, Stannis, and Catelyn are not stupid enough to accept those terms though - they will all assume it’s a trap and they’ll be brutally tortured to death like Rickard, Brandon, and the others.

I’m not super great with “rhaegar lives” aus simply bc i do not like that man and i just want Jaime to get stab happy and kill him too lmao and also. Like ultimately what i WANT to happen is for Ned to find Lyanna, take her and Jon North, and the rest of Westeros to give Rhaegar the middle finger. If Ned lives, that might be possible but….

But I think if enough of the Northern host (and whatever of the rest of them is left) can get to Harrenhal, they can probably coordinate with Riverrun, the North, and the Vale as well. HOWEVER. The Iron Islands are likely to start raiding, and the Westermen are likely to try to sack several Riverlands towns as they march. I don’t think it’s a far stretch to say the rebels manage to take back most of the major castles in the Riverlands while Rhaegar is dealing with the capital but more likely, I think everyone just settles in for a long and hopeless siege.

And MEANWHILE while Ned is figuring out what to do in the Riverlands…well the thing is we don’t know who told him about Lyanna, or why, or when. My personal theory is Ashara said something but we don’t know! If Ned is perhaps somewhere easier to locate than just running his ass to Storm’s End, does he get the message sooner? Make a play to get to Lyanna but brings an entire host with him to take the Tower?

Idk I’m not really great at like ~battle~ stuff and that’s essentially what it comes down to if Robert dies - Can Ned outsmart Rhaegar? Ned is smarter than that man but he just lost a lot of his men, basically every leader of his rebellion, and he still doesn’t know where Lyanna is. At the same time, while the Dornish host is heavily depleted, the Westerlands and the Reach are mostly untouched. There’s the Vale, and considering Bronze Yohn wanted to side with Robb, it’s possible he wants to continue fighting with Ned and i’m assuming it’s mostly the Royce’s calling the shots right now with basically every Arryn dead and Harry the Heir like a literal toddler. The issue is basically just strategy vs brute force.

But. idk okay let’s just agree that Ned manages to get the Vale to back him up and he starts to take back most of the Riverlands, then marches on the Tower early to save Lyanna. Smart thing is to take some guys, grab Lyanna, and book it back out of Dorne. Safest to set her in Riverrun with Catelyn, resupply, then keep fighting (would it be easier to set up with Riverrun as the main base of operations? I suppose it depends on how the fighting with the rest of the Dornish faction and the Westerlands go). Maybe he tries to force Rhaegar to terms by being like -well now i’ve got my sister and your fucking baby so give me something good and i’ll calm down. But what terms can possibly end the fighting at this point?

Rhaegar will not give up his crown, he's convinced the prince will come from his line

Ned is not handing over Lyanna

Dorne will not accept Elia and Lyanna as co queens

Stannis and Renly are still starving at Storm’s End

It’s an awful stalemate. No one will give in. The fighting will continue. It has to. If Ned gives in, he’s thinking he’s getting burned alive. If Rhaegar gives in, he very likely loses his crown and maybe his head. Rhaegar has all these lofty ideals about being a good king and it’s hard to keep insisting on that while he’s fighting this war when Ned had a VERY VALID reason to rebel. I THINK finding out Jon is a boy might force Rhaegar to come to the table. His prophecy was wrong, his line is not chosen, and he’s just destroyed the realm for nothing. But he’s also got Tywin in his ear telling him that it’s better to be feared than laughed at, and he’s lost most of the Kingsguard who were probably the ones keeping him mostly centered before he lost it over Lyanna. BUT. He also has his MOTHER. He has ELIA. He has his other fucking kids to think about.

I don’t know that anything could convince Ned to come to the table here if he’s offered anything less than a full pardon and the ability to take everyone back home. He agrees to the Wall at the end AGOT only because of Sansa - otherwise he was perfectly willing to go to the block swearing Joffrey is no true king and he'd do it here too. I think it’s the same scenario as the end of the war of five kings - these pockets of rebellion keep cropping up until the seven kingdoms are forced to split or Rhaegar just takes Tywin’s advice and utterly decimates what’s left is the rebellion. But again. Elia and Rhaella!

Probably maybe idk this stalemate ends in splitting the kingdoms but the thing is, while the Riverlands, Vale, and North are all grouped together, the Stormlands are on the opposite side of the Crownlands. So you can't really split it up. So probably maybe idk either Rhaegar makes some incredible concessions here or Ned loses his head eventually.

#sorry i don't think about scenarios where rhaegar wins a lot because i hate him alsfjsdkl #he dies in every au i think of.#asks #anons

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boop-le-snoot · 3 years

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SPELLBOUND I dr strange

Dr Stephen Strange x punk!f!reader

[no y/n, no "you", no name, no reader description - piercings & alternative style of clothing mentioned, race/age/body type neutral, she/her pronouns]

please let me know if you want to be added to my dr. strange taglist!

Joining the "meet-ugly" series, we've got Reader graffiti-ing (for a good cause!) the Sanctum on a cold, rainy night. Stephen is pissed but then sympathetic. Snark all around and then you get laid. That's it that's the story. Word count ~6.6k. Explicit smut, light magical bondage, dom!Strange. Fic soundtrack - Siouxie and the Banshees - Spellbound.

On a terrible, horrible, no-good, cold, rainy and windy November day, Sorcerer Supreme Stephen Strange was feeling - surprisingly well, considering... Considering his workload and the ragtag team of buffoons he was forced to cooperate with. Something something, damage minimisation and faster response time. It wasn't like Stephen actually listened to Rogers' monotonous monologues. Stephen only agreed to accompany the Avengers on missions because Wong had started ignoring his calls for back-up.

A relaxing evening with a book or two, topped off with a cup of the best Ceylon tea and a cozy atmosphere brightened up by happily dancing flames in the fireplace. The tension seemed to melt off the sorcerer like last springtime ice; his shoulders sagged and the persistent frown smoothed his usually disgruntled expression into something neutral, if not outright peaceful.

Wong had left the sorcerer to enjoy some alone time by himself, having had a strong feeling that very evening was bound to be one of the rare, calm ones, not an interdimensional threat in sight.

By the time midnight rolled in, sleep wasn't on Stephen's mind, the book he was reading had consumed his mind and pulled him inside of it. The exact moment the defense wards around the Sanctum had begun to signal distress to the Sorcerer Supreme escaped him; he attributed the sudden flux of anxiety for excitement from discovering the ins and outs of a new spell.

After some moments passed with Stephen still engrossed, the Sanctum itself had started bugging it's defender. With a shout of surprise, Strange jumped up in the air, book flying, landing on the couch as the man rubbed his arm where concentrated magic of the ancient house had stung him. Taking long, irritated strides, not bothering to put on any additional clothing layers, Strange stormed off towards the main entrance, muttering to himself, "One evening... Just one evening in peace..." Adding a few choice expletives as the door flung open on it's own.

Strange had cast a spell on his way outside, prepared to surprise the intruder but the magic flickered as he spotted a small figure, dressed in all black, holding something shiny to the outer wall of the building. The person appeared oblivious to his appearance, hood drawn over the face tightly. They were shivering every time the wind howled along the street but didn't relent in their mischief: the shiny object in their hand left a neon red trail, reflecting just enough to make out separate letters under the dim light of a nearby streetlight..

"What. Are. You. Doing?" Stephen knew his voice could be... Intimidating. He spoke louder than necessary for exactly that reason: he wasn't about to magically attack some kid, he'd much rather scare the little brat shitless.

To his surprise, the hooded head turned almost mockingly slow, revealing only what could be called as a bad case of racoon eyes on a feminine face. The bottom half of the face was partially hidden by a black-and-white checkered scarf but even with it, Stephen had no trouble seeing the various metallic piercings that decorated the woman's face. It was an adult woman, he was sure of that - the eyes staring fiercely back at him were too standoffish to belong to a punk kid. "Spray-painting your house, dumbass," The voice confirmed Stephen's theories: even carried away by the howling wind, it carried enough venom in it to kill a snake.

"No, you aren't," With the newfound revelation, Strange had no qualms quickly casting a spell to tie the little vandal's hands together with a rope of concentrated magic. "I'm calling the cops," He announced making a beeline for the phone he had left in the Sanctum's living room.

In his blind annoyance, the sorcerer had forgotten that the spell he had cast essentially forbade the victim from being further than ten feet away from the caster; loud cursing followed his footsteps as the vandal was forcibly dragged into the house behind the sorcerer, none too gently either, as Stephen's ruined mood made his strides that much longer and quicker.

Abruptly, the man stopped, turning around and suddenly recieving a chestful of petty criminal; a collective oof was overshadowed by the Sanctum's doors loudly banging shut as if the house itself didn't want to let outside any more warmth than strictly necessary. Two round, shining eyes stared upwards at the tall sorcerer, growing increasingly concerned.

He blinked a few times, arm still awkwardly outstretched to prevent the woman from toppling over both of them. She backed away slowly, eyeing him with wariness. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I thought this building was abandoned," She spoke slowly as if not to startle him. "And I know you're one of the good guys, I saw you on the news, but can I just go?"

One, her tone was growing increasingly panicked, raising in pitch, eyes darting across the room and to the magic binding her wrists. Two, Stephen felt his face heat up the second he realised the... Inconvenient situation. He had forcefully dragged a woman into his house with her wrists bound and slammed the door shut behind her.

"I'm... Sorry," He mumbled, feeling tongue-tied, all too aware of the sudden influx of blood rushing to his cheeks. "I didn't mean to... Frighten you," He spoke after clearing his throat and raising his hands in surrender. The binds around her wrists fell with the gesture and the woman immediately began rubbing her wrists with stiff fingers. "Do you, um, need help getting home?" Unused to finding himself in such an awkward situation, Stephen looked anywhere but the woman herself.

"No," She replied firmly, just as a particularly strong gust of wind rattled and banged the wooden blinds outside one of the windows. The woman jumped slightly, her breath loudly stuttering in the quiet hallway. "Man, how do you even live here? It's fucking creepy," She more muttered to herself rather than addressed him, but Stephen heard it nonetheless.

"It takes some getting used to," He replied honestly, eager to dissipate the alarmed awkwardness. His brain wasn't being helpful at all: the sorcerer was torn between offering the woman a place to warm up - she was shivering, dripping icy rainwater right on the hardwood floors - and simply conjuring a portal to transport her right into the closest subway station.

"I bet," She snorted almost mockingly. "I've been in a lot of old abandoned buildings and this is by far the weirdest one even if it's not really abandoned," The woman appeared to feel equally awkward now that they've had established Stephen wasn't a threat. She hid her shaking hands in the sleeves of her oversized bomber jacket, standing almost perfectly still, a chameleon to the twilight of the hallway in her dark clothes.

"This place is saturated with magic which could be unsettling to a person who hasn't been around it much," Stephen found himself explaining the phenomenon, much like his teachers in Kamar-Taj had told it to him. "Would you like to dry off at least?" He shot her a quick look; the woman certainly didn't look or feel like a magical threat.

She fiddled with the sleeves, looking torn between fear and curiosity; it was clear that the woman was intrigued by magic and her eyes, while partially hidden by make-up and the hood of her sweatshirt, were bright and clever. "Um, you're not gonna violently murder and eat me, right?" She asked timidly, but her mind was obviously already made up.

"I eat little girls for dinner," Stephen gave into the urge to roll his eyes, turning around and motioning her to follow him. The t-shirt he was wearing didn't do much for protecting him from the pouring rain and gushing wind outside and the five minutes he'd spent outside of the house made him crave the warmth of the fireplace.

"I'm bitter, you'll choke," She replied petulantly without missing a beat but obediently followed him into the room, leaving wet footprints on the floor.

The living room greeted them with a brightly crackling fire, a gust of warmth surrounding the couch and the immediate space around it. The woman didn't attempt touching the various magical knick-knacks placed haphazardly throughout the room, only stared at everything with eyes as wide as saucers. The childlike wonder was endearing to see, the sorcerer had to begrudgingly admit to himself.

"I suggest you place your shoes and jacket closer to the fire for them to dry faster," Stephen finally interrupted her mute staring contest with one of the magic objects hanging on the far wall. It was a battleaxe of Asgardian origin and Stephen felt slightly uncomfortable with the interested way the woman was eyeing the weapon.

"Interesting collection you have there, count Dracula," Round eyes met his own, the owner slowly unzipping and stripping off the outer layers of her clothing. Under the spacious jacket was a no less baggy hoodie and a pair of black, tight-fitting pants. The woman's neck was adorned by a variety of silver chains and a choker with spikes at least half an inch long; the tips of her shaky fingers were painted black.

The jacket was placed on a chair closest to the fireplace. Her shoes went next - massive, black platformed monstrosities - and she immediately became that much smaller, losing a good inch or two of height. Her hood fell, revealing a messy bed head and the black color smeared under her eyes, proving she'd spent a good few hours outside in the pouring rain.

"Aren't you a little too old for this?" Stephen retorted back, vaguely gesturing at the style of her clothing. He wasn't very happy about being snarked at in his own damn house.

The woman chuckled good-naturedly, guardedness paving way to genuine amusement. "I could say the same about you. Don't you all graduate Hogwarts at seventeen?"

Despite himself, the corners of Stephen's mouth lifted upwards. The tone of her voice was teasing, nothing like Stark's poisonous mockery of Stephen's skills. "I guess that makes us even," Strange invitingly gestured to the loveseat opposite his couch, picking up a fleece blanket to give to the shivering woman. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

A shy smile stretched her lips as she ducked her head in a nod, gratefully palming the blanket and immediately curling under it into a snug ball in a corner of the loveseat. The woman looked so cozy, Stephen's mood raised by a smidgen seeing the satisfied sigh that left her mouth as the temperature around her climbed. He might have changed careers but the doctor in him would always be satisfied with a content and healthy patient.

Returning with a steaming hot mug of herbal liquid, Strange found the woman poking away at her phone, concentrated and unaware of her surroundings. He cleared his throat and she lifted her eyes, skimming briefly over his shaking hands to settle on his face, the look not long enough to be considered rude but not brief for him to ignore it completely.

"Thank you," Her voice was quiet as she accepted the tea, gently blowing into the mug. He didn't think twice before promptly shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and that gave him away: the woman's voice had reacquired the teasing tones as she very obviously attempted to distract him: "I'm surprised that Muggle technology works here."

"We have wi-fi," He snorted, secretly grateful for the distraction. "I can't help but wonder what prompted you to pursue your... Artistic endeavours... On my house," Strange rumbled lowly, allowing himself the curiosity. In all his years of living there, not one single person attempted a petty crime on the property.

The woman's face darkened, eyes suddenly boring into the fire, rivaling it's intensity. "The building opposite you? There's a small newspaper, yellow press, gossip column type of shithole," The venom in her voice was sudden and surprising, startling Stephen into paying attention. "For the past few weeks they've been backing up a company that dumps toxic waste right into the North River. It's been making local strays sick," The more she spoke, the higher Stephen's eyebrows rose. "Now even reputable sources are citing that piece of journalistic toilet paper and mayor is now 'reconsidering'," The last word was enunciated particularly poisonously, "The investigation launched into the company. We've been handing out leaflets and my friend acquired information that there is going to be a live TV stream in front of the building. I was hoping the cameras would capture the message," She finished in one breath, a ball of shivering punk. It was unclear if the woman was still cold or the shivers came from the anger inside of her. It was obvious she was passionate about the subject.

The concern quickly grew into confusion, the sorcerer finally settling on fond amusement. "And how would graffiti help to convey your message?" He couldn't help but question the actions of the woman.

"It's punk, writing "you're killing innocents" in red paint. People notice loud statements like that," She replied confidently, a stubborn tilt to her chin. "Animals feel pain too." She added, seeing the sorcerer's sceptical face.

Well, he couldn't exactly disagree. In theory, she was right in both of her statements. Only people more often than not chose to turn a blind eye to things that didn't inconvenience them directly. There were more efficient ways to raise awareness than vandalizing property. He told her that much, expecting a scoff and an eyeroll in return.

"Yeah, and we've already sent out dozens of letters and petitions to the mayor," The eyeroll came, but not for the reason he thought it would. "This is literally, like, the last resort before I go down there and burn their fucking warehouse down. I know the people who are forced to put down the suffering animals, and honestly, I'm this much away from willing to become a felon if that means it stops all of that bullshit," She wildly gestured with her free hand, bracelets and chains rattling with the force of her movement. "Judging by your sunny attitude you're either a lawyer or a doctor, so you must know how it is to see misdeeds being done and feeling utterly helpless," The once-over she gave him - the sorcerer didn't miss it, surprised at the woman's perceptiveness.

"I see," He nodded, more to himself. "And yes, I used to be a doctor," The words, speaking in past tense, didn't come easy to him even after all this time. He mourned the loss of his motor skills, the loss of his career and a painless existence.

"So you must know how it is, to have to choose between your own comfort and the well-being of others," She remarked conversationally. "With that superhero side-gig you've got going on." Apparently, her perceptiveness was just that good. The woman didn't question the past tense of his career, didn't ask bothersome questions - obviously, she put two and two together. What kind of doctor had malfunctioning hands?

"Unfortunately, I do," Stephen nodded kindly, sipping his own cup of tepid tea. "I have to admit, I am surprised," The sorcerer was willing to throw a bone to the strange woman: she was nothing if not kind and polite even after thinking he was abducting her for illicit actions. "You are very perceptive."

The laugh that resonated in the wide room was melodic, playful. "Yeah, I get that a lot. Usually people can't see past my choice of clothing, thinking that I'm some stupid druggie or whatnot," With a wave of her hand, the woman expressed a great deal of irritation. "To be honest, the more people like me I meet, the more disappointed I am in what society considers normal. Every day I lean closer and closer to anarchy..." The last part of the sentence was said almost dreamily.

The sorcerer found himself smiling genuinely, not at all in disagreement with the woman's words. He'd himself once been a member of a social circle his newfound acquaintance would probably enjoy tarnishing; the subsequent accident and injury had shown him the less pleasant side of that part of humanity. As a disabled person, life wasn't even half as good - pity and mockery followed him for months on end, making recovery seem as unreachable as the horizon. Still, the opportunity to tease the little punk was not to be wasted: "You're going to argue ethics with an ageless sorcerer?" Technically, he didn't lie. If he wanted to, he could stop his aging process at any time, just like his old mentor had done.

Her eyebrows rose, eyes sliding over his reclined body with a comically slow speed. It was like her stare left a lingering sensation. "Looking not half bad for your age, mister magician," The little smirk looked positively mischievous on her face, making the woman appear akin to a pixie up to no good.

It wasn't as if Stephen didn't know he was considered attractive. After the accident, it was simply hard to see himself that way, shaking, clumsy hands and all. Yet the temptation was too strong; he gave into the harmless flirt with practiced ease. "Magic," He snorted, making little sparks burst from his hands in an array of colorful dots.

The woman's bottom lip disappeared behind a row of white teeth. "I have quite a lot of inappropriate comments and questions right now," The tone of her voice was once again back to it's default: teasing and defiant, like the energy that surrounded her. "How about you tell me about that mighty axe on your wall? Did you borrow it from Thor to frighten intruders?"

The confession raised a laugh from the sorcerer, the subsequent question throwing the man into a hearty full-belly cackle. The notion of borrowing a weapon from the hot-headed god was an absurd one on it's own; just as if not less likely was the idea of having magical artifacts scattered around the Sanctum for the sole purpose of spooking someone. He told the woman that much, explaining the importance of conservation of magical artifacts and unavailability of them to the general human populace.

Curious as a child, the woman prodded him for an interesting story; feeling jovial, Stephen obliged, finding himself surprisingly invested in the storytelling process as she looked up at his pacing form in utter captivation. If only all the apprentices he'd had to teach would have been half as open and interested in his teachings, he found himself thinking as he paused for the woman to gather her wits. There had been a time when he felt the same way, going first time into a new dimension, setting foot into a different plane of existence, but those feelings had dulled under the burden of protecting their current reality.

Hostile cross-dimensional entities weren't willing to give sorcerers weekends off. There wasn't any time to explore places that weren't necessary. He told the woman that much, finally settling down beside her, elbows on his knees and face warming up in the heat of the burning fireplace.

"Respectfully, that's bullshit," She huffed, untangling herself from the cocoon of blankets to place her empty mug on a nearby table. "If you had a doctor's license, you should know about professional burnout," The slightly whiny, chastising tone surprised Stephen. He didn't expect kindness from a stranger, and when he got it, he was clueless as how to act. "Even Iron Man and Captain America take vacations," She drove her point home, sitting down next to him. "I respect you and what you do for us simple folks but you gotta take care of yourself, too. An eternity living like that sounds awfully long."

"It is," He replied thoughtlessly, having came to the same conclusion ages ago. Having nothing more to add, nothing more to defend his lifestyle with, Strange and the woman settled into a thoughtful silence, each of them musing to themselves. The wind and rain outside howled, banging against the window with fury, little white droplets of hail banging against the glass. Getting the woman home in this weather, in the dead of the night wasn't an option anymore - they had spent a considerable amount of time talking and the darkness outside the window had only deepened. Stephen had lived in NYC long enough to know it wasn't safe even without magical threats. "I should prepare you a room. I cannot let you get home on your own in this time and weather," He looked to the side, finding the woman much closer to himself than expected. Under the smeared make-up and behind the baggy, unusual clothes, she was pleasant to the eye.

A friendly face, clever eyes, smile lines around her mouth. Hair that got into her face; she blew a strand away. "No offense, but I think your house is haunted. I don't think I'll be able to fall asleep."

"I thought you were a punk?" His lips involuntarily curved into a grin once again. Stephen was a smart-ass, he couldn't help it.

"Hey!" She exclaimed, offended, poking him in the bicep with a single finger. "Rude and mean wizard," She scoffed childishly, only succeeding in making Stephen laugh.

"I've been told so by multiple people," He replied without a hitch.

"How unfortunate," The woman levelled him with an unimpressed stare; her eyes, however, were smiling. The banter came to her as naturally as it did to him. "Then prepare to hear heavy metal because that's what I'm blasting to scare off the demons."

"Pfft," He scoffed, giving into the game. "I'll just turn off the heating in your room." Stephen retaliated against the woman.

It was her turn to roll her eyes. Something similar to a puppy's stare was directed at him after that - an absolutely unfair advantage, if someone would have asked him - not at all out of place on the woman's pixie-like features. "I'll find your room and stick my cold feet right under your blanket," She narrowed her eyes, pursing her lips and clenching her little fists.

Strange gasped, clutching his heart with a shaking hand. His whole body vibrated with barely contained laughter. "I'll portal-dump you in the Arctic if you do that," The dam broke: he started laughing at the woman who looked like a disgruntled, spooked bird, all ruffled, red-nosed and indignant.

"If I'm going down, I'm taking you with me," She mumbled in-between snorts of laughter. "That is the punk way."

Their joy bloomed in the shared space, amplified by the small distance between their bodies; knees almost touching and faces so close they could smell the other's perfume.

"By the punk way you mean doing stupid and reckless things?" The man asked her once their laughter died down; a single eyebrow raised, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and strands of silver at his temples glimmering in the warm firelight.

She couldn't tear her eyes away... And she didn't want to. "Yeah," She mumbled, acutely aware of the way she was ogling the man and having no power to stop it either. "That's the case..." Her eyes briefly skimmed down to his mouth, lingering for a second, causing her to wet her lips own in reflex.

"I must admit I've been accused of the same thing on several occasions," His gravely whisper settled somewhere deep in the woman's chest. "Does that make me one of your people?"

Words lost their meaning; useless, meaningless chatter, merely background noise for feelings running on borrowed time and secretive glances. Two people meeting in the least likely of circumstances, finding a common ground big enough to stand on their own two feet and light a fire.

Few years ago, Stephen Strange would have laughed at anybody who would have told him it was fate. These days, however, he knew, the universe worked in mysterious ways and he was smart enough to take the offering when it was brought to his doorstep on a silver platter.

Slowly and timidly, giving the woman a chance to withdraw, he brought his lips to her mouth, outstretching a gentle hand to place on the side of her face. The taste in his mouth was foreign, in the sense of a new discovery. She didn't resist his exploration, gently parting her lips and allowing his tongue to probe inside, meeting him in the same curious, unrushed way.

With stuttering breath, she grasped his bicep to steady herself in the wake of the tension that his kiss had brought between them. The sparks that started amid their chatter blossomed into embers; steady in their growing heat and hunger for more. The woman's hot mouth devoured Stephen, passion consuming them, awakening the primal territories of his brain he'd thought he'd forgotten existed.

One kiss was all it took for his trousers to feel uncomfortably tight; it felt like ages since he'd let desire consume him and steer his actions. His hand, shaky as it was, slid down her neck, memorising the gentle arch of it, to pull at the hem of her hoodie. Both of them gulped for breath in the seconds that the hoodie took to be flung over her head somewhere into the depths of the living room.

Two pairs of shining eyes met at the same moment, wordlessly begging for permission to continue. The cool air left a wake of gooseflesh in its wake, fine hairs standing up on the woman's arms, but her skin burned under Stephen's palms. Neither knew who ducked in for another kiss first; their lips met once again in a rush.

The woman's cool hands slid under his shirt shamelessly and the sorcerer shivered: not out of cold, he was hungry for the contact. He ached to feel the sweetness of a lover's touch. It had been too long. The woman matched his desire in that shameless, bold way by tugging on his clothes.

It was a question of time rather than effort for they seemed to be unable to break their kiss even for a second, getting tangled in the cotton of his shirt and the sleeves of his sweatshirt. The fumbling brought a smile to her lips, another mischievous teasing giggle dampened by the clothes going over his head. "The ghosts won't come to interrupt us, will they?" She asked breathily.

"No, but a... Colllegaue might," Stephen belatedly remembered of Wong's existence and his pesky habit of portaling right into the house. Throwing his own clothes somewhere in the vicinity of her hoodie, the sorcerer quickly conjured a portal to his bedroom, taking hold of the startled woman before she had the chance to utter a sound.

Being Sorcerer Supreme had its own privileges, including but not limited to a full master bedroom and a king size bed. Stephen's greater height certainly had made it useful; now, the man towered over the woman, pale chest on display and bright blue eyes sparkling in amusement as she attempted to gather her wits after the rapid relocation.

It proved to be harder that it seemed. Her eyes, curious and bright, traveled over his chest. Her hands trembled when she placed them over his pecs before gliding them down to his toned stomach, light and slow, like a feather. The woman was fascinated.

Stephen was torn between shyness and cockiness; the lack of recent experiences made his touch timid when he brushe stray hairs behind her ear. Watching the woman stand up on her tippy toes to kiss him was amusing. He allowed himself to lean into the kiss, adjusting a firmer grip on the sides of her face.

The bravery both of them seemed to need so desperately, they inhaled, the kiss once again growing in intensity. His arousal pressed insistently against her stomach, the feeling of hard flesh making her gasp. It twitched in response, Stephen's mind clouding with titillation and anticipation.

One hand wormed it's way into the man's hair, giving it a bossy tug, and he groaned lowly into the kiss. That made the woman smile, their teeth clashing briefly, before she pulled away. "You're too damn tall," She exclaimed and all Stephen could see were her red, kiss-flushed lips. "Have you considered donating a few inches to those in need? For example, me?" Her giggle was throaty.

One hand firmly planted on his chest, she used the other to promptly unbutton and unzip her belt and pants, various metals clanking as she did so. The noise pulled Stephen out of the lust-induced stupor. "I can spare more than a few inches," He cocked his eyebrow, snarking back almost reflexively. His arousal was obvious and not meager by any means.

"Dork," The woman replied, giving him an appreciative once-over.

The grin that spread on his face was somewhere between feral and teasing as he advanced onto her, bodily pushing her onto the spacious bed and draping himself over the woman's flushed body, nipping at her neck the moment a soft 'oof' escaped her at the sudden change of position. Not even minutes in and her face already adopted a blissed-out look, eyelashes fluttering and hips involuntarily looking for friction.

Stephen grazed the tender flesh of her collarbone with his teeth and she hissed, exhaled through her teeth with a barely audible moan. The sorcerer didn't bother hiding his grin. "Not so feisty now, are we?" He rumbled straight into her ear.

The shudder that went through her was more intense this time, chest pushing outward, desperate for more skin-on-skin contact. Stephen peeled the cup of her simple black bra with his teeth leaving a trail of pink-red marks in the wake, catching her nipple between his teeth and lavishing it with attention.

The harder he sucked the more she whined; one of his hands landed on her shoulder, pushing on it to hold the squirming woman steady. He was rewarded with a moan, pitched and long. The very same hand closed in around her throat, gently but firmly applying the exact amount of pressure needed to make her arch into his touch like an excited housecat.

"Be still, darling," Stephen's voice had dropped, low and raspy, bordering on a growl. The woman's own noises were delicious and he couldn't help but rut into her stomach, seeking friction, his own need beginning to burn impatiently.

"I literally can't, you're driving me fuckin' crazy," The woman stuttered out, fingers digging into his skin. She had no qualms about making him know exactly how much was she enjoying his ministrations and Stephen would be a rotten liar if he said it didn't give him a boost of confidence.

"I'll just have to restrain you, then," It was a joke more than anything but with the way she shivered, a full-bodied shake that had him involuntarily pressing his hips into her, there wasn't a chance he'd waste it.

Gathering his wits, Stephen's tongue peeked out in concentration as his hands produced a single, thick strand of magic. Glowing golden and orange, it bound the woman's wrists to the intricately carved headboard, loose enough for her to be able to bail those little hands into fists and move around a teensy bit.

Round and wide eyes stared upwards at Stephen, the woman's mouth hanging slightly open on a flushed face. "Jesus fuckin' Christ," The words were not audible; he made them out with his eyes as they were involuntarily drawn to her lips.

Stephen did not find it in himself to resist. "Not Jesus, just me," He smirked, claiming the woman in a bruising kiss, groaning when the woman bit into his bottom lip in retaliation against his smugness. He tugged off the remainder of her clothing, sitting back to observe the curves of her body, the way meager light of his bedroom played with the shadows in the arches of her limbs.

Following the smooth skin on her belly, Stephen's fingers dipped between her legs, stroking right into the dampness of where she was most sensitive. A choked up 'oh' was the only noise she produced, straining against his magic as she attempted to follow the movements of his hands with her hips. And she won the race fair and square - who was he to deny her such a simple pleasure?

Perhaps, he wasn't as precise or as skilled as he used to be before the accident, however the woman had no reservations, no complaints whatsoever, mewling each time his thumb brushed the sensitive bundle of flesh, fluttering her eyelashes so prettily. The hum Stephen made was contemplative: withdrawing his fingers produced a disappointed moan that quickly turned into a lewd noise when he popped his thumb into his mouth, tasting her arousal.

Delectable. "You're so sweet," He cooed, almost mockingly. She was getting desperate. "A little sharp but so fitting." With that, he used her lust-drunk state to rid himself of his clothes, leaning in to give a single broad lick to the length of her sex. She didn't disappoint, moaning loudly and wantonly, and he immediately withdrew, once again draping himself over her to share the taste of the woman with herself.

The intent wasn't to tease, not by any means. His erection glided easily between her lower lips thanks to the moisture, and he palmed it, putting pressure onto her clit with the head of his cock, brushing up and down with intent.

"Nghh, oh God," Was her eloquent response. The breathless, heated whisper went straight to his cock, making it twitch.

Stephen was getting impatient. The woman, too, was beginning to show signs of frustration. The veins on her arms stood out more than even when she fitfully strained against her restraints. The spell was a simple, even feeble thing, but with the force of his arousal feeding it with burning energy that was almost angry; it was as unlikely that she'd break it as it would be for the sorcerer himself to find the strength to stop himself from dipping the tip of his cock into the welcoming heat of her entrance.

"Take it," He ordered huskily , breathing heavily into her ear. The first few inches of Stephen's shaft were met with slight resistance but he took care to advance slowly, savouring the moment himself. She felt like Valhalla wrapped around him, all sweet, pulsating heat.

"Please," She whispered, ending the word with a broken noise, tilting her hips to speed up the process as more and more of his cock filled up the aching need. "Fuck, give me everything, give me all of it," One of her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him into her.

The moment he bottomed out, it felt like stars had detonated behind his eyelids. The smell of her, iron, fresh cotton and rainwater, filled out his senses; an array of gasps into the crook of his neck and blood rushing to his ears. It was a a beautiful cacophony of lust that culminated where their bodies were joined. Push and pull, he gave an attempt at making shallow thrusts with his hips, encouraged by the sudden arch of her body.

She was at the sorcerer's mercy. "Tell me," He demanded. "Tell me how it feels," Suddenly, he wanted to hear, he wanted to know.

"Fuck," She mumbled and he thrust harder, eager to hear and swallow more of those delicious sounds. "It feels... Fuck, it feels... So deep..." Coherence had left out the window as she struggled to describe the feeling of being stretched out and stuffed full. Long and thick, Stephen's cock was a blessing of it's own, with negative side effects being a temporary loss of speech and train of thought. "Please don't stop, Stephen, don't..."

He worked harder, leaning into it as sweet sweat dripped from his forehead. Bracing himself on his forearms, trapping the panting woman against himself, the room filled with the sound of heated flesh slapping against flesh, squelching noises adding into the discord. Like fuel to the fire, the growling that started somewhere in the back of his throat enticed more and more broken whimpers.

The woman began fluttering around him, telltale signs of her upcoming culmination. Stephen had to grit his teeth - his own abs instinctively tightened in response, body eagerly awaiting the grip of her walls to take the sensations around his cock to new heights. "Hold it," He ordered hoarsely, wanting to prolong the ecstasy of it all.

"I can't, please, I can't, I'm so close," She moaned, wrapping her lips around the skin of his neck in an attempt to distract herself. The added sensations only made Stephen growl again, patience snapping with the force of a live wire, hips picking up a rhythmic tempo.

The sorcerer's fingers harshly tore the ropes of magic, freeing the woman from her bonds in a single second, giving her a brief moment to stretch her arms before the man once again gathered her in his arms. Compliant and lax, the woman's chest was flush to Stephen's, nipples brushing against his defined chest with each consequential thrust.

He was everywhere. He was so much larger, taller and broader than her, muscle and feral growls, shaking her to the core with each motion of his hips. She all but disappeared under him, pinned by him, his arms having slid under her back to pull her onto his cock like a ragdoll. Even as her eyes slid shut, all the woman could see, hear and sense was Stephen's burning body atop her own.

The coil in her belly grew tighter with each second.

"Look at me," Stephen ordered loudly and harshly, feeling the scales of his pleasure tip dangerously into non-return territory. He wanted to see her as she lost herself in bliss.

Unseeing eyes flew open. Round and wet, she was looking at him like a deer in headlights, the plush of her mouth wet, beads of sweat dripping down her temple. "Fuck me, oh God, I need to come," Once more, Stephen saw the words rather than heard.

Her mouth, a little weak, was what did it for him; with a primal growl fresh in his mouth, he uttered a single, "Come. Now," Finding it impossible to resist claiming her mouth for the final time.

The woman's body tensed, heels digging painfully into the small of his back as he swallowed the scream that her orgasm tore out of her throat. The soft flesh of her thighs shook. Buried inside of her to the hilt, Stephen let loose his own self-control, cock throbbing, as he emptied every bit of his seed into the deepest parts of her snug cunt. His vision briefly turned white-hot, emptying his mind of anything but the immediate space and time, the bliss overtaking him like a tsunami.

It seemed to go on forever. It seemed to last only a second.

Their mouths moved weakly against each other. In some areas, skin was broken, and it smarted, weaving a trail of bittersweet aches in the wake of their passion. Stephen couldn't manufacture the place where he could simply Be but in the moment, nothing mattered at all, just the tide of her breathing growing steady after having reached the so-needed release.

The woman kept melting under him. Eventually he had to move, soft flesh slipping from within her, invoking a soft gasp at the loss of their combined state of being. A kitten-like, disappointed mewl followed, the woman immediately draping her body to his side.

Stephen chuckled into the dim quiet of his room, a raspy, breathless and meaningless little noise.

"We'll think tomorrow, for now, just feel," She mumbled already half-asleep, and he would be damned if that didn't sound like poetry to him.

Stephen Strange taglist: @mostly-marvel-musings @lonesomewritings @bethanyzed @persephonehemingway @the-gayyy-bible @sapphicnoodle69 @letsby

#stephen strange x y/n #stephen strange x you #stephen strange x reader #dr strange x y/n #dr strange x reader #dr strange x you #dr Strange smut #stephen strange smut #bun writes #bun writes: drabbles

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thesickpanda · 4 years

Text

Painful Goodbyes

For many people with chronic/mental illnesses, saying goodbye to people becomes an all too common experience. Sometimes you get to actually say it, but more often than not people just fade from your life/grow impatient with you and leave. In my experience, most people leave when I, at long last, reinforce a personal boundary.

You see, I was raised with emotionally abusive and manipulative parents who made me apologise for their cruelty and therefore set the tone of many of my future relationships. I thought abuse and horrible behaviour towards me was normal. I was MEANT to be the kicking bag, meant to be taken for granted, I was too sensitive, I was the problem. I had the mindset that I should be grateful for any and all people in my life regardless of how they treated me. For those people who showed me any kindness at all, a lifelong loyalty was forged, no matter how many terrible acts on their part surpassed the kind ones. It took years of therapy to learn to recognise toxic behaviour/relationships, as well as self-care and self-compassion. The people who grew used to exploiting me for all I was worth did not take kindly to my standing up for myself, and so I have lost many faux friends over the years. I was like a flame to which all the manipulative moths were attracted, because no healthy, self-respecting person would put up with the bullshit they dished out.

As a result, I have had a rocky end to many platonic relationships. I’m extremely grateful that I haven’t had as much abuse in my romantic relationships. I met the love of my life when I was fairly young, and he’s an angel who gives me so much love and kindness. If not for him, I’m not sure where (or IF) I’d be today.

Recently, I had to end a 14 year friendship with someone. I have written about this person before here (https://thesickpanda.tumblr.com/post/186529191819/what-do-you-do-when-a-loved-one-changes-for-the)

Pretty much all of my reasons were explained in that blog post – it just took me another 7 months and my final encounter with this person to fully recognize the urgent need to walk away from what had become a very toxic, decaying relationship. It still hurt like hell, though. You don’t just go from having someone in your life for well over a decade to accepting their absence without difficulty. Even if he had largely become a negative influence in my life, that person was still such a permanent-seeming fixture that I cannot help but feel a sense of loss.

Long story short, I spent many, many years of my life trying to save him from himself. He grew increasingly emotionally distant, buried himself in addictions and self-destructive behaviour and outright refused any and all help offered his way. His family gave up on him. His best friend became the target of all his projected self-loathing (he is, without a shadow of a doubt, horribly abusive to this friend). He didn’t used to be like this, and part of me didn’t want to let go of the possibility he might change back into a decent and full human being. My last trip to visit him proved that not only had he not made any headway on working on himself, he had grown significantly worse. There was literally nothing left for me to save. He was dead inside.

The kicker came when he went to bed early one night (unusual for him) and I went to his door to ask if he was ok and he snapped at me, essentially telling me to piss off. I asked if he wanted a hug and he made it abundantly clear that I should leave him alone. It wasn’t anywhere near the first time he had unfairly snarled at me, but because I was still desperately clinging onto the notion there was something in him worth saving, it hit me really hard to realise there wasn’t. Or at least, I was incapable of rescuing someone hell-bent on their own demise.

It also triggered a huge PTSD response in me, based on decades of abuse I have endured from my family. Loving gestures have been mocked, belittled, slapped back in my face for as long as I can remember. I am a hugely loving person, so this is a common occurrence for me. As I stood outside his room, shaking violently, I knew I wasn’t just experiencing a trauma response. I knew I was finally, at long last, realizing I had to walk away from this friendship, too.

I mentioned earlier that his family had given up on him. They half-heartedly tried to intervene over the years but in the past 4 years they just threw up their hands. I can understand why. You cannot help someone who refuses help. But they seemed to expect I’d keep at it.

This guy’s family was, in my mind, my second family. I loved them. I bonded with his mother in the first 5 years. I bought gifts for all his nieces and nephews every year since they were born. I planned our one holiday a year to be down in Victoria to spend time with them on their birthdays (which mostly fell across September). I’d phone his brother and sister on their birthdays, send handmade cards, and chat for hours with them. I’d do all this when he almost never bothered to call them, forgot the kids’ birthdays, refused to wake up in time for funerals, skipped special occasions and more. He put minimal effort in, so I tried to make up for it by putting a LOT of care into his family. Sometimes they’d rant about their frustrations with my friend, and I’d try to mediate. I felt my rapport with them, after such a long time and so much personal emotional investment, was separate to my friendship with this guy.

I was wrong.

When I ended my friendship a few weeks ago, I did it via email. I sent a letter to him in which I held back 95% of my frustrations. Instead I explained that I was no longer getting any enjoyment from the friendship, that I’d always love him but that we had nothing left in common between us and it was time for me to leave. I did mention he needed to tackle his inner demons and start living life, but it was lightly touched upon, because in all the many years I've known him, I have told him what he needs to do countless times, and he has never cared. I also sent personalized emails to his sister, mother and sister-in-law to explain (with huge delicacy and diplomacy) my reasons for ending the friendship. I told them he had grown cruel and abusive to his housemate and also to me, and that I could no longer be the collateral of a man intent on blowing himself up. I explained that I thought of them all as my friends and wanted to continue a relationship with them, if they were cool with that.

What I received was radio silence from the sister and sister-in-law (both who had MANY times raged about how awful this guy was) and, a week later, I got a three line email from his mother that was cold, indifferent and unfair. She acknowledged NOTHING of the behaviour I’d illustrated in my email to her, and basically said, “Whatever. You do you. Don’t know why you gotta be so dramatic about it.”

I was crushed. 14 years of love and relationship building, and it meant FUCK ALL to these people I had held so high in my esteem.

My partner pointed something out a few days later. He gently and kindly said, “But it’s ALL been one sided.”

He observed that not once did they call me on my birthday. Not once did they contact me or visit me, even when they were in my neck of the woods. Sometimes trying to reach the sister was like getting blood from a stone. I’d hear how she was always Skyping her mom, but then she’d almost never reply when I tentatively reached out to her. She has three kids, I’d reason, too busy for me. But it stung. When I did get her on the phone she’d talk to me like I was her best friend, mostly ranting about how much she despised being a mother for the better part of an hour. I’d be her emotional sounding board when her husband was letting her down. But that sort of emotional labour was never reciprocated.

Now I did stay at this guy’s parents’ house when he lived at home, as it made it easier/affordable to visit him. I’m grateful to his mother for having hosted me in those times. When he moved out 4 years ago, I went to visit him at his place. I always made an effort to see the rest of the family, often bringing gifts for the kids. But no one seemed much interested in me or my life. I was mostly spoken at, rather than with. The brother had an injury from work a few years ago. He’s been struggling with chronic pain since and I’ve spent hours listening to him complain about the nightmare of his life. He never asks about my pain or my struggles. I spent hours listening, but he couldn’t give two hoots about what I’d actually learned/had to say in response, compassionate and helpful as it always was. He just waited for his turn to speak again.

All of this dawned on me two days ago. I realised I had been deluded in thinking these people cared about me as a person in my own right; that they’d want to say, “We understand why you gave up trying to fix him. He frustrates us too. But we’re glad you’re still our friend.” What I received was silence and indifference. I was just an extension of a family member they didn’t care about, which of course meant they didn’t care about me. I had been so wrong for such a long period of time. The grief magnified tenfold and I had an emotional breakdown.

Being chronically ill, I have so little energy as it is, and for years I poured it into people who didn’t give a shit whether I was in their lives or not.

So yesterday, when my 86 year old friend and former neighbor called me to say he was dying and in palliative care and wanted to say goodbye “only to my close friends”, I lost it. I bawled. I was going to have to say goodbye to someone else I care about. I totally respect his decision to opt out of trying to get better at this stage, as his body is really going downhill fast and he lost both his wife and son to cancer in the past 3 years. He’s had enough and I get that. But my god, it hurt. And yet… I felt so touched that he made the effort to actually say goodbye. He told me I didn’t have to come and see him one last time, that he didn’t expect it. I’m going to make every effort to see him this week; today if I can. I am grateful for the opportunity to say a proper goodbye to someone I care about and who cared enough about me to consider me among his closest friends.

All of this is to say: be careful who you pour your love into. Reflect on the dynamic of your relationships. Know that if you’re a naturally caring person, that that is a beautiful thing to be cherished, but that there are those who will take advantage of it. Surround yourself with genuine people. Be kind to yourself and let go of those who do not appreciate you.

It hurts like hell and is hard to do when you’re already sick and disabled and rely on the kindness of others so much of your life (much as you may resent that fact). But if it’s not real, you’re doing yourself no favours by clinging on. Learning how to set boundaries is hard, but it is worth it.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. I dare say I’ll be repeating that to myself for many weeks and months to come.

#ending a friendship #Toxic Relationships #empty freindships #empty friendships #choose your friends wisely #letting go #walking away #boundaries

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piss-hands-blog · 5 years

Note

heyheyHEY u got that tasty,,, SHIGADABI PLANE OMO YOU PROMISED US-- Okay real talk tho. I love your work so much.? Like sure your fics are short but!! Thats fine bc i love them anyway. Please take my uwus

Aaaah thank chu anon

Here it is!

((Shigadabi omo! Pining and getting together, as well as the classic omorashi.

Omorashi = pants wetting, don’t like? Don’t read.

Fic is below the cut~

Please give constructive criticism! Thank you!))

“Are you all ready to leave?” Kurogiri calls out, waiting at the front door with all of the League’s luggage. All For One, being the odd person he is, had sent the five top members of the League Of Villains - Dabi, Shigaraki, Kurogiri, Toga And Twice - on a vacation for a bonding exercise. None of them had ever been overseas before, being in an illegal organisation and all, so they were looking forward to it. The only thing they weren’t looking forward to was the aeroplane ride there, which would take 8 and a half hours in total. Being stuck in a flying tube of metal all day wasn’t exactly anybody’s idea of fun, after all.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s just get outta here,” Dabi grumbles, followed by a cheery shout of “We’re coming, Giri!” From Toga. Shigaraki waits beside Kurogiri, tapping his foot anxiously.

“C’mon, you idiots, we’re gonna miss our flight,” Shigaraki groans.

“Calm your tits, Shiggy. They’re coming.” Dabi laughs, patting Shigaraki on the back. He smirks as the blue haired man glares at him, but looks away quickly when their eyes connect.

Suddenly, Twice comes tumbling down the stairs, screaming.“Yes! We are on our way! Also!” His voice switches. “We won’t be out the door in the next five minutes. Oh, and we’ll totally miss our flight.” Twice stands up and skips out the door, with the rest of the league closely following, Kurogiri carrying their luggage.

The car ride was short, and with minimal banter, as was booking in and entering the plane. Now for the hard part - 8 or so hours of hell.

As Dabi boarded the plane and found his seat with the rest of the LoV, he felt a twinge in his abdomen, which had been reoccurring since they’d left the house an hour ago. He debated going to the bathroom, but ultimately, he decided he could hold it. He took his seat next to a nervous Shigaraki, not bothering with his seatbelt just yet. It was 30 seconds before the League were all seated, and the speakers were blaring with the sound of an old man’s raspy voice.

“This is your pilot speaking. Welcome, passengers, to our flight from Japan to Hawaii! Before we take off, we have a small announcement. It is a rarely windy day today, and as a consequence of such we may have more turbulence with us. This should not be an issue - though, passengers will need to stay seated unless absolutely necessary.” There is a soft murmur that ripples throughout the plane, and Dabi sighs worriedly. This was going to be a long flight. There is a small chime from the speakers, and the seatbelt lights flicker on. Dabi rolls his eyes and fastened his seatbelt, hoping the take off doesn’t take too long.

Luckily, with only a few bumps and mildly alarming sounds, they were in the air. The seatbelt light flickers off, and Dabi almost got up to go to the bathroom, before whipping his head around to look, and seeing the long line. He undid his seatbelt and pulled out his phone, waiting for the line to shrink.

“Oi, Dabi.” Shigaraki pokes Dabi’s shoulder. Dabi glares at him,

“What do you want, crusty?” Shigaraki puts a hand on his heart at this comment.

“You know what, raisin? I’m not gonna tell you now.” Shigaraki sits back in his seat, a slight blush on his cheeks. Dabi flips him off, pretending not to notice, and goes back to his phone. He barely manages to unlock it before a chime sounds for passengers to sit down and put seatbelts on.

“What? Aww, Giri, I don’t wanna put my seatbelt back on already, it’s too tight…” Toga grumbles. Kurogiri, who never undid his belt, just shrugs. Toga whines, ands straps herself in.

“They did say there’d be a bit of turbulence.” A passenger nearby mutters.

“I’m fine with putting the seatbelt back on!” Twice chimes, doing his belt up. “Why?” His voice changes once more. “Because I’d never obey the laws of safety.”

Shigaraki, who was struggling with his seatbelt, groans in frustration. Dabi reaches over to help him wordlessly, not making eye contact. He could feel Shigaraki’s curious gaze on his, but said nothing as he sat back in his seat. He just managed to get his own on in time before the plane started rocking and tilting.

Toga yelps out in terror, clinging onto Kurogiri’s arm. Kurogiri seems unbothered by both the turbulence and Toga. Twice is tapping his finger on his thigh anxiously, not saying anything. Shigaraki is scratching his neck furiously, muttering under his breath. Dabi is unbothered by the turbulence. He has other issues, like the fact that the rocking is making the liquid in his bladder slosh uncomfortably, worsening his need. He clenches his legs, waiting for the turbulence to go away so he can use the bathroom.

The turbulence calms, and the plane goes quiet…

…before it comes back full force.

Toga’s nails are digging into Kurogiri’s arm, as Twice continues to tap nervously. Shigaraki’s scratching becomes more harsh, and god, Dabi can see flakes of skin coming off his pale, blue skin. Crusty, he thought to himself, crossing his legs tighter.

The turbulence is finally gone after 20 minutes or crying from Toga, muttering and scratching from Shigaraki, and Dabi crossing his legs, becoming increasingly desperate. The seatbelt lights flicker back off, and Dabi sighs with relief. He unbuckles his seatbelt and prepares to stand up and go to the bathroom, but Shigaraki stands up first and beats him to it. Before he can even get out of the seat, Shigaraki is entering the bathroom. Dabi groans and sits down, trying not to make his ever-increasing need obvious. He glances continuously at the bathroom door, waiting for Shigaraki to leave. He decides to pull out his phone to distract himself, scrolling through the latest memes.

After 5 minutes, Shigaraki finally comes back, looking rather smug. Dabi looks at him, raises an eyebrow, and then looks at the door. Actually, he doesn’t look at the door. He looks at the back of a huge line, waiting for the bathroom. Just his luck. Dabi glares at Shigaraki for a moment, and Shigaraki sticks out his tongue at him.

“Crusty bitch,” he spits at him.

“You just wish you’d gotten up first.” Shigaraki pokes his shoulder as he speaks. Dabi goes a little red at the poke, and brushes the pale hand away. Suddenly, with the shit eating grin on Shigaraki’s face, Dabi is hit with a realisation.

“You motherfucker.”

“Yep! And now you’ll have to wait for the line to clear up, what a shame.”

“I’ll fucking piss on you, asshole.”

“Kurogiri, Dabi’s threatening me!”

Kurogiri, along with Toga and Twice, is asleep, so they squabble back and forth for a few minutes. After a while, Dabi puts on his headphones to block out Shigaraki’s shitty insults. That doesn’t stop Shigaraki, however. He creeps up to Dabi’s ear, and whispers.

“Raisin.”“Fuck off.” Dabi goes red at the feeling of Shigaraki’s breath on his ear, and turns up his music.

“Hey raisin.” He speaks louder.

“What?”

“Psssssh.”

Water sounds, classic. Dabi crosses his legs tighter. “Fuck off, Shiggy, I’m serious.”

“Aww, but just imagine how good it would feel, Dabi, to finally let go of all that sloshing piss inside you!” He chuckles. Dabi groans at the thought. He continues making water sounds in Dabi’s ear, and Dabi’s not sure how much longer he can take it. He clenches his thighs and tries not to make an audible sound. Shigaraki’s water sounds are relentless, driving Dabi crazy with every passing second.

His bladder gives a particularly strong spasm, and he lifts up his hand involuntarily. He stops his arm just before it goes to his crotch, but it’s too late. Shigaraki has noticed, and has his mind set on one goal.

“Ooh, you must need it bad, Dabi. Are you sure you don’t want to just let it go here? The seats can be cleaned, after all~ and it’d feel so good, being free of your full bladder! Just imagine that golden stream of piss, flowing down your legs, hitting the floor with a soft pitter-patter.”

Dabi groans again, shifting and squeezing his legs together tight.

“Shiggy, please stop, I’m seriously at my limit.” He goes red with humiliation.

“Please?” Shigaraki chuckles. “Who are you want what did you do with Dabi?”

Dabi taps his feet, squirming again. “Shut the fuck up, Shiggy.”

“Pssssssssssh.”Dabi groans.

“Fucking bastard.” He can’t help it this time - He grabs his crotch, hoping to stem the flow that’s begging to come out of him. Laughing, Shigaraki continues his water sounds. Dabi grabs himself tighter, and his eyes widen as he feels a soft leak.

“Shit shit shit, no, not yet-“ he shoves his second hand on top of the first, grabbing himself desperately. “Fuck, I’m not fucking peeing here, no-“ but it’s too late. Shigaraki’s water sounds have stopped, and the grin on his face fades as a soft dribble sound is heard, piss begining to patter onto the floor. Dabi hides his face in his hands, essentially giving up.

There is silence for a few seconds, where Shigaraki is stunned. He decides to speak up.

“Sh-shit, Dabi, are you-“ But Shigaraki is cut off with a loud shout from Dabi.

“FUCK OFF, BASTARD. YOU DID THIS.” He sobs as he floods his seat, his piss dribbling onto the floor. Dabi sobs in embarrassment, trying to stifle his groans of relief because god, this feels so fucking good. He sobs into his hands, hiding his face.

“I- fuck, I didn’t think- I’m sorry, Dabi, I didn’t mean to make you-“ Shigaraki stumbles over his words, but Dabi is ignoring him. His stream comes to a stop, Dabi still sobbing.

“Yeah, well look at what you fucking did. Just- just fuck off.”Shigaraki sighs. He looks at Dabi with an expression of sadness and guilt. He puts a soft hand on his shoulder, careful to keep one finger away.

“Dabi, I’m sorry. I was just having a little fun, I didn’t honestly think you’d…“ he stops for a moment. "I’ll help you clean up, and we’ll never talk about this again. okay?”

Dabi sniffles, but brings his red face out of his hands. He looks down at his mess, and wipes his face of tears.

“Y-Yeah… I- I’m sorry for yelling at ya, Shiggy.“ Dabi offers him a weak smile, which Shigaraki returns goofily.

“Hey, it’s no problem. We’ll wait for the line to clear up and you can go change. Oh, take this.” He takes his jacket off and hands it to Dabi. “Wrap it around your waist, so people won’t see it. I can wash it.” He pats Dabi on the back, his thumb crossed behind his index finger. Dabi takes it greatfully, and notices a pink flush dusting Shigaraki’s cheeks. His bright blue eyes connect with Shigaraki’s crimson ones, and they lock eyes, frozen in time. Dabi grabs Shigaraki’s hand without thinking, and Shigaraki smiles and squeezes the hand back, still careful of his thumb.

“Tomura, I…” He starts, but Shigaraki cuts him off by leaning in and smashing their lips together. Dabi goes red, but he kisses Shigaraki back with desire. As the pair melt into the kiss, the years of pining becomes clear to the both of them, and they break apart panting.

“I love you, Dabi… even if you did piss yourself.“ Dabi can’t help but chuckle.

“I love you too, Tomura.”

There is silence for a moment, until…

“Fucking FINALLY! Twice, Giri, you guys owe me 20 bucks!”

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missdreawrites · 6 years

Text

Far Cry 5, and How I Feel a Week after Beating It

@weekend-writer, here we go. Hold on to your butts.

I just recently finished Far Cry 5, and mid-way through the playthrough, someone asked if I thought it was worth the 60$ USD and I had originally said yes. Now, having completed the game, I’m rethinking that stance. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not sorry I bought the game for full price, but I’m definitely a bit - sad over it. So I’m going to go through the game point by point, in a somewhat blistering, disappointed review.

Obviously, beyond the cut, there are SPOILERS ahead.

Let me start this out by saying I enjoyed seventy-five percent of this game. The graphics were amazing, the outposts were all unique, the characters were priceless (fucking Hurk Jr, man, I love him so much and dude, I ran around with a bear named Cheeseburger). The music was fantastic. I loved the theme, and the battle music, and even the scary uber-Christian hymns that played on Eden’s Gate Radio.

Now, for those of you who are looking for a bit of a rundown, the game is about a Rookie Deputy Sheriff - hereby known as Rook for the rest of this review. You play the Rook who goes to Eden’s Gate, an uber Christian cult in the middle of Hope County, Montana. You, Deputy Hudson, Deputy Pratt, and a US Marshall go to arrest the leader of this cult, Joseph Seed.

Like in Far Cry 4, you have a choice in the very beginning of the game. You can choose not to arrest Joseph - though you have to loiter for ten minutes or so as your partners and boss get increasingly angry with you, but eventually the Sheriff decides you’re right, this is not a battle we want to fight, let’s just go. Credits.

However, if you actually want to play the game, you have arrest Joseph and bring him to your chopper, wherein all hell breaks loose, and you crash because of course you do. Joseph Seed tells you that arresting him was breaking the first “seal” and anyone who has watched Supernatural within the last thirteen years knows what that means.

The rest of the events in the game are not all that important to this review, only that Joseph Seed has several siblings that you have to defeat to get to him after you escape and are set loose on the region.

There’s John Seed, a torturer who has Deputy Hudson. He’s obsessed with cleansing people of their sins. There’s Jacob Seed, a war veteran who has so many PTSD issues I can’t actually list them all, and he’s a manipulator who believes the weak should be culled from the herd. He brainwashes you a la Bioshock, only he uses a song to do it. Then there’s Faith Seed, and she’s not actually related to them. She was a junkie who came to Joseph for help, and ended up helping him create Bliss, this hallucinogenic drug that stretches the bounds of reality just a bit too much.

There. Now.

You have to liberate each region (John, Jacob, and Faith respectively) in order to unlock the final confrontation with Joseph. Each region has a bar that has little bubbles on it, once reach those bubbles, those are essentially check points of “pissing off a Seed sibling” and they send Hunters out after you.

1. Mechanic I hate number the first one: the Hunting Party

So you’ve pissed off a Seed sibling! They send a Hunting Party after you. The party arrives - even if you fast travelled to a different region, or even the other side of the map. Or like me, you’re a stealthy snipery jerkface and you kill the entire party undetected as they yell about finding me and “use the Bliss Bullets, John/Jacob/Faith wants ‘em alive!”

I kill all eight of the hunting party, and breathe a sigh of relief. There are no more red markers, Boomer says no one else is around. I venture out of cover.

Blam.

Screen goes wavery, then sparkly. Then Rook falls unconscious. Despite having killed the party, or left the party or hidden, these are scripted events, so I literally can do nothing to save myself. I have to get kidnapped by the Seed sibling, for Plot Reasons.

Annoying but manageable.

2. Mechanic I hate number the second one: The Rook

Unlike in the rest of the Far Cry series, you are not a person. By which I mean, you’re not like Jason Brody or Ajay Ghale, or even Jack. You’re still the Rook, of course but you’re not voiced, you have no personality. You can be male or female, and the only person in the entire game that mentioned my gender as female was freakin’ Hurk.

Your character makes noise - when you’re hurt or falling, you grunt and groan and cry out, but you don’t talk. You don’t emote. You are just a blank canvas. What’s worse, is they didn’t bother recording two sets of dialogue like Bethesda did in Fallout 4.

So all the cultists just call you by a gender neutral sound. “Get ‘em!”/”I saw ‘em over there!”/”I got eyes on the sinner!”

Y’all. Y’all come on.

This is especially hard to stomach when the characters are spewing just the most ridiculous nonsense at you. There’s a moment after you get kidnapped by Jacob, and Joseph is there. He goes on this - truly awful and ridiculous monologue about how he used to be a different person, he was married, a baby on the way. How happy he was. Then there was an accident. His wife died, and the doctors saved the baby but the baby was sick, probably premature, and they said he had to be strong for his baby daughter.

TW: he is not strong for his baby daughter.

The rook doesn’t say a damn thing to this horrible man who admits he killed his baby daughter instead of taking care of her. The rook just watches him, from behind bars. Yo, I was livid. I was like WHAT THE FUCK YOU MURDERER HOW DARE YOU PREACH PEACE but nope. My character was totally silent.

Y’ALL.

3. Mechanic that I hate number the third one: the Ending (collectively)

WARNING: Here be spoilers. If you don’t care about me spoiling the entire ending confrontation with Joseph, keep on reading. Otherwise, feel free to skip down to the conclusion, which I’ve helpfully put in bold.

SO THE ENDING.

After you liberate each region, gather all your Roster, finish your side quests and helping each person you find, Joseph Seed contacts you - he offers to open up his compound so you two can finally have it out. Now, I’ll take this moment to say that I put it off for a bit. I ignored Joseph so I could finish side quests, and my partner, who beat the game two days before I did told me no, go do it, you won’t want to keep playing after. Why waste that time?

I was thoroughly alarmed by that statement. So even though it was almost seven in the morning and I’d stayed up all night to play it, I drove my ass to Joseph’s compound and in a mirror of the very beginning, walked up to the church.

Immediately, I am placed in a cut scene. This has happened a few times throughout the game, Whenever John Seed implored you to say “yes” to whatever tortures he wanted bestow on you, to talking with your allies. However, the length of this cutscene dragged on, until Joseph is done preaching at you.

He says he’ll give you an offer. That despite all you’ve done, despite the fact that you’ve killed his flock and family, he’s going to offer you peace. He’s going to do the “right thing” and offer you peace. You hear something behind you - still in a cutscene - and turn around to see all your friends. The roster you helped out, minus the animals, all Blissed out of their minds (as noted by the glowing cloud around their faces) and leading tied up people into the compound. They aim their guns at Deputy Pratt, Deputy Hudson and the Sheriff, all of whom have been recaptured by the people you thought were your friends. Joseph tells you if you resist, if you don’t choose peace, then you can kiss your friends goodbye.

Then you’re given the ability to choose two options: Resist or Accept.

IF YOU CHOOSE RESIST:

He knocks over some Bliss barrels, and everything gets all kinds of fucked up, and your friends attack Pratt, Hudson and the Sheriff. After you fight off Joseph for a second or two, you’re able to revive them (not a new mechanic, you can revive anyone during the rest of the game) and all four of you start fighting Joseph. You have to fight your roster as well, but once they go down, you’re able to revive them as well - which puts them back on your side. However, Joseph will also try to revive them, which leaves them your enemy.

I guess “killing them” and reviving them is like cognitive recalibration? Either way, once all your roster-friends are revived an on your side, you turn your attention to Joseph and shoot the fuck out of him. It’s real cathartic… until you beat him and are immediately locked into another cutscene.

While Joseph monologues at you, the Sheriff (your boss, essentially) comes up behind him, declares him under arrest, and handcuffs him. Joseph proclaims that another seal has broken, and then the entire screen shakes with some kind of impact. The cutscene shows you, Hudson, Pratt, and the Sheriff a giant mushroom cloud, not too far away from where you are, across the lake.

There’s a moment of shock, and Joseph declares it the end of the world, just like he predicted. He was right, and the end is upon us, etc, etc yadda.

We all run toward a car, with Joseph in tow, and then you’re given control back just long enough to drive helter skelter away from the shockwave, as shit is getting set on fire, until you’re suddenly locked in another cutscene just in time to slam into a falling tree.

The screen goes black and red, as you come to, realizing that Pratt, Hudson and the Sheriff are dead. The car door opens and you fall out, blacking back out. When you wake up again, you’re in a bunker - the same bunker you woke up in before being set loose on the county after the prologue, and who should be with you?

Joseph. Seed.

He tells you that everyone in Hope County is dead, and it’s all your fault, why couldn’t you have just picked peace? But hey, it doesn’t matter - we’re family now and one day, we’ll walk through Eden’s Gate together.

“I am your Father,” Joseph Seed says, leaning back in his seat, and staring at you with those wide eyes. “And you are my Child.” He locks eyes with you, never blinking, as the screen fades to black.

Credits.

I was in fucking shock. According to my partner who was awake on the couch and watching me play through this, I kept clicking my mouse like I was trying to pull my guns to shoot him. Why couldn’t I just shoot him?

Now, I’m willing to admit that a lot that might have been a hallucination - the cutscenes make use of the Bliss (which is hallucinogenic) a lot - even though when you aren’t in a cutscene the drug only behaves that way in the most minorest of ways. I’ve been running through fields of Bliss for ages, and all you get is weird sparkling on the corners of your screen. Sometimes you hallucinate Faith Seed, or animals that aren’t there.

However, ultimately, whether or not it was a hallucination doesn’t matter. Because the credits roll and the game is over. Hope County is gone, your friends, your allies, they’re gone. Your only companion is the man you failed to kill, the man you failed to arrest, and you’ve lost.

You lost.

So, utterly livid, I reloaded my save just before choosing Resist, and instead chose the other option.

IF YOU CHOOSE TO ACCEPT PEACE:

Joseph lets you go. He monologues a bit more, but he lets you, Hudson and Pratt, the Sheriff, he lets everyone go. You retreat to the edge of the Compound, get into the same truck you’d get into if you chose to resist, and start driving away. The Sheriff talks to you a little and ultimately what he says isn’t important, because the radio turns on, as you drive away.

Remember how I said Jacob Seed brainwashed you.... With a song?

The screen goes red as your character starts screaming, and then the screen goes black.

Roll credits.

The game is over. The last time that song played, when you did Jacob’s Region, you killed one of your allies because he brainwashed you into doing it. The entire lead up to killing Jacob is one big brainwashing suckfest, and you do things you don’t think you’re doing until it’s over.

It’s very, very clear that you’ll kill everyone in that car with you.

You lose. Everyone in that car knows how bad Joseph Seed is, they’re your survivors, your witnesses. The people who could have helped you get more manpower to come back and get rid of Joseph with more than a song and a prayer.

But you kill them. You lose.

Both of these endings mean that the ninety hours I spent playing were useless. Nothing I did mattered. Either the world fucking ends, or you murder the people you spent the whole game trying to save. Nothing you did matter, you made no difference, and you lose.

I have nothing against games where you don’t win. I have nothing against games where the ending message is you lose. I have serious issues with being plot railroaded via cutscene into endings I don’t want. Why couldn’t I shoot Joseph? I shot Faith, and Jacob and John. Clearly due process wasn’t important THEN, so why are we arresting Joseph? He’s a dangerous man who knows how to use a dangerous drug to mind control people - but yeah sure, let’s arrest him.

CONCLUSION:

Am I disappointed I bought the game? No, not really. I’m glad I played.

However, I was left with this - bad taste in my mouth, a little. The endings were lackluster, I feel like a require closure to move on with my life - especially because I beat it a week ago, and I’m still stewing over the ending.

Like the original ending of Mass Effect 3, where I was left in shock, I hope that Ubisoft hears how disappointing those endings were and gives us a miniature DLC (to go along with the three weird ones they already have) that gives us a better option.

To the anon who asked me if it was worth the 60$ USD, I originally answered your ask saying yes, because I loved the game.

I hope you see this, and note that my answer has changed. If you’re a hardcore fan of the series, like me, sure - spend the 60. But if you’re not? If you’re a casual player who just liked the idea of the plot - give it a miss, until the next Steam Summer Sale or Xbox Gold Give Away.

This is a little disjointed, I started it while I was at work and then slept before finishing it but I am free and available for any questions via ask/message system. Anon hate about loving the endings will be added to the fire and will fuel the heating for my house. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

#far cry 5 #far cry 5 spoilers #review #thoughts #SO I HEARD YOU LIKE BLISS #far cry #joseph seed #john seed #faith seed #jacob seed #the rook #shenaniganry

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blame-canada · 6 years

Text

On-Call Sinner, Full-Time Lover - Creek

The plot twist that was falling in love with the imp that stole him away from eternal damnation was something Craig couldn't say he would've ever expected out of life, but here he was, deep in the throes of twitterpated existence with an otherworldly creature that made his heart pound. Damning souls together paid the bills alright, but being on-call sucks regardless of your occupation- unless your assignment happens to be an old 'friend.'

Hello friends and welcome to the Tweekquel you’ve all been waiting for (or it was probably just me, really) to Tempt A Demon, Pay The Price! These two are just too fun to write. Read it on AO3 here. On with the show!

Waking up always felt a bit odd now, Craig had noticed. Sleep didn’t quite feel the same, and he wondered if perhaps the pillows were too flat, or the black-out canopy too stifling. It was probably the fire though. Everything was always a little on fire.

Everything was so on fire, in fact, that when he blinked awake slowly to the sound of noisily flapping wings, he looked down at his feet to find the edge of his sheets ablaze. He stomped at it lazily and it fizzled out, and the sheets regenerated to their normal, pristine condition. It was kind of really great to live in a magical Hell apartment. Well, besides all the fire.

“Babe,” Craig croaked, taking his time cracking his eyes open fully and squirming around in their king-sized bed while he stretched. “Babe, why are you up?” The canopy did a pretty good job of blocking out the flames and their light, but he could still see the shadow of his lover flitting about the room haphazardly. The shadow grew in size until a head of wild hair with pretty little horns popped in between the opening of the canopy to greet him, wide eyes and all.

“We’re on-call today, remember?” He shivered a bit, and Craig slow-blinked at him.

“Yeah, but we never actually get called. Come back to bed, honey, come on,” he begged lazily, reaching his hand out to scratch under his chin, and Tweek, the darling little thing, began to make the little rumbling sound that echoed from his throat like a cat’s purr. Nevermind the distant screeching of the damned souls that wavered beneath it. He relaxed into his scratches for a few seconds before coming to his senses, and he swatted Craig’s hand away.

“Y-you know that’s my weakness! That’s mean!” Tweek whined, and Craig groaned as his shifting about let more of the fire-light into his dark safe haven. “You come on. You know if you don’t take this job seriously, Satan will be seriously pissed off!”

“I know but Tweek,” Craig yawned again and Tweek looked marginally more mad, “we never get calls. Just come back to bed and we can turn the alarm up.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” Tweek trailed off, and Craig could see his tail swinging behind him nervously, the spade tip twitching along with his usual tics.

“I’m the surest sure. C’mere.” He grappled at nothing in the air lazily, and Tweek giggled at him, his pointy teeth poking through his smile. He folded and tucked his wings, making them small for convenience’s sake with his fancy dark magicks, and crawled in to meet him. Craig ruffled his hair and kissed the crook of his neck.

Perhaps he should explain.

If the memory of the beginning of their passionate but sweet relationship escapes you, it’s likely you either read the tale too long ago, or never did in the first place. Here is a convenient link, so that Craig won’t feel the need to start at the very beginning. That would be annoying when the chronicle is right there, for your ease of access.

Anyway.

Immediately after having been teleported away from his false church through the infinite wormholes of Hell, Tweek had begun his training on how to keep a human being. Namely, learning that they frequently needed food and water, different from the usual sustenance he needed every few days that dripped menacingly from Hell’s stalactites. He found it annoying how much Craig needed to consume to stay alive, and though he’d tried to skimp out for convenience’s sake before, Craig was very good at being annoying about being hungry. He had begun to regret deserting for him.

Then of course, they began their very important and serious studies of Sodom and Gomorrah, and as they hopped from town to town to avoid the eye of Satan that wished to punish Tweek, they became very well-learned scholars. So well-learned, in fact, that their expertise were something to be quite proud of, and Tweek would never regret deserting Hell for him ever again. It had taken Craig a minute to get used to the, well, fur, and all, but the wings and horns and pointy teeth kind of made up for it. It wasn’t like he wasn’t already going to Hell or anything.

Fast-forward to when Satan did finally get ahold of them, and while Tweek groveled, Craig hung back, hiding behind his splayed, fearful wings. Tweek began to cry, his twitching and shivering increasingly distracting and difficult to speak through, and Craig watched Satan’s eyes grow soft as Tweek told their story. Lucky for them, Satan was a sensitive man and a sucker for young gay love stories, and they’d been granted their own Hell-apartment as long as they continued to collect souls of the damned. The rest was Sodom and Gomorrah-flavored history, and now they lied together in their luxurious canopy bed, on their day off but on-call, and it felt startlingly comparable to a regular life on Earth. Craig didn’t miss home much.

The warmth of Tweek’s unnaturally high body temperature easily lulled Craig into the beginnings of a light sleep, and he could feel Tweek’s body relax as it began to rest as well. He sighed lightly and wrapped an arm around Tweek’s middle, his head curled into his bare chest, and let his body sink into the incredible plush softness of their mattress.

Then the alarm went off.

Tweek had certainly turned up the volume, and from just outside the canopy blared something straight out of a shitty Halloween soundscapes CD. Seriously, Craig was pretty sure that was what it was. Tweek groaned from beside him and crawled out of their bed to slap the off button just as a fake wolf howl began its crescendo, and the little scroll that appeared out of thin air with their assignment arrived in a puff of black smoke under his clawed hand. He yawned loudly, the action appearing not unlike a cat, and rubbed his eyes awake. Craig did the same as he fumbled to get out from under the sheets and face the noise of their unfortunate paging.

“We never get calls,” Tweek mimicked, clearly irritated with Craig, as he collected the essentials. Craig rolled his eyes while he pulled on real pants.

“What do we have to do?”

“It says it’s another routine damnation, s-so it should be quick,” Tweek muttered, his speech impaired by the hair pin sticking out of his mouth. He pulled it out and stabbed it into his hair right around his left horn, disguised in its placement but effectively forming another sharp spike in his hair. Craig made fun of him for weeks for bothering to style his hair like that.

Craig yawned one more time as he buttoned up his black dress shirt, shifting the collar and shoulders forward and tucking it into his pants. It was annoying that he had to wait until they were at the surface to put on his collar, but it completed the aesthetic, and Craig cared about the aesthetic. He quite liked the routine he and Tweek had invented for their work.

“Ready?” Tweek asked, blinking over at him while he finished smudging some eyeliner under his eyes, and Craig nodded at him once.

“Ready. Fuck it up, babe.”

Tweek snorted, and with a wave of his hand, a portal appeared and screeched at them from their feet. They clasped hands, and together they stepped through, the whooshing sound of their descent whipping past Craig’s ears along with the screams of the damned. “I’m so glad we upgraded to the sound-proof fire,” Craig said, conversationally, and Tweek hummed his agreement. “I’m sick of all the goddamn screaming.”

“Yeah well, t-try thousands of years of it,” Tweek said, and then they were just below the surface, and Tweek got to work on his demolition.

This was probably the hottest part of the ritual. It was a bit archaic that they still had to claw through the ground to get out in the first place, but it also meant Craig got to watch Tweek’s back muscles and arms work their enhanced strength and magic to make a terrifying entrance. He still remembered the horrible cracks in the earth Tweek had made when he came to collect him, and he nearly sighed aloud at the fondness of their first moments together, so full of fear and also thinly repressed sexual attraction. God, he loved him.

The first sight of the Earth’s surface greeted them and it was night time, as was typical, and Tweek glanced back at Craig with a smirk before dramatically plunging his hand into the floorboards of their entrance portal. He took another quick look at his assignment scroll, suddenly hovering in his hand, and then hoisted himself into the land of the living. The high-pitched squeal from above was so satisfying.

Tweek let out a terrifying growl as Craig clambered out behind him, hiding behind his gigantic wings spread wide across what looked like a church. He would make his own entrance once he got his bearings and finished placing his collar. The pews were shoved back and crooked and at least one stained-glass window had blown out from the force. Craig tsked in his head at how cheap it all looked, like the church equivalent of a secondhand shop, but then he caught one of the programs tucked in a little caddy glued on the side of one of the pews.

Wait.

He snatched the scroll from Tweek’s side, exhilaration filling his chest, and then exploding when he finally read the name. He didn’t bother to make a super dramatic entrance, too high on the incredible irony of it all. He laughed, loud and unrestrained, and gently pushed his way forward to step in front of his darling imp.

“Oh my god. No way. No fuckin’ way.” He continued to chuckle as he ran a hand through his hair, the confidence of his position of power running through him like a poison. Sweet, sweet poison.

“W-what the fuh- Craig?!” their victim shrieked, and Craig laughed louder, practically giddy with the pleasure of what he was about to do. “We thought you fucking died!”

“Oh, I think you’ll find me very much alive,” Craig said, lowering his gaze so that he knew the fire surrounding him would reflect in them, forever an experienced showman even on the other side. He stepped forward, the clacking of his shoes reverberating through the room over the distant screams and hissing Tweek was adding to the background, for the atmosphere. A lovely touch, really. “What are the goddamn odds though, right?” He pulled out the scroll and his thick framed reading glasses, and read from it slowly.

“Imp Tweek, Fear Incarnate, Manifest 48: you are hereby summoned per your duties as on-call board-certified Damnation Technician to elicit justice upon the following sinner, predetermined to be damned to Hell under circumstances unnatural and premature: Mr. Eric Theodore Cartman, false prophet and solicitor of unmarked, unrecognized religion invented for-profit at the expense of compromised souls other than one’s own. This violates the code of conduct produced for directors of houses of worship, and sentences you to eternal damnation to Hell for your crimes against humanity.” He let the scroll snap shut and Cartman made a delicious flinch. “Do you have objections to this ruling?”

Cartman gawked, stuttering on a consonant and blinking wildly as his eyes darted all over the imp who shadowed him like a nightmarish silhouette. Tweek’s growling rose in volume and Craig smirked, hushing him with a harshly uttered “Heel,” a command that always pissed Tweek off later but proved effective in the moment. The more inhuman Tweek seemed, the better. Tweek, true to character, stopped with a vicious snarl, and flapped his wings once to force Cartman back in a gale force wind into the podium, much like Craig had once stood on his own failed Death Day.

“P-p-p-please, Craig, we were coworkers! Y-you must understand, we were all so worried for you, I’m seriously! Remember that one time when we, um,” he faltered, obviously unable to find a time Craig might be grateful for, his voice the high whine he reserved for when he begged his mother when they were young. Craig winced in disgust, and took off his glasses to tuck them in his breast pocket.

“Tweek,” Craig said, and that was all the command Tweek needed to leap over Craig’s head and land with a thunderous bang that broke the floor beneath him, leaving a puncture wound with the end of his pitchfork and his tail swinging wildly back and forth with excitement in Craig’s face.

“What is that thing?” Cartman asked shrilly, squeaking when Tweek took a tiny step forward in his crouched predator position.

“An imp,” Tweek and Craig corrected at the same time, and Craig swooned for him before continuing. “He's the creature sent to damn you to Hell for your sins. He’s also my lover, and we live together in an apartment in Hell.” The look on Cartman’s face made it all so worth it.

“You’re fucking kidding me. What the hell?” Cartman said, and Tweek snarled at him again, the gnashing of his teeth audible from behind him. He was probably intentionally salivating too, to get the full drooling-massive-sharp-teeth effect going to terrify him. His wings were tilted forward, a sign of aggression Craig had come to understand by observation, and with teeth bared he knew he looked like an absolute terror. It was delectable, the fear in Cartman’s eyes right now. He wished he could take a picture.

“No objections then? Okay,” Craig said with a shrug, and Tweek gripped his pitchfork tighter, pointing it at Cartman’s heart. “We hereby banish you-”

“Wait!” His eyes were wide and watery, and he finally dropped to his knees off his fat, wobbly little legs.“W-wait, Craig, buddy,” he tried, a nervous laugh in his throat, “you know I’m doing this to help them. They’re lost souls, and I’m giving them a God to believe in! What’s so wrong about that? Everyone needs a place to turn when they’re hurting, Craig, come on. You know it’s true. I’m giving them purpose!”

“All you’re doing is making them pay for some bullshit special effects and your fast food intake.” Craig yawned and blinked slowly, looking forward to crawling back in bed to nap once this was all over. “Take him away, baby.”

Tweek hummed, the sound especially supernatural above the surface, and stabbed the end of his pitchfork into the floor. From its entry point, a new crack traveled forward, splitting right between Cartman’s knees and glowing that terrifying fiery orange. It began to break in half and Cartman began to scream again, girlish and wailing, and Craig couldn’t help but laugh. “Really, the odds! Am I right?” he yelled over the screams of the damned, and Tweek took his chance to lurch forward and plunge the pointed ends of his pitchfork directly into Cartman’s chest. His screaming hitched and he coughed once, and Tweek howled blissfully into the night before using his cloven hoof to shove Cartman’s body off his murder weapon and into the crack that swallowed him whole. He flapped his wings slowly and powerfully as he watched him descend from the high ceiling, and Craig smiled, pride consuming him as the floor sealed itself shut. “Nice job, honey.”

“Thanks,” Tweek said as he dropped down to the ground, the screams having dulled to a distant thrumming so that they felt as quiet as they ever could be. “You were great”—he shuddered with a twitch—“mm, too!”

“Let’s go home,” Craig said through another big yawn, and it spread to his lover, his teeth glinting in the fire surrounding them while he stretched his mouth wide. God, it was hot. Maybe he wouldn’t go back to sleep.

Tweek smiled and took his hand, planting a kiss on his cheek, before walking him back to the hole from whence they came. “So you knew him? Do you feel bad?”

Craig scoffed. “Nah. He was an asshole. I have no reason to forgive him or care. Peru was enough bullshit for a lifetime.”

“Peru?” Tweek asked, but Craig just smiled and faced forward, and they stepped into the portal that would lead them home and back to bed where they would decidedly, most definitely, not be sleeping.

#tweek tweak #craig tucker #imp tweek #youth pastor craig #imp tweek x youth pastor craig #creek #creek sp #south park #south park phone destroyer #south park fanfiction #sp fanfiction #south park fanfic #sp fanfic #my fanfiction #my fanfic

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mrmichaelchadler · 6 years

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Natural Woman: A Tribute to Aretha Franklin

The world lost actual royalty on Thursday, August 16th, 2018, when the Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin, passed away at age 76. Our own Odie Henderson already paid tribute to her in his eloquent obituary, but we wanted to open the floor to a few more thoughts from our team, including Chaz Ebert, Nell Minow, Brian Tallerico, Omer Mozzafar, B. J. Bethel, Steve Erickson, Peter Sobczynski and Matt Fagerholm. Words can’t really do her justice, but we will try.

CHAZ EBERT

ARETHA FRANKLIN: NATURAL WOMAN

Ms Aretha Franklin, the undisputed Queen of Soul, was the singular musical influence in my life. Not the single, as in only, but the most important. I have great admiration for many singers such as Sara Vaughan, Ella Fitzgerald, Esther Phillips, Lena Horne, Whitney Houston, June Anderson, Dianna Ross, Adele, Dionne Warwick, and Barbara Streisand but Aretha’s singing helped me to discover the music of the heartstrings. Whether she was crooning "Natural Woman," "Dr Feelgood," "Giving Him Something He Can Feel," "I Say a Little Prayer," "Brand New Me," "This Girl's In Love With You," "Chain of Fools," “Nessun Dorma” or “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” her brand of soul seeped deep into my psyche, taking me through various experiences of love, as she was never timid about letting you know whether she was deliriously in love or woefully in pain, or on some platform in between the two.

There is a certain kind of down-home blues called “gut bucket” blues, not only because you feel it in your gut with each strum of the guitar but because it sounds like it is wrenched from the guts of the singer, from his or her firsthand experience with no money for rent and the baby needs shoes, and your love done got up and gone. Aretha’s songs came from her gut. There was no artifice. Her soulful moans were a direct translation whether you were wondering about love, falling in love, discovering sex, nursing a broken heart or telling a man to give you some Respect. She was that natural woman, who struggled with her weight, and her clothes but never with her affection for family and friends. When she performed professionally she sometimes demanded to be paid in cash and was known for carrying it around in her purse within her eyesight on stage. But that was her way of being assertive, for standing her ground and making sure she didn’t end up penniless like a lot of the entertainers who were taken advantage of. Whether in love or in life, her songs came from deep emotions and a myriad of deep experiences.

But she was also a multi-talented original, so her songs also came from her heart and soul, beginning with the gospel songs she sang in her father Reverend C. L. Franklin’s church in Detroit. Her rendition of “Amazing Grace,” brings me to tears each time. And the miracle is how well she seamlessly blended the gospel and the secular, finding the divinity in each. She took this blend of gospel and secular on the road with Dr Martin Luther King, Jr. to help with the struggle for civil rights. She didn’t back down from confrontation. “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” became a clarion call both for the civil rights movement and the women’s liberation movement.

I loved Aretha and what she stood for and the news of her death leaves me heartbroken. On the few occasions when Roger and I ran into her at events, I was surprised to find out that she could be shy. Or so she told me. Maybe that was part of her need for privacy; part of her Diva shield. She would get us alone and kick off her shoes, and she became playful and warm and funny. She could give as good as she got, and she loved teasing and catching up on the latest goings-on. It is so hard to say goodbye to someone who feels like they have been a part of your life for so long, even if you know them mainly through their music. I am just “saying a little prayer for her” and thanking her for all of the deeply soulful heart connections she engendered. And I am sending out the most heartfelt condolences to her family. Heaven has a new Queen.

BRIAN TALLERICO

When I was a teenager in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, a suburb of Detroit, I worked in a book store called Metro News Center (it was mostly magazines and newspapers, but also had a healthy supply of new books). I can still remember the first time Aretha Franklin walked through the front door. There was no mistaking who it was. She wasn’t the kind of face you didn’t place. It was as if actual royalty had entered the building. A hush fell over the whole store that felt almost supernatural, as if the world made way for her wherever she went. When I think of the very concept of a celebrity being “larger than life,” I think of that encounter—the Queen of Soul wandering the aisles in a book store and the world stopping to watch her do it. It was unforgettable—although I’d pay a lot of money to remember what books she bought.

The world didn’t just lose a generational musical talent, it lost that increasingly rare degree of celebrity and superstar that can truly justify the title Queen.

OMER MOZAFFAR

She was that older sister who knocked down walls with the sheer will of her personality and the power of her voice.

NELL MINOW

I won’t try to express the greatness of Aretha Franklin with superlatives. Even the most extravagant would not do her justice. I will just say that beyond that voice, her magnificent instrument, the match of any musical genre or mood, beyond the inerrant musicianship that could take a melody, twist it, stretch it, toss it to the moon and back again without losing a brilliantly shaped note, was her grace as a person and a performer. When she demanded respect, when she told you to think, when she sang, “Mary, Don’t You Weep,” when she stepped in at the last minute to substitute for the foremost tenor of the world, Luciano Pavarotti, to sing his signature aria, Nessun Dorma, everyone who was lucky enough to hear her understood that her real greatness came from the honesty of a true natural woman.

B.J. BETHEL

Aretha Franklin's title of "Queen of Soul" was more than befitting the greatest singer America ever produced. She defended her reign in numerous feuds with other singers and celebrities. But one wonders if she took the title so personal because she was a Queen without a King.

Sam Cooke was more than inspiration for Franklin. The two met when she was 12 and he was in his early 20s.

Cooke died in 1964 after being shot by the manager of a hotel, an incident that still hasn't been wholly investigated and one he family - 50 years later - still wants re-opened.

Cooke was 33 years old when he died but was already dubbed the "King of Soul" for a string of songs and hits that may never be repeated, and a voice that expressed a joy and inspiration that was quite opposite of the hard life he lived.

"A Wonderful World," "Saturday Night," "Twistin' the Night Away," "Chain Gang." were a few of his hits, songs that were all staples of pop and soul music. His talent was equaled only by Franklin.

On Franklin's hit album "I Never Loved a Man the Way I Love You," she covered two of Cooke's songs. "Good Times," and his hit "A Change Is Gonna Come" as the final track on a record that began with "Respect." Pitchfork named the record one of the 10 best of the ‘60s, Rolling Stone had it in a list of top 100 records of all time. Cooke's inspiration was all over it.

What the two could have done if they had both been blowing up the charts at the same time has always been a question hanging in my imagination.

STEVE ERICKSON

When I went out for breakfast this morning at a Manhattan cafe, the radio was tuned to a station playing '80s and '90s R&B and hip-hop. The DJ spoke in between songs about Aretha Franklin's death today and her immense importance in American culture, but at least while I was there the station couldn't be bothered to play any of her actual music. But the artists they did play - Mary J. Blige (one of her most obvious descendants), Anita Baker, even a male singer like Prince - would have sounded much different without the bravery and swagger of her late '60s and early '70s music. "Respect" is just the beginning. Albums like SOUL '69, SPIRIT IN THE DARK and YOUNG, GIFTED & BLACK offer plenty of deep cuts, and a stylistic range that includes rock, jazz, blues and gospel, although she usually just gets summed up as a soul singer. The kind of female African-American rebellion summed up by "Respect" isn't exactly absent from our culture, but it says something about our times that the attitude and struggle represented by her best music and public persona still seem very contemporary.

PETER SOBCZYNSKI

As was probably the case for a lot of people who share my age and general background, my first real exposure to the majesty of Aretha Franklin came from the silver screen. For my ninth birthday, my family went to go see “The Blues Brothers,” a film that I had been champing at the bit after having seen its production virtually take over the Chicago area the previous summer. During the first section, our heroes are jumping bridges, getting blown up, driving through shopping malls, getting smacked by nuns and getting redeemed by the power of James Brown and for a movie-mad kid like me, every frame of it was a delight. Then Jake and Elwood decide to step into a restaurant on the famed Maxwell Street to grab some lunch and, hopefully, their old guitar player and saxophonist. What they run into is a force of nature that not even the combined efforts of all the top visual effects artists in Hollywood could ever hope to equal—a pissed-off Aretha Franklin laying down the law to her husband, the guitarist, via a rendition of “Think,” the 1968 song that she co-wrote with her real life then-husband Ted White. Her performance was volcanic—a show-stopper in the best possible sense—and for the three minutes and change that she is singing, the film essentially shifts in tone from goofy musical comedy to grand opera. Even people who didn’t like the film as a whole—and such miserable creatures do exist—were blown away by that scene and many critics pointed out that one flaw in the film is that when Jake and Elwood leave with their former bandmates, they inexplicably neglected to bring her along as well.

As a result of that movie, I began looking into the R&B/soul legends who populated the soundtrack and whose careers were given a welcome boost as a result of their association with the film, Franklin chief among them. I will admit that there are other people who could better articulate the power of her voice and how it not only revolutionized the music world but proved to be a force of strength in the battles for civil rights and women’s rights. I am not even going to attempt to do that for fear of inadvertently sounding like a character out of a lesser Nick Hornby novel. I will, say, however, that she was an artist who well and truly gave her all with every performance. She could take a dumb song (I’m looking at you, “Freeway of Love”) and usually invest it with far more passion and energy than it deserved so that even the throwaway filler tracks had more life to them than the best efforts of most of her contemporaries. When she had the chance to work on better material—(“You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman” to “Think” (which she would eventually perform in “what would be one of the few highlights in the otherwise dire “Blues Brothers 2000”) to “Nessun Dorma,” the aria from Puccini’s “Turandot” that she famously performed during the 1998 Grammy Awards for millions of viewers, literally at the last minute, after original performer Placido Domingo fell ill—the results were simply exhilarating. She may be gone now in the literal sense but thanks to her musical legacy, the power and presence that she demonstrated every time she stepped up to a microphone will never be diminished.

MATT FAGERHOLM

Some people have you at "hello." Aretha Franklin had me at "Think." Her performance of that iconic tune in "The Blues Brothers" was such an electrifying and hilarious showstopper that it made me a lifelong fan. I received a six-CD boxed set of her greatest hits for Christmas that I listened to throughout my childhood, amazed by the versatility of her genius. Three years ago, she made a surprise appearance at the Kennedy Center Honors, where she paid tribute to Carole King by bringing down the house with "(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman." President Obama wept, and I did too. Thank you, Aretha, for your limitless inspiration.

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thesylvalining · 7 years

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I recently told a friend of mine it’s been hard attempting to stick to the high road lately. Apparently, all I really needed to do was hop the pond, land in Italy and go for a hike in the Appeninos with Lisa! After that, the fabulous Universe would provide all the essentials (food, water, wine, great friends, amazing scenery, adventure and — post hike — very cute boys) on this wonderful, unpredictable journey.

Day Three: San Benedetto in Alpe – Mt. Lavone

Morning broke spectacularly sunny and warm, spiriting us straight from bed in San Benedetto with smiling faces. Downstairs, we made quick work of walnut cake and coffee, then hightailed it upstairs to pack.

It happened to be Sunday, so we found much of Toscana and Emilia-Romagna (the two provinces sandwiching this section of the Apenninos) out for a jaunt, too. Especially on the first 4.5 km to the gushing waterfall at Acquachetta — because, of course, spring is prime time for checking out waterfalls and finally, the weather seemed to agree. So, we trailed countless families traipsing in jeans, hiking groups and teenagers infested with hormones leaping off rocks at each other and us like sugared out kangaroos.

We had an ongoing joke that it was un miracolo (a miracle) we ever made it anywhere with all the frequent stops to take pictures and/or pee. Both of us apparently have bladders the size of antique espresso cups… Before today, we would literally squat next to each other like two over-caffeinated frogs in the middle of the trail or wherever, not even pausing our conversation.

Now, there were people everywhere and trying to pee and avoid being spotted was harder than picking out the ground beef in a pile of tagliatelle al ragu. It was impossible in fact, but Lisa harbors a fear that she’s gonna run out of H20 at any moment so she chugs it like a college student doing a keg stand. And I gulp water as if I were still living at the bone dry elevation of 9,000 feet except also in 150 degree weather. Sorry if it’s TMI for anybody, but welcome to hiking, where the world is your toilet and watching each other leap around tree trunks, panicked, yanking up shorts/skirts because a(nother) school group fast approached was better than anything trending on YouTube.

Anyhoo, we took our chances and arrived at Acquachetta with empty bladders. At the intersection where the trail diverged from the crowds (and went straight up) we shed our packs and hiked around the waterfall for a different perspective. There, we had a mini Contemplation Hour, just meditating on life, watching the water flow from wherever so much water flows…

DCIM101GOPRO

And then, as I said, Up was the keynote speaker at a conference on multi-day hikes. First, we went up through increasingly quiet forests, past trees still laden with blooms despite the recent wind. Then more up past ruins leftover from the numerous hardy folk that lived in the mountains pre-WW2. As we followed a more than picturesque stream up into mossy, green forests, Lisa reminded me of how guerilla fighters also hid out in these woods during WW2.

One of the many choice elements of hiking or biking in bella Italia is the frequent attendance of potable water. Unlike the good ol US of A, people have lived in this country and its forests for millenia. As such, there are remnants of life throughout, even in more “remote” (compared to the vast expanses back home) areas like the Parco Nazionale delle Foreste Casentinesi, Monte Falterona, Campiga — the National Park in and around which our hike took place. Lisa filled up her bottle at a spring after we never found the supposed fountain at Acquachetta; I was too chicken. Despite Lisa’s reassurances, I couldn’t quite gulp untreated water straight out of a mountain. Not after managing to thus far avoid giardia or any slightly less hellish bacteria/virus from Colorado or elsewhere on the planet.

By the time we crested the first major ridge, we felt accomplished — but some of the good feelings melted like nocciola (hazelnut) gelato in the sun when we saw the trail’s trump card: a route straight up the next impossible spine.

DCIM101GOPRO

By the time we made that ridge our b*tch, it felt as though our calves might explode like squeezed, ripe grapefruits. But we kept ourselves together and transitioned to a treed section of relatively, thankfully flat trail, with deep duff that took pity on our knees. Just ahead was Mt. Lavane, our highest point of the day and trip at 1247 meters (4091 feet).

Suddenly, we popped from the forest into a meadow where a natural gas pipeline stretched as far as we could see. And — just to taunt us — a gravel road gleamed in the sunshine with a red Fiat Panda parked at its end. Hiking in Europe is different from the Us, but nonetheless fantastic; rewind back to my more married days and 2009, when Tyler, our friend Pete and I haunted il Parco like pasty, foreign ghosts. They’d mountain bike and I’d try not to get lost, following peppermint-themed signs through the same forest, different valley… And I’d have the same finale: hiking for hours in The Nature, high-fived at the end by a road and/or a car.

Obviously, the uphill battle had us ravenous, so Lisa and I skirted the Panda to a viewpoint and destroyed leftover ravioli and tagliatelle al ragu from the night before. We discussed our sleeping options — ahead, there were two huts, the first of which might be (and was) in the stand of trees a ravioli’s throw up the trail.

After spotting it, we didn’t even bother checking out the second option:

Inside a giant stack of wood and a fireplace put the exclamation on a particularly emphatic sentence about not freezing our asses off at night!

A dampness lay about the chilly innards of the hut, which would require a fire sooner than later but first: Contemplation Hour!!!!

We spent the next three or four hours stretching, napping and taking turns reading my novel aloud to each other on the Sunniest Bench in the World. In the glorious spring sun, I folded my thoughts around the theme of acceptance like a piadina (a Romagnola-style tortilla) around squacquerone (a soft white Romagnolo cheese that pairs perfectly with piadina and a little arugula).

Only since I departed Dillon and cast off the mantle of familiarity have I truly accepted and embraced joyfully my freedom! Tyler and I are finished — and the world lies ahead of me, ready to be devoured like an orb of piadine e squacquerone. Now, my heart and head are standing on the same shore, ready to depart. What a process… and it’s not as if my heart doesn’t still feel pain, or that I don’t feel lonely or angry. The difference, my friends isn’t pissing in the wind: it’s a sort of calm acceptance I’ve been able to develop of wherever I’m at, whenever I’m there.

And so I sat in the sun, not exactly without a care in the world, but with diminuitive cares and out in the world. Glorious!

After Contemplation Hour came fire and smoking ourselves out of the rifugio repeatedly. I assumed a helpful Smokey the Bear attitude — not only preventing forest fires but also the accidental preserving of ourselves and our eyeballs like wild caught, sockeye salmon. To date, all my camping paraphernalia still wreaks enough to bring back poignant memories of my firefighting days. Even before figuring out the delicate balance between smoke and oxygen, we had to take a break for the sunset:

Eventually Smokey nailed the smoke-air algorithum and the rifugio was comfortable enough for more book reading, more leftovers and later, a comfortable night’s sleep.

Day Four: Back to the barn, Mt. Lavane to Faenza

In the wee hours, both of us heard great footsteps around the rifugio as if the giants of our dreams sniffed about, gazing at the abundant stars. After we arose, the mysterious footsteps were revealed: a herd of horses grazed in the meadow below, with four foals in tow, two of which looked positively new to the world.

With the last trickles of our water, we made espresso in Lisa’s little bialetti and broke our fast with pears and cheese. Throughout, we watched the horses lay down, get up, graze, whinny and romp around. As Lisa pointed out, watching horses in normal life wouldn’t be magical; but under the bluebird sky, in the moment, it was.

The wind fairly blew us down the mountain — then back up, because we managed to miss a few of the pepperminty signs. Then down again in leaps and shoves, through meadows, fences, forest, down the ridge, down, down, down.

A couple hours later, thirsty and with aching shins, we met up with a gravel road in the metropolis of Campigno. A handful of houses quietly watched as we excitedly approached the town faucet, set — as most of them are — into a stone wall.

“It’s off,” Lisa said, the disappointment in her voice matching the dryness of my mouth. She called to an older man emerging from his front door — was there another fountain? Maybe down the road, he said. Do you need water? Come fill up inside.

So we climbed the steps and were positively assailed by hospitality. An older woman inside said oh, if you’d come sooner, you could’ve had lunch! A second older man in a red sweater said, in a thick accent, how about some wine? How about vin santo (a traditionally Tuscan desert wine)? We acquiesced; this vin santo turned out to be homemade and positively delicious. Lisa and the other three conversed; I tried to keep up with my fledgling Italian skills but I was soon happily lost in a dehydrated vin santo buzz, parked next to a fire. Soon enough we were also being offered coffee — why not?

Outside the sky blackened just to offset our light moods. We reluctantly left the warmth and hospitality behind to tackle the next climb over to Crespino. Just in case it rains, said the older man who first invited us in, there’s a mill in the valley, somebody lives there, but you may be able to hide out.

Shortly, we reached said mill and the skies cracked. We knocked on the door of a large house in the drizzle; no answer. After deciding we were doing nothing wrong — in case we were “caught” — we popped into a large metal building full of rabbits, guinea hens and farm equipment as the sky unzipped itself. As we waited to see if it would stop or continue, we heated up water for instant soba noodles and read some more book. I’d really gotten Lisa hooked now 🙂

Really, the rain was there to stay, like a clueless houseguest. Despite wanting the hike to never, ever end, we threw the towel in because it was, apparently, a very wet towel. Instead of a soggy, muddy scramble over to Crespino where we may or may not be able to sleep indoors — the jury was out til we got there — we opted to retunr to Marradi on the road. In Marradi, we could catch the train and return to Lisa’s warm, dry castle.

However, we’d spaced an important detail: Monday, May 1 was an Italian holiday. Therefore, when we arrived at the train station, we found tiny symbols next to all the trains we could catch sooner or later… the *which denoted, with quiet power, those trains did not run on holidays. Currently, it was 1600 (4 p.m.) and the next train was at 1852 (6:52). Nothing to do but hole up in a bar and warm up with coffee, take the hungry edge off with Nutella gelato, then move on to Spritz and the assortment of salty snacks that make the experience aperitivo. Viva l’Italia!

Back at the castle, we managed to still be hungry… so we ordered pizzas, unpacked and Lisa got ready to leave on tour in a couple of days. On the train, we’d made a pact to adventure together every year — on bikes and/or foot.

Ole! Let the adventures continue!

Over the River and Through the Woods… Again I recently told a friend of mine it's been hard attempting to stick to the high road lately.

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