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agoodgoddamnshot · 3 years

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(Synonyms For) Tired - Geraskier [E]

[gif isn’t mine]

Warnings: Angst, Drug Use, Drug Abuse

Word Count: 7,188

ORIGINALLY POSTED TO MY AO3

“Wouldn’t you just love to punch him in the face?”

The harsh glare of the sun is almost blinding as Geralt glances over, watching Lambert gather his reins and nudge his gelding forward. He snorts and tosses his head, but Lambert quickly corrects him. It takes a moment, but eventually, Niels gives up on his pestering, and arches his neck into his bit.

The man being drenched in Lambert’s vitriol stands in the centre of the arena, hands perched on his hips as he watches each of his horses trot around him. A trained sharp eye watches every step and footfall, the seat of the horses’ riders, and how much rein each of them are being allowed to take. Armoured in a pristine and tailored suit, and glasses perched on the low of his nose, Alfred Pankratz’s ever-watching and judging eyes are never too far away.

Lambert keeps the rest of his words tightly concealed behind clenched teeth, even as Alfred calls out to him. “Tighten up that rein, Blake,” his Redanian-accented voice booms through the indoor arena, even over the rhythmic thumping and snorting of horses.

Gods, he wants to talk back. Geralt barely manages to stop himself from smiling when Lambert huffs out a sharp breath.

Roach floats underneath him; never causing bother or hassle, striding easily around the circuit as if she were in a test. He never needs to tell her to do anything. A small shift in his hands or in his seat will have her collected or extended. She’s always been his favourite mount. If he could afford it, she’d be his. He was here from the moment she was born, and the only one who could ride her properly without being kicked at or thrown off.

Her retirement, maybe. Perhaps he could try and convince the ever-watching yard owner that she deserves time in the countryside, where she can spend the rest of her days rolling around in grasses and chasing sheep in the neighbouring fields.

For now, though, Alfred’s name is on the papers of every single horse here.

His voice cracks across the barn. “One more circuit,” he calls out, arms folding in front of his chest, “and then head out where you need to be.”

Geralt thanks every god he can remember the name of that Lambert’s gelding has the same training schedule as Roach. The pair of them will be taken out on to the sand arena in front of the main house; where the Pankratz wealth can loom over them as a constant reminder of how lucky they are to be employed here.

The pay is good. The pay is great. Every gold piece he earns from his work goes into a separate bank account, stashed away just for him, to buy his own land after he retires. His shoulder twinges as he turns Roach for her final trotting lap of the arena. A retirement may come sooner than later, with every year that passes. Old injuries that he thought had healed and slunk away reawaken, pulling at him in the morning and reminding him throughout the rest of the day that he’s getting older, that he had been pushed and pushed to his limit and beyond it.

Roach snorts underneath him, shaking her head. He settles a hand on to her neck, soothing.

Alfred’s eyes don’t leave them until they break for their own training areas. Some horses linger behind in the arena, prepared to work on their flatwork for the day. Others take a sharp turn out on to the gallops winding out and around the yard.

The sand arena sits behind the Pankratz’s house; a house few of them have even been near, let alone in. Not even Geralt has been inside of it, to the best of anyone else’s knowledge. He has, but he’s not going to go and parade that bit of information around. The house is as drenched in gold as the rest of the yard; a wood and stone mansion sitting on a slight hill, looking over the yard and lands around it as some looming reminder that it’s Pankratz gold that made this place, that keeps them in their own homes and living comfortably.

The back of the house, with tall walls and long lancet windows, with high vaulted roofs, hosts an ample garden and pool and rockery with Mrs Pankratz’s gardens. Alfred’s wife isn’t nearly as firm with them, offering them drinks on hotter days and more breaks between training sessions. Even her face is kinder, with soft eyes and a persistent smile curled along her painted lips as she regards each of her husband’s horses and their riders in the morning warm-up.

Geralt tries to imagine Alfred Pankratz smiling and it threatens to run a shiver through his spine. The only time the man’s steely facade will break is when Geralt brings him home another trophy.

Roach stretches out her neck, walking easily underneath him. Niels bumps his nose to hers as they head to the sand arena, and she snorts. Lambert gathers Niels back. “It’s not you, buddy,” he sighs, patting the gelding on the neck. “She’s just a stubborn cow.”

Geralt bites his tongue just as Roach’s ears flatten back. The only person allowed on her back is him; decreed by both her and Geralt’s boss. Alfred has watched the mare squabble and throw off too many other riders in the yard that he threatened to sell her on. An un-rideable horse wasn’t going to win him any trophies or money, so what good was it to him? Until Geralt climbed on one day, settling a hand on to her neck, and steered her through a good flatwork session – something no one could do with her before.

The sand arena has already been set up. A few stray workers fix the last of the jumps to the appropriate height, checking the strides in between double and triple jumps, and drift towards the edge of the arena. The sand is neatly combed and the trees surrounding one length of the arena are neatly trimmed. Most of the money Pankratz spends is pumped back into his facility, making sure it’s clean and proper for visiting investors and their families.

The house sits above them on a slight hill, and Geralt has grown used to not even acknowledging it. He looks over the arena, at every jump made up, and plots his course for the session. With Roach warmed, she starts picking up her stride, trying to break into a canter as her ears flick and her attention is caught by the high and brightly coloured jumps dotted around the arena.

Lambert keeps to his side. Before Geralt can shake him away, glowering at him to figure out his own path, the man nods at the house. “The trust fund is back.”

Geralt follows Lambert’s eye, brows knitting together at the sight he can just barely make out through the heat haze settling over the yard. Julian Pankratz, stretched out underneath the sun is in an undone sheer button-up shirt, revealing his chest and the dip of his hips. Just barely concealing him is a pair of denim shorts, practically underwear with how tightly they hug his hips and the top of his thighs.

Oxenfurt stole him away for almost a year. Not terribly far away, but enough of a distance for Geralt to notice the quiet left behind after he was gone. Yes, Jaskier Pankratz is a huge pain in his ass, and Jaskier’s sole mission in life seems to be giving Geralt as many grey hairs as possible, but the quiet that followed was deafening.

Lambert chuckles. “Miss him, did you?” he asks, squinting at Geralt’s face. “A hint of emotion almost showed just there.”

If Geralt could kick out at the other man, he would. Or reach across with his crop and leather Lambert across his shoulder. The man sets his heels to Niels’ side, pressing him forward as Lambert shakes in laughter.

His grip tightens on Roach’s reins. The ever-attentive mare snorts, pulling at her bit. Focus. Jaskier might be home, but with Roach threatens to curl around and nip at his toes, he sets her forward into a canter, and looks for his jumps.

Chatter quietens when he steps back into the barn, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat and skin cooling the second the barn’s AC blasts him with cold air. Geralt arches an eyebrow at the sight of Eskel and Coën huddled against Scorpion’s stable, the stallion more interested in his haynet to the other corner of his stall, rather than the gossiping riders at his door.

Eskel’s lips thin. Whatever he had been saying is kept tightly behind them. Coën, though, regards Geralt for a moment as he passes, ushering Roach into her stable across the aisle. Roach spits out her own bit, shaking out the arena’s dust and grime from her mane as she pads over to her water trough. Just as Geralt sets his hands to the girth of her saddle, he can feel a pair of eyes falling on to him. “So,” Coën lilts, threading his arms through the stall’s grid and offering Geralt a small smile. “I see that the kid is home.”

Geralt’s lip threatens to lift. “He’s not a kid,” he grunts, undoing the last of the buckles keeping Roach’s tack on her. The moment he strips her saddle off, she does a full-bodied shake. He’ll wash her later, when she’s cooled off by herself and gotten something to drink.

He turns to Coën, the man wearing the same curled smirk on his lips as Lambert. “He’s a year younger than you,” Geralt says stiffly, setting Roach’s saddle on the stall door and threading her bridle over it. If he keeps his eyes on the ground, or making sure that Roach’s trough is refilling with water when she drinks, maybe Coën will go away.

But it’s not looking likely. “Are you going up to him?”

Geralt sighs. “Why?”

“Because you two were very close last summer,” Coën says, albeit a bit more subdued. Music is playing softly overhead, with someone having conquered the speakers and plugged in their phone instead. And the neighing of horses further down the aisle and people chattering among themselves won’t let Coën’s words be heard by any curious ears, but he appreciates the man’s attempt to keep it to themselves. Coën lifts a shoulder. “I thought you might want to, I don’t know—”

Eskel bats him away. Even through the murmur of conversation and horses kicking at their stall doors further down the barn, they can always make out the tell-tale footfalls of Alfred Pankratz. “Bellegarde!”

Even despite the mid-summer heat worming into the barn, despite the AC being blasted overhead, a chill threatens to shake through Geralt at the bellowing of his name down the aisle. Coën and Eskel break away, scampering back to their own horses’ stalls to gather their tack and go anywhere else.

Even Roach flashes him an apologetic look as he takes a steadying breath before stepping out of the stall. Geralt gathers Roach’s things, threading them over his arm, just before he is faced with Alfred Pankratz. “There you are, Bellegarde,” he quips. Spotting the tack on his arm, he waves a hand at it. “Leave that for someone else. Here, let Rhodes handle that. Rhodes! Rhodes, where are you—” Alfred spots Eskel in Scorpion’s stall. He snaps his fingers. “Rhodes, see that this is put way. Bellegarde, come with me.”

Geralt shoots Eskel a soft look before he follows Alfred. A walk towards the gallows if ever he saw one. He keeps his hands by his sides, fingers fidgeting as he wonders why Alfred would ever try to root him out during the day. Near competitions, Alfred will be glued to his side. Ever-watching eyes will only be on him, making sure that both he and Roach are ready for the event.

But now, he thinks back on the last few days and weeks, and he can’t imagine what Alfred could want with him—

Oh.

Geralt blinks at the sight of a familiar grey gelding pawing at the ground, bridled and saddled, and reins threaded over Jaskier’s arm as he fixes his gloves. Geralt’s breath threatens to catch in his throat. His tongue starts to thicken in his mouth, with any words he could say fading away.

Alfred sets a firm hand on to his shoulder. “Now, Bellegarde,” he says stiffly, “my son will be home for the summer and needs a steady hand to get him back into training.”

For all the fear in saying the wrong thing to Alfred Pankratz, his son doesn’t hold the same feeling. Jaskier sighs, something loud and exhaustive. “I don’t need help,” he mutters, reaching up to pull his gelding’s stirrups down. “I can work by myself.”

Alfred’s lip tightens. “Nonsense, boy. How are you going to correct your form if no one is watching you?” He nudges Geralt forward. “If we’re to get you competition ready, you can’t be slouching—”

An argument as old as time, ever since Jaskier was a baby and was put on to a horse’s back by his grandfather. A kinder man, for all that Geralt can remember of him. Pity his son turned out to be such an asshole—

Jaskier is already leading his gelding over to the nearby block, ignoring whatever feely pours from his father’s lips. Geralt is getting almost as good as the other man for ignoring it. Jaskier’s gelding, Pegasus, stands attentively while his rider hops up on to him, settling comfortably on to his back. The last gift to him before his grandfather passed away; a tiny black foal that turned whiter and whiter with every year. A foal that didn’t look like it would ever make anything of itself, but Geralt watched the hours Jaskier put in, and Pegasus can jump and event just as well as the best of them.

Jaskier just doesn’t want to compete.

Alfred grunts. “Go with him,” he waves Geralt away, catching the bridge of his nose before storming back to the barn. Geralt stands there for a moment, fingers fidgeting by his side, before he takes a measured breath and trails after Jaskier.

Pegasus brings them to the arena, and the second he’s inside, Jaskier nudges his heels to his side, and breaks him into a steady trot. Geralt stays by the fence, knowing when he’s not welcomed somewhere but if Alfred Pankratz seems him anywhere else, he’ll be murdered. So he stays, arms resting on the fence as he watches Jaskier send Pegasus down the lines of the arena, turning to do his circles.

And Alfred does have a point. Jaskier’s back has gotten soft, and his shoulders stoop inwards ever so slightly. But his leg and hands are good, as are his silent commands to Pegasus to slow back into a collected walk, or break forward into a canter. As Jaskier comes back from his circuit of the arena, he brings Pegasus from a collected and neat canter into a squared halt. The sand and dust plume away from him as he glowers down at Geralt. “I don’t need you here,” he says stiffly. “So go away.”

Geralt holds his glare. “You know your father will have my head if I leave—”

Jaskier’s lips thin. He gathers his reins, bowing Pegasus’ neck and setting his heels to the gelding’s side. He says nothing else, but nudges the horse into a canter away. Geralt watches him go. His fingers curl into the wood of the fence, picking at the paint starting to crack and flake away.

He’ll have a summer of this, whatever this is. And even if this is the first day of Jaskier being back, he already fucking hates it. The tightness in the corner of Jaskier’s lips, the glare threatening to glint in his eye when he rides past Geralt again, how stiff and square his shoulders are.

Geralt’s tongue sours. A whole summer, and it’s just starting.

Roach nudges her head into his armpit, almost knocking him off of his feet as he combs through the last of her mane just behind her ears. He huffs a quiet laugh, reaching under to scratch her chin. She’s quiet this morning, barely awake when he stepped into the barn and switched on the main lights. He’ll always be the first one here. He might hate the man who owns the property, but he’ll give every minute of his time for the horses.

With everyone else feed and watered, all that’s left to do is to groom Roach. And while she turns back to munch on her hay and oats, he takes this last free moment to untangle the worst knots in her mane. What she does in her sleep to make it so unkempt, he really has no idea. “If you can’t look after your hair, girlie, then we’re just going to have to shave it down,” he murmurs, smiling when her ears flatten back. “You’ll be like one of those proper polo ponies—”

She lifts a leg to kick back at him, but he’s known her long enough to know her tricks. Geralt steps out of the way and sets a hand on to her flank. “Cow,” he lightly scolds, running his eyes over her. Brushed and clean, with her hooves picked and shoes inspected. More and more riders and grooms arrived as the morning rolled on. He offered a small smile to Eskel as he passed, leaving a neatly packed bagel and oat bar in a paper bag for him at Roach’s stable door. Alfred tends to keep riders he likes, and Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert have been here for a few years. Coën joined them later, with Alfred having spotted him at a past event and held out an opportunity to change stables. Alfred isn’t only good at collecting horses, it seems.

He isn’t due to tack Roach up and be at the indoor arena for another hour, so he collects his bagged breakfast and roots through it. Eskel is his only reminder to feed himself, with how much time and energy he puts into looking after the horses in his care. Gods forbid if Eskel was ever gone. He would starve within the week.

The barn’s office originally belonged to Alfred. Enough of his trophies and ribbons adorn the walls. But within the last few years, he’s moved his business into the house. If any of his investors have to come into the barn, he’ll use the space; but for now, it’s just a glorified staff lunchroom. Lambert is already inside, shovelling the last of his own Eskel-baked bagel into his face while watching some show on his phone.

Before he can step inside, his ears prick at the sound of a car pulling into the courtyard. He looks out on to the cobbles, to a gleaming black Porsche parking beside Alfred’s. The man who steps out is young, maybe the same age as Geralt, with warm olive skin and perfectly quaffed black hair. A neatly trimmed and kept beard frames his face. Geralt’s brows knit together.

One of the grooms wanders over, presumably asking if the man is looking for anyone in particular. Just behind them, Geralt notices, Jaskier hurries down the cobblestone path leading towards the mansion house. Geralt’s tongue thickens in his mouth at the sight of him. Hair wet and freshly washed, glinting against the harsh sunlight. A pale blue tee cropped short, revealing his lean abdomen and waist, and denim shorts that hitch high on his hips.

Jaskier waves the groom away before threading his arm through the man’s, smiling at him as he leads them towards the house.

Geralt watches them go, lunch long forgotten about until a firm hand lands on his shoulder. “Let it go,” Coën murmurs behind him. He squeezes Geralt’s shoulder before slipping away, trying to draw him into the office. Geralt wordlessly follows, not that interested in his breakfast anymore.

Lambert looks up from his phone, brows knitting together as he sees Geralt pad by him. But a quick shake of Coën’s head silences any question that could be perched on the man’s tongue.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

And he can’t help it. Alfred’s voice fades away as he watches from the middle of the sand arena. He’s dressed down for the day; a crisp white button-up shirt and slacks, instead of his usual suit. Sunglasses shield his eyes, but Geralt knows that they’re as intense and peering as always.

Geralt can’t help it. As Roach canters neatly around the edge of the arena, he glances up at the house. And his stomach twists at the sight he sees. Two bodies lounging by the pool to the back of the Pankratz’s house. One familiar frame belongs to Jaskier; shirtless, but with tight and high shorts ridden up along his thighs. Wading into the pool is the man from earlier, and Geralt tries to force his eyes back on to Roach, happily cantering around the length of the arena while his blood starts to warm.

Lambert is on the other side of the arena, turning on the diagonal to approach a jump. Alfred stays behind, arms crossed in front of him as he watches Lambert’s gelding take sure strides towards the jump, but leaps early. Even though he’s on the other side of the arena, Geralt can hear Lambert grumbling under his breath from here. “Don’t let him run off on you like that, Blake!” Alfred calls.

The jump is still standing though, and that’s really all that matters in a timed event. But “I know, you fucking prick,” is all Geralt hears from the other man as he travels passed him. Roach’s ears prick, spotting the jump and wanting to join the others in approaching it. Geralt reaches down, scratching the peak of her withers. “Soon, baby girl, in a minute,” he murmurs, still intent on working on their flatwork for now.

He tries not to look. He keeps count of Roach’s sure strides in his head, but he does look. Eyes wander up towards the house, to Jaskier stretched out on a sunbed, lounging in the stifling summer heat, while the other man does his laps of the pool.

Geralt’s jaw flexes.

“Bellegarde!” Alfred calls, clicking his fingers. Geralt’s hold on Roach’s reins tighten. “Take the next diagonal to the jump. You’re next.”

If he’s looking for the jump then he won’t be looking up at the house. Fine. Roach’s ears are pricked and she bows her head, collecting her own canter as they round the corner and stretch down the diagonal. She pulls against him for a moment before settling into a rhythm as the jump comes into view. I’ve never steered you wrong, baby girl, he says to himself, before doing a mental count of their strides.

4—

Roach lifts herself up, popping easily over the jump. All Geralt has to do is lift himself high enough out of the saddle to let her back bend and arch into it. When they land, he gathers her up again and pushes her to the other corner before turning.

Behind him, there’s a sharp clap of hands. “There you go!” Alfred calls. “Now, that’s how you take a turn. Got it?”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the other riders, and Geralt’s face warms. Gods he hates it. He hates being used as an example. Lambert can give him shit about being Alfred Pankratz’s favourite because he’s known the man since they were spotty and gangly teenagers. But it’s the looks from everyone else he hates.

Roach snorts underneath him. Alfred continues to hold court with most of the riders on the far side of the arena, all letting their horses roll back into steady walks before halting. Geralt lets Roach do the same, and the mare throws back her head, wanting to jump again. He reaches up to scratch behind her ears.

Lambert sidles up beside him, avoiding Alfred’s ire. He reaches out to nudge Geralt’s elbow, before nodding up at the house. “So what’s going on there?” he asks lowly, making no attempt to be secret in where he’s looking. Lambert all but stands up in his stirrups, craning his neck to look at the back of the Pankratz’s house.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “How the fuck should I know?”

Lambert is quiet for a moment. “Well, good morning to you too, sunshine,” he whistles lowly. “What happened between you two that you became such a grump all of a sudden?”

Geralt bites at his tongue. “I don’t know,” he grunts.

His house isn’t too far away from the yard; no more than a thirty-minute drive. Alfred likes to keep his employees as close to the facility as he can. Some of the grooms live on-site, while Lambert took up the man’s offer of a small bungalow built near the farm, rented out and lived-in with Eskel.

Geralt’s house is the same; something that almost resembles a cabin as it sits further out than the others, near where the trees start to gather and thicken. It’s quieter out here, although living in the countryside is quiet anyway. With the main hum of traffic gone for the night, it’s dark and calm, and Geralt sighs as he sits down with a tumbler of whiskey caught in his hand.

He tries not to drink on working days, knowing that one will lead to another, and his following morning will be tampered with. He sets the glass on to the table beside him, slouching further into the plush leather couch while scrolling aimlessly through the TV channels.

The rest of the house is dark and quiet, with it being only him. Eskel and Lambert both offered to get a bigger place. If they pooled their gold together, they could have asked for a place for the three of them. Coën wanted in on the deal too, and no one saw any issue with it. But Geralt likes being this far out, he likes the quiet and the calm and the shelter away from prying eyes. The further away from Pankratz’s estate he can be, the better.

Just as he’s settling, warmth starting to ease the last bit of tension from his upper back and shoulders, his phone buzzes. Geralt takes a measured breath. It isn’t odd for him to get a call during the night from one of the overnight grooms to tell him that Roach or any other horses he rides for are causing mischief. He fishes his phone out of his sweatpants pocket, frowning at the number and name scrawled across the screen.

JASKIER

His thumb hovers over the screen for a moment as he regards the time. It’s not terribly late. Jaskier has called him in the middle of the night in the time before—

Geralt scrunches his eyelids, taking a moment to breathe. He swipes ANSWER before anything in his brain can tell him otherwise.

He sets the phone to his ear. “Jaskier?” he breathes.

The voice that floods the other line isn’t Jaskier’s. It doesn’t belong to anyone Geralt knows. And he frowns. “Geralt? Is this Geralt? Sorry, uh, I’m Jaskier’s friend and he has you as his emergency contact—”

His blood chills. Before he can catch up with his own body, he’s up from the couch and heading towards the front door. “What’s wrong?”

The man at the other end of the line sucks in a shaking breath. “We, uh, fuck. We were just hanging out and he, um. You’re not going to tell anyone are you?—”

Fuck this. “Did he take too much?” Geralt bites, gathering his keys and jacket from the rack beside the door. He stuffs his feet into his old worn boots, before doing a quick check on the house to make sure everything is off before he leaves.

The man swallows thickly. “Uh, shit, yeah. My guy is good though, I promise. I didn’t know that anything would be wrong with it, and I don’t know how many Jaskier—”

He fucking hates trust fund kids. Geralt snarls. “Listen,” he barks down the phone, leaving his house and sliding into his car. “Turn him on his side and wait for me. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He’s absolutely going to break a few speed limits, but fuck it. The man on the other end of the line bumbles a sure before Geralt hands up, tossing his phone on to the passenger seat and setting shaking hands on to the steering wheel. Fuck Jask, he thinks, sticking the keys in the ignition and pulling away from his house. What are you doing?

A flustered looking man meets him at the door, worrying his thumbnail between his teeth. “I didn’t know who else to call,” he babbles, following Geralt as he brushes past and stalks into the cabin. “Definitely not his dad. Gods, could you imagine? I mean, I guess I could have because this is an emergency. By the gods, he isn’t going to die is he?—”

Geralt doesn’t even look over his shoulder. He runs his eyes throughout the cabin; an expansive space made from stone and wood, like the main house, but suitably Jaskier’s. Even though he has his own room in the main house, most of his time is spent out here, away from prying patriarchal eyes. And it’s for this exact reason—

He crosses the main room of the cabin within strides, heading for the stretch of floor Jaskier is pooled on. He’s on his side – thank the fucking gods – with a small pool of spit dribbling out of his mouth. Geralt clicks his tongue. He shrugs off his jacket, tossing it on to the couch and setting his hands on to Jaskier. He feels the man’s forehead. Warm, but not overly so. His other hand settles on Jaskier’s chest, feeling his heart hammer in his chest, but not wanting to burst out of his chest, and his lungs fill with deep breaths.

Not the worst state he’s found the man in, but it still makes Geralt’s hands shake. He turns to Jaskier’s head, watching the man’s face intently. His eyes are open, dazed and looking straight ahead. “Jaskier. Can you hear me?” Geralt murmurs, pushing the man’s hair back from his face.

Jaskier hums. Something barely audible, but he nods afterwards. Good. Geralt wets his lip. “How much did you take?” He taps Jaskier’s face until the man’s eyes open again. It’s a struggle to keep them open. “How much weed did you take, Jaskier?”

The words take a while to reach him. Jaskier’s normally bright blue eyes are almost swallowed entirely by pupils. Jaskier’s lips crack open, words perched on his tongue. But he swallows thickly. Geralt frowns. He looks up, searching for the other man. He isn’t too far away, lingering just behind the couch. The question sits with him instead. “Uh, not much,” he offers, gesturing to the coffee table behind Geralt, “two blunts. We had some edibles too, but I don’t know if he took too many or—”

He doesn’t even have the ability to tell the guy to shut up. He turns back to Jaskier, carding his fingers through the man’s hair and watching him slowly begin to realise who’s in front of him. Jaskier’s brows knit together, a soft frown that barely settles on to his face. “Geralt,” he murmurs, blearily reaching out and curling his fingers on Geralt’s arm. “Wha, why are you—”

The man behind the couch pipes up. “Do we have to call someone else? Like, paramedics or—”

“—No,” Geralt mutters, slipping his arms under Jaskier’s shoulders and knees before hoisting him into his arms. Gods, he’s light. Lighter than he was before—

He winces, shaking the thoughts and memories out of his head. Jaskier slumps against him, arms hanging like dead weights, but Geralt watches his chest lift and fall. Good. “He just needs to sleep,” he murmurs, feet already taking him towards Jaskier’s room.

The man left behind continues to pace and wring his hands, but he’s forgotten about the moment Geralt steps into Jaskier’s bedroom. It’s one of two, but this one is more like the man himself. His guitar is perched near his desk; a mess of notebooks and papers and books. More scattered clothes lie on the floor and on the back of chairs than in his wardrobe.

Geralt’s chest tightens. He pads over to the bed, gently setting Jaskier down and making sure the man stays on his side. He cards his fingers through Jaskier’s hair again, pushing it out of his face. Jaskier’s eyes crack open again. It takes a moment, but Jaskier reaches out again, blearily trying to catch Geralt’s hand in his.

Geralt’s tongue swells in his mouth. He lets Jaskier catch his hand, curling their fingers together in a loose hold. His skin is warm and familiar, and Geralt’s heart aches. When Jaskier speaks, it’s low and murmured and half-lost to the pillow he’s shoving his face into. “Stay,” he mumbles.

Someone should stay with him. Just in case he throws up in the middle of the night, or has some sort of hallucination—

Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s hand. “Sure,” he rumbles, keeping his voice low. A small smile threatens to curl the corner of Jaskier’s lip, but sleep takes him under before it can form. Geralt lingers for a moment, kneeling at Jaskier’s bedside, feeling the man’s grip on his hand loosen and loosen until Geralt can pull away. He does one last quick check on Jaskier before he stalks away. The cabin is bigger than his own house, but it’s nothing like the mansion next door. He would have gotten lost in that mansion if it weren’t for Jaskier.

He stalks back to the living room, eyeing the box of weed and filter papers and plastic bags scattered on the table. The man responsible for it wrings his hands together. “Take that shit and get out,” Geralt snarls, the corner of his lip threatening to lift. The man blinks at him before he scampers forward, gathering everything and heading for the door. Before he can step outside, he’s stopped by a firm hand catching his wrist. Geralt leans close, making sure every word he says is clear and understood. “You don’t mention a word of this to anyone. Not to your friends. Not to Jaskier’s parents. Not to anyone. Understood?”

The man’s mouth gapes as he struggles to find words. He nods instead, swallowing thickly. Geralt’s grip on him loosens before the man scampers away. Geralt huffs, closing and locking the door. The cabin has always been a mess. He doesn’t need to pick up Jaskier’s jacket or shoes or the many, many cartons of take-out food and drink cans littering the table. He leaves his jacket behind as he pads back to the man’s room, shutting off lights as he goes.

Jaskier’s room is still. The man is stretched out in his bed, slumped to the side and almost falling over. One arm hangs heavily over the side of the bed, fingers grazing the wooden floors below him. But the soft breaths and the gentle lift and falls of his chest, Geralt knows that the man is asleep. He’ll stay sleeping, gods be good, for the rest of the night.

Geralt’s lips thin. He goes to the bathroom, collecting a towel to set on the floor beside Jaskier, just in case he does get sick during the night. At least neither of them will have a mess to clean up off of the floor. The room is so quiet, and he hates it. Jaskier always makes noise. Mindless chatter that used to burrow into Geralt’s ears and prod at his brain. He misses it. In the quietness left behind, he misses Jaskier’s voice and all of the useless shit he used to talk to him about.

His chest tightens.

Jaskier shuffles in bed, whining softly and burying his face into his pillow. Geralt’s fingers fidget by his side, not quite knowing where would be a good place for him to keep his watch. He pads over to Jaskier’s desk, moving any clothes that had been draped and tossed over the back of the chair on to the pile already gathered on the floor. He takes a seat, huffing at the press of wood into his back.

It’ll be for a few hours. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, tapping out a quick message to Eskel.

Geralt [00:34] – Could you look after Roach in the morning for me? Going to be late.

Eskel [00:38] – Sure thing. Are you okay?

Geralt [00:39] – I’m fine.

And it’s left at that. Geralt puts his phone away, letting the soft glow of one lamp perched on Jaskier’s desk light the room. Jaskier doesn’t move much in his sleep, but sighs heavily every so often. Geralt shifts his seat, trying his best to get as comfortable as he can and crossing his arms over his chest. His watch is going to be a long one, and one that he doesn’t mind at all.

Jaskier sleeps, barely twitching, but Geralt listens to him breathe. Soft breaths against his pillows, followed by gentle snores. Familiar sounds that have Geralt’s chest tightening and tightening, until he worries that he won’t be able to breathe. Sleep won’t come easily for him, he knows that. But he sits back into the chair, sighing as he closes his eyes, trying to chase it down all the same.

It’s a wordless morning. Geralt rubs at his eyes, wincing at the harsh morning light stretching into the cabin. With the summer months starting to settle in, the nights are short and the days are long. Just as the moon slinks away, it’s reappearing again only a moment later. His stomach rumbles and every muscle in his shoulder and upper back groans and protests him trying to sit up from the chair.

He winces as he works out a bad crick in his neck, trying to roll his head and stretch the lines there, but a shuffling sound from the bed catches his attention. He watches Jaskier slowly claw back at consciousness, climbing up and up until he musters just enough energy to lift his head from his pillow and bury it into the crook of his arm instead. Another deep sigh leaves him before he tries again, looking around his side of the room and frowning.

Jaskier’s voice is nothing more than a harsh rasp. “What happened?” he murmurs.

“You had too many edibles,” Geralt replies lowly, regarding the other man for a moment. Jaskier rubs at his face, wincing at the sun too. Even with the curtains pulled, sunlight streams in from the higher windows, the ones near the tall vaulted ceilings.

Geralt can feel his blood starting to warm. His words are measured and slow, taking their time to crawl out of his mouth. “Who was that guy?” he asks calmly. At Jaskier’s slightly puzzled expression, Geralt continues on. “The guy who was here last night. Who was he?”

Jaskier glowers at him. The haze that had clouded his eyes is long gone, revealing the bright blue that Geralt remembers, but something vile and spiteful sits in them now. “Why do you care?”

Geralt clicks his tongue. “Jaskier.”

There’s a bit of a struggle to detangle himself from his sheets, but Jaskier manages. He sets his bare feet on to the floor, taking a moment to rub at his face and think. “I don’t know, uh, Chireadan,” Jaskier winces, “yeah, Chireadan.”

Geralt levels him with a look. “You don’t even know his name.”

Jaskier’s head snaps, eyes glaring at him. “His name is Chireadan, Geralt,” he bites. “There you go. A perfectly good name.”

Geralt holds his stare. “Where did you meet him?”

“Fucking, gods alive, why do you care?”

“I care when you overdose on some powerful shit with a guy you barely know,” Geralt bites back, the arch of his lip threatening to lift.

Jaskier snorts sharply. “Overdose, I had two blunts and—”

“—And when I got here, you were spaced out and beyond words.” Geralt doesn’t yell. He growls and snaps at people, but he doesn’t yell. And his voice is climbing in volume now, dangerously close to baring his throat raw. “What if something happened, hmm? If you had choked on your own vomit because you were too fucking spaced out to roll on to your side? What if that guy – Chireadan – took advantage of you—?”

“Just fucking stop, Geralt,” Jaskier snarls, standing up and teetering slightly on his feet. Gods alive, he’s like a newborn colt finding his first steps in the world. He has to catch the end post of his bed as he shuffles past Geralt, making a straight line for the cabin’s main room. Without as much as another word or look at Geralt.

Fuck this. “What’s your problem?” Geralt snaps, stalking after Jaskier. “The last time you and I spoke, it was a year ago; and then it was fucking radio silent after that. What happened? No texts while you were in Oxenfurt. Nothing about you coming home for the summer. When I tried talking to you last week you damn near bit my head off. And now this? What the fuck is wrong with you—?”

“—Because you kissed someone else!” Jaskier roars back at him, eyes steely, but reddened with unshed tears. Jaskier’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly. “You fucking prick! I saw you! You and Yennefer, making out in that fucking bar downtown!”

The words cut at his skin and the silence left behind is deafening. Jaskier’s breath shakes as it leaves him, as he winces when he catches up with his words. Geralt’s throat bobs. “Jask,” he rasps.

“Don’t ever call me that again,” Jaskier growls, voice low and trembling. He rubs at his face, skin starting to redden and blotch. “Get out.”

Geralt’s brows knit together. His feet are rooted to the ground below him.

Jaskier winces. “Get out!” he roars, turning and stalking to the kitchen. With the open-plan of the cabin, he doesn’t get out of Geralt’s eye line. And that’s the worst part. Geralt watches him catch the sharp edge of the granite kitchen counter, taking a sharp inhale as he roots around for a glass.

Something tells him to move. A quiet voice that fights through all the others telling him valid reasons to stay, to keep an eye on Jaskier and make sure he’s alright.

Go.

Geralt swallows. His tongue sits heavily in his mouth as he swallows, almost choking as his throat bobs and clenches. He wanders towards the couch, collecting his jacket, before heading to the door. He spares Jaskier one last look. The man’s knuckles are white as he hangs on to the granite, keeping his legs underneath himself as he breathes.

Go.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt/jaskier #henry cavill #joey batey #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x jaskier #geralt of rivia/jaskier #yourqueenforayear #agoodgoddamnshot

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the-gory-gardner · 3 years

Text

New Slasher OC: Owen Douglas

Name: Owen Douglas

Alias(s): The Northeast Butcher.

Nickname(s): N/A

Age: Varies from story to story but communally is in his late twenties to mid to late thirties.

Gender: Male

Occupation: Freelance Handyman.

Hair Color/Style: Dark Brown, Shoulder length and Curly.

Eye Color: Dark Brown.

Height: 6'1

Clothing: Owen prefers simple clothing. Usually he'll wear t-shirts with plaid button-up with jeans and boots.

While hunting for prey he'll wear a dark grey hoodie underneath a black leather jacket. He'll wear dark jeans along with black boots.

Personality: As Owen the Handyman she's polite, kind, always willing to give a helping hand to someone in need.

As Owen the Butcher he's quiet but also smooth to draw in his victims. When he has them where he wants them he'll be sadistic, brutal, cold and ruthless.

M.O: When looking for victims he usually prowls the street for prostitutes if he's looking for an 'easy' night he'll simply hire an escort under a fake name.

He'll have them come back to either whatever cheap hotel or ratty motel he's rented for the night, again under a fake name. If they want to take them to a spot he'll go but he'll keep his guard up for a trap.

Once the time is right he'll overpower his victim. He'll most commonly put them into a chokehold until they're on the edge of consciousness. But again on nights he wants to go 'easy' he might simply drug them.

Once he has he'll then take them to the bed where he'll cuff them to the headboard and gag them. Then the fun begins. He'll spend hours torturing them in different ways. From shallow cuts, stabs in painful but not immediately fatal areas, he'll burn them with either fire or chemicals.

He'll also skin them on their arms or legs, he'll cut off fingers or toes maybe entire limbs. When he's finally finished he'll slit their throats.

Signature: Once done with his victims Owen will leave a folded note on his victims reading: 'Thanks for the fun night' with some cash paperclipped to it.

Backstory: Owen Douglas was born from the affair of an unknown man and a hooker. His mother was a vindictive and abusive woman who tormented Owen from the moment he could walk.

His mother treated him as a servant. He'd have to clean the house, the dishes and laundry. If there was even a speck of dust or she dimmed it wasn't 'done right' she'd punish him. Punishments would range from being hit with belts, wooden spoons, to locking him out of the house during the night no matter how cold or hot it was.

When she was angry enough-and she was angry often- she'd throw him in the tub. She'd tell him how dirty and disgusting he was as she'd scrub his skin raw. He'd try his best to avoid his mother and her wraith but when she was angry there was no hiding.

This lasted until Owen was thirteen and his mother died from a simple drug overdose. At least that's what the police declared it was. After that Owen was sent to live with a distant great Aunt he'd never met nor heard of before.

His aunt was a nice enough woman. She made sure Owen ate enough, gave him a simple routine to follow, made him sleep when he needed to. She took care of him like no else had before. But despite this the damage had already been done.

When Owen was eighteen he graduated high school with flying colors. With a full ride scholarship he chose to go to medical school. Though stressful at times he made it through five years of schooling. That was until he got the phone call that his aunt had died suddenly.

Losing the only person who'd ever cared for him sent Owen spiraling. After failing test after test Owen flunked out of medical school after a year. In a slump he took what money his aunt had left for him and went off the grid for the following year.

Owen was practically in a fog as he simply traveled through the Northeast coast without a plan. That was until one evening when a hooker on the street tried to proposition him. He tried to ignore her fluttering eyelashes and pathetically fake breast.

But then there was something about her shrill voice, the lingering scent of cheap cigarettes that clung to her and make-up caked face. She'd reminded him so much of his mother that it finally made him feel something besides the growing numbness. Instead it made him feel a burning fury.

So he took her up on her offer. Cheekily she led him to a back alley to have fun. Several minutes later Owen walked out alone and more exhilarated than he had since he was thirteen. He didn't know what he'd do next but he had an idea.

Power/Skills:

Expert Manipulator.

Torturous Expertise.

Surgical And Medical Prowess.

Deception.

Knifemanship.

Evasion.

Hobbies:

Killing and Torturing Escorts/Prostitutes.

Working on DIY projects.

Watching Documentaries about different Serial Killers.

Volunteering at local charity events.

Crimes:

Serial Homicide.

Torture.

Mutilation.

Kidnapping.

Drugging People.

#Owen Douglas #The Northeast Butcher #Slashersona #Slasher OC #Slasher Sona

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staranon95 · 4 years

Text

colourful

a red hood au drabble

Gavin doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he feels he needs to do something. He needs to do this on his own. He can’t wait for Trevor to scheme and come up with a plan. He can’t wait for the crew to say they have his back. He can’t wait for Geoff to swoop in and save the day. In many respects, this feels like Gavin’s issue and only his. He can reach out to Alfredo. He can get past that hard exterior and reach him, not Red.

He just has to find him first.

He goes to his apartment first to grab his go-bag he keeps stashed in his closet. He leaves his phone and any other equipment Matt might be able to track his movements from. He’s got a few burner cellphones in his bag he’ll use for emergencies, but for this he’ll be going off the grid.

He leaves his apartment. He leaves his motorcycle and heads for a 24 hour garage that does business with people like him. There he’s able to get a bike the crew won’t be able to find him on. Then he stakes out a new place to work out of. He stays the night at a hostel and finds a cheap motel to work out of, paying cash at the front desk under a fake name.

Day one of finding Alfredo is literally all online. If there’s some new crew making its rounds in the city, people will be talking about it in forums. If you’re a civilian in Los Santos, you’re probably a fan of a criminal and talking about conspiracy theories and keeping up on the news. There are some smatterings of ‘Red’ on the forums that Gavin pays close attention to. If Alfredo is working for someone, then Gavin needs to know about it.

There’s some chatter about something called ‘Spectrum.’ Some people think it’s a group of highly trained grifters, conmen, hitmen, and more. An elite group. Others think it’s a person named ‘Spectrum.’ Like the Corpirate or Edgar. A moniker for a titan of crime. Or it’s an international organization that comes to massive cities like Los Santos to sow corruption into the municipal government for the betterment of mega-corporations and CEOs. Either way, Spectrum is something Gavin needs to consider. It’s information he’ll need to send to the crew.

Some people on the forums have said they’ve spotted members of Spectrum. And that an identifying feature is brightly coloured clothing for important members. That might explain Alfredo’s red sweater and why he wore it last night.

Gavin builds the profile based on what he has. He has some locations to work with that he’ll haunt for the next few days. It’s tedious work, but Gavin has the mind for it. He’s always been a puzzle guy, willing to sit and wrestle with something until he has the answer. So he builds his routine, makes note of locations, potential names and descriptions of people he’ll encounter.

It’s not that easy for him to move around—the so called ‘Golden Boy’ of the city. A lot of people know him on sight. So he shaves his beard, which easily takes a few years off his appearance. He ditches his designer jeans for loose cargo shirts and a shirt that’s two sizes two big. It makes him look younger, more immature, allowing him to pass by unnoticed when he needs to be.

In his room he hangs a map against the wall, using red thumbtacks to track the locations he’s checked out that he knows Spectrum has been by. He notices clusters of activity, attempting to triangulate to a location where this group might be working out of.

There’s one location in the downtown he decides to check into. It was one of the first apartment buildings built in the city, from the 1910s. The historical aspect of it is overlooked by the absolutely squalor that’s taken residence in it. There’ve been attempts to refurbish and remodel it, but it’s located smackdab in the crime district. Any politician worth their salt would know attempting to gentrify this area will end in failure, so no one is going to make an attempt on it.

He takes the fire escape all the way to the top of the building. It comes to an elegant point on top with slightly curved arches at the four corners. There are four massive eagle statues at each point, wings folded to make them look sleek and imposing. The age of the building means that very little surveillance has been incorporated into its architecture. It would make it great for hiding a criminal organization within it.

The entire top floor, what would’ve been the penthouse suite, is in constant sate of repair. Nearly all the fixtures had been torn down. Plastic sheeting hung from the ceiling in sections. Gavin has to admit, though, the view from the city is nice up here.

When he hears voices at the door, he ducks out one of the windows to crouch near one of the statues. It’s dark enough he shouldn’t be noticed.

“Prism has asked Blue and Yellow to move up to the docks,” says one.

“Yeah? And?” That’s Alfredo.

“Prism thinks you’re moving too slow. Once Blue and Yellow are in place and have the docks secure, Orange will be paired with you.”

Alfredo scoffs. “Prism can fuck off. I know the Fakes. I know how to handle them.”

“You had the opportunity to have three of them put in strict lockdown the other night and you gave them an out. How do you think that looks to the rest of Spectrum?”

“The Fakes have the most resources out of any crew in this city. They would’ve made bail no matter how high the DA would’ve set it. They have the best lawyers on retainer. You think a little burglary would’ve stopped them?”

“No, but I do find it odd that they were tipped off to the raid of their penthouse. They’ve been there for, what, almost ten years since Ramsey signed that lease? And someone tipped them off.”

“I don’t know what you’re expecting from me. You think I tipped them off?”

“I don’t know what I think. Just that a lot of coincidences have been happening concerning the Fakes lately. I’d be careful if I were you, Red. Prism doesn’t hand out second chances like they’re candy.”

“Is this a threat, Violet?”

“No. Just a thought. Careful, Red. Your true colours might start showing.”

The second voice moves off. Gavin hears the door close. He peers around the statue and spots Alfredo’s silhouette. He wonders if he should make his presence known, try to talk to Alfredo and try to understand what this is all about. Or should he try to make his escape. Or possibly trail this Violet person.

But he’s not ready for that, not yet. He decided to do this, go off on this quest to talk to Alfredo. Just talk.

He creeps along the edge and back towards the open window. He sets one foot in, toes then heel before the rest of his follows. He balances himself with his fingertips on the ground, looking for Alfredo’s figure in the dark. He hears a sigh off not too far. He stands.

“So you sleeping here or is it more of a vantage point?”

Alfredo whirls. He still has that mask in place, but his hood is off. Gavin knew his hair was longer. He kept it pretty short back in the day, but now he gets to see it fully, see how much Alfredo has changed.

“Gavin.” Alfredo scoffs, pulls up that wall of cold and sarcastic indifference. “I knew one of you would come looking. Thought it might be Fiona. I hear she’s more of a solo player. But you? Didn’t know you did shit like this anymore.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Yeah, apparently. Thought you were the one who stuck by your friends. Even in the ugly times.”

Gavin swallows. It’s time he faces the past. “Everything pointed to you being dead.”

Alfredo laughs. “You for real right now? I know the type of impossible shit you guys have pulled. You broke Geoff out of a maximum-security prison in broad daylight. You guys once faked your own deaths! And what happens when you don’t find my body? You wash your hands and walk away.”

“We were there on the scene. I was just about to run in and get you when the building exploded in front of me. And I still ran in! If there was any chance you were still in there, I was going to look for you.”

“But you still didn’t find me,” Alfredo says, softer this time.

His admission makes Gavin pause because isn’t that what happened? Did they give up? Did they stop looking when they realized they were out of their depth? Geoff took Alfredo’s death very personally, and having Geoff demoralized like that affected the rest of the crew.

“We didn’t,” Gavin settles on. “And it fucks with me every day that we didn’t. I feel like I held on the longest. Kept some things of yours afterwards.”

“Yeah?”

Gavin nods, takes a step forward. He sees Alfredo shift his weight into a more relaxed position with his arms crossed over his chest. “A sweater of yours. This dumb disposable camera you had. Even got the photos developed. And your old Gameboy.”

“You kept all that?”

“They were important to you. I was hanging onto them for you. And for me.”

They never really had a deep talk about what they meant to each other outside of the crew, outside of their work. Does Alfredo still think of those times like Gavin does?

“Gav.” And then Gavin thinks Alfredo will drop the act. They’ll talk. They’ll leave. They’ll figure out this Spectrum/Prism mess together, and then—

Alfredo moves quickly. He swipes Gavin’s legs out from beneath him, sending him crashing onto the ground. Before Gavin can move, Alfredo is straddling him, pinning his arms to the ground.

“I can’t believe you’d fall for that. The sappiest trick in the book! You taught me that one and you fucking fell for it! Man. You’re out of practice. Or maybe you’re just too in deep to notice you’re drowning.”

“’fredo, I—”

“No. I’m not your ‘fredo. I’m not your ‘freddie. I’m not one of your fucking boys! I didn’t come back for you.”

“Then why are you keeping an eye on us?”

“Maybe because I like to screw around with you. Now get the fuck out.”

Alfredo stands and stalks off. Gavin is left shaken, but no worse off than before.

He retreats. He takes the fire escape down to the street and takes a twisting path back to his hotel until he knows he’s not being followed. Then he digs out one of his burner cellphones and calls up Trevor.

“Trevor, I think we need to get Geoff in on this. It’s bigger than I thought.”

#fake ah crew #fahc #gta au #red hood au #star speaks #star writes #i finally have an idea of what alfredo is doing #and its only going to get messier lol

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rocksandrobots · 4 years

Text

Of Rocks and Robots Ch. 20 - Therapy

Varian sat on the leather couch inside the doctor’s office nervously bouncing his knee up and down. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to run, but he knew that would upset Aunt Cass who was seated on the chair next to the door.

This was meant to be his first therapy session and he didn’t know what to expect, or to say, or what to do. Both Hiro and Wasabi had told him that all he had to do was talk to the doctor about his problems, but Varian didn’t really feel like talking. He didn’t feel like delving into his past and reliving those painful memories. Moreover, he didn’t want anyone in this world to know of his mistakes, even if they were just a stranger.

Just then the door opened and a tall woman with short bobbed hair and glasses walked in. She wore a white lab coat and held in her hand a clipboard and pen.

“Hello, Miss Templeton. Are we here to see Hiro today?” The woman asked Aunt Cass.

“Oh hi, Dr. Mcguire.” Aunt Cass stood up to shake her hand. “No, I called earlier and told the secretary this, but I’d like you to meet Varian. Varian this is Dr. Mcguire. She’s our family therapist.”The woman smiled and shook his hand as well, as Aunt Cass contunited. “Varian is from Europe and I’m fostering him while he’s here in the states.”

“Oh exciting!” The woman enthused. “Is this your first therapy session, Varian?”

Varian nodded his head numbly, still too unsure of himself to speak.

“Well there’s many different types of therapy. I’m a grief counselor. I use different techniques to help people deal with loss or trauma, such as, listening to people talk about their feelings and problems, helping people develop healthy coping mechanisms for anxiety or depression, helping people pinpoint or understand where their underlying issues are and what might cause them to react the way they do to certain situations, and basically anything else that helps the patient cope with their grief.”

Varian listened to the woman intently but none of what she said made any sense to him. He knew what all those words individually meant on their own but all together it just sounded like a word salad to him. He had no idea what any of that actually entailed in practice.

"Well, now Varian, tell me a little about yourself?" The doctor asked as she sat at her desk.

Varian only stared blankly at her, unsure what she wanted to hear.

Dr. Mcguire expounded "Do you have any interests or hobbies?"

Varian looked back to Aunt Cass questionly and she gave him an encouraging smile and a go on motion with her hands.

"Ummm...I like alchemy."

"Alchemy? Like the history of it, or is that some new video game I haven't heard of yet?" Dr. Mcguire gently laughed at herself. "My kids are always trying to get me into the lastest gaming craze and I can never seem to get the hang of it."

Varian once again could only stare. He'd played a few video games with Hiro and Fred, but he had no idea what was deemed popular or not. Nor did he know how to explain to this woman that he was a practitioner of a long dead science.

When this didn't elect a response from him the doctor tried a new line of questioning.

"Do you have a favorite video game?"

Varian shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't played many of them. We didn't have video games back in Old Corona."

"That's the city he came from." Aunt Cass explained. "Varian is from a Russia territory."

"Oh. Well, what did you play in Old Corona?" Dr. Mcguire asked.

"Not much." Varian racked his brain for a childhood game, but there had been no other kids to play with and his dad was not much for chess.

"My cellmate and I would play 'Noughts and Crosses' to pass the time. It's a little like Gomoku, but you try to get three in a row instead of five, and you just draw an X or O on to a grid you drew in the sand instead of having a board and colored pieces.'

"Oh we call that tic-tac-toe here." Aunt Cass cheerfully said, not immediately picking up on his mention of being in jail.

The doctor however did notice. "Cellmate?" She asked with concern.

Varian clamped his mouth shut at that. He didn't want to go into why he had been in prison, certainly not with Aunt Cass there.

Sensing the Varian's discomfort and seeing Dr. Mcguire's confusion, Aunt Cass spoke up. "I'm guessing the secretary didn't give you the forms we filled out?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I saw your name on the appointment and just assumed it was time again for Hiro's session. I'm sorry, that was unprofessional of me to assume and not come prepared. Would you like to reschedule?"

Aunt Cass looked to Varian. "It's up to you, sweetie."

Varian really didn't want to go through all this again. "No. I'm good."

"Well do you feel like talking about what's wrong then?" Asked Mcguire.

Varian tightened his jaw, unsure how to say no to the woman. But Dr. Mcguire knew her business and understood what Varian meant even without words.

"It's ok." She soothed. "You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. We're not here to make you feel uncomfortable. Therapy is supposed to help, not hurt."

This relaxed Varian a little, but only a little. He didn't know what either adult wanted from him then.

"Varian, would it help if I left?" Aunt Cass offered. "Or would you prefer that I stay? Either one is fine. It's your choice."

Varian looked back and forth between both women trying to decide. He honestly didn't know which would be more stressful; dealing with the doctor alone or risking slipping up again and having Aunt Cass find out about his past crimes.

"I...maybe?" He eventually answered.

"Alright then. I'll be just right outside the door if you need me." She stood up, walked over to Varian, gave him a peck on the forehead and an encouraging smile before closing the door and leaving.

Varian had to admit, he could breath more easily now that she'd left the room.

"Well," Dr. Mcguire spoke back up, "if you rather not talk about your issues right now, would you like to write about them instead?"

Varian gave her a confused look and in response she dug into a drawer in her desk and pulled out a notebook.

"Sometimes people find it easier to write about things than to talk about them. I often give my patiences journals, so that they can get out their feelings about stuff, make goals and plans, or to help keep track of their triggers and their responses."

She handed the notebook to Varian. It was thin and curiously printed on the front were images of lizards with hats and sunglasses riding upon skateboards. Varian might have thought it absurd looking but he was distracted by something that the doctor had said.

"Triggers?" He asked.

"A 'trigger' is anything that might make someone remember their trauma. It can be anything from a familiar sound or object, to an action or situation that is similar to an event that the person went through. When someone who's been through trauma comes across one of their triggers they might experience a panic attack, flashbacks, get angry or upset, or even completely shut down so to speak."

Varian studied the woman thoughtfully. Wasabi had described what a panic attack felt like and it sounded eerily similar to what he had felt when he ran away that day. The way he felt after having a nightmare. The way he'd felt when he had come home to find his dad unmoving in the amber.

“Do..do nightmares count?” He asked hesitantly.

“Well, yes, in a way. Nightmares are often associated with PTSD. They are a way for your mind to process what has happened to you. But they can also be caused by other things, like stress, anxiety, or just a lack of sleep. You’d have to dream about something multiple times and analyze those dreams in order to figure out their cause.”

She paused and studied Varian intently before continuing. "Some people write dream diaries to track the patterns of what they dream and when. You write what you've dreamed, good or bad, when you wake up. You also may write things like what time you went to bed, how long did you sleep, or what you may have eaten that day as those can affect how well you sleep."

"You could use your journal for that." She gently suggested.

"Then...then I show it to you?" He asked in kind.

"If you want to. Though, once again, you don't have to do anything that you don't want to."

"But, if I did, would it help?" Varian pressed, "Would it get rid of them?"

"It might help." The woman said measuredly. "Though it might not. Or you may need to do that along with a combination of things. The only way to find out is to try it."

Dr. Mcguire gave him a soft smile and Varian turned her words over in his mind. He would love for the nightmares to stop. They had only become more frequent since he moved in with the Hamada's. As if deep down he feared this new change in his life would become permanent and his subconscious was warning him to return home before it was too late. But, even still, while the doctor was right about not knowing till you tried, he worried over his past and what she or others might think of him once known. Then again, no reason to take a dream literally, right?

"I've..I...I've been having nightmares lately." He finally admitted. Dr. Mcguire only nodded along. She most likely had already guessed as much, but she didn't interrupt.

"They're always different. Like they're about different things. Sometimes they're about my home or my dad, sometimes about my friends, both old and new, and sometimes about, ummm, being in jail." He muttered this last part but then quickly contunited on, "They all end the same way though. With me being alone."

He met the doctor's eyes questioningly, wondering how she might respond. She looked to be contemplating over what he'd just confessed.

"Hmmm…Well dreams are rarely the same each time. It's usually just the repeated elements that we look for when analyzing. That's how the journal would help. But it looks like you figured out one of those elements on your own. Does being alone scare you?"

Varian looked at her wide eyed. He didn't know how to feel about having one of his greatest fears pointed out to him. It was true of course, but he didn't like to admit it.

"A, little." He admitted sheepishly.

"A lot of people fear being alone. We're social creatures. Humans need other humans and so we seek out relationships. It's nothing to be embarrassed about." Mcguire tried to ease his fear.

"Were you on your own in jail? Did you feel alone there?" She pressed.

"No, well sometimes, but like I said I at least had a cellmate. That's better than when I was completely on my own before then."

Dr. Mcguire face grew more concerned but she didn't pursue anything else about his time alone. Instead she asked, "Were you friends with your cellmate?"

"No." Varian scoffed, complaining about Andrew was easier than talking about his time spent on the run. "Dude was a creep."

"Oh, did you fight with him often?"

"Not usually. In fact we got along fine, but that's only because he'd pretend to be nice to get what he wanted. I always knew that's what he was doing, but I, guess I just went along with it because….because it was better than not talking to anybody at all."

Dr. Mcguire furrowed her brow, "What did he want from you then?"

Varian wiggled in his seat at that. He didn't want to go into the prison break and what followed thereafter. "Just….stuff."

This did not ease the doctor's fear. "How old were you when you went to jail?"

"I had just turned fifteen." He didn't know where this was going.

"And your cellmate was what, also fifteen, sixteen?" She guessed.

"Oh no. Corona doesn't have, what did the policeman call it, 'juvenile detention center.' Anyways, uh, I'm not sure what age Andrew was. He never said, but I would guess, like, late twenties?" Varian shrugged but he only became even more confused when he noted the look of horror on Dr Mcguire's face.

"And where were the guards when he was making you do… stuff?" She tried to hide it but Varian could still hear the way her voice shook.

"Ummm...well the guards make their rounds of the cells every ten minutes and stand guard at the door between then. Or they're supposed to, anyways. Sometimes they're late or they're switching shifts, or even sometimes asleep." He broke from his matter of fact statement with a little laugh. "I once saw Pete the guard fall asleep while standing up and Stan, the other guard, had to prop him up with his spear to keep the Captain from noticing." He whispered conspiratorially as if imparting some juicy bit of gossip.

But the doctor wasn't amused.

"It would appear that your home country has a very different legal system than ours." She stated as if trying to find a way to navigate Varian's revelations.

"I'll say." He snorted. Complaining about the conditions of the dungeon itself didn't bother him as much as admitting how he'd got there. He supposed it was because everyone suffered the same indignity as he did while there. So he didn't feel singled out.

"I saw what those cells down at the police station here looked like last week. Let me tell you. They were pristine." He began to number the differences on his fingers." Clean, not drafty, there were toilets, electric lights. I was on the bottom floor of the dungeon and all we had was a grate on the ceiling that let the tiniest bit of light and air in from the cell above us. Of course that wasn't much cause that cell only had a small window to begin with."

The doctor interrupted his ramble. "But what about when you were aloud outside?"

"Outside?" He echoed in confusion. "We never went outside. Who'd let criminals out of their cells willingly?"

Dr. Mcguire darted her eyes back and forth as if equally flabbergasted. "But, but what about for exercise!? Showers!? Mealtimes!?"

Varian looked at her unsure how to answer, now only realising just how vastly different the two realities really were.

"We ate in the cells." He said flatly in lieu of anything else. "Is the food better here too?"

"I don't know? What did they serve you?"

"Usually gruel, or bread and water. Sometimes we'd get scraps from the castle's kitchen. Like leftover bone broth before it went bad. I guess not to starve us completely."

"Castle?" She echoed hollowly.

"The jail is underneath the government's palace." He explained.

"And is that the only prison? Wouldn't that get over full?"

"Yeah, it does. That's why they only keep people there until they ship them off on the prison barge or…. til they hang them." He quietly admitted.

This seemed to be the last straw for the doctor.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to compose herself.

"Well, that..uh..we seem to be reaching near the end of our session. How about we bring Miss. Templeton back in?" She flashed him a strained grin, but Varian knew she was rattled and he feared he'd said too much or had done the wrong thing.

"You mean Aunt Cass?" He asked.

"Yes. So you call her 'aunt' too?" He nodded. " Well let's get your aunt in here and we'll talk about how best to continue your therapy."

Dr. Mcguire walked out and Varian could hear her and Aunt Cass having a hushed and hurried conversion. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he knew it was about him. Soon after, they both reentered the room and Aunt Cass took a seat next to him on the couch.

Dr. Mcguire sat at her desk again and proceeded to make an announcement.

"So Varian and I have talked a little and he's decided that he's going to keep a dream diary, which he can share with me during our next few sessions if he would like. However, I feel that Varian might benefit from seeing a specialist."

Varian heart dropped. He was being turned away? He'd somehow managed to screw up his first therapy session so bad the doctor was pawning him off to someone else.

"But, aren't you a specialist?" Aunt Cass asked, equally confused.

"Yes, but I deal with post trauma, sudden events, like a car accident or the recent death of a family member. After talking to Varian, it appears he's been through prolonged trauma. It'll take a few more sessions to confirm this but, he may have Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It's related to regular PTSD, there is some overlap in symptoms, but ultimately it requires different treatment."

Varian's stomach began to churn and he felt his heartbeat quicken. All he heard, behind the doctor's unfamiliar terminology, was that he was somehow, wrong or broken, more so than even the troubled patients she normally worked with. He wanted to cry, but instead he blinked back tears as Dr. Mcguire contunited.

"I have the name of a psychiatrist that I can recommend. I've worked with him before alongside other patients."

She handed a business card to Aunt Cass who leaned forward to take from her. As she read it the doctor went on.

"Dr. Brown deals with former soldiers, war refugees, abuse victims, and others who've had to endure extremely harsh conditions. He's better experienced in such cases and as a psychiatrist he can also prescribe any medicine that Varian might need."

"Medicine!?" Varian exploded and both women looked at him with concern. "But, but I'm not sick." He whined in protest.

Dr. Mcguire stood up and walked over to him. She knelt down to his level and looked him in the eye.

"I don't know if you are or aren't, diagnoses of mental illnesses take time, but you might still need prescribed medication even if you don't have an illness. You mentioned not sleeping well, something as simple as a herbal tea with added melatonin could help with that. However as a psychologist, and not a psychiatrist, I can legally write you a prescription for that, nor should I."

Varian darted his eyes about the room in confusion. Logically what the woman said made sense, he supposed, but that didn't stop his anxiety from raising. He felt cornered. He wanted to run again, but the gentle hand of Aunt Cass upon his shoulder rooted him to the couch.

"Look, you're still welcome to come see me." Dr. Mcguire reassured him. "I'll gladly help you in any way that I can. I just think Dr. Brown could do even more to help you."

"We just want what's best for you." Aunt Cass interjected. "Thank you, Dr. Mcguire. I'll give this Dr. Brown a call today when we get home."

And that was the end of it. They said their goodbyes and left.

On the whole way home, Varian sulked in the passenger seat as he stared dispondingly out the window. He could feel Aunt Cass nervously stealing glances of him, probably afraid he may jump out of the car again and try to run away.

She attempted to say something a few times, but thought better of it and kept quiet. The uncomfortable silence weighing upon them both until they arrived back at the Luck Cat.

Varian tore out of the car, pounded up the stairs, and was just about to run towards his new room, when he heard Aunt Cass say. "We need to talk."

Varian found himself sitting on a couch for the second time that day. This one in Hamada living room. He eyed Aunt Cass pensively and waited for yet another lecture.

"Sooo, I know that didn't go as well as we hoped today, but hey, we made some progress!" She gave him a plastered grin as she tried to find the silver lining. Varian only gave her a look as if she was crazy and rolled his eyes.

She heaved a heavy sigh.

"Varian, there's nothing to be embarrassed about. Lots of people see special psychiatrists. That's what they're for. They wouldn't exist if people didn't need them."

Varian still refused to meet her gaze.

"Also, not everyone finds the right therapist on their first try. It took me a whole year and three different doctors before I found Dr. Mcguire."

Varian did look at her upon that revelation, this time with surprise on his face.

Aunt Cass gave him a small smile.

"Did you think you were the only one who needed therapy?" She gently teased, before admitting, "I was only 24 when I took in Tadashi and Hiro. I didn't know how to be a parent. I didn't know how to handle two grieving little boys nor the emotional roller coaster I was on as well. I had to get help. I had to try out different doctors, different types of therapy, even took medication for a little while, and it took time but in the end it did make things better for all of us. I just want you to get better as well."

Varian processed this confession as he wrestled with his growing sense of shame and despair.

"But...but…you never did anything to deserve that. It was just a bad thing that happened to you.. I… I on the other hand…I wasn't in that jail for no reason." He confessed before bursting into tears.

"I don't care." Aunt Cass quietly said.

Varian looked back in surprise again. She stood before him with worry etched onto her face.

"I don't care what you did." She reiterated. "It doesn't matter."

She bent down and cupped Varian's face into her hand, just as she did when he returned after running away.

"Varian, no one deserves to be treated the way you were. Especially a child. That..that was just cruel." Her voice broke. "Cruel, and inhumane, and oh god, what ever did they do to you to make you think you deserved it?" It was her turn to cry as she scooped Varian into a hug.

Varian blinked rapidly, both because of the tears and because he hadn't been expecting this reaction. He knew he was at fault. Everyone in the kingdom knew it. They all blamed him for what happened and threw nothing but scorn his way. The only reason that Aunt Cass and everyone else didn't hate him too was because they didn't know, surely. But the sincerity in her voice, the tender loving embrace, the way she put up with him and his stupid mistakes around the house, all made him desperate to believe her. So he hugged her tightly back.

"But.. But.. I'm not 'no one'" The tears flowed freely now. "I'm...I'm…I'm not like anyone. The doctor said so herself, today."

"No!" She pulled away from the embrace to look him dead in the eye. "No. She said you needed help that she couldn't give. Dr. Brown, though, can. He deals with people who've been through what you've been through. You're not alone. You're not broken. You're not weird. And you are most certainly not deserving of being thrown in a dungeon."

She wiped her fingers through his bangs, a sign of affection he'd come to recognize from her, and blinking back tears said, "Oh how I wish I could have been there for you sooner. But I'm here now. And so is Hiro, all your friends, Chief Cruz, Professor Granville, and Dr. Mcguire. Ok? We are all here for you now, and we love you, and nothing is going to change that. And now Dr. Brown will be there for you too. So please, let us help you."

Varian searched her eyes. These were words he had longed to hear for who knew how long, but when faced with them for real he had trouble giving into them; to believing them. The nagging voice in his head was screaming at him, warning him that it wasn't true, that they would all abandon his as soon as he screwed up or they found out the truth of his past, the same as how everyone else had given up on him, told him how he didn't deserve such kindness, ect.,but he didn't care. He wanted it to be true.

He nodded yes and flung his arms around Aunt Cass again. They remained that way, just holding each other for several minutes. While Aunt Cass stroked his hair and cooed reassuring words. How she loved him, how she wasn't going anywhere, how he was her child now and nothing would change that. He wasn't sure if he was ready to accept her as a parent yet, to him his dad was the only parent he needed, but he deeply appreciated all that she had done, all that she promised to do, and it felt good to finally be accepted somewhere, to be wanted .

When they finally stopped hugging Aunt Cass said she was going to call Dr. Brown and set up an appointment. She then stroked the top of his head again and asked if he wanted to help her bake something special for dinner. He nodded yes and they both put the unfortunate incident at the therapist behind them.

#Varian #Tangled #BH6 #aunt cass #cass hamada #big hero six #tangled the series #rapunzel's tangled adventure #BH6 the series

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cpinhais1920 · 3 years

Text

PINHAIS: A Testimony of A Living History

(Translated from Maria Martinho's article, edited by S. M. Amamangpang)

A stone's thrown from the sea, Matosinhos is the epicenter of the canning industry to the north of Portugal. In that area alone, 52 fish factories were installed, today only two remain and one of them is PINHAIS. The company was founded in 1920 by António Rodrigues Pinto Pinhal together with his brother Manuel Rodrigues Pinto Pinhal, natives of Espinho, who initially dedicated themselves to salting fish in a small warehouse, and Luíz Alves da Silva Rios, who is believed to have launched the challenge to the two fishing brothers to set up a company dedicated to the manufacture of canned fish, to which Luíz de Sousa Ferreira later joined. With the construction of the factory, the company started to produce canned sardines, mackerel and horse mackerel in olive oil, spicy olive oil, tomato and spicy tomato sauce. “We still maintain the original process. From the treatment of the fish to the packaging, everything is done by hand,” guarantees António Pinhal, grandson of the founder and currently responsible for the family business that is in the third generation.

He was only eight when he had his first memory linked to Pinhais. Hand in hand with his father, he saw trawlers loaded with fish arriving at Matosinhos pier on a Saturday morning. “I always did that at the weekend, it was happy to see the seagulls approaching, it was a sign that there was a lot of fish”, he tells The Observer. Later, he was in his fourth year in Economics at the University of Porto when his father asked him to work with him. “My cousin was his right hand, but he got sick and called me. I went to the auction to buy the fish, did the commercial and export part. Only when my cousin passed away did I join the staffs of the company directly and, as a working student, I finished the Economics course at night. ”

For a decade, António was responsible for carefully choosing the raw materials for preserves, a function that allows him to distinguish the quality of a sardine with the naked eye today. “The sardine caught at four or five in the morning is better than the hake at midnight, I can see that from the eyes, the gills and the scales”, he says, adding that it was also on the wooden base of the trucks used to transport the baskets of fish that could take the real test of the nine. “I would take the sardine and throw it to the wood, if it jumped it had been caught in the morning, if it was quiet it was because it had been caught earlier.”

When he finished his Economics course, he already had several job offers, but his father said: either the bank or the factory. “The bug got into me and I ended up staying here. I don't know if I did it right or wrong, but I don't regret it.”

While most canning companies have industrialized over the years, Pinhais has decided to remain faithful to artisanal production, despite the various crises. “There was a Portuguese olive oil supplier that sold the product much cheaper and one day he asked my father if he didn't want to buy a car, which at that time cost about 100 contos, with the money he saved. My father did not have a license nor did he know how to drive, so he refused.” It was like this for four years, until it was discovered that this oil was adulterated. “The containers that other firms distributed to the United States were recalled and the canning industry crisis started there.”

In 1935, Pinhais launched Nuri, a brand with the same products, but aimed at the international market. “One of the partners in the company was my uncle, a public relations person who spoke several languages. It was he who discovered the first international markets and when he went to Spain he met a very beautiful Spaniard named Nuri, that's how he decided to name the brand. ”

During the 40 years that he is at the helm of the canning industry, António Pinhal confesses that the most difficult moment was when the European Union's share of fishing emerged. The golden season in Matosinhos was from June to October, which forced the official to go buy fish in Sines, Peniche, Figueira da Foz, Spain or France. Nothing that would move him or make him lose his faith, after all the Pinhal family is deeply Catholic and in António's office are visible old cans, black and white photographs of the family, but also saints and candles.

“My father went to Mass twice a day and until three years ago we used to pray the rosary half an hour before the people left.” At 4:30 pm, someone put a cassette in the tape recorder and workers exchanged fish scissors for the rosary. “We stopped doing that when we hired people with other religions, it didn't make sense to be imposing that. It used to be different, people were more devout, especially when we talk about a fishing community. Times change and we have to accept those changes. ”

The fish arrives every morning through a special door, leaves the boxes and is immersed in an aluminum container in cold water and salt where the brine is given. “The large sardine is 40 minutes, the medium is 15 minutes, and the petinga, 5,” says António Pinhal. After this process, sardines, mackerel and horse mackerel are spread on large marble tables, where the head and the gut are removed with a small knife. "This is a normally mechanized process, but here we do it by hand to ensure that the gut comes out completely."

Headless and with a spine, the fish is placed one by one on a metal grid and dipped in a tank with cold water to remove the salt. The rooks loaded with fish are distributed in carts that enter a greenhouse at 100 degrees for 10 to 12 minutes. They come out of there hot and during the cooling process all the moisture and grease drain out. “Thus, both water and fat do not go into the can and oil, when added, turns yellow and not brown. This is one of our major differences from the competition,” explains António Pinhal.

It is only after this phase that the fish is placed in containers to then be cut by hand with scissors to fit in the can of preserves, which can then carry tomato sauce, cucumber, carrot or chilli pickles. In this assembly line, several employees dressed in white are seated in a row, from the cap to the wellies, passing through the waterproof apron. Many have their names written on the back and pillows to ensure comfort throughout the day.

Emília Vaz is in the section dedicated to homemade tomato sauce. She is 67 years old and is the oldest employee of Pinhais. She started at 18 and at the end of 2020, she will retire. With the reddish apron and the sweat on her forehead, she proudly shows the marks on her body that the years of work left him. “I've already cut myself on the toes with the cans and scalded my foot to make tomato sauce,” she says, adding that the factory is her second home and her colleagues are part of her family. She treats them by their first name and says she likes to teach those who arrive there for the first time. Among all, she is known as the “Emília da Afurada” (Emília, The Sharp). “In the past, I crossed the Douro in a small boat, but nowadays I take the bus to Boavista and then take the metro to get here.”

About 30,000 cans come out of Pinhais every day, essentially filled with sardines. There is no waste around here, proof of this is that the fish's head, tail and gut is sent to the flour industry to fertilize the soil and the remaining oil is supplied to the soap industry. On the mechanical mat, the cans stuffed with fish and other ingredients arrive in a veritable rain of Portuguese olive oil and are then closed by another machine. Still greasy, the closed can is washed in a tank with water at 100 degrees and sterilized for 60 minutes to eliminate any bacteria and will be packed by hand. Three months is the minimum time to stay in the warehouse to gain flavor, only after this period of maturation is the canned ready to go on its journey.

Célia Ferreira is responsible for the packaging department and in the 15-minute snack break she is the only one in the room to wrap cans of preserves. “I can eat at home,” she says, smiling, guaranteeing that she likes what she does. Her mother, aunts and cousins passed through Pinhais, so it would be almost inevitable for Célia to also work at the Matosinhos factory, where 1,200 cans per day pass through her hands. The natural employee of Leça da Palmeira walks surrounded by cards and packages painted in yellow, green, red or blue and knows the destination of each one by heart. "These go to Australia, those to the United States and those to the Czech Republic.

In 2016, the Pinhal family sold its stocks to an Austrian agent, the current owner of the brand. “It was a decision motivated by the fishing crisis, there were no orders, we lacked liquidity and we thought it was necessary to take this step. He is a trustworthy person, he has worked with us since 1985, he belongs to a family business connected to cereals. At one time, he was our best customer, he represented more than 70% of our exports, and he became the only way to save this firm,” recalls António Pinhal. Despite the change, everything seems to have remained. “The only premise was to leave everything as it is.” Currently, Pinhais exports 90% of its production to countries such as Austria, the United States, the Philippines, Denmark or France. Here, the points of sale are limited to gourmet stores. “Quantity is not quality. We bet on quality, while in large stores we buy a can of sardines at 0.90 cents, ours costs € 2.50. The labor is very expensive, we work with 14 or 15 stages, the other factories have only three,” justifies António Pinhal.

Extending the range of products is not part of the brand's plans, which work on original marble tables from 1920 and see their work space limited to small fish. However, there is a need to bring something new to the market, so next year, Pinhais will use leftover sardines to market patês. The online store was launched just in time for the pandemic and in the summer of 2021 a live museum is expected on the factory premises, a project that has lived in the drawer for several years and bureaucracy has delayed. “We want to make it known what the tradition of the canning industry was, showing, at the same time, how we work.”

António Pinhal is not afraid of the future and says that only the pandemic forced small changes in the company, such as the acrylics arranged among the workers, a laboratory converted into a quarantine room and more mechanized transport processes. The grandson of the founder of Pinhais eats preserves religiously every Friday at lunch. “Canning tins are normally six years old as an expiration date, but my father always preferred old ones that were 15 or 20 years old. Every Friday at lunch he opens an old can, watched, smelled and asked me to eat a piece. After five minutes, if I didn't feel bad, I would eat it. It was your guinea pig and I thought it was funny. ”

Source:

(https://observador.pt/2020/09/13/conservas-pinhais-a-fabrica-onde-se-rezava-o-terco-e-hoje-se-canta-o-fado-enquanto-se-enchem-latas/)

#Pinhais #Matosinhos #Portugal #sardines #sardinha #sardinas #sardinia #Nuri Sardines #Mabuti Sardines #Rios Sardines #artisanal #traditional

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

Best Part of Me -Chapter 31

Warning: Profanity

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @alievans007, @ocfairygodmother

Two days later he finds himself on a chartered plane to The Kimberley; paying handsomely and out of pocket for the privacy and security that a flight of that nature could...and would...provide him with. Contacting an old buddy from his SASR days that had started his own travel company flying people throughout the northern territory of Australia; mostly tourists wanting to spend their time roaming the remotest of places. Thrill seekers who wanted to try their hand at cliff diving or getting up close and personal with the prolific wildlife; exploring the waterfalls and the gorges and getting a taste of life in the outback. When Tyler had called and offered triple what one day of flights would bring in plus a bonus for fuel and for a vow silence, his buddy had jumped at the chance. Clearing his schedule for twenty-five hours and offering at be at Tyler’s beck and call, promising not to ask any questions or expect any answers or explanations. He was on a need to know basis, and he simply didn’t need to know.

He rents a vehicle in Broome under a fake name; paying cash and giving extra when he fails to provide any identification verifying who he is. He barely speaks; simple yes or no answers, never giving too much or too little. Keeping his sunglasses over his eyes and his ball cap on his head; beard trimmed close to his face; hair tightly cropped to the scalp. He wants to keep things on the down low just in case he is on someone’s radar. The less people who know his business, the better. Fewer bread crumbs left scattered about means he has a better chance of keeping things off the grid. If someone IS watching him and his family, it’s of dire importance to keep things quiet. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t arouse suspicion. And most importantly, don’t put an even bigger target on your back.

He sits in the car rental parking lot; behind the wheel of a Range Rover that’s used to the roads and can handle the rugged and sometimes unforgiving terrain, checking his text messages and emails. The mystery of who Salena actually is continues to deepen; there’s no record of anyone with that name -first or last- having ever attended college of university anywhere in Australia within the past twenty years. Nothing found through the department of transport; no record of a driver’s license issued through them, no vehicle ownership, no tickets or other driving infractions. It’s going to take long than Tyler had anticipated or hoped; his contacts needing time to hack into government databases. Years on the job have left him a wealth of ‘friends’; people who respect and trust him ,who he in turn can rely on to not ask too many questions and he knows won’t turn him away when he shows up out of the blue asking for help.

There had been no luck on the Jeep; other than learning that the plates had been stolen three days before from a grocery store parking lot in Victoria. How they’d ended up on a vehicle in Cooktown presents an even bigger question. He’d wanted to avoid confronting Salena himself; hoping he’d get the answers he wanted -and needed-without resorting to calling her out. He plans to give it three more days. If he hears nothing by the end of the week, he will go over to the house and demand she tell him what the fuck is going on. No one puts his family in jeopardy. Perceived or not. And if he doesn’t hear what he wants, she will find out the hard way just how savage he can actually be.

He calls home. One of the ‘rules’ they’d adopted years ago -and stuck to - when they’d first gotten married was to always call when you reach your destination; so the other knows that you’ve arrived safe and sound. The other is that you never leave the house without saying ‘I love you’. Life is too short, and if Dhaka had taught them anything. it was how quickly and drastically things could go wrong; your entire existence dramatically -and permanently- altered. And although he hadn’t seen the Jeep or the driver in the past forty eight hours, the lack of leads and solid information have left a bitter taste in his mouth, along with the even more speculation and suspicion. Things are NOT what they seem. He’s one hundred percent sure of that. It isn’t paranoia or hypervigilance or a case of him being an overprotective husband and father; it’s fact. The neighbour and the Jeep driver both sounding the alarm and kicking his instincts into high gear.

He hasn’t said a word. Not wanting to spook her or the kids. For now he simply plays his cards close to his chest. Keeping an eye on everyone and everything; coming up with a game plan for every possible scenario.

“But when will you be home?” Tanner asks, sounding dangerously close to tears. He’d expected Millie or TJ to be the emotional and sensitive ones; they’ve always taken his absences a lot of harder than their brother. Tanner had always been the strong and stoic one; the emotional and moral support for his siblings. But since Tyler’s return from New Zealand, the dynamic between them has changed. Their relationship tighter and stronger than ever.

“I’ll be there when you get home from school tomorrow,” Tyler assures him, his own lump of emotion sitting squarely and solidly in his throat. It’s so fucking hard. Leaving them. Even when it’s just an overnight trip.

“You promise?”

“I promise. I just have a couple of things to do. An old friend to see. Then I’m coming right home.”

“”You’ll be here when we get off the bus?”

“I will. And I tell you, I’ll pick you guys up. We’ll go out and do something before going home. Just the three of us. Okay?”

“Okay daddy,” Tanner swallows noisily.

“You tell Millie and TJ what I said. That I’ll meet you guys at school. And you help out your mum, yeah? You do whatever she saw and whatever she asks. No giving her a hard time. Promise?”

“I promise. You promise, too? That you’ll be there to pick us up?”

“I promise, mate. I’ll be there.”

“I love you, daddy.”

“I love you too. And I’ll see you tomorrow. Let me talk to mommy.”

“Okay,” Tanner sniffles noisily, and there’s a slight rustling as the phone is passed from one person to the other, followed by Esme giving gentle yet firm orders about starting -and finishing- homework before anyone is allowed time on the beach.

“You got there okay?” She speaks to him now, voice quiet and tired.

“Safe and sound. It’ll take a couple of hours to get there. I don’t know how good the reception is going to be when I get there. It used to be shit when I lived there.”

“That must have been so disappointing for you and your harem of women,” she teases. “Hard to sext with unreliable reception.”

“You’re a smart ass, you know that?”

“So you tell me.”

“If the signal is decent later, I’ll sext you later.”

“Yeah?” she laughs. “I think I’d rather it happen over the phone. So I can hear your voice. I’d much rather hear you say disgustingly dirty things than type them. You’re a master of naughty talk. And in that voice, ” she sighs happily, then turns serious. “You sound tired.”

“I am. It wasn’t a good night last night.”

Another nightmare; a new one this time. Of masked and heavily armed men breaking into the house and binding him to a chair and forcing him to watch as they raped and murdered his wife. Then shooting him -non fatally- before taking off with the kids. He can still hear their voices; his children...his flesh and blood...screaming in terror and pleading with him to help them. He’d woken up with a choked sob; bolting into a sitting position, body covered head to toe in sweat, tears streaming down his face and his heart pounding and his chest aching. Somehow he’d managed to not wake Esme up, and for an hour he’d laid beside her watching her sleep. Marvelling in the way the moonlight bathed her skin in an ethereal glow and how her lips were curved into the smallest and softest of smiles; the ends of her eyelashes brushing against the top of her cheeks and her body rising and falling with each slow, steady breath.

And when she’d mentioned at breakfast how restless he’d been through the night, he’d lied and placed the blame on his shoulder and knee. She didn’t need to hear that; the horrific and grotesque details of some fucked up night terror. In the same way he’d never tell her about Gaspar’s real offer and the things Asif had planned for her.

“You’re okay now?” she asks. “Is it any better?”

He wants to tell her that physically he feels pretty damn good; nothing more than a dull ache in the shoulder and a stiff knee. Mentally he’s struggling. The cravings for the Oxy have diminished, but the ones for booze are powerful and nearly all consuming. It’s the stress of not knowing what’s happening; the worry of the unknown. Just exactly who is the new next door neighbor? Who was it that had been watching him and the kids? Is his family going to be safe while he’s gone? Ovi and Kyle are there; and while it gives him some piece of mind, they don’t stand a chance against the type of people that Tyler has faced.

“It’s better,” he replies. “Knee’s a bit stiff but that’s nothing new. I’m always going to hobble like I’m eighty. I’m used to it now.”

“Well for what it’s worth, I think your hobble is kind of cute,” she says.

“I’d like to tell you that that makes me feel better, but when you use the word cute…”

“You ARE cute though. In a lot of ways. And you can’t convince me otherwise. You call me cute.”

“Because you ARE cute. You were especially cute this morning when you were looking up at me while waking me up by sucking my…”

“Okay,” she interrupts with a giggle. “We do not need a play by play of this morning. Because it will only get me all hot and bothered and now is not a good time to be hot and bothered. Behave yourself, okay? Don’t get into any trouble.”

“I promise I will not get into any drunken bar brawls.”

“I’d like you stay sober, please. I know how much Koen likes his beer and he’s going to want a drinking buddy and he hasn’t seen you in a long time and...”

“I know how to say no. I’m forty years old. I won’t give in to peer pressure.”

“I just worry about you. I know you’re in a bad place right now and being away from home might make the urges stronger and…”

“ I’m not going to lose you. Or my kids. I’ve got this. It’s not going to beat me.”

“You’re a strong man, Tyler Rake. Regardless of what you think.”

He smiles. “I love you, baby.”

“I love you, too. Come home quick, play? We miss you. I miss you.”

“That soon?” He grins. “That’s gotta be a record.”

“Well I’ve gotten used to you being around. I know I sometimes bitch and moan about you…”

“Sometimes?”

“...but I still like having you here.”

“Yeah? Well I like being there. You make it pretty easy to stick around.”

“Even with all my bitching and moaning?”

“Even then.”

“Drive safe, okay? And don’t tell me not to worry about you because that will never happen. If you can get a signal, call me later. Just so I know how you are. I kind of like hearing your voice before I go to sleep.”

“I will,” Tyler promises. “I’ll be home tomorrow. My flight gets in at noon.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“Esme, you don’t…”

“I’ll pick you up,” she insists. “Don’t give me a hard time about this. Just me do something nice for you, alright?”

He smiles. “Alright.”

“We’ll talk soon. I love you, Tyler.”

He’s always loved the way his name has sounded coming out of her mouth. Whether it’s sweet and loving like just now, or soft and sleepy when he wakes her up after she’s falling asleep against him on the couch. Or when she’s in the midst of a round of hysterical giggles when he’s tickling her mercilessly or when it’s interspersed with moans and sighs during more intimate moments or she’s screaming it loud enough to wake the dead.

“I love you, Esme,” he says in return. “So much. I’ll see you when I see you.”

She gives a small laugh. “You haven’t said that in a long time. That used to be our ‘thing’. Whenever you’d leave for a job, you never left without saying that. I’ve missed it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With that she disconnects the call. And for several minutes he sits there in that dusty parking lot, tears stinging his eyes as he stares down at the phone clutched tightly in his hand.

****

The road is ragged and rough, but there’s a familiarity to it that Tyler has missed. The way the SUV rocks and slides; the crunch and pop of stone and dirt under the tires and the patter of pebbles against metal and the windshield. The plume of dust that is kicked up behind him. It’s been years since he’s been out this way; returning once shortly after he’d finished his stint in rehab after Dhaka. His counsellor convincing him that it would be beneficial to his progress if he visited one last time; the act of saying goodbye to that part of his past giving him a sense of closure, and making it easier for him to get on with the present AND the future. But he’d felt nothing upon his return; he’d never formed any kind of bond with the place, using it primarily as just somewhere to eat and lay his head. And drink himself into oblivion nearly every night.

His mind is much clearer now. It’s been years since he’d last taken Oxy, and six months since even a drop of booze. He feels a little more nostalgic; the mountain range and the sparse treeline coming into view, spying the rusted old gate that’s still standing after all these years.

He immediately thinks of that afternoon seven years ago when he’d returned home to find a helicopter sitting in his front yard and Nik waiting for him on the porch. He’d been irritated at first; all he’d wanted was to be alone and to wallow in his own self pity and maybe even drink and drug himself to death. Then he’d realized that Nik was likely bringing what he needed the most: an escape. That she had something big for him; a job he couldn’t -and wouldn’t- refuse. And he remembers standing in the kitchen as she sent into a spiel about one drug dealer snatching another drug dealer’s kid and how he was being held in Dhaka. The front door had been open and he’d let his mind wander as she spoke and that’s when he saw her: a tiny brunette with an impossibly tight and toned body in jean shorts, tank top, and flip flops, climbing out of the helicopter. Chatting and laughing over her shoulder with Yaz as she headed towards the shack. Pausing on the porch as Maggie -his old and faithful canine companion- happily greeted the newcomer; immediately flopping over onto her back and demanding stomach rubs.

He’d stood there watching; barely hearing a word Nik said as he noted all the tattoos and the piercings in her nose and and just below her bottom lip. The way one strap of the tank top kept slipping off her shoulder. Knowing that his life was about to change, but never imagining just how much.

Koen is standing on the front porch when Tyler steps out of the SUV; an Australian cattle dog with a yellow bandana tied around its neck sitting patiently as his friend’s side, tail wagging in excitement. Koen’s one of his oldest -and dearest- friends; serving together throughout their years in the SASR. Walking through hell together in war zones like Kabul and Kandahar; dodging bullets and escaping death and shedding blood, sweat, and tears. He’s a decade older than Tyler; grittier, weathered. Several inches shorter; stocky and wide, his youthful and more muscular days behind him. But he’s rough; tough as nails and fearless. And even now Tyler would still trust him to have his back in even the most dire and dangerous of situations.

“Jesus...Christ…” Koen grumbles as Tyler approaches, and then ruffles the scruff of the dog’s neck. “...Sadie, get the shotgun. We’ve got a sketchy bastard in our midst.”

“Is Sadie your right palm or your left?” Tyler inquires.

“Always were a smart ass little prick. You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Nope. But I kiss yours.”

Koen smirks, and in two strides he’s off the porch and embracing Tyler warmly; a tight, affectionate huge that comes with years of surviving the worst together. “Holy shit…” he drawls, and gives Tyler’s hair a tussle and then holds him out at arms length. “...you’re a big bastard now, ain’t ya.”

“Two thirty, two thirty five. Maybe a bit heavier.”

Koen squeezes Tyler’s shoulders, then his biceps. “Like a fucking brick wall. What the hell she been feeding ya?”

“Lots of good shit. She treats me right. I can’t complain.”

“Can’t believe she’s still putting up with the likes of you. I gave her the chance, you know. When you were all laid up in that hospital with a tube in your dick. Told her if she wanted a real man, I was ready, willing, and able. She wouldn’t take me up on it, though. Already attached to you for some fucking reason. How you keeping? Things are good? You look good.”

“I feel good. What’s this?” He slaps the back of his hand against Koen’s stomach. “When ya due?”

“I oughta slap that shit eating grin clear off your face. And I would if I hadn’t missed your sorry face. Good to you, mate. Damn good to see you.” Koen embraces him once again. “Wasn’t sure you’d make it. Didn’t look too good for a while.”

“That was almost seven years ago,” Tyler points out.,

“Been that fucking long?” Koen gives a long, low whistle and shakes his head. “Sometimes feels like it was just yesterday. Getting that call. How she ever tracked me down while you were in a coma, I’ll never know.”

“A nurse gave her my phone. She just went through my contacts, picked a name, and hoped for the best.”

“You’re a fucking lucky bastard, you know. Having a girl like that. Any lady that will stick by your side like that...do the things she did...well that’s a lady worth keeping. You’ve been treating her right, I hope. Because I’m not above calling her and finding out. Or kicking your ass if she’s got bad tales to tell.”

“We’ve been through some shit,” Tyler admits. “But she’s still hanging in there. For some reason or another.”

“Needs her goddamn head read, if you ask me. Why should she be stuck with that,” he nods at Tyler. “When she could have this?”

Tyler just chuckles, and Koen slings an arm around him and leads the way inside.

****

The shack is more habitable now; the living area, bedroom, and kitchen are still open concept, but a wall now separates them from the bathroom. There’s insulation and sheetrock; no rickety wooden planks with gaps and holes that used to let in the rain and dirt when the wind storms picked up. It’s plain yet bright; light beige pint, a wood floor glazed over with a natural stain, hand constructed butcher block counter tops in the kitchen and a toilet, sink, and tub in sparkling condition. The roof is still tin though, and Tyler can vividly recall the sound of rain hammering against it; lonesome and depressing on the darkest and emptier of nights.

Koen gestures for him to take a seat at the kitchen table -the same one that had been there when Tyler had given him the place nearly seven years ago- and he takes a seat in one of the weathered and wobbly chairs. Watching as his old friend moves to the cupboard above the sink and takes out two glasses and a half empty bottle of whisky. Tyler doesn’t say anything at first; silent as Koen pours the amber coloured liquor into the glasses and then places one in front of him before taking a seat across the table.

He considers it; just ONE drink. Something to take the edge of. His fingertips against the cold, smooth surface of the glass; smelling it, tasting it on his lips and his tongue. The craving gnaws at his belly and preys on his mind; telling him he needs it. Deserves it. And the rim of the glass is pressed against his lips when the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window catches the white gold of his wedding band. The glint capturing his attention; a proverbial kick in the ass for even considering what he was about to do. And he sets the glass down on the table without taking a single sip.

Koen frowns. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t do this anymore,” Tyler says. “Drink. I haven’t for six months.”

He expects some kind of trash talking, or at least a laugh and incredulous shake of the head. But Koen just gives a nod of understanding and then stands up, carrying the glass to the sink and dumping the whisky down the drain.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say something?” He asks, then grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and then sets it down in front of Tyler before returning to his seat. “Sober, huh?”

“Half a year now.”

“Must have been hard.”

“Still is,” Tyler admits. “But I made a promise. To stay clean. To my wife and my kids. And that’s a promise I intend to keep.”

Koen grins. “Good man. About time you cleaned yourself up. You were on a pretty dangerous path there. Didn’t like the way you were headed. But you’re a stubborn bastard and you wouldn’t listen to a damn thing I had to say. Go figure it took a pretty girl to get through to you. She’s good?”

“She’s good,” he confirms. “Very good.”

“And the kids?”

“Getting big. Every day I look at them and I notice things changing about them. And they’re smart. Crazy smart. Especially Millie. So much like her mom.”

“Well thank God she got the brains from her momma because if she got the looks and the smarts from you, I’d pity the poor child. And the new one? How’s she doing?”

“Growing like a weed. Still tiny as hell though. Looks just like Esme.”

He reaches into the side pocket of his cargo short and takes out his phone; bringing up the photo gallery and then passing the cell to his friend.

“Now ain’t she a teeny thing,” Koen smiles, as he scrolls through the pictures. “How does something that small come from the likes of you? And Jesus, look at the twins. Spitting image of you. Especially this little bloke…” he holds the screen out towards Tyler, showing him a picture of Tanner taken just minutes after he’d gotten Tyler’s old hair cut; the one he’d been sporting when he’d met Esme. “...which one is he?”

“That’s Tanner. The youngest of the two.”

“Fucking looks just like you. Especially with that hair. That’s how I remember you looking. With that hair. Now you got a mini me wandering around out there. Hope all the parents lock their daughters up. Especially if he’s anything like you. You’re very fortunate, you know. Never thought I’d see you like this...a husband...a father...but I’m glad I did. If anyone deserved to get their shit together and deserved to have a second chance at life, it was you. And this…” he holds the phone out once again; a candid photo of Esme on the beach. A close up that Tyler had taken after he’d tried to teach her how to surf; her hair wet and dangling down the sides of her face, freckles of sand on her forehead and cheeks, a slight sunburn on the bridge of her nose, eyes sparkling as she smiled.

“You lucky fucker,” Koen scoffs. “You better keep on the straight and arrow, ‘cause I reckon there’s a lot of blokes that wouldn’t mind taking your place beside the likes of her.”

“She’s definitely a keeper,” Tyler agrees. “I’m not letting her go anytime soon.”

“Or ever,” his friend says, and he nods. “I was surprised when you called and said you were taking a trip out here. Didn’t expect to you see until next weekend when I gave up the place up for a couple of days. What’s going on? Everything okay?”

“I’ve got something I want to run by you. An idea. A business proposition. I thought it was best if I didn’t wait until next week. And that we should talk about it face to face.”

“Sounds pretty serious. You okay?”

“I’ve got some shit going on.” Tyler admits.

“The PTSD still?”

He nods.

“That shit is a fucking nightmare,” Koen mutters, and takes a long swallow of whisky. “So what’s this about? This idea? This business thing?”

“I’m getting back into the game.”

“The mercenary gig? Why the fuck would you want to do that? Didn’t learn your lesson the first time you took a bullet to the throat?”

“This won’t be like the last time. This is different. I’m different.”

“You’re fucking crazy is what you are. Wanting to get back into that shit. You’ve got a family now. Think that’s the best life for them? For a wife and kids? Especially five little ones. Why would you want to put them through that? Going away and leaving them to wonder if daddy’s ever coming home?”

“Leave my kids out of this. It has nothing to do with them.”

“It has everything to do with them,” Koen growls. “I can see why you’d want to do this if you were alone and had nothing to lose. But fuck, mate. You’ve got everything to lose. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tyler scowls. “You going to listen to what I have to say or are you just going to keep lecturing me?”

“I should be beating your ass is what I should be doing. For being so fucking stupid.”

“You done? You going to let me talk or…”

“I need another drink to put up with the likes of you,” Koen mutters, then gets up from the table and pours himself another.

“I’m starting my own business,” Tyler tells him.

“Your own merc business?”

He nods.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Koen knocks back the whisky in one gulp. “Why the ever loving hell?”

“I’ve already started getting the word out. Reaching out to people I’ve done jobs for, guys I’ve worked with, contacts I’ve held onto. Once things really start spreading around, there won’t be a shortage of jobs. And guys willing to jump ship to come work for me.”

“So why you here? Why come talk to me?”

“I’m offering you a job.”

Koen’s eyes narrow. “As a merc?”

“A well paid one.”

“Holy...shit…” Koen chuckles and shakes his head. “What in the blue hell?”

“You and I go back a lot of years,” Tyler reminds him.

“A hell of a lot,” his friend agrees.

And I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t trust you. With my life I know a lot of guys...a lot of experienced mercs...and I still would want you having my back over any of them.”

“Don’t try and sweet talk me, blue eyes. Your pretty face won’t work its magic on me.”

“You’ve got the experience. You’ve put in a fuck of a lot of years with the SARS. Even more than me. So you’d be able to do this. You’re a hell of a good shot, you’ve got tons of combat experience, and you know your way around a tons of different weapons. Your hand to hand combat leaves a little to be desired, but…”

“A little to be desired, huh? How about we go outside right now and I show you how good my hands are.”

Tyler scoffs. “You wanting me to fight me or are you offering to jerk me off?”

Koen smirks.

“I know your military benefits are shit. Probably not much more than mine. You can’t live off that forever. I’m offering you a chance of a lifetime here. We’re talking big money.”

“How big?”

“These would be big jobs. High profile clients. You know that gig I had in Ireland? Right before we moved back here?”

Koen nods.

“I got five million for that. And that was only part of the job. I didn’t even need to see it through. Imagine the kind of payouts we’d bring in from big spenders?”

“Are you telling me I’m sitting across from a millionaire right now?”

Tyler just smiles.

“Jesus fuck. Are you serious?”

“I won’t tell you who paid me. That doesn’t matter. But we’d be attracting people with even more money and even bigger scores to settle. You can’t tell me that doesn’t sound like something you’d go for.”

“How many of us are there?”

“I’ve got three so far. An ex Marine, Ovi…”

“The kind you pulled out of Dhaka?”

“...and Rata.”

Koen’s glass is pressed against his lips. “You already talked to that rat bastard? Before me? When?”

“Last night he came by the house. He was in Cairns with that new girlfriend of his. Didn’t take much to get him to come on board.”

“Yeah, he’s always been a few bricks short a load, though.”

“I need you in on this,” Tyler insists. “You’d be the perfect fit. I know the things you can do. I saw them...for myself...in Kabul and Kandahar. This is right up your alley.”

“How the hell are you going to pull this off? Get everything you need? Guns, ammo, whatever the fuck else a merc uses.”

“You don’t spend years as a mercenary and not make contacts. Reliable ones. I’ve got a guy stopping here in the morning. He has a haul of stuff for me. Rifles, handguns, utility vests, grenades. You name it. And there’s more where that came from. A lot more.”

“You’re fucking insane, you know that? Getting mixed up with this shit again.”

“Maybe,” Tyler admits. “But it’s what I know. It’s who I am. Why piss away an opportunity like this?”

Koen sighs, then shakes his head and gets up to fetch himself another drink.

“So,” Tyler says, as he leans back in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. “You in or out?”

“Fuck it,” Koen growls, then downs his drink and slams the empty glass down on the counter top. “I’m in.”

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fiction #tyler rake fan fic #best part of me #extraction #chris hemsworth character

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essaysbyciara · 4 years

Text

Old Habits Die Hard | Part Four: Down The Stairs And To Your Left

SYNOPSIS | PART ONE: DAYS BEFORE | PART TWO: JUST BE GOOD TO ME | PART THREE: RECOGNIZE THE BUTTERFLIES

Peace!

Warnings: Lightweight mentions of sexual situations, language

A few things! Old Habits Die Hard is now on WATTPAD! If you’re more of a person that uses Wattpad to follow fanfiction, you can now follow on that platform. It’s all up to date over there. Secondly, I’m dropping off the internet grid (new year fasting, you know how it is...) from the 6th until the 26th so there will be no update until I come back (hopefully, it’ll be finished by then lol) Lastly, I love you all and I’ll see you on the flipside!

DOWN THE STAIRS AND TO YOUR LEFT

The latter parts of the day’s sunlight stream into Ariel’s bedroom and bounce off of the water-stained Word Up! posters of Mindless Behavior left hanging onto her bedroom walls. You understand why Aunt Jerri wouldn’t want to remove them; your Dad kept your B2K posters up in your room well after you left for college too. It made him feel like you never left home.

Stuffed animals mark their spot on top of the dresser and in front of the vanity mirror that’s reflecting an image of you braiding Ariel’s voluminous hair into two large french braids. It was getting too hot for her hair to live wild and free.

“I can’t believe my mom is actually hosting a party here tonight. This is not like her at all.”

“Ariel, I can’t either… she’s wildin’ tonight.” So was Yahya for that matter. His insistence on staying the night could only be explained by his desire to get a break from the hyper-emotional and high-stress world of being a civil rights attorney. He wanted to be as wild and free as Ariel’s hair that you’re trying to tame. You’re successful with Ariel. With Yahya, not so much.

Ariel grabs EcoStyler for her edges as you take a look at your phone. Dave has yet to message you again since you ignored his first message and you couldn’t help but feel a bit dismayed by his lack of a following gesture. For him to go out of his way to message you after a year of paying you no mind, you would think he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Your pride, at least, wanted a fight out of him.

“I hope this party is lowkey, Ari. I do.”

“It should be just family and maybe Mr. Jones’ family down the street.”

“I don’t think I know the Joneses like that at all.”

“One of them, this boy Pardi, is fine as shit…”

“Ari…”

You didn’t like Ari to curse even if she was old enough. “Leave those boys alone, homegirl.”

“Speaking of those Jones’ boys … that low-ass Dave’s been asking about you.”

Your emotions spike. You don’t want to show your enthusiasm for Dave’s inquiries about you but you also feigned to know how much he much he misses you and if he craved you or wanted to see you.

“Oh word?” Your poker face is ice cold. “I haven’t talked to him in a minute. He’s okay?”

“Looking real dusted, yeah. He kept asking me about you too. Got on my nerves.”

You sit on the edge of Ariel’s bed, rubbing the corners of her mattress with hands that twitch at the thought of running into Dave before your trip is over. You try your best to shrug off Ariel’s notice of Dave’s attention towards you but curiosity is starting to get the best of you. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing. Felt like it was better to show him.”

You quickly realize how Dave found you. You wanted to make sure that Ariel wouldn’t pull such a move.

“Ariel … how did you do that?”

“Showed him a picture of you and your man.”

“Girl, no… that wasn’t your place to do that.”

Ariel shoots a puzzled look toward you and you shoot it right down. “I get it but Sis, that wasn’t the move…”

“It ain’t like Dave hit you up, right … fuck, I’m sorry.”

Ariel received -- and believed -- the farcical cliff notes of the story of how you and Dave ended. You told her that you two decided that distance and travel would be too much to continue the relationship. You didn’t want to tell her the real story: that your texts to Dave went unanswered and that when you called him, it went straight to voicemail. You even hopped on I-95 unannounced to drive up to Philly but once you were minutes away from the tolls, you bailed. All of that you couldn’t tell Ariel.

“I doubt he shows his face, Y/N. It ain’t like he knows that you’re here.”

“You sure you ain’t tell him that, Ariel? Since you showing my life off…” Your misdirected irritation toward Ariel is rearing its ugly head. You quickly reel yourself in once you see Ariel start slamming the drawers shut on her vanity. “I’m sorry, cousin. You didn’t deserve that. I know you meant well by what you…”

The faint ring of the doorbell stops your apology in its tracks. You pass a frightened look at Ariel who quickly passes it back to you. You don’t know who that could be at the door. You’re hoping -- but yet praying that it’s not-- Dave.

You run into the bathroom to straighten yourself up before parading down the steps to maybe see your impending doom for the first time in a year. You adjust your sundress to show the right amount of plump and cleavage and shift your dress to show the most thigh you could. You check your Nikes for scuffs of asphalt on the toe box. You inhale so much air into your lungs that they may explode. You exhale once you walk down the steps to see it’s just Yahya coming into the house with his hands beyond full.

Crisis averted.

“Oh you went to the good state store, Yahya. You ain’t holding anything cheap.” Aunt Jerri grabs the two bottles of Woodford Reserve from up under Yahya’s right arm, ignoring the weight of the rest of the goodies that are almost causing him to topple over. The bags of ice are set to fall until you quicken your pace down the steps to catch those bags before they hit the floor. To Yahya, you were on time.

Dave doesn’t want to be late and miss Aunt Jerri’s afterparty, his favorite black t-shirt sticking to his body like glue as the sweat pools toward the middle of his back. He cranks up his air conditioning unit to the maximum. He’s trying to not lose his cool.

Dave’s been thinking about what to say to you all day. A part of him needs to corner you and pour his heart out but he’s too much of thug for that. A part of him desires to play the corner with hopes of you making the first move. Ultimately, all of him hopes that your fiance isn’t there to fight any and all of his fantasies. He knows that he must be on his best behavior: Aunt Jerri and his Mom are close friends. There will be no corner-like-behavior up in that house.

As Dave adjusts the laces on his Nikes, his brother Pardi softly raps on Dave’s door to let him know that the family is ready to head over to Jerri’s house. Dave heaves what feels like gallons of air from his chest and proceeds to walk down the hallway towards the steps. Pardi suddenly stops Dave in his tracks, causing him to almost slip on the top step of the staircase. “Yo, nigga… what are you doing?” Pardi could smell Dave’s tense demeanor since Trace told him that you were back in town. He remembered last summer and what fits those two weeks drove Dave into: insanity.

Like Ariel, Pardi didn’t receive an honest answer about what happened between you and Dave. Dave told Pardi that you were just “a fuck” and that you just made yourself available when Dave needed you. Pardi looked squarely through Dave’s misogynistic postering bullshit to know that Dave was all the way gone when it came to you. You were the woman that paused passionate games of NBA2K when you called his phone. You were the woman who Dave would let sleep in his bed long after he left for work. He wanted you there when he finally got home. You were the woman that had Dave on a James Harden-like tear on the basketball court, showing off just for you.

Pardi called Dave a “bitch” when your phone calls and texts went unanswered and when he, Dave and their boys took a trip to party out in DC and Dave didn’t reach out to you.

Pardi can see the scared in Dave as they stand at the top of the steps. “Yo, you good?”

“Fuck you asking me if I’m good for?”

“Shorty from last summer prolly there, that’s why.”

“Nigga. I’m not even thinking about her.”

Pardi shrugs off Dave with a laugh and walks down the steps. “Yeah, aight. You buggin’...”

-----

“Oh, you trippin’! LeBron is better than Jordan!” Uncle Ro’s passionate basketball debate with Yahya is causing his rotund body to almost careen off of the couch and onto the floor. Although you hoped that the party would be small, nothing associated with your Aunt Jerri is that. She’s beloved on the block and the amount of people filtering into her home is showing you how much. Some pre-wedding donations slipped into your hand during the course of the evening, making tonight’s impending torture somehow worth it.

For a brief moment, you weren’t thinking about Dave. You were overwhelmed by the embracing of Yahya by your family -- blood and neighborhood. You almost cried when Aunt Jerri spoke about your Dad during her impromptu toast to you and Yahya’s engagement. “My brother is smiling, I know that. And that fool wouldn’t crack a smile for a damn baby. Except you. He loved you.” Those were the words you wanted to hear after a day of beating yourself up for a decision you made last summer to make some neighborhood dude named Dave a priority for two weeks all the while he seemingly made you an option.

Your current priority has been watching you filter in and out of the kitchen, grabbing drinks for your Uncles and some of the OG queens from the neighborhood. The brown and white liquor are making love inside of his body, thoughts escalating inside of his mind that would make your Reverend Uncle Ro want to perform an exorcism on him. He couldn’t wait to take you out of that sundress when you both got home. But why did it have to wait for DC?

As Yahya peels his now overheating body off the plastic-covered couch, the front door opens allowing a needed breeze to hit the living room.

But suddenly you get hot.

Although it’s been 365 days, you and Dave catch eyes quicker than an Olympic runner. It mirrors the way that you both first looked at each other last summer, a moment so intense that Aunt Jerri whispered “oh shit!” to herself as if she was watching the drama unfold on The Young & The Restless. She could tell that you and Dave were two magnets that desperately needed attachment. That’s why she told you to “have fun with that.” As he stands at the door, your eyes fixate upon his body. You forgot how sexy he was. He mimics your move, staring down your body like he would be quizzed on it. You were so beautiful. Last year’s feelings and emotions quickly replicate themselves in this moment causing Aunt Jerri to say “oh shit!”. This time most of the room heard her.

Aunt Jerri received the honest story about you and Dave’s fallout. She forgot about all that in the midst of trying to set a party off inside of her house.

Yahya sees your face and knows that something isn’t right. As he attempts to save you, Dave and his family make their way throughout the living room to greet everyone. They became the river that Yahya couldn’t cross.

“Y/N, can you grab that Grey Goose in the basement?” Trace orders, breaking you out of your Dave-induced spell. You happily oblige, needing to get away from the love of your life and the lust of your last summer standing just feet apart from his each other. Yahya finds a way around the crowd to follow you downstairs.

You find yourself leaning over the oak-colored bar while yelling internally at your chest to calm down. You fail to hear Yahya shuffle down the steps and come up to you.

“Yo, what the fuck!” You jump at the precise moment that Yahya attempts to wrap his arms around your waist. He’s never seen you this wound up or scared. It’s uncharted territory for the both of you.

“Y/N, it’s me … it’s me. Wow.”

You never went in for a hug so fast once you realize that it’s Yahya and not Dave. “Babe, I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m just really over-”

“Overwhelmed? I would be too if half the damn city just walked into the house. You know them?”

You know one of them and in ways that you would never tell Yahya. You shrug off Yahya’s question with a kiss which intensifies with every mounting second. Yahya’s lips fail to break from yours as he walks you backward, finding your backside up against the bar. His right hand eagerly climbs inside the slit of your sundress, causing you to whimper and fall even more into his arms.

“Yahya, we can’t. Not down here…”

“Is so loud up there though, They won’t hear shit…”

“Shit? You’ve been around my peoples for too long. But no, not here. Not in my Auntie’s house.” You and Dave didn’t follow such protocol last summer.

Yahya obliges. “If this is your way of punishing me for making us stay up there, I don’t like it.” Yahya playfully bites on your neck before letting you go against the wishes of your body. He’s always there to protect you and you really want to show your appreciation. As he walks up the basement steps, he’s too distracted from trying to hide what’s going on inside of his jeans that he fails to notice someone trying to open the basement door.

“Oh, my bad. I didn’t see you there.” Dave’s too on a mission to get at you that he doesn’t care to become upset at Yahya almost smacking his face with a door. Or that Yahya, the man that now has your love and attention, is standing in front of his face.

“You good. They told me to grab a bottle down there.”

“Yeah, man. The bar is down the steps and to your left. My girl is down there. She can show you where everything is...”

Taglist: @yoursoulstea @harleycativy @twistedcharismaaa @dorkskinneded @need-my-fics @ghostfacekill-monger @writerbee-ffs @chaneajoyyy @amyhennessyhouse

#yahya abdul-mateen ii x reader #yahya abdul-mateen ii #dave east #dave east fic #fanfiction #old habits die hard

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quirkykayleetam · 4 years

Text

Trying to Wake Them Up

This is part of the Broken Pieces Universe as requested by the FABULOUS @captivity-whump. The previous piece is Self-Harm and can be found by searching my blog for the title or any character names.

Beth could not open her eyes.

It felt like she was falling. Down, down, down into blackness she tumbled. It didn’t really trouble her. Her thoughts were hazy; they wouldn’t stick together. It reminded her of being a child in school when she knew the answer in Spanish, but couldn’t make her tongue form the English words.

So she drifted. Between language and memory and unconsciousness, she drifted and floated and fell like a feather in the wind.

God, it was so peaceful. Discomfort pricked at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t, didn’t focus on it. Nothing seemed so dire that she couldn’t just rest for a while.

The discomfort got louder. Again, she tried to bat it away. This time, however, she couldn’t just feel it. She could hear it. It was quiet at first, a distant echo in the towering blackness, but if she focused on it she could almost make out words…

“Beth! Oh gods, Beth! Please...Please wake up for me.”

Fear. Suddenly Beth could remember what fear felt like. It radiated through that voice with the power of one thousand suns.

Something was wrong.

Beth did not care that the voice was scared for her. If the darkness was really that bad, she could face it, handle it on her own.

No, she cared because the voice was scared of losing her. Someone needed her.

And by God, no amount of pain was going to dissuade her from getting back to them.

Beth bucked against the air current around her. She struggled against the darkness. Twisting this way and that she listened for any taste of that voice, any touch of discomfort and she ran toward it as if she were running for her life.

Thoughts got easier even as everything else got harder. Beth could suddenly feel weight pressing on her chest, choking out her drifting sense of peace. It was all that she could do to take in breath after shuddering breath, to convince suddenly deadened limbs to move towards that voice. Exhaustion pulled at her like gravity, begging her to lie down for a moment, to give in to darkness and rest. Beth kept going.

“I’m here, Jay-bird,” she whispered. “I am never going to leave you alone.”

Beth could not open her eyes.

She ached. Every muscle in her body lay drained.

If this is the worst goddamn hangover of all time, she thought, please let me have seen Jay smile before I blacked out.

Jay!

Beth couldn’t see them. Her cement-laiden eyelids still wouldn’t cooperate, but she could feel warmth beside her, a scarred hand grasping hers so tightly she thought it would break. That, at least, didn’t hurt. That felt right. She tried to squeeze back.

I’m here Jay-bird. I’m home.

Something must have happened.

Beth felt the warmth beside her stir quickly. While Jay never let go of Beth’s hand, they stood up. Their voice rang through the room, too loud and tinny, though Beth couldn’t make out the words. Another voice answered, deeper and calmer this time.

Another body joined Jay on the bed. After more movement, Beth felt something change in her left arm. Warmth trickled into it.

She tried to focus on Jay’s hand, to stay with them, as the blackness swelled up to take her again.

The last thing she could hear was the voices talking to her. They were warm this time, comforting instead of terrified. Beth let that lull her to sleep. A hand came forward and lightly brushed her bangs out of her face. It wasn’t Jay. She didn’t seem to mind.

…

Off-white popcorn ceiling. Pale green striped wallpaper. These things may have told Beth that she was safe in her room when he eyes finally opened, but it was Jay’s tear-stained face staring back at her that told her she was home.

They held hands for a while, just breathing. Beth could feel Jay counting with each and every inhale.

“Wha?” Beth’s voice cracked and she winced lightly. “What happened?”

“I came out to the kitchen to get some water. Last I saw you were sitting at the table, but… But then you were sprawled out on the tile, your orange mug cracked and…”

Jay refused to look Beth in the eyes. More tears streamed down their checks.

“Beth, I was so scared.”

“Because of your mom?” she asked.

Jay nodded.

Beth looked down at herself. A quilted blanket covered most of her, keeping her warm, with only her left arm extended to hook into an IV tube. She wished she could sit up, take Jay into her lap, do anything to make her look caring and strong instead of feeble, but it was no use. She was feeble. She settled with grasping Jay’s hands with both of hers, putting all her strength behind her words.

“Jay-bird, your mother never meant to leave you. She had a stroke that muddled up her brain and that’s all. And I have heard you call that mug an ‘offense to humanity’ enough times to know you’re not gonna miss it.”

“But what if...what if you get sick and Morgan Security find out? What if they get you declared an unfit caretaker? That’s why I couldn’t call 911 or a hospital or… I had to try Daniel. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know how to be if they take you away.”

This time Beth’s fingers left Jay’s hands and gripped onto their face.

“You will be who you always were and who you always will be: The strongest goddamn person I have ever, ever known. But between you and me, if Morgan Security tries to stick one pinky toe between us, I will march into your boss’s office with 13 news reporters ready to make our story go public, hush money be damned. Then when they turn the cameras off, I’ll shove his head so far up his ass he’ll be watching his left kidney til kingdom come, you hear me?”

Jay sniffed and smiled slightly.

“And then I’ll come bail you out of jail?” they said.

“Damn straight! And then you’ve got an avowed criminal looking after you. I’d like to see what they do then!”

With a chuckle that said he definitely wasn’t listening, Special Agent Daneil Wei poked his head in the door.

“Do I hear that the invalid is finally awake?”

Jay nodded earnestly.

Beth flipped him the bird.

“In that case, Jay, do mind coming down here are helping Dr. Stephens? He’s starting to get hungry and I hear you make a mean omelet and grilled cheese.”

“Yeah, sure! I mean...if you’re sure you’re gonna be okay?”

Again, Jay turned their big blue eyes to Beth. She blessed the fact that Jay had no idea what those eyes could do to people. And curse the fact that she had ever made them cry.

“Go ahead. You still need to fatten yourself up. And remember to follow my lead: If you’re going to break any cookery, make sure it’s the ugly stuff!”

Before Jay could leave, Beth pulled him into a hug, whispering in his ear.

“You do know Daniel works for those Morgan Security mooks, right? You’re not exactly going far off the grid.”

“Yeah,” Jay said. “But he saved me.”

Beth stared at him blankly.

“When I was trapped with...with the Faceless Men. It was Daniel who go me out and brought me back so I guess I trust him? Plus, I kind of like him. Don’t you?”

The kid’s face was so full of hope that Beth couldn’t let him down.

“Yeah, Jay. I kind of like him too.”

With that, Jay ran to cook for the doctor who (presumably) patched Beth up. Ducking his head and scratching behind one ear, Daniel came all the way into the room.

He was still in a full black suit though he’d dropped his tie somewhere, rumpling the otherwise pristine dress shirt underneath. Christ, Beth thought, he would have had to come straight from work and then stayed here through the night.

“What really happened?” she asked finally. “Am I really okay?”

“That depends,” Daniel said seriously. “When’s the last time you slept?”

Beth tried to remember, but between Jay’s night terrors and panic attacks, it certainly had not been this week. Maybe not even the one before that.

While Jay passed out uncomfortably fast after the adrenaline left their body and often took naps during the days when they could feel the sun on their skin, Beth found that she couldn’t. She stayed up hours after Jay’s episodes writing down everything she could think of: triggers, coping strategies, what worked, what didn’t, anything she could to make it easier on Jay next time around. Usually, by the time she finished she could see the sun rising through the kitchen window and, with a sigh, she would go about their day.

“Dr. Stephens found unhealthy levels of caffeine and alcohol in your system. Not sleeping, not eating, it seems like your body just had enough.” Daniel said.

“Do you agree then?” Beth said softly. “That I’m an unfit caretaker?”

Daniel sat down beside her in the chair Jay just left, taking a breath as he massaged his eyes. In that moment, Beth knew that if he said it, she would believe it. What she said to Jay was true. She would not leave them for the world. But if he needed more than her, better than her… She couldn’t say she would be surprised.

“I’m ex-military,” Daniel said. “I’ve seen friends come home more scars and less limbs than they started with to people who had a lot more reason to help them than you.”

Beth winced.

“Don’t.... I’m not trying to… Beth, please don’t look away. I’m trying to say that I don’t think any one of those people had any less of a chance or a hope than Jay has even with whole families to support them. That is on you. The way you understand their brain? It’s downright uncanny sometimes. And I know for a fact you don’t think that way. You just care so you learned. You’re wicked funny when the chips are down and Jay needs that more than ever.”

Daniel lowered his voice, his dark eyes meeting Beth’s.

“You just need to take care of yourself too. That means full meals, even if Jay can’t eat them. And resting, starting with 24 hours where you are not getting out of this bed.”

Beth opened her mouth to protest.

“No buts. Jay’s already found a sleeping bag to lay out here. If they have any problems, you’ll be here like you always are. Like you always will be. Besides, after the scare, they did fine last night. Wouldn’t leave your side for anything. I think you’re forgetting that Jay’s pretty damn strong too.”

With a start, Beth realized that Daniel had sprung forward, capturing her hand in one of his. It was warm, almost hot, calloused where Jay’s was scarred and much larger than her own. When they both noticed, he drew back a bit, giving her room to slip away. Beth decided she didn’t mind.

“Hey, Beth!” Jay said, head coming around the corner. “When you said to only break the ugly dishes, did you count that purple one with brown on the corners?”

“That is from New Mexico,” Beth said. “If you break it, you’re driving out there to get me a new one!”

The room faded into comfortable silence. Jay lingered.

“Is everything okay?” they asked.

“Yeah,” Beth said. “From now on we just need to be more sure to take care of each other. Do you think we can do that?”

Jay nodded. Beth watched as a light filled their eyes.

For the first time since their abduction, Jay looked the most like Jay they ever had.

Maybe I’ve been doing this wrong, Beth thought. Jay isn’t just a victim, they’re a survivor and they survived for a purpose. They just needed a purpose to live for too.

With this entry for Original Characters to fill the Trying to Wake Them Up Square for @badthingshappenbingo I officially have a BINGO!!!

Tagging the Broken Pieces Crew: (If you want to be added or taken off this list, just let me know!): @stoic-whumpee, @whatwasmyprevioususername, @whumpty-dumpty-fell-off-the-wall, @straight-to-the-pain, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @0idril0, @fallingstormphoenix, @whump-fantasies, @imagination1reality0, @whumpback-wail, @whump-tr0pes, @untilthepainstarts, @captivity-whump, @burtlederp, @redwingedwhump, @whumpiary, @captivity-whump, @blue-flare10

I know this is an unusual entry: There’s lots of Emotional Whump and we don’t usually get Beth in physical pain, so please let me know what you think!

#Whump #Trying to Wake Them Up #Passed Out #Emotional Whump #Recovery #Broken Pieces #Beth #Jay #Daniel Wei #Whumping the Caretaker #quirkykayleetam writes #Hurt/Comfort

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deathduty · 4 years

Text

Chill! At the Sudoku || Alain & Deirdre

Alain and Deirdre enjoy the wonders of Sudoku together! Except they’re in a cemetery at night and Alain hates Deirdre’s “wanting to see someone get eaten” guts.

Gallow’s Grove was nice, as far as cemeteries went. The feeling of death was strong, washing over Deirdre far before she even set foot inside. The urge to let her eyes roll back into blackness and see all the the cemetery had to offer was strong, but the danger of letting a man like Alain see her out-ruled it. It was more work than she bargained for, trying to see what Alain was all about; what kind of a man agreed to a thing like this, anyway? Thankfully, she didn’t have to think about it for long. Glancing up with her flashlight and Sudoku booklet, she smiled at the man as he approached. He looked like the pictures she’s seen online, though nicer in person. “I didn’t think you’d come,” she confessed, hoping the darkness hid her mischievous grin. She knew Alain wasn’t going to die, there would have been a scream out her throat if he was, but even so she delighted in all the possibilities the evening brought with it. “I thought a cemetery would be too scary for you,” she teased, snapping away from her thoughts. “Did you bring your Sudoku?”

Alain, although his eyes did not require him to use any device in order to see, was carrying a flashlight with him, to keep appearances normal. Obviously, if a vampire decided to come by and say hello, his cover would be probably blown, as he would have a lot of trouble rationalizing why he was carrying stakes and a coutelas. Oh well, the woman was rather rude, and he doubted they would get along. In fact, he only had come here to keep her alive, if he was not too late. As soon as he arrived, he looked at her from head to toe. A part of him expected her to look entirely different, considering she was probably a professional con artist, but it made sense. Only a pretty white woman could get away with this kind of bullshit. “Yet here I am,” he wondered for a moment why she was harboring such a smile on her face. This could not be good news. The hunter looked around him. Maybe she did not come alone. Still, there was nothing. His radar was silent too, which was good news, for them. “What gave you the impression that I would be scared by a cemetery ?” His eyebrows raised with false surprise. Her question had him scoff. Of course she would make people pay, and also bring their own supplies. This was ridiculous, and a part of him almost regretted coming here instead of leaving her to be torn to shreds. Yes, that was not very nice of him. Another part of him felt guilty he ever thought such a thing. No one deserved to die. “Yes, I figured that you would provide them,” rolling his eyes because he knew that he couldn’t be seen behaving poorly, the hunter pulled a sudoku book from his coat, along with a pen. “Now what?”

‘Now what’ was a good question, Deirdre really didn’t think she’d get this far. She’d hoped, of course, but like all things she hoped for, she was rightfully cautious. “Most men find cemeteries to be scary,” she added, casually flipping through her Sudoku booklet. “I figured, since you’re so old, you might want to play it safe, live what little of your years you have left in the safety and warmth of your home.” Was it odd to lure a human to a place she knew to be teeming with vampires just to watch him struggle? Maybe. Maybe it went against her carefully crafted rules, but her stay in White Crest could do with some excitement. Besides, this Alain seemed to be a little more than what he claimed, and curiosity alone propelled her forward. “I’m joking!” She added with a forced smile a moment later, “I’m happy you’re here! Doing Sudoku gets so lonely. I guess now we just do math in silence? Maybe we should trade secrets? You tell me something devastating and I’ll try my best not to turn around and share it online. Hey, do you believe in vampires?”

“Well I’m hurt. People usually think I’m younger than my age,” Alain’s eyebrow raised, a shrug followed, and he had a look around. There was no way he would sit down on a tombstone. That would be too disrespectful and he had been taught better. Her explanation that men usually were scared of cemeteries did not really convince him, but he didn’t comment on that, or on that creepy thing about enjoying the few years he had left. What the fuck was that? Who said shit like this, the hunter asked himself. She probably was trying to spook him, he figured, and so he gave her a grimace of disapproval. “And that is supposed to be worth $20?” Scoffing, he flipped through the pages of his booklet, until she started, seemingly out of the blue, mentioning vampires. Original. “Why do you ask? So you can tell people online that I believe in them? Or maybe you brought me here because you thought there would be vampires?” He raised an eyebrow at his sudoku grid, filling out a blank space.

“Can’t imagine why they’d think that,” she hummed, starting on her own Sudoku. Deirdre was seated comfortably on the gravestone of someone whose name she didn’t care to learn, one leg crossed over the other and attired in a dress that didn’t suit the grime and dirt of the cemetery. She always did delight in looking better than her surroundings; she delighted in being better in every way imaginable. “Why? You’re not having fun? Oh! Look I finished a row. Keep up, Alain.” She grinned, working through her puzzle with ease--a nonchalance she only vaguely knew was odd. “I asked just because I’m curious. I’ve heard rumor this place has a lot of them.” She filled another square. “So I thought I’d make conversation. This is what makes the experience worth twenty dollars...you get this colorful commentary!” Another square. Another row. The pen she had moved with a kind of vivacity she reserved only for Sudoku. “I don’t see you trying to make conversation here. Do you believe in vampires?”

"Me neither," she was too damn rude and part of him wondered if she should not be the one paying for other people's company. Alain glared at her as she sat down on someone's grave, blowing through his nose as if to suggest that he was just about to go and leave her to die like a piece of garbage. Why was he here again? Oh right. Because he was supposed to protect humans. Well she was a bloody demon. "Not really. I'm bored to be completed candid," he glanced down at her sudoku grid. "Should I give you a medal for doing one single row?" Rolling his eyes, again. This was going to be the worst evening he had in a while, wasn't it. Or maybe not. "You've heard well. They usually get out of their coffins when the sun has entirely vanished beyond the horizon. I wonder where they are tonight." Maybe they saw you and left, struck with terror, he almost added. No she did not deserve his sympathy. And at least he did not have to struggle about whether he should trust or not. "I do believe in vampires, and so do you, am I correct?" He had some trouble with one of the 3x3 square of his grid, and his brows furrowed as he tried to figure where he went wrong. Maybe was it his radar going on and off that disturbed him, or his questionable company…

Deirdre got the striking impression that this man wasn’t enjoying this as much as she was. If she cared at all about making humans happy, she might have apologized. She might have tried to mold herself into being better company for him. She didn’t care, and so she simply sat on the gravestone and finished off her puzzle with a saccharine grin. “Well, I’m sorry. Should I take off my clothes? Usually that spices up an evening.” She paused, glancing up at the moon above them. “I’d like a medal, I’d like a medal for a lot of things” she responded in a moment of seriousness, considering the nature of being praised silently in her head. Thoughts of medals and ribbons left her head as she glanced back down at him, lifting up her flashlight to flash it around the cemetery. He was right about one thing: where were the vampires? “I don’t believe in vampires,” she explained, “that’d be like believing in a tomato. You don’t believe in anything that’s real.” Of course, it was how she’d worded the question in the first place but she wasn’t going to comment on her motivations. “Huh, maybe the math scared them off. Vampires certainly lack a little...brain,” Deirdre spoke a little louder, hoping to anger the right kind of egotistical new vampire. “Oh, the answer for that one is six, by the way,” she pointed to a square, “and the one over there is three.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” she would find him to be less interested than he was now, the sight of bare skin leaving him completely stoic in most occasions. “You might catch a cold, however. We wouldn’t want that to happen,” he dryly went on, scribbling over a 3 to turn it into an 8. Alain could tell from a tone that she thought so highly of herself that she probably would have accepted a medal for breathing. Well, she certainly was not raised in the same kind of household as him. Spoiled brat, he thought to himself, only lifting his eyes because his radar was back on, and this time not switching back off. “I would not bet on that. You are thinking zombies,” technically spawns were as dumb as a doornail, but that should not mean that they weren’t dangerous. “That’s great, but I think you’ve managed to draw their attention toward you,” a couple of Vampires along with a handful of spawns were approaching the pair, and Alain saw himself stand up and shove Deirdre off her tombstone in order to get her behind him. “Do you think you could run?” His voice now a whisper, the hunter glanced around, looking for more of these things.

Deirdre pouted. Alain was no fun, and she’d finished her Sudoku a while ago. He wasn’t being horribly maimed, and she couldn’t even get to bask in visions of death when she wanted it. Now he was denying her a chance for nudity? Humans could be so boring. At the very least he could have indulged that for her. “Oh, I don’t get cold…” she sighed wearily, about one more exaggerated display of annoyance away from actually fainting. “Any undead creature is idiotic. Zombies and the other twenty kinds of vampires, or whatever.” She sighed, again, clearly growing increasingly bored until Alain jolted up, shoving her aside. At that, Deirdre smirked, normal humans didn’t put themselves between vampires---normal humans wouldn’t be able to notice them in the dark, anyway. She’d felt the chill of them minutes ago, the only thing she was surprised about was being shoved. “Oh, I knew it!” she taunted back, “no bloody idiot comes to a cemetery at night unless he wants to see boobs or knows how to stake a vampire.” Alain wouldn’t die today, that much she knew. Those creatures were a different story, however, and it was one she was keen on witnessing. “Run and miss watching those things die?” she whispered back, happy to sit back and watch as the creatures of the night pulled closer to them. She might not have thought humans were particularly useful, and she might not have agreed with ‘slayers’, but she didn’t like the undead much---for obvious reasons. What was a little death to her, anyway?

“ Why ? Because you are dead inside?” Alain’s eyebrows raised and his eyes rolled so high he could have been able to tell which were the stars visible in the sky tonight. She was not making any sense. First she did not believe in vampires, and now she was aware that there were many kinds, and that most of them were stupid. Full of shit, she was. “Will you shut your goddamn mouth? Nothing useful as gotten out of it since the minute I got here,” even if he whispered those words, they came out as harsh. He did not make it an habit of getting angry, but his last nerve had been hit right now. Who the hell did she think she was, luring people into coming here so they could get killed by vampires ? Was she working with them? She spoke again and his hypothesis fell into a puddle. Nope, not helping them. A strong taste for the macabre, probably. Still, she had something fucked up about her, and it rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe he could find time to discuss it later, for now, he had to get rid of them. His jaw still clenched with annoyance, he asked : “What were you going to do against these had I been one of those losers looking for nudity ?” He was extremely upset that she thought for a second that he was this kind of person, then, did he really care about her opinion? “Do you even know how to defend yourself?” Probably not. And the first spawn was already rushing toward them. The hunter felt the sting of its claw on his shoulder and grunted as he swung his own hand toward that creature’s neck, stabbing and cutting the head off with the short sword. Rolling his wounded shoulder to make sure it was okay, Alain swiped his foot across the pile of ash, and gave a look at the rest of them, a big smile on his face. “Don’t keep me waiting like that, bring it on.”

“Actually, yes! I am dead on the inside,” Deirdre retorted, whatever feeling that she got that this guy hated was quickly replaced with the fact that he definitely did. Oh well, she wasn’t here to make friends. And certainly not with the ‘kills vampires’ kind. As he fought, Deirdre flipped calmly through her Sudoku booklet, trying to find another puzzle to do in the meantime. “I came prepared,” Deirdre smiling, filling out a row and then a column. Deirdre wasn’t the best fighter, but it really didn’t matter with her abilities...or the obvious fact that when it came to the undead, the fast-beating heart of a human was the more alluring target than hers. Even now, the creatures found themselves more enticed by lightly wounded Alain--the scent of his blood no doubt permeating through heavy night air. “Yeah, bring it on,” she half-cheered, half-yawned, not bothering to look up from her puzzle. Another box filled out. Then a row. She did have her knife with her (never mind where she kept it when the only thing she’d worn was a jacket and a dress) she could help, but Alain seemed capable enough. A column. Another row. She was done the puzzle. “Are you done yet, Alain? I need a ride.”

"Elle va fermer sa putain de gueule?" Was he really above murdering someone he shouldn't be? Heh, he had done it before. And if he threw a spawn at her, was he truly responsible for what would follow? He would not feel responsible. Non. Alain smiled to himself, kicking away the beast and turning to check on her briefly. Was she doing more puzzles? His cheek stung as he was hit in the face by that same spawn he shove away. Well that would teach him. His blood felt warm against his cheek, dripping from the shallow cut. Great. Alright, he was done caring for this woman. Slashing open the spawn's abdomen, he ignored the creature's shriek and instead switched for the stake (he'd never been to fond of those but they could come in handy) pushing it under the flesh until he only had dust left in his hands. Another spawn came at him and another, and they found the same fate, again and again, and again. The two higher vampires had stayed behind, expecting, he assumed, that spawns would do their dirty work for them. The advantage with those vampires who still had their wits, was that they usually thought themselves to be really clever, when really, they were usually average and garbage when it came to strategy. This would not take too long. Then he would deal with that woman.

Fortunately for Alain, Deirdre’s French wasn’t what it used to be. Though she didn’t guess he was saying anything nice. She hadn’t led him here to die (well, she had in some way, the fact that he wasn’t going to was a disappointment she hid poorly) and she thought that might have made some sort of a difference to him. Bored, she glanced up in time to watch his face get slashed, hissing out sympathy for him. She didn’t notice the two vampires approaching around her sides, all feelings washed out by the general sense of death around her. With a growl, they tore the puzzle book from her hands and bared fangs she didn’t care for. Somehow, she got the impression that swinging around her knife wasn’t going to make them go away. “Cover your ears, Alain,” she called out, not bothering to check if he had. With the same practiced ease she’d been filling out puzzles, she opened her mouth and wailed. Stunned into fear, the vampires stumbled backwards before scrambling up to run away. “Not so hard,” she turned to the hunter, “If it’s any consolation here, I’m not a fan of the undead either.” She dug into her pockets and pulled out a handkerchief, holding it out and pointing to his cheek. “Those vampires did steal my Sudoku book so I do expect to be compensated, though.” Even though this was all her idea.

Alain had not noticed that they had taken an interest in Deirdre. Of course someone who was not waving a sword and a stake around probably was more interesting. They must have known that he would make a very poor meal. If he could have been satisfied to see that damn sudoku booklet taken away from her, this was not the case. His instinct still told him that he should have been protecting her from that. “Cover my ears?” His hand went from his cheek to his ear, and the other dropped the stake to cover the other, still it was not enough to shield him completely from her … vocals. Jesus Christ, what the hell was that? “Bravo Celine,” he replied with a Quebec accent, taking the handkerchief with a puzzled look on his face. He was not sure what shocked him the most : her screaming or her gesture of kindness. “Well look at you being nice. I knew you had it in you,” he gave her a smug smile. Laughing light heartedly, he walked back to pick up his weapons and put them away. “Let me guess, it was worth $19.99,” he glanced at the dust the spawn had turned into. “You know, if you sell that dust, you’ll have your money, probably more than what that book was worth.”

“I wasn’t being nice this whole time?” Deirdre smirked at him, navigating around piles of dust she glanced between them and him. “You’d think I’m so desperate I’d start selling drugs? I have heard it's great for the skin though…” And she might just have bent down to scoop some into her pocket. It could be useful, at some point. Deirdre rolled back her shoulders, stretching her arms like a cat after a particularly long nap. “Who spends that much on a Sudoku--oh, never mind. Did you drive here? I wasn’t kidding about needing a ride.” She moved up beside him, a smile on her face, “I like Céline. I think we can be very good friends, Alain.” Of course, the smile betrayed no sort of friendly intention. Only the kinds of intentions that lead to a fun time: like watching him get eaten, or kill things that did the eating. In her mind though, this meeting could only mean good things for the both of them.

#wickedswriting #c: alain #carbrakes-and-stakes #chatzy #chill at the sudoku #like panic at the disco but not #also I can't believe alain thinks deirdre is spoiled smh coming from the guy with the rich family

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pierregaslays · 4 years

Note

For the prompt thing: I want you to be happy. Max/Lando 💖

i hope you like this omg 💜

Lando is so uncharacteristically quiet that it’s bordering on unnerving territory for Max.

It had started around seven hours ago when Max had thought that he’d overslept when a bright light hit eyelids waking him from the deepest sleep he’d managed to have for weeks but no, that bright light happened to be coming from Lando’s phone where he was scrolling and scrolling and wouldn’t stop.

Through the sleep in his eyes and the blurriness from sleep, the frown that had been clear as day on his boyfriend’s lips has been an image that Max hasn’t been able to get out of his mind since, especially not when Lando’s mood hasn’t improved either.

He’s glued to his phone most of the time anyway but even for Lando this is borderline ridiculous, Max is only assuming Lando had been awake since five but he could have been awake for hours beforehand and not even for a second has Max seen him without his phone. Abandoning his task, Max tries to get a look at what has completely taken over his boyfriend’s attention.

Max is quick, Lando is quicker in this scenario and drops his phone to the couch, tilting his head back and meeting Max’s eyes before the latter has even reached the couch to get a look. Their eyes lock together as Max stays where he is, doesn’t edge closer but he does ask the question nevertheless,

“Are you okay?”

Lando shrugs, “why wouldn’t I be?”

Because you have done nothing but stare at your phone and frown ever since you woke me this morning-

Max doesn’t say that, he doesn’t say anything close to that either but he can’t shake off the feeling that Lando is keeping something from him and it begins to gnaw at him as the silence between them starts to stretch on, neither of them breaking eye contact but Max can see Lando’s hand covering his phone, fingers curling around the side as though he’s ready to pick it back up.

“Just asking.” Max says with a resigning sigh, he doesn’t push him, can’t, he can’t be the one to push anybody.

“Well. Stop.” Lando tells him, all traces of emotion in his voice disappearing in an instant and his eyes hardening around the corners.

“Alright.”

***

It’s Carlos who finally sheds some light on the situation, it’s only a few minutes after Lando has left to go and run despite the fact the rain is teeming down, battering the windows and flying in each and every direction with every howl of the wind,

Horrible conditions but Max didn’t stop him, Lando looked determined to get out of the house and who was Max to make him stay when he’s in a god-awful mood.

Carlos sends him a link to the Beyond the Grid podcast that Lando had done the other day with the message underneath that says nothing more than start at 59 minutes.

Max opens it up on his laptop and drags it along until just before the fifty ninth minute mark and makes sure his volume is up as high as it’ll go before hitting play.

“I’m not that fussed about what people say-”

“What kind of things do people say?”

“Um-” Lando starts, hesitating at first, “it’s just a lot of stuff, like, anyway, it doesn’t even have to be horrendous but it can-”

“Does it get very personal or is it just Ferrari fans saying… oh I don’t like McLaren.”

“No.” Lando says before trailing off in a sort of mindless mumble as he tries to gather his thoughts “I don’t care at all about what those people would say, I mean that’s just their own opinion about the team and that’s fine but if it’s more personal stuff. You know, you just get people that talk about my family or my dad or things that they literally don’t have a clue about and they think that they have an idea and they’re saying stuff, you know, yeah…” Lando stops again, “a lot of it’s personal about my family or something then that’s what gets to me a bit more.”

“Do you reply? Do you engage?”

“No, no I don’t, I never do that. I mean a lot of the time I just laugh and I love seeing what people can come up with and where they get these ideas from.”

Max doesn’t hear the front door opening but he hits pause just as Lando comes to the doorway, curls soaked to his forehead and drenched head to toe, still forlorn as he catches sight of what is open on Max’s laptop. Max turns around and looks over the back of the couch, meeting Lando’s eyes and he can’t tell if Lando’s been crying on his run or if it’s just the rain in his eyes.

“You know now, huh?”

Max swallows thickly before nodding. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“And let you know that it gets to me? No thanks.” Lando mumbles, unzipping his jacket and peeling the soaked garment off, holding it in his hand. “I’ll be back, yeah?”

Max burrows his face into the crook of his elbow as Lando disappears out of sight of the doorway, he doesn’t move for the next few minutes, keeps watching the stairs waiting for him to come back, his chest heavy at finding out the cause of Lando’s mood and simultaneously knowing that he can’t do anything about it.

He’s met Lando’s family, it only angers Max more.

Lando comes through the other door and Max moves to the other end of the couch, reaching out and twisting his fingers into the hem of Lando’s shirt, pulling him down and wrapping his arms around him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Not a big deal.” Lando shrugs but his gaze is fixed firmly on the laptop, “it happens, I get over it.”

“Babe… I want you to be happy.” Max mumbles into the curve of Lando’s neck, his damp curls sticking to Max’s cheek.

“I am.” Lando promises, “I am happy, most of the time it doesn’t bother me, I like the theories they have… sometimes, it gets too much, they go too far, it’s okay.”

“I want you to be happy.” Max reiterates, pressing his lips to the underside of Lando’s jaw,

“I am.” Lando repeats, he slides his fingers through Max’s from where he’s pressing against his stomach, twisting his neck enough to catch Max’s mouth in a kiss. “I’m happy.”

To prove his point, he leans forward and starts the podcast again, “I’m that happy that I’m going to make you listen to the whole thing.”

So they do, they spend the next hour and a bit listening to it whilst the rain continues to rattle the windows outside but they settle in the corner of the couch, limbs entangled under a blanket and it’s,

Well, it’s everything.

#lando/max #prompt fills #again i remembered that one part of the podcast and it fit perfectly #also can you believe i didn’t write max as the one struggling #anyway!#i hope you liked this :)

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cupcakesdontplay · 4 years

Text

Trust Me

One Shot...maybe

His hair was still a mess, trace evidence of the night before. And through that soft morning light I realize that this strange man, is without a doubt the most beautiful man I’d ever laid eyes on. He rakes a single hand through his long messy hair, looking down on me. “I guess you’re just going to have to trust me,” he whispers leaning in to kiss me.

And trust him I do. Was that a mistake?

Much of the night before was a blur, but the memory that shines through is the moment we locked eyes. His eyes seemed almost red as they set on me, like a demon hunting for its prey. Before I knew it his hands were on my waist, a claim was set. And it began a relationship of sorts I was ill prepared for.

As he pulls out for the last time, leaving me completely spent, I can’t help but find myself drifting off. His profile fading into a dreamy pleasure filled bliss.

When I wake the sun is high and I’m left alone in a bed that’s not mine. Sitting up quickly, the pain of a night of drinking rushes through my head. “Too much, definitely too much,” I groan wrapping the blanket around me. My clothes, like the red eyed man, are no where to be found. Dragging the blanket behind me, reaching the bottom of the stairs, I manage to stumble upon the kitchen, set on the island is a bowl of apple slice and a note waiting out for me.

Good Day Summer, I will be returning home around 5pm. There’s a bathroom upstairs with some clothes set out for you. Be here when I get back.

-Jay B

What if I don’t want to be here? I wonder? But seeing as the only thing he supplies me with is an oversized white T-shirt, and unless I wanna run through the city naked I’m at his mercy. The bathroom is spacious, a claw foot bathtub sits in the middle of the room and various soaps and perfumes fill the shelf space.

“What is this man doing,” I wonder aloud. I don’t even know where my phone is! Where are my clothes? I feel like Rapunzel locked in a tower. But at least I can take a nice long bath while I wait for this mysterious man to come back. Around 4:30 I’ve finally left the bath, dawned the oversized white T-shirt he’s left me. I’m sitting on his couch legs folded under neath each other. Waiting in silence for my captor...have I willingly been kidnapped?

He finally enters through the door, raking his hand through his hair and a devious smile plays on his lips. “You’re still here,” his stride is long and confident as he takes a seat across from me.

“Well where else would I be? You took my clothes,” I bite back. His eyes travel downwards, obviously trying to take a sneak peek.

“Do you often not wear panties,”

“I don’t see how that is any of your concern,” I note, sliding my knees together so he can’t peek.

He smiles before pulling a stack of papers from his bag. He places them on the coffee table, leaning back like a Villian. Daring me to read it. I can’t help myself from picking it up.

“Are you serious?” I ask reading over this contract he’s placed before me.

“To be fair you consented to it last night,” he’s nonchalant about it. “You were….” His eyes roam my body sparks an excitement in my body, “more than excited,” I notice him shift in his chair at his clear memory of the last night.

“I don’t remember last night,” I note. “But I can see how fun this could be,”

“I’ll just warn you that I’m not the most affectionate,”

“nor do I promise to listen the first time,” and just like that we’re tailoring our agreement.

“So, do you trust me?” He asks handing me the pin. The last page, to sign or to not sign. This man with dark eyes, that I’ve known less than 24 hours, is now more or less in my Dominant. Why the hell not, I think.

“I trust you,” we both sign and he takes the liberty, well I guess his right? to kiss me deeply.

He’s aggressive and I can feel him inserting his dominance. Guiding me to lay back on his white couch. He’s somewhere between needy and demanding. His hand slides to the bottom of the shirt I’ve been wearing all day, pulling at the hem. He’s eager to truly stake his claim over me, and something in his kiss makes me feel okay with that.

He manages to pull the shirt swiftly over my head, leaving me naked once again. He leans back almost admiring my body, his long hair falls into his eyes bring back the clear memory of him from the night before, hovering over me. He looks ready to devour me, like the demon he is, and I can feel the familiar tingle between my thighs. Begging for touch.

He smirks exposing his gorgeous smile, before his lips cover mine again. His hand travels between my legs, stroking my sensitive button sending a shiver up my spine. And in a blink of an eye his fingers sink into my entrance, earning a more than appreciative moan into his mouth.

“Yes baby girl, let me hear you.” He pumps his two fingers in and out at a painstakingly slow pace, as he kisses down my neck. He bites and nips at the flesh along my jaw drawing out sharp gasp and moans. He’s teasing and torturing me, enjoying every moment judging from the rate of growth of his cock, pressing against my abdomen. It sparks joy in my chest that this man is craving my body. I take the initiative to begin undoing the buttons on his shirt, all the while trying not to reach my own orgasm before I’ve truly gotten to enjoy him fully.

As I reach the final button, I’m aware of how soaked and abused my pussy is. His fingers glisten as he brings his fingers to his lips to taste me. In just this short amount of time he has me ready to unravel. I push his shirt off his shoulders exposing the same chiseled chest I was privileged to see this morning. The light in his eyes signals the cruel idea that has entered his head. Using his discarded button down he ties my wrist together , trailing his fingers down my sides he kisses along my collarbone. Taking his time to gingerly kiss each bit of skin down my sternum, he encloses his lips around my nipple while his hand mirrors his mouth. Biting and sucking, pinching and pulling, my hands tangle in his long hair.

“Fuck it,” I whisper between moans. He licks my now hardened nipple, blowing on it. The cool breeze of his breath causes me to arch my back, crossing and pointing my toes in pure excitement.

“Don’t worry, I will,” he heckles standing up. His bulge in his jeans is obvious, and makes my mouth water as he comes closer. He grabs my wrist tied by his shirt pulling me roughly to the floor, “on your knees,” he demands undoing his Louis Vuitton belt. As I get to my knees, I come face to face with his dick. It’s hard, and angry, leaking precum onto the cold floor. “Suck it.”

And despite what I had said moments before, I listen the first time, wasting no energy fighting my primal desire to have him in my mouth. He’s larger than I expect, he fits perfectly in my mouth. As I wrap my mouth around him, I can hear the almost guttural moan leave his lips, his hand grips around my pony tail pulling my hair tightly, guiding me to bob back and forth along his cock. His hips begin to rock in harmony, forcing his dick deeper in my throat by the second. I can feel the drool dripping onto my chest as he continues to thrust harder into the back of my throat. “Damn, yes I love that big pink wet mouth of yours. Letting me fuck, your pretty mouth.” His thrust get sloppier and my jaw seems to lock. I’m furiously breathing through my nose as he pulls my hair back. I can see the pleasure on his face through the tears welling in my eyes. He inhales deeply pulling out of my mouth folding my head back with one hand and continuing to pump his wet dick with the other as his orgasm hits him. His cum hits my apple cheeks, coating my face with him.

He laughs as I’m forced to lick the cum off my lips. “You like being coated in the cum of a man you just met, you whore.” He leans over to kiss my clean lips. “You like being someone’s personal whore?” He smiles sliding his fingers between my thighs dipping once again into my pussy. “And you’re completely soaked, just dripping wet for your master.” He slaps my boob causing me to moan out. “Tell me.”

“I like it,” he pulls on my nipple, making me squeal.

“Yes, I like being your whore, sir,” he corrects.

I repeat him, biting my lip. Feeling cum still drop off my cheeks, onto my boob. He smiles pulling me up once more by my tied wrist, leading me to a bedroom. How did I not notice this room with a keypad? He types in a code before dragging me in. It’s dark at first, but soon a soft blue light waves over the room. A bed sits near the back of the room, chest of drawers line the room a grid hanging above the bed. “Alexa, I need cuffs.” He says nonchalantly and a top drawer opens revealing several different types of cuffs. He picks out a pair, a long with a matching collar. I stand in the middle of the room in awe, horny, wet, and in awe. He undoes his shirt swapping it for actually cuffs, and and locks me into my collar. He continues to drag me towards the bed, slapping my behind as we reach it.

“Stand on the bed, hands up.” He locks my hands to the grid hanging above the bed, my collar and leash as well, leaving me lightly choked. He finished by positioning himself and using a remote to lower me to my knees. He continues to lower me down onto his already prepped cock. He roughly enters me for who knows how many times in the last 24 hours. Our hips meet as his guides my hips to roll on him, while he thrusts passionately into my pussy.

“Listen to all that noise, you’re so wet,” he laughs as I moan, feeling him fill me and leave constantly. He rubs my clit as he continues his assault on my body.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum.” I start to panic, my body hasn’t felt this good in so long. I don’t want to hold it back, I don’t even try as I feel my body reach its peak. He grunts and continues to assault my sensitive button as I go through my orgasm, keeping me on edge. Overstimulating me, keeping my high while he continues to fuck me. I feel the tears welling in my eyes as I’m forced into yet another orgasm far to close together. It’s both pain and pleasure. “Jay B, I Can’t I cant,”

He punches my nipples, “Sir,” drawing out a shriek of pain and pleasure.

“Sir, I can’t,” I whimper, as he keeps going.

“Oh, my pretty pet I think you can. Give your master one more,” he taunts, gripping my hips hard, using his strength to force me to ride him harder and faster. I can hardly breath, my body is exhausted and I can’t focus much more. Three in a row in such a short amount of time. I’ve never forced my body through that. “You’re almost there, I can feel you around my shaft come on, squeeze my cock” he sounds like a kid in a candy shop. I can feel my third waving over me, followed by the warmth of his own orgasm filling me.

He pulls out, leaving me dripping onto the bed hanging from my wrist. He smiles as his chest heaves, undoing my chains. I lay on the bed my whole body on edge. He lays next to me, undoing my pony tail. “Do you still trust me?”

“I do, master” I say after a moment.

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aria-writes · 5 years

Text

The (he)art of Craft | e.k. x reader

Words: 2173

Boys are clueless.

I know this, but for some reason I keep forgetting.

I crossed my arms in front of myself to rest them as Elmer leaped onto his bed like a flying squirrel. "When you asked me if I wanted to 'hang out with you (and the guys)', this isn't exactly what I was envisioning."

Elmer looked over at me as he scrambled to sit up, blinking in confusion. "Why? What did you have in mind?"

In all honesty, shirtless basketball in the park.

"I don't know." I shook my head and sat on the bed beside him.

I watched Elmer boot up the server, staring at the screen with barely concealed excitement. Four users were already online.

This is not exactly my idea of a hot date. Then again, maybe it's my fault for reading into things. On the other hand, I mean really, what usually comes to mind immediately when a really cute boy asks you if you want to 'hang out'?

See, that's what I thought!

You know what, though? All things considered, it could be worse. He could've asked me to play Wii Sports Bowling with him. It's supposed to be so easy the folks in nursing homes love it, right? Well apparently ole gram-grams has more virtual athletic ability in her pinky finger than I do in my entire body.

Elmer scooted closer to me and pulled out headphones, flipping the earpieces outwards so we could share the same set.

I watched as the screen started spazzing out. "Is that..." I trailed off, pointing at the screen and not sure how to put my thoughts into words as I held my part of the headphones up to my ear.

Elmer quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah, it's usual for this section. The reason it's so glitchy is because someone spawned way too many ocelot assets."

"Hey guys, Elmer has a girl ov—" Romeo started to say, but he was cut off by somebody who was way louder.

"You can never have too many ocelots!" A distinctive, high-pitched but still decidedly male voice exclaimed through the headset.

"The queen of the felines has spoken." Elmer rolled his eyes and smiled as his avatar started jerkily walking towards a large light blue and white building that touched the sky. "This is Racetrack's cat castle—"

"A cat-stle, if you will." Racetrack interrupted.

"I will not." Albert shot back.

Racetrack cleared his throat and adopted a 'tour guide' voice. "Business hours are from 9:00pm to 5:00am, or for the low low price of three diamonds you can get an all-access pass."

"Good grief." Albert muttered under his breath.

"Killing one of my sweet, adorable, cuddly babies— I mean, very loyal subjects— results in an immediate ban for life." Racetrack continued, undeterred. "Donations of precious gemstones and fish, cooked or raw, are always appreciated."

"Yeah, good luck with that." Romeo replied with a small snort.

"I'll come tour your catstle, Race!" Crutchie said cheerily.

"Finally, some proper respect around here."

I gave Elmer the side-eye. "Why isn't it pink?"

"Pink? You think I would use pink?" Racetrack asked with an air of disdain, scoffing. "Please. Pink is a strong, masculine color, fit only for the he-est of men. My graceful feminine eyes can only bear the lightest, most delicate shades of blue, as is befitting a most proper young lady such as myself."

Elmer made eye contact with me and shrugged.

"Also, pink is Romeo's color." Racetrack mumbled with a defeated tone.

Romeo let out a triumphant laugh. "Ya snooze ya lose, loser!"

Alerts in all caps popped up on the screen as three more usernames joined.

Elmer nudged me with his shoulder to get my attention. I tried and failed not to blush. "And to our left, we have Henry's trailer park. In Minecraft, imagination is the only limit, and Henry decided to build a trailer park. Why, I have no idea."

"Because heck you, that's why!" Henry said, but there was no bite in his tone.

"Watch your ****ing language on my good Christian Minecraft server!" Crutchie yelled.

The random conversations going on between others in the background went silent.

"oh no." Crutchie said really quietly, but we could all hear it due to the aforementioned radio silence.

Jojo started muttering The Lord's Prayer to himself.

Somebody let out a very loud snort.

"Gross!" Albert shrieked. "Say it, don't spray it!"

"Kiss my butt!" Racetrack shot back.

There was some fuzzy noise, like somebody dropped their headset on the ground and they were wrestling with each other now.

Jack sighed. "Hey, if y'all are gonna hate-boink, can you please mute your channels please and thank you!"

"Shut up!" Racetrack and Albert shouted at the same time.

Jack cackled like a maniac to himself.

"Okay, you know what?" Albert asked, clearly annoyed. "Keep it up, but I'm gonna tell Katherine all about your little problem with–"

Elmer gasped and pulled his earpiece away from his head. He quickly crossed himself before returning to listening in on the conversation.

"No!" Jack protested as Albert proceeded to spill some very personal information. "You wouldn't!"

"—Don't test me." Albert finished.

"I did not need to know that." Jojo said, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Ditto." Henry murmured in agreement.

A notification popped up on the screen alerting everybody that Buttons was online and had joined the server, bringing the total up to eight. "Hey, guys! Know what?" He asked, innocently.

"That the unflappable Jack Kelly apparently has a raging butt rash." Romeo answered matter-of-factory.

Buttons seemed at a loss for words. "...Oh." he said, finally.

"I'm dealing with it, okay?" Jack asked, annoyed. "I have cream and I'm taking oatmeal baths—"

"TMI, bro." Albert interrupted.

"You started it!" Jack exclaimed, exasperatedly.

"Your mom started it!" Albert retorted. The height of maturity, that one.

"My mom is dead!"

"Oh yeah? So's mine, you ain't special!" Albert said breezily.

A chorus of 'So is mine' rang through the airspace.

"Okay, well that's depressing." Buttons commented. "Who wants to duel?"

"Ooh, pick me! I'm always a ho for dying!" Racetrack yelled enthusiastically.

"Race, are you okay?" Crutchie asked, concerned.

There was no response for a few seconds, and then I heard the sound of somebody facepalming.

"Race, you're an idiot." Albert said flatly.

"Oh, wait a second."

Elmer adjusted his grip on the headset. "What'd he do?"

Albert sighed. "He shot finger guns at the screen."

"Woooowww." Jojo said, totally done.

"You're just jealous." Race clicked his tongue.

Jojo scoffed. "Why would I be jealous of an evil leprechaun? Oh wait, no, that's Albert."

"Hey!"

I elbowed Elmer. "Are they always like this?"

Elmer nodded. "Constantly."

"Uh, guys? Anyone else's game bugging out?" Jack asked. "Oh wait never mind, I just wandered a little too close to the crazy cat lady's cottage."

Racetrack huffed. "Heck you, butt rash boy."

Jojo let out a mock offended gasp. "Such language!"

"Frick you, HoHo."

Jojo gasped again. "Frick you!"

"That's gay." Racetrack said, snickering.

"You're gay!" Jojo replied.

"So what if I am?! Gay means happy, and I'm the happiest person I know! So there!" Racetrack punctuated his sentence with a somewhat audible 'blep'.

Elmer fake-coughed and raised his voice loud enough to cover Jojo and Racetrack's 'argument'. “To our right is Mush's giant flower garden." He did a slow pan of the colorful, pixelated blooms.

I leaned forward to examine them. It was quite impressive, if only from the sheer numbers of mass collection.

"Dare you to steal one, Elmer." Romeo piped up.

Elmer shook his head vehemently. "Heck no, unlike most of you, I actually value my life."

"Lives having value?" Albert scoffed.

"In this economy?" Racetrack finished for him.

"Now we're coming up on Romeo's super tacky building." Elmer leaned back against the wall as a large, misshapen, pink, vaguely-heart-shaped structure came into view.

"Look, I had a plan originally, but math and grids are hard." Romeo explained.

Racetrack let out a derisive scoff. "Grids are literally the easiest thing, you wannabe fashion icon."

Romeo blew a raspberry.

"Your mom is literally the easiest thing." Albert commented.

I could practically hear Racetrack's smirk from here. "You know, what I'm gathering from all the 'your mom' jokes is, you just really wanna be my daddy."

Somebody started making vey exaggerated gagging noises.

"Uh, pass." Albert muttered under his breath.

"You coughing up a hairball over there or something, Jojo?" Henry asked.

Jojo ceased his gagging. "No, I'm good."

"I bet Race has rabies." Buttons quipped.

"Don't be ridiculous, Race doesn't have rabies!" Crutchie protested. "I had him tested and everything."

"Interesting." I murmured under my breath.

"This is my house!" Elmer announced with a large grin, completely oblivious. "It's one of those tiny houses!"

"That's a very pretentious way of saying 'dirt hut starter home'." Crutchie teased.

"Wow, that's so funny I forgot to laugh." Elmer shot back. "No, it's like one of those minimalist houses that used to be all the rage, but in Minecraft! See?" He gestured at the small building on the screen, eyes sparkling.

I smiled back, his energy practically contagious. "It's very cute." Just like its builder, is what I did not say to him.

"And fully functional!" Elmer opened the door and started pointing out various features. "In the floor is a crafting table and a bed, to the side we have a furnace and a double-wide chest—"

"Your mom has a double-wide chest!" Racetrack exclaimed gleefully before erupting into laughter.

Elmer snapped his mouth shut with an unamused look on his face.

"Dang you Race, I was about to say that." Albert said, almost whining.

Elmer let out a sigh and moved his avatar to the back of the house. "And here's a small vegetable garden."

"Po Tay Toes!" Albert exclaimed, immediately perking back up.

"Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew!" Jack added. The first thing he's said in a while, now that I think about it.

"You Irish people scare me." Racetrack commented.

"You're part Irish." Albert said flatly.

"Yeah, and?" Racetrack asked defensively. "I scare myself!"

"That makes two of us." Albert muttered under his breath.

I stole a glance towards Elmer, who was engrossed in harvesting his virtual vegetables. I can't say I understand how or why people invest so much time in this kind of stuff, but at least it makes him happy.

It'd be nice if I could do that.

I don't know what I'm doing, but if I don't ask then I'll spend years replaying this day over and over in my head at 2:00a.m. in the morning overanalyzing every single little detail. Here goes nothing.

I smiled teasingly and nudged Elmer with my elbow, gently. “So, do you invite all the girls out to watch you play Minecraft or am I just special?"

"Say what now?" Elmer looked over at me suddenly, blinking as if he was coming out of a trance as his eyes re-adjusted to the real world.

Uh-oh.

"This is a date?"

"This isn't a date?" We both asked in unison.

There was an awkward silence for about ten seconds, which was then broken by the sound of loud crunching over the headset.

"Henry!" About five or six voices exclaimed.

"What?" Henry asked defensively. "This is entertaining, thus, snacks are a must! Can y'all blame me?"

"Elmer," Racetrack sighed, "when you ask a girl to quote, 'hang out', unquote, that's code for a date. Just like Netflix and Chill is—"

"Stop! Don't ruin his innocence!" Buttons interrupted.

"I'm just saying, he's not gonna get very far if he doesn't know—"

Elmer pulled the headset down and placed it on the bed between us, hitting mute at the same time. "Look, this didn't go the way I planned, 'cause I was gonna ask you out for real, but then I panicked, so no wonder you've been getting mixed signals, but..."

He stared down at the floor and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "Can we just finish out today platonic and like, start fresh tomorrow? And I promise, if it's what you want, I will ask you on a real, proper date then."

I grinned and turned back to face the screen so I wasn't staring at him and making him even more uncomfortable. "Sounds good to me."

"Cool." Elmer returned the grin and did two thumbs up at me, shoulders scrunched up, then picked the headset back up and held it up to his ear.

I leaned in to unmute it and was greeted with a cacophony of all the boys arguing with each other over what exactly was happening on our end.

I hesitantly reached over to place my arm around Elmer's shoulders. "Do you mind if... is this okay?"

Elmer beamed from ear to ear and leaned into my touch. "Yeah."

"What's going on?" Romeo asked loudly, effectively putting a damper on the moment. "I need visuals!"

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welllpthisishappening · 5 years

Text

Playing a Little Extra Defense

Helllloooooo kind internet. Today is a day! A good day! An exceptionally good day because today is @optomisticgirl 's birthday. B is an endless delight and just an overall top notch person who deserves several worlds and is always happy to flail about the length of Chris Kreider’s hair with me. (We’ve got a lot of combined thoughts about the appropriate length of Chris Kreider’s hair) And because she is so wonderful (and a fantastic enabler) here are some words for B’s birthday. Hockey words, obvs. Also about Will Scarlet, obvs. Seriously, look at this guy, whatta babe:

Go tell B how wonderful she is, internet. Happy birthday, love!

She heard the key unlock, a soft clack that sounded like several thousand boulders cascading over a variety of ridges, eyes flitting towards the half-closed door and the baby still sleeping on the other side of the room.

Hopefully still-sleeping baby on the other side of the room.

Emma was going to kill whoever unlocked her front door if that baby was not still asleep.

And, to their credit, they were doing a fairly good job of trying to keep their voices down.

Well, at least one of them.

“Pegs,” Will hissed, and Emma heard the tell-tale signs of a backpack thumping onto the ground. Will groaned. “Oh my God. Margaret.”

There was another noise. Not quite a sneer or a scowl – because those were both expressions, but Emma was also kind of exhausted and she was fairly certain there was a game tonight, but she’d also lost all track of time and Peggy had absolutely collapsed on the couch.

If the sounds were anything to go by.

“C’mon, Uncle Will,” she mumbled, voice muffled by the pillow her face was presumably stuffed against. Emma tugged her lips back behind her teeth.

She was exhausted.

And possibly delirious.

There was definitely a game tonight.

“Nuh uh,” Will said, and it did not sound like this was the first time they’d had this conversation. “Later this week when we’ve got some more time and I’m not going to—“

“—But you said!”

“Margaret.”

She huffed, as loudly as humanly possible it seemed, and Emma’s inhale wasn’t so much that was it was a gasp, eyes going wide when the baby on the other side of the room stirred. “Ah, goddamn,” she grumbled, shifting out from the pile of blankets she’d accumulated throughout the day.

She kept just tossing them on the bed. And occasionally falling on top of them.

Because, well, they weren’t old hat at this per se, but they might have just been older and Emma wasn’t sure any of her muscles were ever going to recover after the first two and a half weeks of Christopher Jones’ life. Add in a nine-year-old going on twenty-six and certain he was the next, best thing to happen to hockey and a six-year-old who was in possession of more energy than the entire Manhattan electrical grid and it was still the middle of the season and—

Chris started crying.

The noises in the living room stopped.

Emma huffed, swinging her legs back onto the ground and mumbling something she hoped were vaguely comforting words under her breath. “Hey, hey, hey,” she muttered, pulling Chris against her chest with fingers tracing absent-minded patterns against his back. It didn’t work.

He was definitely getting louder.

Their neighbors were going to kill them.

And she heard the footsteps almost immediately, which wasn’t the right word either because the footsteps were more like horses hooves and something about a stampede and Emma couldn’t quite mask her sigh when the bedroom door swung open.

It definitely left a mark on the wall. Or, well, more of a mark. God, their kids were menaces.

“Mom, Mom, Mom,” Peggy chanted, rushing into the room with her hair streaming behind her and eyes as wide as saucers. “Can we go to Riverside before the game?”

Emma blinked. And blinked again. And Will sounded incredibly out of breath when he skidded to a stop in front of her, twisted around the door frame with an apologetic look on her face.

“We should just be timing her every time she moves,” Will mumbled. “It’s got to be a record.”

Emma tried not to laugh. She wasn’t sure it was working. And Peggy was still talking and Chris was still crying and she genuinely could not remember where Matt was or who was supposed to pick him up. It was definitely on the schedule in the kitchen. “You doing ok?”

“Are you?”

“Wow, that’s pointed.”

“When’s the last time you took your hair out of that ponytail holder?”

“Why are you so out of breath?”

Will chuckled, letting his head fall onto the door frame, and he might have done something that, at some point, resembled a finger gun. “You win.”

“Was this your schtick?” Emma continued, bobbing on the balls of her feet and her fingers hadn’t stopped moving yet. That wasn’t really working either. “C’mere, babe,” she added, nodding in Peggy’s direction. “You’ve got to stop moving ok? You’re going to give Uncle Will an aneurysm.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Will drawled, but Emma just smiled and tried to wink. He nearly fell over. “She doesn’t even know what an aneurysm is.”

“Not good,” Peggy grumbled. She glanced up at Emma – a look that was starting to become more and more familiar because if there was one thing Peggy Jones loved it was running places. And jumping places. And terrifying every adult in a thousand-foot radius at all times. Especially her parents.

And self-appointed protectors.

“See,” Emma shrugged. “She’s a genius.”

Will hummed, one side of his mouth tugging up when Peggy’s head snapped back over her shoulder. “You’ve got to walk forward, kid. Otherwise your mom is going to do something.”

“Wow, that’s way more menacing than I was hoping for.”

“I just assume you’re capable of most maternal things at this point.”

“Was that a compliment?”

“An attempt, at least.”

“Ah, well, that’s something I guess,” Emma laughed, jerking her head because she couldn’t move her hands and Peggy scrunched her nose. She was never going to get over watching her own mannerism reflected back on her kid’s faces. “Babe,” she said, and, that time, Peggy grimaced. Weird, weird, weird, wonderful. “How come you want to go to Riverside? What could you even do at Riverside right now? There’s all that snow on the ground.”

No answer.

Emma wasn’t entirely expecting an answer, but she thought maybe maternal extended to mind reader or something and it was almost disappointing when that came up short as well.

Chris had stopped crying.

“Peg,” Emma continued. The grimace was still there, boring a hole into the ground and, eventually, they were going to have to start packing up all this stuff. She was not looking forward to it. “An answer, kid. Did you get Uncle Will to agree to take you to Riverside later this week?”

“Ah, you make it sound like I’m giving into the kid, Em,” Will whined. Emma didn’t look at him. She took a few steps closer to Peggy, pressing her foot on the top of her toes lightly, pleasantly surprised when that led to a brand-new expression and only slightly stunned to find slightly glossy eyes staring at her.

“And,” Will added, moving away from the door frame to curl an arm around Peggy’s shoulders, “I think I’ve got a few ideas as to why this is happening.”

Emma nodded slowly, realization slinking down her spine and they’d talked about this. More than once. They’d explained about schedules and impending insanity and Matt absolutely did not care because he still had hockey and games and maybe that’s where he was, but Peggy was only six and she’d always been the youngest and now she wasn’t and—

“Damn,” Emma mumbled.

Will coughed pointedly, wide eyes and vaguely disapproving smile. “Maternal.”

“Oh, shut up. Here, c’mere.”

He squeezed his arm before he moved, a quick kiss pressed to the top of Peggy’s head and, eventually, Emma probably wouldn’t be stunned by how good he was with all her kids. Chris stayed silent as soon as he moved into Will’s arms.

Emma took a deep breath, fighting back her own tears because she was still allowed to blame the hormones and she genuinely wasn’t sure the last time she’d taken the ponytail holder out of her hair. She crouched in front of Peggy, fingers curled around both her shoulders.

There was a tear on her cheek.

“I thought we could go run or something,” Peggy whispered, refusing to meet Emma’s gaze and her soft sniffle echoed around the room. Emma moved her hand, wiping away tears with her thumb and her calves absolutely hated her, but she didn’t move, just rested her forehead against her daughter’s.

“It’s cold out, babe.”

“I know, but—“

“Did Uncle Will already tell you that he’d go without you?”

Peggy nodded, bumping her head against Emma’s in the process. “Before the road trip.”

“God, when is that?”

“This weekend,” Will answered, swaying back and forth when Emma twisted around and she would have bet several thousand dollars and the entire cost of a moving service to pack up this apartment that he didn’t realize he was doing it.

She bit her lip. So she wouldn’t cry. It was idiotic.

“Ok,” Emma muttered. She looked back at Peggy, nudging her chin up and, to her credit, the six-year-old didn’t blink. She met Emma’s gaze and almost smiled, a determination about her that was probably genetic and maybe a little learned because this whole, stupid team was so goddamn stubborn and of course Will promised to take her to the park in the middle of February.

Just so she’d have someone focused on her for a few minutes.

“I’ll tell you what, babe, you go with Uncle Will this week and then, when there isn’t any snow on the ground and it gets a little warmer, we’ll go. We’ll walk and run and it’ll be—“ Emma exhaled, some more misplaced emotion of the maternal variety. “It’ll be great.”

Peggy still didn’t blink. That was more disconcerting.

“I can guarantee some Mr. Softee involved too.”

Will laughed, ducking his head to nose at Chris’ shoulder. “That’s a good deal, Pegs, you can’t pass that up.”

“All of us?” Peggy asked, and that was not really the question Emma expected. It took her a moment to realize what it actually meant.

She shook her head. “Just me and you, babe. Maybe Dad if you—“

“—No, no, just you and me.”

Emma’s heart flew out of her chest. Metaphorically. And landed on that pile of blankets. Metaphorically. “Ok, that’s—“

She didn’t finish the rest, far too much hair in her face as soon as Peggy launched herself forward, arms around Emma’s neck and chin digging into her shoulder and it was wonderful and excellent and several other words she certainly would have been able to come up with if she weren’t still using several medicine-based excuses for all of her emotions.

Will was still laughing. And mumbling under his breath to Chris.

The front door opened again.

“Mom,” Matt called, another backpack thrown somewhere and what sounded like a few dozen hockey sticks colliding with the walls.

Emma rolled her eyes.

“Mom! Mom! Mom!”

Matt’s sneakers squeaked past the bedroom door, and he’d never been very good at stopping. “Oh, hey,” he said, jogging back into the room and his eyes flitted towards Peggy almost immediately. There were more footsteps coming.

“Matt, what did we say about—“ Henry started, but his voice cut off abruptly when he took in the scene in front of him. He jerked his gaze towards Will. “Are you supposed to be here?”

Will shrugged. “I had some time and…”

“I thought Gina was supposed to pick up Pegs. Hey, Pegs.”

“Hey, Henry,” Peggy mumbled, still hanging off Emma’s side. Matt’s eyes were like pinballs. And Emma was very confused.

“Wait, wait,” she said slowly. “That’s right, isn’t it? Wait, what time is it?“

“Almost 4:00,” Henry answered.

“Are you kidding me, Scarlet?”

“I had time,” he repeated, flushing slightly and that was a look Emma had never seen before. “And I even went to optional skate, so this is not—Gina, mentioned that she had some meeting come up and she didn’t trust one of the other, this is verbatim by the way, plebes working for her to do it and she was worried she wouldn’t be able to get to school quick enough to get Pegs and—“

He shrugged again, a slight tilt to his head. “She definitely told Cap. I’m sure he texted you.”

“My phone is dead. Somewhere.”

“God, that’s really not safe at all, Em.”

Emma stuck her tongue out at him. And she wasn’t sure who laughed louder – her kids or Henry. He’d pulled Peggy back towards him at some point, chin resting on top of hers with a knowing smile on his face. “Did you volunteer or did Killian ask you?”

“He totally volunteered,” Emma said before Will could answer, and the flush got more pronounced. “You know that’s really stupid, right?”

“I am painfully aware of how stupid it is,” Will promised. “But Cap couldn’t get away and Locksley had to film and Henry was already on his way to pick up Dr. J. It made sense.”

“Yuh huh.”

“It did. Honestly. And it took us—what, Pegs, like not even twenty minutes to get up here.”

“Uncle Will didn’t want to wait for a car,” Peggy added, and Henry definitely laughed the loudest that time.

“Oh my God, you walked up here on a game day? Seriously don’t tell Gina that.”

Emma didn’t say anything, although she couldn’t really pull her eyes away from Will, stumbling back towards the bed and the mountain of blankets and Matt hadn’t taken off his jersey yet. It smelled horrible when he dropped next to her.

“Hey, Henry,” she said, and he didn’t quite snap to attention, but it was close. “What are you thoughts on —“

“—Food? Actually taking a car back to the game because it’s freezing cold out?”

“It wasn’t that cold,” Peggy argued. She was trying to climb up his side.

Henry hummed, almost placating, and he huffed when he tugged Peggy up. “Yeah, yeah, sure it wasn’t. Well, I am not a very impressive athlete who plays on ice, so I will get us a car. Matt, you’ve got to get off those blankets because your pads are disgusting.”

Matt made a disapproving noise, but moved as soon as he caught Emma’s gaze. “Leave the pads in the bathroom,” she called after him, fairly certain the pads were going to be left in the hallway and she could already hear the shower starting to run.

And for half a second none of them moved, but then Henry clicked his tongue, hitching Peggy further up his side and that only ended with more hair in his face and a wide smile and—

“Well, I’m going to get the car, maybe try and find Emma’s phone.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Emma objected, but she genuinely had no idea where it was and she was fairly certain Chris was asleep again. Maybe she’d shower later.

After she did something with those hockey pads.

Burned them, probably.

Henry shook his head. “Uncle Will’s right. You need your phone. I’ll let Killian know what’s going on.”

“I did that already,” Will mumbled, and Emma’s whole soul was going to explode. Or something more possible.

“Of course you did. Ok, well I’m going to find the phone anyway.”

He was gone a moment later, Peggy swinging onto his back, which was probably better for his upper-body anyway, leaving Emma perched on the edge of the bed with Will still swaying back and forth, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I feel like I should buy you something,” Emma said eventually, drawing something resembling a guffaw out of Will. He rocked forward, shifting the baby in his arms with practiced ease. Probably something about skating. Or being an athlete. Or whatever.

She grabbed a blanket behind her.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, I know, I just—“ Emma tugged the blanket over her shoulders. “You know you’re a pretty legit guy. Like. Legit.”

“That vocabulary is expansive, huh?”

“I really don’t know how old this ponytail holder is. And I genuinely forgot Mattie had practice today.”

“I think that should just be your default expectation at this point.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Emma admitted. “How do you get that smell out of your pads?”

“Burn them.”

She laughed, real and genuine and absolutely exhausted. Will grinned. “Yeah, that’s probably the best idea, honestly,” Emma agreed. “You know they all think the world of you.”

“The hockey pads?”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

The grin got bigger. “You’re getting sentimental on me, Em.”

“Factual. I’m serious. And you don’t have to take her to the park this weekend. That can’t possibly be good for your legs.”

“Eh, I’m not so worried about my legs, honestly.”

“I know you’re not. Hence my compliment.”

“Oh, hence was a good word.” Emma stuck her tongue out again. “And I really don’t mind,” Will continued, “you and Cap are, like, the genetic lottery because your kids are even better than you are and—“

“—These are still not compliments, Scarlet.”

He winked. He, at least, tried. “They are. And you should definitely throw out those pads before you move into the brownstone because that smell is just going to infect everything for the rest of time.”

“I think the brownstone is used to it, honestly.”

“Ah, that might be true, but you know…”

“I do,” Emma smiled. “Seriously, thank you. For—“ She made a noise, not sure if there was a correct string of words for all the decidedly sentimental nonsense she was preparing to spew, but she also knew Will knew and Killian knew and he probably wasn’t surprised by the volunteering either.

“That’s part of the deal,” Will said. “It has been since the start, Em. As soon as Cap started tripping over himself when you were concerned.’

“You’re the pinnacle of romance.”

“Ah, well, I like you more than Cap now, so…”

“I’m going to tell him that.”

“Do it.”

She tightened her hold on the blanket, the shower turning off at the other end of the hall. “If you don’t go in this car with Henry, I’m also going to punch you squarely in the jaw.”

“That’s the most threatening thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, I know you are,” Will chuckled, moving Chris back into the crib with a tenderness that belied a decades-long, on-ice reputation. “Charge your phone. Change your ponytail holder. Tell Cap he’s, like…sixteenth on my list of favorites.”

“Sixteenth, huh?”

“At least.”

Emma nodded, tilting her head up when Will moved into her space and he kissed the top of her hair too. “Deal.”

And she did, eventually, get the ponytail holder out, damp hair on the back of her neck because Chris, naturally, woke up while she was still in the shower, but they bobbed and swayed and mumbled words and he fell back asleep after only a few minutes. So did she, eyes snapping open when the door unlocked and Emma’s brows pulled low when she only heard one set of footsteps.

“Go back to sleep, love,” Killian said, padding into the room and shrugging out of his jacket. He threw it on the ground.

That was probably where Matt learned it. The hockey pads had, at least, made it into the hallway before.

“Shouldn’t you have a small army with you?” she asked.

“Locksley and Gina took ‘em. She felt bad about flaking before.”

“She had to prevent the plebes from messing up.”

“Needs to teach them how to glare better, obviously.”ac

Emma hummed, burrowing further into the pillow and Killian barely got his shirt and pants off before dropping next to her. “We win?”

“We did.”

“Good job, Coach.”

“I’m not sure that’s my victory exactly, Swan, but I’ll take it, particularly when it’s been made very clear that you are beating me in a variety of other categories.”

She scoffed into the pillow. “He’s incredibly impatient.”

“He wanted to make sure I was aware. And I did hear about the park plan.”

“You can come with us if you want.”

Killian made a contrary noise in the back of his throat and Emma was only sixty-two percent certain he kissed the bridge of her nose. She was half asleep again. “No, that’s alright, love. Matt and I have to go buy new pads anyway.”

“And test them I’m sure.”

“Naturally. We’ll bring Chris.”

“Indoctrinate ‘em young.”

“Something like that,” Killian laughed, pulling Emma back against his chest and he definitely kissed her hair that time. “Get some sleep. We’ll update the schedule in the morning.”

They did – all color-coded post-it notes and Peggy perched on the counter, Matt talking a mile-a-minute about practice and games and the phase playoff push was used several time, Emma writing it all down while Killian traced his fingers across Chris’ back.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #blue line one shots #happy birthday b #you are also a real and true babe #<3 <3 <3

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