#//On the other hand; he also feels a massive aversion to fire if it gets to close to him/he feels the heat a bit too much

[dutybcrne]

Something something, Kaeya developing a simultaneous pyromania-pyrophobia after Le Confrontation

[wildestdreamsblog]

Baby, I know places we won’t be found

Pairing: Henry Cavill x Reader

Summary: How could you not know you were dating one of the most famous actors in the industry? How could you break things off with him with Christmas just around the corner?

Warnings: Soft!Dark Henry, Swearing, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

A/N: I’m writing just because I’m drunk okay forgive me. ALSO MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO MY WONDERFUL READERS!

It’s been a week, darling. When will you reply to me?

I miss you.

I hope you forgive me.

You stared down at your phone, reading his messages. It had been more than a week since you discovered who he really was. And you didn’t want to think you were shallow, but this mattered to you. This was a big thing for you. This was a deal breaker for you.

You had been dating him for months. Months. And he didn’t even bring up the fact that he was a famous actor. And here you were, obliviously dating one of the biggest actors of the industry.

He chanced on meeting you upon one of his tapings out of town. He was taking a day off on his own when he saw you buying flowers from a local vendor. You looked up over your lashes, met his eyes, and went on your way. He never felt more invincible than he did that day. Suddenly, he wasn’t Henry the famous actor. Suddenly, he was just a man enamored by a pretty lady.

You cursed you and your apparent lack of care for the pop culture and the Hollywood. You cursed your aversion to social media. You were just a simple girl. A simple girl who was only trying to get through adulthood. And yet you found yourself in this situation. But who could blame you, really? He was a charmer who conversed with you like no other. He was mature beyond his age, an old soul like you. For God’s sake, he walked you to your apartment- unlike anyone else you had dated. He was older than you by a few years, but he understood you. He got you. He listened to your struggle, sympathized with you, he never made you feel like you were silly.

But now you felt stupid. And betrayed.

You supposed you could understood why he did that, but knowing and feeling were two different things. He hid that thing from you. Where was the trust in your relationship?

You should have known when things seemed too good to be true, they usually were. Have you learned nothing from your accounting course in college?

You breathed deeply before finding the courage to reply.

I’m sorry. I don’t think I can do this, Henry. I’m sorry.

Your eyes found the newspaper that you saw more than a week before that opened your eyes when you were in the market. It was a paparazzi picture of him wearing a cap, holding a bouquet of flowers in his massive hand with a headline caption, ‘Who is Henry’s Secret Beau?’

You clearly remembered that day. He showed up after four days of him being away for work. You opened your door to an incessant knock at seven in the morning.

Clearly disheveled from your sleep, you opened the door, squinting at the sun before your sight adjusted and focused on the smiling, huge man standing in front of you.

“Henry?”

With flowers in his hand, he engulfed you in his warm arms, tightly hugging you. And only when you rub his muscular back did his tension ease off. “I thought you wouldn’t be back until next week,” you quietly asked.

He softly broke off his tight embrace to caress your cheek, looking deeply at you, “I can’t function properly at work if I can’t see you,” he admitted. That made you soft, here was a man so handsome and so kind and you couldn’t believe how lucky you were that he chose to love you. You couldn’t believe how in love he was with you.

You grip his hand holding your face and leaned into it. “Won’t your boss fire you if you keep missing work?” You asked him worriedly. As much as you wanted him with you, you understood how stressful his work was and how demanding it was.

He smiled shyly, “I don’t think they will.”

Well now you know why they wouldn’t.

And you thought that was the end of that.

It wasn’t.

You flew back to your home, to your grandparents’ home, states away from where you met him. You were trying to escape him, his memories, his smile, his warmth, his kisses- him.

You were trying to escape the love you had for him. You weren’t cut out for the life he lived, you weren’t strong enough to be with him. You never wanted for your life to be out there- and that was what would happen if you stayed with him. It was bound to happen. It was only a matter of when.

But you should have known you couldn’t easily shake off a Henry Cavill- not when he never felt this way with anyone. No, he wouldn’t simply let you go. You loved him, you were simply spooked. That was what was on his mind, trying to rationalize how you could just leave him when you gave yourself to him so many times he lost count. Not when he knew what it felt like to have you. Not when he finally found the one.

He flew to your home as soon as you sent that message. He would and could not simply accept a breakup text from you- no. Your relationship deserved better than that, it deserved better than the end.

Henry knocked on your door, his massive fist banging on the door. But your apartment was quiet, it was dark. It was too silent for the Christmas season. He knew you weren’t there. Henry was a kind man, he was so gentle with you. But the feelings he had now were dark, they were filled with anger and worst of all, he was scared that he really lost you, that you really escaped from him.

But no worries, he would find you. Regardless of how.

It was a week before Christmas when you passed by the market and saw another newspaper. ‘Henry’s mystery beau finally revealed’. And you swore you could feel yourself got lightheaded as you saw your face on the newspaper. You knew it was you despite the low resolution of the picture, as if the photographer took it from a sizable distance. You were with Henry on the picture with him looking fondly down at you, his hand possessively resting on your hips. You jumped when your phone started ringing loudly, you didn’t think before answering.

“Finally you answered, where are you, darling?” you could hear the worry in his voice, you could hear the desperation in it. 

You breathed deeply, releasing some nervousness you felt before answering, “I’m scared, Henry,” you admitted. You looked around, trying to see if anyone recognized you from the papers, but you knew there was a small chance they could because of the low quality of the photo.

“I know, I’m sorry. But you have to tell me where you are so I can protect you.” Henry implored, his voice deep with tension. He needed to see you, he needed to hold you, to touch you, or else he would go insane from not having you. He wasn’t like this, but having experienced a simple life with you made him greedy for more, for you. You were unlike anyone he met, so unlike anyone he worked with. You were you. You were real.

“I think no one can recognize me from that photo,” you whispered, gripping your phone as you started walking, “I think I’m safe where I am.”

“Darling, you don’t know the media. They would do everything just to know who you are. You’re in danger, you don’t have any protection. Darling, please. I’m worried for you.”

“I’m okay, Henry. Thank you for your concern, but I can handle myself.”

You thought that was the end of that, but he became even more persistent with you. The media became more persistent. 

You woke up to loud sounds. Everything was in chaos in your grandparents’ little farm house as the media surrounded the area. They were vicious as they took photos after photos of your family, and you could not do anything about it. You knew it was your fault, you knew you should have listened to Henry. So for the first time in weeks, you called him.

You were so rattled that you didn’t even question how fast he was able to send someone over the house to pick you up, claiming that if you weren’t there, there would be no reason for the paparazzi to harass your family. And you believed him, after all, he was the kindest man you dated. He never showed you anything but his gentleman side.

You hastily went with his security, saying goodbyes and apologies to your grandparents for the trouble you caused and assuring them that you would call once you arrived wherever you were going.

Henry engulfed you in his huge arms, fucking grateful that you were finally back in his arms once you stepped in the private jet he had readied for this. His hand was behind your head, guiding you on his chest as you cried. He let you cry as the jet took up, you were so trusting you didn’t even ask him where you were going. You were so trusting you didn’t see the dark glint in his eyes, and the relief in his face. Nor the substance he placed on your drink.

You woke up to a soft bed. Slowly, you opened your eyes and met his blue ones. Henry was beside you, softly looking at you with his arms around you.

He didn’t say anything, just waited for you to break the silence. It took you a moment to realize you didn’t know where this place was, or how you got into a bed when the last thing you remembered was being on the jet. 

“Where are we?” you finally asked, your eyes roaming over the bright room, the windows showing the ocean gently kissing the sand. The curtains moving with the wind, creating an illusion of heaven. Your brows furrowed as you pushed away from him, your mind in a puzzle. “Henry? Where are we?” you asked again when he didn’t answer, your eyes returning to his. It was almost Christmas, and yet it was warm. You weren’t in your state, no. It should be snowing. Anything but the sand and the gleaming sun. 

Henry slowly sat up, his eyes guarded as he watched your wild eyes. You stood up, slowly walking away from him. He looked like the man you loved, but his eyes weren’t the same. They looked at you with something dark and maniacal. And so you ran. 

Only to find out that this was an island, where the only establishment was the villa, and the only person in it was him. You were standing barefooted on the warm sand, your hair disheveled from the wind. You looked behind you when you heard him, “What did you do?” you whispered quietly, afraid of his answer as he remained silent, his hands in his pockets as he regarded you. 

“I took you away,” 

“Why?”

He tilted his head, “We need to lie low. The media wouldn’t stop harassing you, my darling. They would not stop, this is for you and your grandparents.” he implored as he walked warily to you, before gripping softly your arms and caressing your face. “This is for your own good. I promise you, we will return after the news die down. Hmm? Okay? You trust me, right?” 

You glanced up at him. His explanation made sense, so why then did your heart start beating faster as if you were in danger? You knew you could trust him. He only wanted what was best for you.. right?

But as Christmas came nearer, you still didn’t return. In fact, the only thing that seemed to return was Henry’s thinking that the two of you got back together. He was acting so sweet, so romantic, so passionate that your resolve was getting weaker each passing day.

You woke up alone on the bed. You could hear a low growl from the bathroom, and your curiosity got the better of you. Slowly, you approached the bathroom and what you saw shocked you. Henry’s fist was moving sensually on his hardened cock, his hips meeting his hand, his other hand was on the wall, supporting his weight as he fuck his own fist. He looked up to you when he heard the door open, and his movement stopped. He was watching you watched his cock twitch.

You licked your lips, before meeting his lust filled eyes. “Henry?”

He growled lowly, his fist resuming its mission on pleasuring him. He cursed quietly. “Do you want me to help?”

And before you could move, he grasped your arm, pulling you to him so fast that the next thing you know, you were looking at your reflection as he grabbed the ends of your sleeping dress and bunched them up your back. He was watching you over the reflection, his bare chest glistening with sweat, his curly hair disheveled. You felt him touch your thong before he snapped it with just a powerful pull. You gasped as he played with your quickly glistening core. His expert fingers teasing you, making you a wet mess for him. “Henry, please I need you.”

He laughed, and you could feel his warm member on your naked back. “Do you really need me?”

You nodded, could not even form words as he started finger fucking your pussy, the wet sound resounding on the bathroom. His other hand crawled to your pebbled nipples, pinching and palming them. “I don’t think you need me,” 

You cried as he stopped all of a sudden, your closed eyes opening just to stare at his reflection on the mirror. He was kissing your neck, leaving marks on it as he went. “If you need me, then why did you leave me, hmm?” his hips started thrusting on your ass cheeks, making him groan from the pleasure he had been denied ever since you left him. “You depraved me of your love. Of this pussy. Of you,” he growled in your ear as you started moving against him just to feel any kind of friction, just to ease off the pain from being edged. 

“I need you, I do just please I need you, I need your cock,” you begged him before turning around and reaching his face to meet his lips. You whispered your apologies to him, promising him everything, just so he would give you what you so desperately needed.

“If you need me, then you won’t ever leave me again, right?” he implored as he lined his cock on your pussy lips, running the head and sliding it between your lips, elating a moan from you. He would not stopped teasing you until you gave him the assurance that you would not let him experience life without you again. 

You nodded at him, eager for him to slide his huge cock in you. “I will stay by your side, Henry please-”

And then he slid home. 

By the time the sun started rising was the time he let you sleep. You were so out of it you did not hear him whisper, “Merry Christmas to you, my darling.”

Henry smiled triumphantly as he watched you slumber off. He finally had you for himself, away from the things that made you ran from him. Away from the thing that brought you back to him once again. You would never know how he played the media, leaking information of you once you broke things off with him.

You were too innocent and pure for him to just let you go. No, you were stuck with him. 

You were stuck with him until he was sure you wouldn’t and couldn’t ran from him again.

After all, it would be hard to run once his seed took root inside of you.

And by next year, you would be spending Christmas not only with him, but with his baby. And you would be a family.

---------------------

REBLOGS ARE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED

[kaizokuou-ni-naru]

The Voyage So Far: Water Seven

east blue (1 | 2) || alabasta (1 | 2) || skypiea || water 7 || enies lobby || thriller bark || paramount war (1 | 2) || fishman island || punk hazard || dressrosa (1 | 2) || whole cake island || wano (1 | 2)

i’ve mentioned several times before that the davy back fight is one of my least favorite arcs, mostly because i found it very dragging and tedious when i was reading it, but there are a couple things i really like in it, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, most of them have to do with zoro. i really like his moment here with chopper, and it also showcases his ability to act as more of an authority figure to the crew, which is something that makes a substantial return after enies lobby with the matter of usopp’s return. 

zoro and sanji’s match in the davy back fight is far and away my favorite part of the entire arc. it’s just really fun.

like i said, this arc isn’t a favorite of mine, but i do definitely understand why it’s important to the saga and greater story in a couple different ways. one of them is that it’s just an easy, lighthearted detour that both gives the audience a chance to breathe and the strawhats a chance to showcase just how much they love each other and work well together- which turns into a fucking sledgehammer to the skull in the next arc when that unity is directly threatened. and the other reason this arc is important...

...is because of aokiji.

aokiji’s introductory scene is a brutal showcase of absolute power, and a very clear reminder that the strawhats are still very much little fish in a very, very big pond. all of the strawhats are impacted by this to some degree- it’s how badly they get curb-stomped here that leads luffy to come up with his gears as a way of closing the huge power gap he’s just learned about.

most important, though, are robin and usopp. for robin, this is a stark reminder of the fact that the government will never stop hunting her down; for usopp, who’s less obvious, it’s the seeds of the full-blown inferiority crisis that will later explode with the news about merry. both of their arcs throughout water 7 and enies lobby, essentially the twin emotional backbones of the saga, start right here.

i really like that the other strawhats all fell asleep waiting for robin and luffy to wake up. it calls back to them doing the same when nami was sick before drum, and also it’s just so fucking sweet. 

water seven is my favorite island, full stop. if i was going to live anywhere in one piece’s world, i’d want to live on water seven. it’s just so creatively designed and visually great, with the canals and the tiered city and the massive fountain in the middle. the supporting cast are still one of my favorites, and the culture feels very real and authentic. i just love water seven a lot.

i just said it but it bears repeating- the water seven supporting cast is really good. iceburg, the galley-la shipwrights, franky and his family, kokoro and chimney are all really memorable, and most of them are really likable, too- and cp9, with all their eccentricities, fit in perfectly. water seven’s cast is very interconnected, as well, and their relationships all feel very believable.

all of which, of course, only makes the later treachery hurt all the more.

the atmosphere of water seven is really, really well done. the bad starts slow, with the news that merry is unfixable, and then continues into an accelerating downwards spiral of hopelessness: usopp and luffy’s fight and usopp leaving the crew, robin’s seeming betrayal, the assassination attempt on iceburg, the city and galley-la turning on them as a result, and the agua laguna- it just gets worse and worse and worse.

and then, after they’ve been stomped down about as far as they can go and come out alive anyways, they pick themselves back up again and go to save their friend, because that’s what the strawhat pirates do.

i just really like getting to see these four going feral on the franky family, it’s one of my favorite scenes in this whole arc. in general, i tend to love the moments where luffy specifically gets properly angry, and we get a lot of them in this arc. 

even though the fight between luffy and usopp is genuinely very tense and  fast-paced and would probably be exciting if it were any other two characters fighting, it never really feels anything other than melancholy. i think that’s a testament to just how good oda is at setting the mood of the scene. it’s made very clear, especially through the reactions of the other characters- merry ‘crying’ is fucking heartbreaking- that this is nothing less than a tragedy. 

:(

i think it’s kind of interesting we aren’t shown franky’s face until about halfway into water seven. prior to this, we’re given pretty much only reasons to hate him, with his theft of the strawhats’ money and the franky family beating usopp to shit. but just after this point is when we start getting our first humanizing and sympathetic moments for him, starting when he gets worried and a little frantic when he hears about the attempt on iceburg’s life.

i just really, really like the way some of these water seven action sequences are depicted. they feel very tense and desperate, which matches the general mood of this part of the arc perfectly.

this panel of usopp working on merry always reminds me of the shots of the klabautermann doing the same during skypiea. i’m not sure if it’s even intentional, honestly, but it’s an extra little bit of heartbreak either way.

one piece has a lot of amazing spreads, but this might be one of my favorites for sheer impact. cp9, watching as the city they’ve lived and worked in for years burns down in a fire they set, satisfied by a job well done. it’s almost all in black and white with very little grey, which creates some fantastic contrast, and their pitch-black silhouettes against the nighttime inferno are just striking. 

this entire scene between usopp and franky, as usopp works on the merry and franky gives him advice and tries to make him see its hopeless and they kind of awkwardly, accidentally bond, is probably my favorite in the whole of water seven. it was also the scene that singlehandedly made me love franky as a character.

they have a really good, really enjoyable dynamic, and at the same time the conflict between them is real and understandable, and brought about because they’re both trying to do the right thing.

tom’s workers are one of my favorite little groups of characters in the whole of one piece’s story, and they deserve more appreciation. they’re family!! a little family of broken pieces who worked together to build something really, really amazing. and they still care about each other in the present, even though they got shattered apart so badly and none of them ever really recovered. 

this is a tremendously under-appreciated chopper moment. not only did he carry two full-grown men out of a fire, he even managed to get zoro’s sword and iceburg’s hamster. extremely cool of him.

this is also the exact moment the strawhats’ collective luck begins to turn: chopper saves the day, and nami learns that robin did what she did to protect them, and sanji gets aboard the sea train, and from there it’s a no-brakes train from their very lowest low straight to the triumph at enies lobby.

i love all the shenanigans sanji gets up to with the sea train, i think the whole sequence is absolutely one of his shining moments. it’s always a delight to see sanji get up to Sneaky Bastard Bullshit, and the whole thing is just so fun, which is a dearly needed breath of fresh air after how relentless this arc has been until this point.

robin’s little smile when thinking of luffy and when she joined the strawhats... :( i’ve noticed it’s a recurring trend for strawhats who try to leave the crew to flash back to when they joined as they do. usopp has it earlier this same arc just before leaving, and sanji does it in whole cake island in the sanji vs. luffy chapter. 

i really like how much everyone comes together at the end of water seven leading into enies lobby. after how fractured and fraught things have been throughout the arc, both within and without the strawhat crew, it’s great to see them not only all united again for a common goal, but with a huge group of allies at their backs. 

these three are SUCH a hilarious team, and i would love to see them work together again like this sometime. they’re literally just clowning on the marines all the way up the train, it’s fantastic. 

factually i understand sanji’s aversion to fighting with his hands and his fighting style is very unique and cool and also meaningful to him because he learned from zeff, and also if i remember right it’s implied he learned how to swordfight from the vinsmokes which makes it very reasonable he would want absolutely nothing to do with that skillset 

but speaking purely in terms of stupid idiot lizard brain i think sanji should fight with knives more

this is another of my absolute favorite spreads, and i think what makes it for me is the casual confidence- luffy tells zoro to cut the train, and zoro does, both of them with no doubts at all about zoro’s ability to do so. it really goes to show how far they’ve come from back in east blue when zoro couldn’t even cut luffy out of a metal cage.

there’s something very impactful about the fact that of all the strawhats, robin gets this speech from usopp. usopp, who’s had the worst falling-out with luffy in the series to date, is the one who tells robin: you haven’t left the crew yet, you can’t leave the crew yet, luffy is coming to get you. believe in him. 

franky’s “existing is not a crime” line is one of the most memorable and iconic lines from this entire saga, and for good reason. it sums up one of the main themes of not just this arc but also the series as a whole- the very same idea will come up again for ace during marineford, and in law’s backstory as well. it’s never a crime to just exist, and people should not never be persecuted for their blood or heritage. one piece doesn’t fuck around with its theming, it really doesn’t. 

to be continued next time, with enies lobby!

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Ten (Zuko x Reader)

Part Nine

Word Count: 2,750

Author’s Note: We’ve had enough sad. Like, in general. So I wrote some happy for this week’s update. This chapter was originally going to be longer, but I decided to save the rest of it for next week since it ended pretty nicely where it is.

I feel like now is a good time to mention that I haven’t read the comics (I didn’t even know there were comics until like two months ago) so if you’ve been wondering why this story diverges so much from them, that’s why. I see the canon and I think it’s great, but it’s just so much more fun to write my own interpretations of what happened to everybody after the war. Sorry not sorry. 

I’m slowly getting back into the swing of things. I felt pretty okay yesterday, and I’m starting to not immediately hate everything I produce and am remembering how to talk myself up again after forgetting that anxiety and depression don’t rule my thoughts when it comes to my creativity. Things are still gonna be weird for a while, but we’ll be fine eventually. That’s how the human condition is - we always swing back at some point. 

~ Muerta

“What do you know about Fire Nation prisons?” 

You expect Rina to falter at the question. She doesn't even flinch, continuing to dress you as if you asked her what she’d had for breakfast. 

“What do you want to know?” she wonders in return. 

You gaze off, allowing your mind to roam as you consider her question. 

Since your return to the Fire Nation, Zuko’s attentive attitude hasn't changed, and your fondness for him has grown in ways you never expected it would. During council meetings, it’s become a habit to hold his hand under the table where your advisors can't see (though Yong has caught you once or twice, smirking as if you were two school children passing love notes during class). You spend more time together in the evenings before bed, and some nights you invite Zuko to sleep beside you, missing his presence since returning to separate rooms - he’s always gone before sunrise to discourage any scandal (despite the fact that you're married), never leaving without a kiss to your forehead and a murmur of, “See you soon.” It’s also become routine to meet him by the turtle duck pond when you each have a moment to spare, the little creatures getting so used to your presence that many of them freely approach you, pecking at your palms in the chance you have a treat for them. 

“My mother and I used to do this,” Zuko confides during one of your breaks; it's the first cool afternoon since the beginning of summer, a few leaves from the overhanging maple tree floating on the pond’s placid surface. “I remember throwing a rock at one of the ducklings when I was a kid. Its mother bit me.” 

You giggle, opening your hand so a young male can nibble at the apple peel you hold out to him; you attempt to scratch his head while he eats, and he squawks at you. 

“Good for her,” you jeer. “Serves you right for being a dick.” 

Zuko chuckles, the curl of his lips framing a hazy sadness in his eyes. 

“Azula did stuff like that all the time,” he sighs. “I always felt… bad. Our mother knew what she was when she was really young. I was the one who got all her kindness. Sometimes… I think it's my fault Azula ended up the way she did.” 

“It isn't,” you assure him. You tuck your hand into his. “Your parents played favorites. It wasn't fair.”

Zuko hums absently, his gaze drawn out across the courtyard. After a moment, he’s pulled back to you, a playful grin tugging at his mouth.

“You remind me of a turtle duck,” he states. “You look harmless. You're cute. But you could really fuck someone up if they provoked you.” 

You laugh, slipping your hand from his to teasingly shove his shoulder; the turtle ducks around you scatter as he mirrors your reaction, doing little to defend himself against your loving attack. 

“Did you just call me ‘cute’?” you tease, reaching to pinch at his cheek - he grimaces, taking your hand away from his face by recapturing it in his. “Are you going soft on me, Hothead?” 

He chuckles, mirthfully flicking an apple peel into your hair. You notice the blush that colors his neck, unable to deny your own.

“Oh, Turtleduck,” he says with mock pity. “Is Sokka so bad at flirting that you never learned to pick up on it?” 

He's used his new pet name for you almost every day since he coined it; every time he does, your heart soars out of your throat and into the clouds. 

Through your bedroom window, you can see Zuko on the porch behind your chambers, leaned casually against the railing as he chats with Aang. 

Aang says something that makes the older man laugh; your innards seem to melt as the lines around the corners of Zuko’s eyes and lips wrinkle like folds in a bedsheet. Something in the scene riles you - you’ll slit a hundred men’s throats to protect that smile and the feeling it gives you. 

“This is about Azula,” Rina observes. 

One thing you've learned in your short time with her is that you can't keep secrets from her - chances are she already knows all of them. 

“I just want to know what her living situation is like,” you tell her, “how powerful she could actually be from inside a prison cell.” 

“You have a merciful husband,” Rina sighs, somewhat dreamily . “Azula doesn't live in a prison; he put her in a compound in the Si Wong desert. She's heavily guarded and follows strict schedules and rules, but he didn't want her to live the rest of her life in a cage.” 

“What about Ozai?” you ask. 

“He’s in a prison. I said your husband was merciful, not that he doesn't hold a grudge.” 

You smirk, momentarily eased from the worry that strains your mind. 

“Do either of them have access to the outside world?” you press. 

Rina shakes her head. 

“Azula has very little; the last she heard of anything outside the compound was your marriage announcement. Ozai has absolutely none. All the guards that keep both of them are from the unoccupied Earth Kingdom, so they have no allegiance to them, and only a select few guards are allowed to speak to Azula.” 

“So… there's no way they could be the masterminds of any of this?” 

Rina lifts her gaze from the sash she cinches at your waist, her dark, round eyes meeting yours; her expression is blank, but she speaks in a determined hush. 

“I can't say for certain. But Azula’s intelligence is violent and cunning; she sees things from a different perspective that isn't entirely human. She has insights that more empathetic people would never consider.” 

You nod slowly, understanding. 

“I'll talk to Aang.”

Katara arrives from the Southern Tribe a few hours before the banquet you're hosting in Aang’s honor is scheduled to begin. You accompany her husband and yours to the imperial docks, a massive grin breaking across your cheeks the moment you spot her on the ship’s deck; she sends you a large, sweeping wave, catching you in her arms as soon as she's close enough to do so. 

“I'm so glad you're okay,” she cries into your ear. “How do you feel?” 

You nod, holding her by the waist as she pulls away. Her grip doesn't loosen, her arms still coiled around yours in an affectionate embrace. 

“I'm good,” you assure her. “I'm tough.” 

She smiles, pulling you in to kiss your cheek before turning to Zuko, greeting him with a warm hug. When she reaches Aang, her gestures are much slower, more tender. He takes her chin between two fingers and kisses her gently, his other hand positioned low on her waist as it presses her tightly against him; the action is so out of character for the two - typically so lively and averse to such kinds of public affection - that you and Zuko share an instinctive, curious glance. 

“Did we forget their anniversary or something?” you whisper, fear jolting through you when a look of panic crosses his features. 

“... I don't think so,” he says after a pause. “Maybe… he just missed her?” 

The confusion on his face is endearing - he's more emotionally intelligent than most people, but he's the last person who knows it. 

“Could be,” you agree. “This is the longest they've been apart in years.” 

The two of you watch as Aang assists Katara into Appa’s saddle, another strange behavior considering how used to flying Katara is. Neither of them seem to notice your staring, Aang leaning in for another lingering kiss before taking his place at the reins.

You return to the palace and are met with commotion, servants and high-level diplomats scrambling this way and that in a flustered frenzy. Everyone immediately alerts, prepared for yet another catastrophe. 

“What's going on?” Zuko demands as Rina approaches you; she doesn't hide her sneer at his brash tone, and you smirk as he apologetically shrinks back. 

“You have visitors, come to give their congratulations for your marriage,” Rina explains. 

“Who?” Zuko wonders. 

“Sun Warriors. They're waiting for you in the throne room.” 

Zuko and Aang exchange a look of shock. As you're ushered through the halls of the administrative wing and into the throne room, you take Aang by the arm, pulling him close so you can whisper to him. 

“Who are the Sun Warriors?” you ask. 

“They were the first fire benders,” Aang tells you. “They were supposedly wiped out, but Zuko and I met them when we visited their island at the beginning of my fire bending training. Their existence is supposed to be a secret.” 

“Then why would they come here?” 

“Your guess is as good as mine.” 

The throne room is silent - empty save for your entourage and guests - but a constant, electric buzz seems to hang in the air. Zuko falls into step beside you, taking your arm in his as you approach the group of visitors gathered before the throne; their clothing suggests Fire Nation, but from a different world, ancient to the point of almost primal. Each person present is decorated in baroque jewelry, glimmering gold and laced with vibrantly colored beads placed in intricate, deliberate patterns. Their faces are painted in stark lines of red and white, some across their noses and cheeks and under their eyes, others over their chins and foreheads; the makeup is so similar to Water Tribe markings that your eyes widen, unable to stop yourself from leaning in as you attempt to get a better look while also remaining dignified. The warriors are also much more robust than their mainland counterparts, with stocky builds and robust features - they remind you of your own people, leaving you in awe. 

“Chief Sunan,” Zuko addresses the leader of the group, bowing low as he speaks; you follow suit, leveling your gaze with the floor. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?” 

The chief smiles faintly, warmly at the two of you, bowing in return. 

“We are not so cut off from the outside world that we have not heard of your marriage,” he says. “News has traveled to us of the strength of your union, and the tenacity of your bride. As Firelord, you have protected us, and made strides to restore the ancient ways of the element - we have come to give you our thanks, and offer our blessings to the both of you.” 

Chief Sunan steps aside then, making way for a man and woman carrying a basket between them; they lower it at your feet, bowing as they step back to rejoin their people. 

“A gift,” the chief proclaims. His muted grin morphs into something more knowing, almost mirthful as he watches Zuko approach the offering. 

You rest a supportive hand on Zuko’s back as he leans forward, lifting the lid of the basket to reveal its contents; he raises a bundle of blankets from the vessel, his eyes growing wide as he peels the fabric back. 

Inside the package is a dragon, just small enough to be cradled in his arms. Its scales are a gorgeous crimson, glinting and shifting between hues of gold and turquoise in the light cast from Zuko’s bended fire that surrounds his empty throne. The little beast peers up at its new parent with amber eyes that mirror your husband’s. Zuko lets out an astonished breath, raising his gaze to meet Chief Sunan’s. 

“I can’t accept this,” he states, so quietly that only you and the chief can make out the words. 

“You must,” Chief Sunan counters, his smile never faltering. “The masters insisted.” 

Under your palm, you feel Zuko’s body tense. He nods, cautiously settling the tiny dragon into your arms; you hold the bundle tightly, reaching in to stroke gently at the baby’s nose. It purs appreciatively, and your heart swells. 

Zuko bows, lowering himself to the floor in the ultimate display of respect. 

“Thank you,” he says. “I vow to protect him with my life.” 

When he once again stands, he looks to Rina. 

“Accommodate them however they need,” he commands. “Send a group of our Kyoshi Warriors to the island to guard it from outsiders.” 

Rina nods, scurrying off immediately to delegate the tasks. Chief Sunan then approaches you, resting a hand on your shoulder; you meet his eyes with slight fear, but find only kindness looking back at you. 

“We are grateful our bloodlines will merge once again,” he tells you. “The origin of our people is a history that has been lost to time, long before the war was even a speck on the horizon. You see, the Sun Warriors are descendents of migrant peoples from the earliest ancestors of the Southern Water Tribe as well as the Fire Nation - what our mothers and fathers knew of water bending shaped our understanding of fire. Your union brings our people together once again, as they should be.” 

Zuko wraps an arm around your waist, proudly pulling you against his side. You draw in a shaky breath, leaning into him as you nod, tears pooling along the lines of your lower eyelids. 

“It’s an honor to finally meet you,” you say. “I’ll do everything to make sure we regain our lost history. I promise.” 

Chief Sunan smiles temperately and nods, his fingers contracting around your shoulder in an appreciative grasp. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. “We are proud to call you our queen.” 

You invite the Warriors to stay for the night, Aang eagerly informing them of the banquet you have planned; by the time your reception of the unexpected visitors is finished, there's little more than an hour before it begins. 

Zuko brings your new ward back to your quarters, keeping him tucked protectively under his arms until you shut the sitting room door securely behind you. He then unravels the blankets the little creature is wrapped in, allowing him to explore his new home. 

“I thought dragons were extinct,” you marvel, watching as the fabled reptile twists and turns his body around every piece of furniture he encounters, inspecting everything he sees with humanlike interest. You smile, endeared by his wonder. 

“There are two still living,” Zuko explains. He kneels down beside the dragon, offering him a bit of a rice cracker from the box you keep in a side table for your nightly tea. “Three, now, I guess. The other two are the fire bending masters Aang and I had to seek approval from after I joined their team. Honestly, I thought they were both males.” 

“You must have made a good impression for them to trust you with their kid,” you remark, stifling a bit of laughter at his confession. “Maybe this’ll get Yong to stop bugging us about getting me knocked up.” 

Zuko chuckles, glancing up at you with an impish grin; the suggestive expression makes you blush, and you try to not admit to yourself that the excitement it sparks isn't unwelcome. 

The baby dragon lets out a mewling growl as he wraps himself around Zuko’s shoulders. He blows a minuscule jet of flame into the Firelord’s face, which Zuko mimics. You feel like squealing. 

“What should we call him?” you ask, lowering yourself onto the floor beside your husband. You hold a finger out to the dragon, which he curiously takes into one of his clawed hands. 

“Druk,” Zuko answers. “He looks like a Druk, doesn’t he?” 

You nod, your cheeks pinkened by the smile that’s plastered itself across your face; Zuko’s eyes meet yours with the same joyed expression. He maneuvers himself closer to you, resting his hand atop yours in your lap. As his fingers curl around your palm, you become achingly aware of just how near to you he is, and in a way that’s no longer friendly - the tension is heavier now, strained under the weight of a giddy, fluttering mania that leaves you dizzy. You don’t have to wonder if he feels the same. 

“Guess we’re parents now,” Zuko jokes, his voice barely above a breath. 

You giggle, taking the chance of leaning in to brush your lips to his. Your skin hardly touches; you’re too nervous to dive in and taste him, and for a moment after you pull away, you fear you may have imagined the glancing kiss. The fire that flares across Zuko’s cheeks tells you you didn’t. 

“Yeah,” you smirk, speaking in a murmur. “Guess we are.” 

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[spnsmile]

Title: Burn out this Love

Summary:

Complete blackout in the Bunker during a stormy night has TFW2.0 setting up candles in the war room except Dean accidentally lights one of the cursed candles that extracted a part of himself that believes he loves Castiel. A shaman comes to help but not really, resulting in the angel’s short temper and taking matters in his own hands to make Dean remember. Dean did not forget his name after.

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: 9390

Tags/Warning: non/Con, dubcon, Curses, Fluff, Domestics, Established destiel

Written for @supernaturalpromptchallenge March prompt: Element: fire-candle

It was a precarious move, so Castiel silences everything of the earth’s natural orchestra always playing by his ears. From the nonstop spatter of rain on the muddy ground to the howling wind beating against the fort’s thick walls. The electrical hum silently permeating the stone confines to the droplets of water from the sink.

He narrows down the sound to the light tapping of Sam Winchester’s fingers on the keyboard. Jack’s distinct swallows of anticipation beside him. And Dean humming contentedly across the table, waiting for the next course of action to transpire.

Castiel opens his eyes. He raises his left hand with two delicate fingers like pincers and with precision, jabs it at the wooden block of his choice in the second level of the towering pile of Jenga he, Dean and Jack had been huddled around.

There’s a second of everyone holding their breath. Even Sam’s fingers have stopped typing. Dean’s eyes are so round, breath held, Castiel can almost feel his controlled excitement. But he got this.

He meticulously extracted a brick in one pull without making the almost 24 cm tower tumble. Dean sighs with a small, biting his bottom lip to keep whatever he wants to say while Jack’s mouth drops as Castiel stacks the brick up the tower deftly. He then beams at Dean and Jack when the tower remained steady.

“That wasn’t so hard. This indoor game is actually quite entertaining. Humans really are creative when left in their own devices being stuck inside their homes.”

He clasps both his hands on the table then stares at Dean.

Stuck that afternoon because of rain with no case at hand, they were easily convinced by Jack to play Jenga. At first, Dean didn’t want to participate, but one look from the angel gets him to agree. He vowed to destroy Castiel teasingly before they begin.

Except Cas isn’t prone to losing this one yet.

“Your turn, Dean.” Jack says, “Those blocks on the second and third level looks very shaky.” Dean glares at Cas

“Yeah, because somebody insisted on taking out all the foundation on the get-go. Ten minutes later and welcome to Pisa.”

“Rules of Jenga states that you have to remove a brick from a layer other than the top—”

“Like heck I’ll give you top even in this one, babe.” Dean cuts in slyly.

Castiel’s eyes narrow at his boyfriend who looks really fine with his finger-combed hair straight from the shower. He could tell by the strong smell of the hunter’s shampoo pervading the air. He is wearing his soft green top that always matches his eyes. Castiel prefers those one-color coded than the flannels, though he would never be averse to any clothing as long as it includes Dean.

Dean takes a shot in the middle of the tower, then seconds later extracted another brick.

“I got one for tops in ten seconds. Gonna get your ass next, Cas.”

Castiel only deadpans. Dean is obviously flirting with him now but he doesn’t know what to do except stare. He doesn’t remember when this had become a battle of position but he returns the intent gaze with usual deadpan.

“I was using my non-dominant hand.”

Castiel raises his left with an eyebrow up, smiling. Dean huffs in disbelief and was about to put the brick on the top of the tower when Castiel’s phone suddenly rings.

Dean yelps in surprise and knocks the entire tower, sending bricks on the table and the floor with loud thudding sounds. Castiel catches one brick on the way to the ground, watching everything fall apart. Dean groans and smacks his fist on the table while Jack smiles all cheeks like he’s been waiting for it to happen.

“I’ll help get them.” He says instead.

“Who’s callin?” Dean says grudgingly.

They all look at Castiel who’s fishing inside his coat. He shrugs at the look Dean gives him as he takes his phone out. “Oh, it’s my contact—one of the angels.”

Dean makes a face and grumbles.

“Looks like your top didn’t make it, Dean.” Sam remarks lightly from the end of the table.

“Shut up.” Dean snaps, “I’ll win Cas one of these days.”

“A foreseeable future in an alternate universe.”

“Shut up, you want me, Cas.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow scathingly

“No, but I need you to help pick up the wood, Dean. Yes, hello? Uh… yes, you did call inconveniently, I was in the middle of something—”

“My my, this wood’s hard.” Dean kneels on the floor with the voice loud enough to be heard on the angel’s phone.

“Dean,” Sam says in warning.

Giving Dean an intense look, Castiel nods on his phone then hangs up. He stands up and walks to the hunter, kneels in front of Dean who freezes at the sudden approach till Castiel reaches out and tilts his chin up. Sam looks away pointedly.

“Bad boy, Dean.”

Dean’s whole face flushes as red as a tomato.

“I understand it now.” Comes Jack’s voice, severing the spell the two had fallen under when the Nephilim appears behind the angel.

“What did you understand?” Castiel takes the bricks from the boy, feeling Dean’s eyes hot on his back. Jack nods with eyes round.

“This game is much like when people try to reach the top of heaven, but god punished them by taking out what makes them stronger together one by one. Like in the Tower of Babel.”

Dean resurfaces from the trance, blinking.

“He’s all yours.”

Castiel smiles. “It does appear to be all interrelated when you stop and think about it, though, in reality, the prophet of the lord during that time was a bad drunk who was trying to dispute ownership over a windmill farm from his brother. Eventually ending their relationship. Only because his brother refused to speak with him, thus context. But it’s more of the lesson of the story, Jack, rather than the myth behind it. I need to go.”

Dean’s head snaps up from the table.

“Why? Where are you going?”

“To meet my contact? That’s why he called, you heard him, Dean.”

“I heard him destroy my chances of topping.” Dean frowns. Castiel can see the argument rising from his face so he chooses his words carefully.

“He requires my assistance.”

Dean blinks, “Okay, wait for me I’ll go get my coat—”

“Uh, no, Dean. You can’t accompany me.” Because like most angels, this one is also wary of Dean Winchester. All angels—all Supernatural beings are.

“Stop joking around.”

“I’m not. I think you know when I am.” Castiel says drily.

 “What— you serious? But we had an agreement not to go out of the house without—"

“Um… Bunker hall pass?”

Sam snorts while Castiel hesitates when he sees Dean frown deeper.

Hall pass as he understands means something about … Winchesters want to do something private which basically is like the loophole in the whole agreement. It’s that pass where they do stupid stuff or deals or meetings without the others knowing.

They all agreed to never go out of the Bunker without a partner according to Dean. If it’s a hunt, it’s usually Sam and Dean together. But if it’s grocery shopping or Dean needing to have some fresh air it’s always Castiel on tow. Castiel doesn’t necessarily require the same attention, though he treasures Dean’s company to a fault.

He doesn’t understand the confused expression on Dean’s face.

“Cas, unless it’s a date you wanna get laid at, geez, I’m coming with you.”

“You’re not. Listen to me, Dean. You really can’t tag along.”

“But it’s raining.” Dean points. Castiel tilts his head, wordless. Dean stares at him, shifting from one foot to another before his expression closes into a grim.

“Fine. Go then.”

There’s nothing much left for Castiel to do when the man leaves.

Castiel quietly watches him go. No sooner than he left, the angel heard a distinct exploding sound somewhere far and the entire Bunker is enveloped in darkness.

***

Castiel stares blankly at the wall of the kitchen to the dancing shadow of Dean Winchester. He followed Dean ten minutes later and stationed himself by the door watching Dean busy himself by the sink, washing his hands with the flashlight of his cellphone, his sleeves pushed up his elbow and humming Led Zepp Castiel is already quite familiar.

“Dean.”

“What.”

“There’s been a massive blackout,” Castiel informs him.

“Don’t I know it? What are you still doing here? I thought your gonna have a date n stuff?”

“I don’t date.” Castiel rolls his eyes. “At the very least if their name is not Dean Winchester, I do not bother.” He sees the visible tension disappear on the man’s shoulder. It gets him talking more to get on Dean’s good side again. “I’ve decided not to go. It’s raining and I don’t want my boyfriend upset even though it’s ridiculous to be jealous—”

Dean coughs several times and swings to face the angel with the back of his hand on his lips. His ears are pink, Castiel can tell even from the dark.

“B-boyfriend?” he blurts out in shock.

“Unless you prefer that I call our engagement with different terminology. I believe the word ‘boyfriend’ is what this century is calling it nowadays. Or would you prefer to be my ‘beau’?” he narrows his eyes. To be honest he will prefer anything as long as he can tell their relationship is special. But Dean—

“N-no, I like boyfriend.” Dean stammers, turning back the sink and washing the frozen meat from the fridge. Castiel smiles and walks to him. He likes it when Dean gets all flustered because of something he said. Dean’s always been like that from the beginning.

Wrapping his arms around the hunter, Castiel sighs in contentment when he inhales Dean’s scent. Dean tenses in front of him but Castiel kisses the back of his neck, urging him to relax while he presses Dean back on the counter, body solidly against each other.

“Stop getting me a boner, Cas.” Dean chuckles.

Tag: Explicit

“Mmm. Why not?” Cas smiles, brushing his hand on top of the hunter’s fly. He can feel Dean’s body going rigid, his breath hitching. “I thought you said this is what boyfriends do?” He bites Dean’s ear. Too irresistible not to do it.

“Dammit, Cas—"

“I like it when you get angry with me.” Castiel whispers, unzipping Dean’s pants and snaking his deft hand inside his boxers. Dean is hard. The way he can easily turn Dean on is mesmerizing. “Because I know you’re worried. I know you care a lot. I’d prefer it anytime than you uncaring. Love it when you’re jealous.” He nips on the smooth skin, running his tongue back to Dean’s lobes and sucking hard.

“Now you’re tripping me—fuck!”

Dean squirms back against Castiel’s body, his ass pressing hard against the angel’s hips. It’s all sensual to him, all because Dean is a very sensitive man. It’s not physical alone, though that’s what draws Dean to Castiel at the beginning while Castiel is the exact opposite.

He saw Dean’s soul first and fell in love. Gradually, they were able to piece themselves together and now what’s between is both. Castiel understands that now. Dean is turned on sensually, emotionally and it’s mutual between them. It’s everything Castiel loves about Dean. But body contact is not to be undervalued either—Dean strives to be touched, hungry for it always, he spent the rest of his life seeking company on lonely nights. Now he’s with Castiel—responding to every caress because only Castiel knows how.

So, when he strokes Dean, they both know it’s more than just touches. Dean breathes like all the air is leaving his lungs. When Castiel presses his thumb on the delicate slit in the middle of the pulsing cock, they both know the running pleasure is multiplied by the thought of who is doing it. Castiel is. To Dean.

And Cas knows how to serve him. Grabbing Dean’s hair with his free hand, he presses their heads together, his lips on Dean’s ear. “Are you going to come for me, Dean?”

It’s enough to get Dean convulsing on his palm.

“Cas— shit—” Dean's hand grapples the edge of the sink while his other grasped behind him to Castiel’s hips. His knees are wobbling against the angel. “C-Cas I’m almost—”

His voice just breaks in the most arousing way. Castiel turns Dean’s head and kisses him hard, enjoying the heat coming from the hunter’s lips, the way it’s so open in submission as dominates their exchange. He pumps Dean harder in the middle of his release, shooting off the sink’s ceiling and on Castel’s hand.

Dean groans and falls back weakly on the angel but Cas got him. He embraces Dean. Plants soft kisses around Dean’s salty throat, his hand still slowly stroking Dean’s cock till he feels it soften in his palms. Dean is breathing hard and Castiel feels a little proud to the one to do that. Things had been very peaceful around them since they both woke up from the idiot dream after their confession of love. Castiel will never forget it.

“Can I help with anything else?” he asks after thoroughly cleaning Dean with his grace and tucking his cock back in before unzipping his fly.

“You just jerked me in front of my bacon.”

“I cleaned it.”

“You just took advantage of me cause it’s dark here.”

“That is true, but you also did say that’s what humans do in the dark with four walls and blankets. We don’t have blankets—do I need to get one?”

“Unless you want to fuck me on the table?” the way Dean sounds hopeful gives Castiel a headache.

 “We’ll have that when we can. For now, if you’re done fixing dinner, I will go call Sam and Jack so we can all be here. I’m sure they found the candles by now.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Candles? What are they—kids? No, use flashlights, the candles are last resorts. I have flashlights in the cabinet. Or make em use their phones.”

“I do not think that’s a good idea considering you might need your phones to communicate outside if the blackout persists.”

“Uh… You’re right.” The hunter smiles smugly all of a sudden, “Then can you be like my lamp now? You know—badass angel glowing light in the middle of the room—

“Umm, if I do that the entire Bunker will be enveloped with pure light and since it’s dark outside, the possibility of getting detected by your world’s ‘space cadets’ as you call them is at risk. So now. I do not believe it’s very smart to use my grace at all, Dean. Let’s reserved that for a real emergency.” Castiel glares.

“Geez, alright.” Dean laughs, wiping his hands with the towel hanging by his left shoulder. “Hang on, I’ll go with you to get the flashlights. Their only under the Ham radios.”

“Okay.”

“Wait— Cas!”

Dean surprises Castiel when he suddenly pulls him back, cups his face and catches his lips into a mouth to a kiss with the hunter leading.

Castiel smiles. He likes it when Dean is spontaneous like that. He lets Dean take him. When they pull away, Dean is looking at him with eyes full of love. Castiel nudges his nose on Dean’s lips and sighs. Together, they walk back to the library, all tensions obviously have been released away.

“But, really, candles?” Dean says in the dark.

Castiel uses the opportunity to pull Dean forward. “So, you can ask them. Let’s go.”

“Don’t make me trip on you—”

“You’re the one who keeps pushing—Dean!”

“Sorry!” Dean laughs, “Was that your ass or what?”

Rolling his eyes, he lets Dean pat his ass again until they reach the corridor. Sam’s laptop screen is on, the only light amidst complete darkness. In front of it, Sam looks up with Jack waiting beside him. “Finally decided to appear now, huh?”

“While you guys are playing another set of ‘Are you afraid of the Dark?’ episode?” Dean is clearly looking at Sam who rubs his forehead and nods at Jack.

“We’re waiting for Cas.” Jack explains brightly, eyes on the. “The candles are still unlit so I was thinking if you can use your grace them get them light up.”

Castiel doesn’t quickly answer but throws a look over Dean instead.

“It’s raining and there are candles. Add a cat and we’ll be calling out Sabrina. I can’t even see the candles!” Blinking hard with brows furrowing, he and Castiel steps to the table, casting looks over the place

 “I’m not sure I can light all, Jack.” Castiel says solemnly.

“Sure you can.” Jack encourages.

“Just makes sure you don’t make any light bulbs burst and eyes burn.” Dean chuckles.

Castiel glares at that. He notices Dean emerging from under the table and pulling a box under the table to duck from his glare. Huffing, Castiel snaps his fingers and—

The fire flickers out of thin air from the four candles in the middle, lightening the whole war room with the dancing flames, sending their shadows tall on the walls. Castiel sees Jack beam and it made the effort worth it.

“And this,” comes Dean’s voice. Nobody saw him put another candle on the table. They found him already with a matchstick at hand, scraping the corner and tipping down the thick wax candle with an X-mark—

“Dean—wait—!” Sam begins, but too late— Dean lights the candle. The moment the flame flickers on the candle, Dean’s eyes roll back with white balls showing and he drops on the floor out cold.

“DEAN!”

“It’s a cursed object, obviously. Are you sure you’re with proper hunters? One look of the object and—”

“It’s a long story—there’s no electricity when you need it. I could power it up, but Sam says— anyway, just come here—I don’t care if it’s raining. I want to make sure he’s going to be okay after the candle dies out—” Castiel listens to the shaman’s mundane complaints while the angel stands outside the corridor right outside Dean’s room.

His body is still shaking as he relieves the memory of Dean fainting after lighting the cursed candle. Saw something leave Dean’s body that made him reach for the hunter and clutch him close. Protecting Dean at all costs. In the end, after determining it was a cursed candle from the box that Jack brought in the room unwittingly, Castiel resorted to calling his only resource for magical objects, The Shaman, Sergei.

After sending a photo of the nasty candle he wants to melt, his opinion changed drastically upon learning that Dean’s life force is connected to the candle. Now it became the most important thing for him.

“Be quick, I’m warning you, Sergei.”

Castiel hangs up and sprints back to Dean’s room. He can still feel his heart wild against his chest anxiously. The way it happened— he saw something get sucked away from Dean’s body when he lit the candle. Sergei only confirmed his suspicion which didn’t make him feel any better.

But at least it wasn’t any candle about death….

Sam brought his rechargeable lamp in the room that lit the entire vicinity conveniently. Sam looks up questioningly when Castiel comes in and Cas had no choice but to give him a curt nod.

“Yes, Sergei says it’s a curse.”

Sam’s face turns pale. “And? What kind of curse?”

“I don’t know… Sergei’s not sure but he says it could be of Japanese origin but apart from that we still have to wait for Sergei to confirm. He still wants to come over and see for himself.”

“Okay, that’s a plan.” Sam stands up and palms his face. “But I’m still going to search around lore books about Japanese curses then. I don’t trust Sergei. Do you?”

He frowns up at Sam. “I have every reason to doubt Sergei. He will be under my watch once he’s here. He should not be left with Dean. And even if it is the only threat of the cursed candle, I still would not relax until I see Dean as himself again. I’m afraid so trusting Sergei is the only thing we have for now.”

They all look at Dean fast asleep on his bed with the candlelight burning over the table by his wall.

Everyone knows it is Castiel who will be watching over Dean for the rest of the night. Sam left the room to do research in his room and see what else he can find with an extra flashlight at hand. Jack decides to let Cas and Dean alone and once everything is quiet, Castiel naturally focuses on Dean.

He sits beside the hunter’s bed, eyeing every feature of Dean he’s already memorized by heart. One look and he can tell something is missing, though whether it’s for the best, he is not one to decide. He places two fingers on his friend’s forehead and sighs. He closes his eyes, heartbreaking again when he could not reach onto Dean’s soul.

Castiel stays inside Dean’s room for the better part of the night, watching for any slight changes or disturbance over the hunter’s peaceful slumber. There’s none. In fact, Dean barely stirred on the bed unaware of the raging weather outside. If it was not for his chest moving steadily, Castiel would worry about his life.

He spends an hour like that, just staring at Dean’s face for the rest of the evening, recounting his freckles, noting those that faded and delighting himself in finding new ones.

He touches Dean’s forehead from time to time, let his fingers run down the soft hair. Let’s his warmth fill the empty vessel of his boyfriend. He knows it’s unnecessary, but he could not stop. Won’t. He’d do it even with a hairbreadth of grace left in his body.

He stares at Dean.

Achingly. Longingly. Willing those eyes to open for him again. So, he waits. He always waits for Dean. It only seems proper because it’s Dean who made him realize how waiting can sometimes be unbearable. Time is a concept no angel understood before.

Until Dean.

Nightmares didn’t visit Dean that night. Dean does not have any reason to fear, Castiel is beside him. The true nightmare is waiting for Dean alone in the silence of the night. So, if someone asks Castiel if he has any fear at all, Castiel will think of this moment and tells them he does.

***                                          

The Shaman arrived around half past nine, two hours after Dean’s collapse. By then power was still absent, making it difficult for Sam to use his laptop. The Bunker’s generator hasn’t worked since the last invasion in the fortress.

Descending from the metal stairs with wet shoulders from the rain outside, he cast his eyes at the faces waiting for him by the war table looking like a phantom in black apparel, the lights of candles whipping in his presence.

“Has he woken up?” Sergei asks deadpan.

“Not yet.” Castiel shakes his head, “It’s only been two hours. Are you sure the lasting effect of the candle is only 7 hours?” Sergei looks pass Sam to the entrance of the corridor eagerly. He turns to Castiel again.

“Yes, unless you use the other two candles then the curse will continue.”

Castiel and Sam exchange looks. The Shaman raises an eyebrow.

“There are three candles for the shrine ritual,” he begins slowly, “together the three can have significant influence over the balance of nature. Do you mean to tell me—?”

“I kept the other candles in the box.” Sam presses his lips.

“Very well, please bring them into the room. Castiel? Can you lead the way?”

Castiel did not say anything. The look Sam gives him is meaningful, but since the hour is dire, the two decided to do as the Shaman says. Castiel leads the way to Dean’s room while Jack accompanies Sam to the storage room.

Once they reach the hunter’s room, Castiel quickly checks on Dean. The hunter is still fast asleep with no sign of any disturbance in his absence. Sergei doesn’t wait. He slides past Castiel and takes a look at the hunter from head to toe, then walks to the candle still burning bright by the table.

Castiel watches Sergei’s movement with his brows slowly furrowing.

“Will he be okay?” he stands beside Sergei, expression softening at Dean’s sleeping form.

“I need some time alone with him. The spell for—”

“No.”

He meets Sergei’s eyes but the final word is apparently with the clouding of his face.

“Fix him.” He says sharply, “And don’t do anything suspicious or I’ll smite you.”

Sergei quirks his eyebrows. “Always the Russian method with you.”

Castiel doesn’t like it. Truth be told, he’s wary of repeatedly asking the Shaman for help. He’s been pushing Sergei to the limits, always asking for favors they both know would never be compensated. It’s only a matter of time before the Shaman gets back to him. Sam shouting in the corridor at the top of his lungs seems to be the cue.

“Your other Winchester needs you.” they both look at the door but Castiel did not move from

“What are you not telling me, Sergei?”

“CAS!” Sam appears by the door, breathless. “Cas! Don’t let him near Dean!”

Castiel doesn’t ask why. He grabs Sergei by the collar and lifts him up the air before Sam can even finish. He’s been alert from the beginning— expecting danger lurking around and with an unconscious Dean, he’s not about to put his guard down.

Sergei is clutching his wrist tightly, choking as he writhes against Castiel’s hold. Castiel whose eyes gleam darkly, fixing the Russian with his penetrating stare.

“What…” he says, dangerously calm, “are you not telling me?”

There’s a groan on the bed. Castiel distractedly looks down at Dean stirring. Sergei chuckles and presses something hot on his hands. He feels his whole body becomes rigid—the ability to move gone from whatever the Shaman did.

“No!”

Sam comes forward, lunging at Sergei who was leaning on Dean’s side. He grabs him by the shoulder to take him out but in the middle of the struggle, everyone sees him rise from the bed.

Castiel swallows hard. He feels his grace trying to reach out to him but couldn’t—his grace is locked away. But it’s not this that gets him worried.

It’s Dean. Dean is now fully awake, staring at Sergei with unblinking eyes.

“Shit.” Sam whispers.

That doesn’t bode well for Castiel.

Smite. Absolute smiting.

This is the only thing Castiel can think about when he heard the truth about the curse on Dean and Sergei’s intentions for his friend.

Apparently, the cursed candles are used in Japan’s ancient, most famous and terrible curse-a ritual done mainly by jealous and wronged lovers. The three candles are only part of the instruments— as Sam reads.

“…dressed in white and a trivet worn like a crown with three candles burning in the night, a doll made of bound straw and wooden hammer or long iron spikes… They would have in their possession a part of the victim they want to curse—a hair, skin blood, fingernail, even photographs and perform the ritual by any Shinto shrines and time to the Hour of the Ox, witching hour where yurei and yokai spirits come haunting…”

Castiel is only half listening. No. He is emitting a certain air of danger for the Shaman bound by the chair in the war room. Dean is still in his room with a headache while Jack stands outside his door. Half of Castiel’s mind is with Dean, sensing his every movement but he could not. He knows something is different and it’s that he will extract from Sergei by force.

He points his blade menacingly at the Shaman who pulls away from the pointed blade as far as he could. Castiel doesn’t mean to make contact. He can only see blood.

“That’s not the entire story behind this, is it, Sergei?” Castiel glowers. Sam joins him with arms crossed, glaring at the Russian.

“The candles have been used before and was stashed away with the remnants of the curse left in it. What I don’t understand is why lighting one would be harmful to anyone who uses it.”

“Not harmful, of course not. You do not understand the power of words entangled with pure hatred and love, do you?” Sergei begins hooded eyes on the hunter.

Castiel jabs his knuckle on Sergei’s jaw. It connects—Sam doesn’t even bother stopping the angel whose glinting blue eyes burned on the Shaman.

“Tell us everything before I kill you.”

“Cas…”

Sergei harkens a laugh but obliges. “Dead spirits linger on earth, you know, because of their attachment to the mortal world. And when I say attachment, we speak of their sentiments. Very dangerous even for mortal people to possess. Anger, hatred, injustice… bound to materialize when given too much power over poor souls. Now, Japanese witches, they have different sources of power with their deeper connection to the pagan gods their culture have embraced. More resources, more creativity when it comes to Witchcraft you in the West would never achieve.”

“What about you?” Cas asks.

“I’m Russian. Shaman, Castiel. A chosen profession by necessity. We do not need to keep the Supernatural hidden in the East. We bask in them. The people worship them. Acceptance of the Supernatural passed down from generation until, well. The invasion of West insisting on their god.” He looks pointedly at Castiel who continues to glower in his direction.

“What has this got to do with Dean?”

“The three-candles-curse stand for hatred, jealousy, and intent to harm. If passed on, these emotions are also transferred to the next caster. It doesn’t matter if you light the three, put it on your head like a crown. Once lit, the emotions will flood the caster and urge them to continue the curse till done. Your boyfriend—” he nods at the door, “who only lit one will only be affected by the chosen candle. The question here is which one did he light? The one for hatred? For jealousy? Or the intention to harm? We’re about to find out.”

Castiel hears the quiet footfalls of Dean followed by Jack coming from the corridor. Sergei sees them too, standing at the door with the hunter’s gaze quickly falling on the Shaman. His face is pale, Castiel can see dark lines under his eyes. But above that, he sees Dean’s soul has been clouded. Dimmed. He grits his teeth then pulls Sergei’s collar.

“It doesn’t make sense. If those negative emotions will transfer to him then why—why are you getting involved?”

“Ah, I did not say it will affect him in the same way.” Sergei says with a malicious glint in his eyes, “For if a person does not intend to do harm nor feel any certain hatred over another… if this person only accidentally lights the candles without any then what’s left will be the root of the magic which is—”

“Cas, what are you doing?” Dean growls, frowning. “Get away from him.”

Sam steps forward to meet Dean halfway while Jack follows behind the hunter uncertainly.

“Dean, this guy doesn’t want to help you, okay? He’s here to screw with us!”

Dean frowns. “What are you talking about? He won’t hurt me. Get out of the way, Sammy.” His green eyes swim towards Sergei, the dull eyes slowly gaining fire of determination. Castiel stands his ground as he understood how Dean’s eyes melt softly—and to the angel’s horror—

“I love him.” Dean reasons.

The blade falls on the floor with a solid thud.

Castiel takes a lungful of air, eyes not leaving Dean’s. Beside him, he hears Sergei’s dark voice, “Be careful, angel. The curse is twice bound. You don’t want to burn him, do you?”

What is the root of all curses that spark from emotions…?

Of course.

Love.

Dean is left in his room alone, cuffed and all after punching Sam for getting on his way. He was only stopped when Castiel and Jack take him too and locked him away.

“Don’t kill him yet, Cas,” Sam says before they part. Sergei has just smugly admitted he wanted to get back on Castiel even for just 7 hours by taking Dean’s affection. He knew this was gonna happen and its only Sam who’s stopping him from burying his angel blade on the Shaman. Sam takes care of Sergei, promising to throw him somewhere far where Dean would never reach him. Castiel is left to take care of Dean, so take care of Dean he will.

The lasting effect of the curse is until the candle dies out which Castiel left in Jack’s care. He trusts Jack. The fire wasn’t in any danger of dying its fire soon anyway. His heart breaks at the thought, but he can’t be weak. Dean needs him now. As long as the man doesn’t start proposing to Sergei, that is.

Sam told him to clear off Dean until the next five hours but Castiel made no promises. He knows the curse will be lifted on its own yet, he can’t. It’s Dean and no sooner than Sam left the Bunker around dawn, he finds himself traipsing down the hallway to the end of the corridor

Dejected atmosphere greets Castiel when he opens the door of the room. Dean has fallen silent with his wrists cuffed together on the table. He looks up when Castiel enters, but his green eyes swiftly look behind the angel-like he’s expecting someone there. Disappointment fills his expression and Castiel mirrors him. That is. Until he gets a hold of himself.

Sam said they will be laughing this out after the five-hour mark. That Dean would be so embarrassed to declare his undying love to the Russian Shaman who he will hunt for the rest of his life. Castiel doesn’t find it amusing. He saw Dean back there— he saw how Dean’s innate ability to love was robbed of the man.

If Dean was going to hunt for Sergei in the future, he better does it quickly before Castiel gets there before. He closes the door behind him and locks it.

Dean sits up with wary anticipation on the bed. Castiel eyes him predatorily. He sheds his trench coat first, folding it carefully at the back of Dean’s chair.

Dean in love with someone else? Now that’s laughable.

Dean is his.

Dean belongs to him.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Where is he?”

Castiel’s lips thin. He wants to say the Shaman is dead. Sergei will be once Castiel gets Dean’s heart back. He runs his hand on his tie before carefully pulling it away.

“Sam escorted him out of the Bunker. For your safety.” He says very quietly.

“Gee, thanks. Way to keep me in line, keeping away the only person who can straighten me out.” Dean kicks the side table enough to make Castiel finally look at him.

“Stop it. Destroying things won’t make you get your way. You’re only hurting yourself.”

“You know what the best way for me to actually not hurt myself?” Dean sneers, “Is for you to let me go!”

“I’m afraid I can’t let that happen, Dean. No. You’re only going to follow Sergei.” Castiel’s eyes are cold. “No, you stay here. With me.”

The man huffs angrily like it’s the last thing he wants in the world. If only his Dean can see himself now. Refusing Castiel’s company in the same room they’ve shared many times. What irony… but Castiel’s not about to let that stop him.

There’s a reason why Dean is locked here with him. He begins to unbutton his shirt, eyes gleaming when he sees Dean watch him warily.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Have you really forgotten our little secret, Dean?” Castiel asks, walking to the bed in two steps and stops in front of the man.

Dean looks up defiantly and Castiel finds himself like that. The number of times he and this man had gone against each other from the first time they met, Dean shines brighter like that. But when cornered like this like a prey, Castiel would rather Dean be a fighting soldier than a trapped animal.

The thought of Sergei touching Dean sets stone-cold dominance in his being. A possessive feeling of ownership takes him. Castiel suddenly becomes afraid of where it will take him as he touches the hunter’s chin and lifts it so the can peer him in the eyes, albeit a little dimmed, are still gorgeous green.

“I won’t let anyone, have you. Not by force.” He strokes Dean’s cheeks which turn the deepest shade of red. Dean still responds to him. At least, his body remembers this.

“Yeah, I can see that.” Dean swallows, eyeing Castiel’s open button shirt revealing a mass of strapping muscles like he’s never seen it before. But Castiel sees it. That look Dean reserves for things he wishes to taste but daring not to take—he’s seen that numerous times.

“We’re different. You and I…we’re—”

“Connected?” Dean meets his eyes and strange enough there’s a glint of hunger in those green that Castiel never expected to see—not until the curse is lifted, but it’s there.

“You seem to understand it, Dean. That you are under a curse and whatever you feel for Sergei—”

Dean sighs, his head tilting back. “I don’t feel the same about you.”

Castiel freezes, his heart falling on the floor. He needed to remind himself that this is not Dean talking. That Dean—his Dean— would never say that to him. That once this is over, Dean will apologize and Dean will want him again.

No… this Dean wants him.

He has to believe in that.

Leaning down, he tugs the cuff when he stretches Dean on the bed, pulling on his leg till Dean’s arm stretches above him. The hunter growls at the sudden prone position, but his eyes widen when Castiel unbuckles his own pants and let it slip down the floor. He feels Dean’s eyes follow his hard cock—because Castiel will always be hard for Dean—so when he crawls on top of Dean, he knows he’s got attention.

Dean has told him many times how he is fucking turned on when Castiel is naked waist below while still wearing his white unbuttoned tops. Dean’s fantasies Castiel is always willing to oblige. He casts his eyes down on the hunter when their faces are leveled.

Dean doesn’t move, it’s him breathes that rapidly changes. With eyes bulging, breathe hitching, Castiel feels his heart thumping at what’s about to happen next.

Heart leaping as he recognized Dean’s soul trying to reach to him, he takes hold of Dean’s shoulders and grips him tight. He doesn’t look away and the hunter remains silent.

Slowly, he pushes Dean on the bed, falling with him till Dean is on his back, breathing heavily, the lump on his throat unsteady as it bobbed up and down. Castiel straddles him, melting Dean with the amount of hunger in his eyes.

“You remember this, don’t you?” he whispers, stripping Dean from the lovely green shirt. Castiel tosses it and begins on Dean’s black undershirt when a hand jabs on his chest suddenly. Dean is blinking at him with fear and uncertainty.

“It’s not you I…Sergei—” Dean suddenly struggles to say.

Castiel doesn’t show his dismay. He conceals it. He knows Dean is fighting, knows Dean wants him to help him, to fight with him. So whatever doubt he has about what he needs to do next, he pushes it down. Dean’s clear eyes begin to cloud. It’s the curse.

He’s losing Dean.

Oh, a shaman is really going to die.

Castiel’s eyes bulge as the realization hits him hard.

Whatever Sergei said about wanting Castiel to be jealous—because that’s what he means when he told Castiel ‘Be careful, angel. The curse is twice bound. You don’t want to burn him, do you?”

He figures it out that instant—that Sergei’s intention is not for Dean but for him. Dean will be under this love spell for seven hours, crying for Sergei’s name in his sleep. Something that is truly unforgivable for the angel who then will have to suffer intense jealousy.

This… here right now… is extreme jealousy and hatred within him… the intent to harm all because of love. Castiel’s heart dies inside him. He is an angel, a heavenly being. He is not supposed to be bound by such negative emotion and yet—

He closes his eyes. It was too late to go back now.

Sergei has succeeded in cursing him through Dean.

His fingers curl clutching the hem of Dean’s black shirt. That’s not gonna happen. Dean looking at him like he’s a stranger even when his body is reacting, that’s not what they promised. It was stolen from Dean.

No… Dean was stolen from him.

He knows he can wait it out, knows there’s actually no reason to do this but just the thought of Dean thinking he’s in love with someone else sends fearsome anger rippling all over his body. With a growl, he pushes Dean’s black shirt up roughly, brushing the mound of muscle with the heel of his palm. He begins kissing the hardening bud ever so sensitive under his mouth.

“No…” Dean grunts, hands clutching the angel’s shoulders “Get off— I want Sergei!”

The name awakens something primal inside Castiel. Jealousy or what not— innate possessiveness or what not—this is torture!

 “You’re not putting much of a fight.” He sucks Dean’s nipples hard, making Dean squirm but Castiel stays one hand on his other pectoral, rubbing the unattended nipple with his fingers. Dean’s cries are so pleasing and both painful as Castiel faithfully continues his ministration for the next five minutes, rolling and flattening his tongue until the bud is hard. He grazes his teeth on the erect bud making Dean yelp and squirms beneath him. He applies the same suction on the left nipple, feeling the hunter writhe on the bed, trying to free his leg until Castiel grounds their hips together. He presses hard on Dean. The man groans softly.

Castiel frowns and looks down Dean’s pants to find the only possible reason is Dea still wearing his pants. Smiling, he gets up, straddles him and begins working on Dean’s belt.

“Wait—Cas…” his voice whimpers when Castiel pulls his pants and boxers down in one swift movement and throws it on the floor. Dean tries to hide his cock by crossing his legs, but Castiel is taking none of it. Pushing Dean’s legs apart, hands firm on his thighs, he let his palms ground Dean’s legs on the bed. Dean moves his ass, his cock twitching beneath him where he couldn’t see.

Sighing, Castiel slides both palms from the hunter’s knee caps down to the root of his cock. Both hands take it, Castiel’s body follows as he leans in, elbows keeping Dean’s leg open till the tip of his mouth touches the head of Dean’s cock.

There’s a stifled groan from Dean. Castiel closes his eyes. He erases the thought that Dean’s not thinking about him. That Dean is thinking of that dead-shaman walking. He digs his fingers on the man’s smooth thighs, sucks the top of his cock, before burying himself on Dean’s hole. He eats Dean, takes pleasure in the man’s cries until he can feel the live wire ready to explode. He takes Dean’s cock again to his lips, kisses the head gently before stroking him twice, eyeing Dean’s reaction.

“Cas—I’m—oh fuck!”

Castiel pulls away and sternly gazes up the hunter who whimpers and looks down in confusion. Tears slide from the corner of Dean’s eyes.

“Say my name,” Castiel commands.

“What…” Dean blanks out.

“Say my name. Tell me to fuck you, Dean, or I will leave you here for five hours—”

Dean’s eyes widen. He begins to tug on his cuff.

“Don’t—Cas, I—” he breathes out unable to say it. He shakes his head when Castiel begins to rise, “Cas—Cas please—” tears spring up from his eyes, “don’t—Cas, please—”

Castiel sighs. He strokes Dean’s cock, relaxing when Dean responds with trying to fuck in his hand. It’s easy to swallow Dean’s cock this time feeling like they are back to normal. He gets Dean to call his name again and again. He doesn’t need any release or Dean’s hand on his cock. He only needs Dean to say his name, all the while making his silent apologies.

He gets off with swallowing Dean’s cock straight down his throat and sucks, tasting Dean’s salty tang so different from his sweat. Feeling Dean’s familiar cock inside his mouth makes him forget everything. This is just him and Dean showing love and affection. Nothing has changed. He wishes that because now he understands he is taking Dean against his will.

He sucks Dean harder, making him scream and thrust in his mouth. He drags his mouth slowly across the hard length, pulling up only to kiss the reddening head before diving down again. He sucks Dean dry as only he could. Making Dean clutch on the wrinkled blankets with unbidden lust driving him to the edge.

“Cas… that’s enough, I’m—coming…!”

Castiel buries his nose deep the curls of Dean’s cock. He chokes and nearly pulls back but Dean closing his knees at the back of his head urges him to take him again.

Dean’s dirty sound fills the room as well as his cock swelling inside Castiel. He feels the turbulent sensation in Dean’s stomach and pulls up a little as Dean’s come shoot inside his mouth. Dean cries to the last spurt as Castiel sucks him through his orgasm.

He pulls out with smacking sound of his lips, eyes glowing with Dean still writhing under him. He holds the hunter’s softening shaft and stroke him again.

“Unggg…”

“Dean. Say my name.”

“Cas…!” the hunter complies tearfully.

Dean won’t stop calling his name after that. Not when he flips him to his stomach and licks his hole, not even with three fingers inside Dean, he doesn’t. It takes a while before Dean’s pliant body is ready for him. Castiel raises Dean’s hips from the bed and sets a pillow under his torso. Dean breathes heavily on the bed but did not say anything, probably in fear of Castiel leaving him in the middle.

“Don’t worry, Dean…” Castiel says, letting Dean feel the head of his cock, sliding between his cheeks, rightfully filling Dean with lube. “I got you… just… just keep calling my name. Please, Dean.”

He can feel his heart pounding in his chest. Dean makes a small sound but Castiel did not wait. He presses himself inside Dean, watches the muscle around Dean’s hole contract as he slowly slices him in half. The feel of Dean’s tight ring makes Castiel groans until he is sliding deeper and bottoming in.

Fuck.

“Oh, fuck! Cas!” Dean’s breathe catches.

Castiel doesn’t let him think. Closing his eyes, his thrust become wild. Dean cries his name when the jolting of their bodies becomes too intense and Castiel is wrapping his body around Dean’s back, a hand taking hold of Dean’s cock because that’s how the hunter wants it.

He fucks Dean for an hour and more—doesn’t even care if he heard Sam knocking on the door. He covers Dean’s mouth until Sam walks away, most likely getting the point after he hears Dean’s moans when Castiel hits his prostate again and again.

“Good boy.” Castiel whispers, pounding Dean, spooning the hunter with his cock deep in Dean. He drags the fucking to torturous slow, then catches pace again, breaking Dean’s moans and cries of pleasure. And all that while, Dean can only call him.

Castiel did not stop—not until the fifth hour where he has Dean on his lap resting. Keeping Dean so close seems to be the only way to make sure the curse passes without any glitch. That Dean is still with him. Sam did not bother him anymore. Castiel hopes he’s got Jack distracted not from all the noise Dean has made in the last five hours.

The hour strikes.

Dean lifts his chin from Castiel’s shoulder looking worn out and confused. Castiel quickly sits up straight but the hunter did not make any attempt to climb down his lap. He just stares hard at the angel, eyes large and disbelieving.

“Dean—?”

“Cas?” The hunter rubs his eyes. “Hey, babe…”

Castiel’s eyes fill with tears.

“Cas? Cas, what’s wrong?” concern fills Dean’s face. It was over.

The angel shakes his head and wipes his eyes. He’s just glad. “How are you, Dean?”

“You’re asking me that now? Why are you crying?” Dean gets on his elbow and pulls Castiel’s head to his chest, cradling him lovingly. “Cas, babe, talk to me.”

Castiel sniffs. “I… I made a terrible mistake.”

“Huh?”

“I… I fell under a curse. Curse of jealousy, Dean.”

Dean’s face relaxes as he wipes the tears from his angel’s cheeks resting on his naked lap. “Are you kidding? I feel jealous when it comes to you all the time—if you call that curse then lemme tell you again—I’d rather have you, cursed or not!”

Castiel takes a moment to take that in, and then slides his arms on Dean’s waist.

“Me too, Dean… I love you so much…”

“Me too, babe I—no wait— fuck! I just remembered that fucking nightmare!”

“What—” Castiel stares up but Dean just grabs him closer and snuggles on his neck. “I thought I lost you! You weren’t there in that dream!”

“Dean?”

“It was so dark and I couldn’t find you… but I knew you were there, I could hear you calling my name… you made me want to call you…”

 “Dean…” Castiel’s eyes water, settling his hand across the hunter’s body, “I’m sorry.” Castiel cries and Dean holds him close. Confused and a little afraid, Dean pulls from him looking scandalized at the tears streaming down the angelic face.

“Cas—d-don’t cry! What happened?”

Castiel controls his emotions and explains about the candle, the curse and the Shaman who is about to die by tomorrow. Dean looks aghast after the story, his hands clutching tight on Castiel’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Dean—" Castiel looks devastated. He keeps pulling Dean closer, keeps putting his head against his boyfriend’s chest afraid of Dean’s answer.

Dean pats his head gently.

“Don’t be an idiot. So, you ravished me. Ain’t that our deal?” Dean tells him. He cups Castiel’s face so they look deep in each other. “Well, fuck. I get fucked by my boyfriend and I loved every second of it.”

“Dean…”

“Cause if not, and this body rots waiting for you? I think I’d really go mad.”

Dean pulls the angel in a hot searing kiss with their tongues meeting. Castiel moans in the kiss and let Dean lead, gently putting arms around him and pulling him down so the hunter is on top of him.

Dean pulls back as he perches on the angel’s chest, his eyes twinkling.

“Can I top?” he asks, tone of excitement unbidden.

Castiel blinks. “But aren’t you tired? We just—”

A finger pressing on his lips stops him from talking. Dean’s face is red and he’s looking around Cas body with hunger.

“Cas, with you babe on the meal, I’d never required sleep ever again.”

***

“I hope you understand your dead the next time I see you.”

Castiel rumbles on the phone that evening. Dean is tucked tightly on his right arm, cuddled beside him so closely while he sleeps peacefully. The only time that day when Castiel can relax with the curse finally lifted. He was staring on Dean’s face quietly, remembering all the expressions when his phone rings and an unregistered number of flashes. The angel knew at once who it was.

“What can I say? It is sweet revenge—”

“You’re dead.”

“Come now, Castiel—”

“I have. Many times, inside Dean.”

There’s silence on the other line.

“I shall try to remember this then, your weakness is quite spot on.”

“If you mean Dean is my weakness, then yes.” Castiel looks away, teeth grinding, “but he’s not weak. Dean is stronger than I will ever be, but if you hurt him again—”

The phone gets snatched from his hand. Castiel turns to see Dean sitting up with a dark look on his face.

“Listen up, asshole. Call Cas again and I’m gonna be after you for the rest of your life. If you’re the maniac intent on death—fuck you—I will get you. And this is not even what you did to me. Show yourself here and I’ll show you the meaning of evil spirit.”

He doesn’t wait for the answer. Dean hangs up and threw the phone away.

“Stop talking to the guy!” Dean scowls downcast at the angel who’s staring at him quietly.

“Are you okay now?”

Dean rolls his eyes. He pulls next to Cas and drops his head on the angel’s shoulder.

“Are you?” he asks, wrapping strong arms around Castiel’s torso and heaving a deep sigh. Castiel copies him and buries his nose on the hunter’s hair feeling mildly content now that Dean is beside him and awake.

“I’m fine now. You’re in love with me again.” He whispers before cuddling Dean with both arms now clawing around him. Dean chuckles, tilting his head up so he and Cas can look at each other.

“Told you the only times I won’t love you is when I’m dead or—”

Castiel embraces Dean closely, their cheeks pressing warmly together.

“It’s okay. I just want you to love me now.”

Dean falls silent for a while before he crawls up on top of Castiel and begins kissing him gently. The angel lets him, a contented sigh slipping from his lips.

“I’m not just in love with you, Cas. I’m also a sucker for you, babe, also very much crushing on you now and horny.” Dean whispers when he gets around Castiel’s ears and begins licking inside. Castiel sighs. “If this aint my kind of love, I don’t know what else to call the urge to tie you up and just make you mine forever. Okay? So, cheer up.”

He pulls back, arms stretching from where he keeps both his hands on Castiel’s nape.

“Stop crying. I don’t want to see you crying just for fucking me. In fact—let’s keep the fuck and forget that asshole. Bleh… just imagining you thought that I—”

“It wasn’t the nicest thought I ever had.”

“Well, he’s not touching this hole any time soon.”

“I’ll soon be out of words to describe how dead he is when I see him.”

Dean finally nods and they cuddle for a few moments. Until Castiel flushes when Dean grinds his ass straight on his soft cock with a sly grin on his face. The man is just so happy to tease him after learning of Castiel’s tendency to get jealous. Dean watches intently, his tongue licking the topside of his lips.

He grinds harder, smirking. “So… did you just let me top?”

“I did but it’s a one time offer.” Castiel smiles holding Dean’s waist.

“Change your mind, I’ll never ask a hall pass ever again.”

“Dean, I am not that possessive.” Castiel narrows his eyes.

Dean smiles at him meaningfully. He smiles back and they snuggle closely again.

Castiel understands that this was not even a condition but an offer. He wonders before why humans are prone to jealousy. He understands now. It roots from loving. This is also where other evil stems from. Where all the curses gather around.

In time. He thinks. He’ll make up for that mistake—of being too human—maybe when he faces his own time but right now, Dean Winchester is here who says he’s still gonna take him, cursed or not.

[lunarhold]

─ pairing: iceburg/reader ─ au: witch ─ warnings: smut, angst ─ words: 12.9k

❣ summary: an island appears off the coast of water 7 and if he’s not careful, iceburg might find more than he bargained for

↔ a/n: this character isn’t very popular so i don’t expect a lot of attention, but i love him and wanted to post it anyway

“Iceburg, Iceburg!” The shouting of his name was accompanied by frantic banging on his office door. Iceburg looked up from the massive stack of paperwork on his desk towards the ruckus. He had been avoiding it for the better part of a week, much to Kalifa’s annoyance. Things had finally grown to the point where it couldn’t be ignored anymore, so he had been forced to buckle down on it.

Now, though, he had a new distraction.

“This sounds terribly important, Kalifa,” he said, and before she could open her mouth to argue, he had called them in.

The door flew open and two men-- from Dock 6, if he recalled correctly-- tumbled in. “Iceburg, you have to come quick. An island appeared.”

Well, that wasn’t what he expected to hear.

“An island, you say? Well, you had better show me,” he said, standing up from his chair. It had now become more than wanting to get out of work. How does an island just appear out of thin air? He didn’t doubt what his workers were saying, but he certainly had to see it for himself.

Along the way, the Dock 1 foremen joined up with them, wearing their usual scowls. The Dock 6 men must have passed along the message in order to get up to see him more quickly, and the foremen had taken it upon themselves to accompany him. They were no doubt the best option for the job anyway.

A crowd of citizens had gathered at Dock 6, all clamoring for a glimpse of this mysterious island. As Iceburg and the foremen approached, though, attention diverted to them. They were pelted with the usual praise, and questions about the island they couldn’t possibly know the answers to.

The crowd parted for them, until Iceburg stood at the gate and turned back to face them.

“My foremen and I intend to fully investigate this mysterious phenomenon, and will return with news shortly. Until then, I would ask you all to remain here where it’s safe while we determine the danger this island poses,” he called out, hoping to settle them down. While it was odd to speculate that the island itself could be a danger, it stood to reason that there was something wrong with it, and it wouldn’t do them any good to have a bunch of curious people wandering around while they were trying to scout. There was general acceptance, and calls of good luck, and he turned back to the massive gates of Dock 6, his thoughts already miles away.

You knew, from the moment your island had settled into the other plane, that this time was going to be different. In your usual custom, you had gone to the top of the highest tree, having long ago built your own sort of crow’s nest, to see if you had appeared near any type of civilization. It was much quicker than hiking to the nearest shore, to be sure. 

This time, though, you had appeared just a few miles off the coast of a stunning city. A sense of melancholy filled you as you watched the shimmering waterfalls pouring down from a massive fountain at the top. You enjoyed your solitude and had no interest in the throngs of noisy, pushing people that no doubt inhabited the island, but you couldn’t help longing to see it. But you supposed someone from the island would come investigate, and maybe they could be of some help.

As if you had summoned them, there was a ripple across the island as a group of people crossed the magical barrier surrounding the island. Your heart leaped into your throat as you scurried to the ground and half ran towards the beach they had landed on.

Optimism was tempered by caution; there was no guarantee they would be friendly. It wouldn’t be the first time you had had to defend yourself from dangerous people.

Still, it had been so long since you had seen any other people, you were more than willing to take the risk.

The beach came into view. From the tree cover, you could see a group of seven-- six men and a woman.

It took only a second for someone to look your way, a handsome man with long, curly hair. Even though you swore he couldn’t see you, it still seemed like he pinned you with a blank stare. The hairs rose on the back of your neck as a blond man also turned to look in your direction, though you never saw the handsome man’s mouth move.

In the blink of an eye, ropes were wrapped around you, binding your arms and legs and dragging you from your cover. Panic flared, your magic reacting in an instant. Blue flames leaped from your skin, licking up the length of the rope.

You were free in seconds and gone in less.

Iceburg turned to watch the debacle, sighing as you ran off.

“Paulie, that wasn’t necessary,” he said, walking towards where you had been hiding. There was absolutely nothing there to indicate you had been there in the first place, let alone where you had gone. The foliage was pristine, the grass not even crushed underfoot, like you were a ghost.

“Did you see that though?” Paulie asked, coming up next to him. Iceburg could see the sweat beaded on his brow, and the fear in his voice told him it wasn’t just the heat getting to him. “She lit on fire, her whole body. That ain’t normal.” He held up his ropes, showing the singed, frayed ends off. “She’s not human, a witch or something.”

“Well, it’s too late now,” Iceburg said, turning back to face the larger group. “Let’s carry on.”

Hours passed by, and they had encountered nothing but animals. Most of them were harmless, but they had run into several extremely aggressive predators. All so far had been far larger than normal and, while they were no problem for them, the citizens would stand no chance.

“Well,” Iceburg said, surveying the large tiger they had just dispatched, “I think it would be best to put the island under quarantine until we get a handle on these predators. Also, that woman…” He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you. You would likely be the best bet to finding out about the island.

“Yeah, she probably has something to do with this, and these animals attacking. We should go find her,” Paulie said, snapping a length of rope in his hands. He scoured the trees around him, eyes lingering on every leaf and blade of grass that twitched in the wind.

Somehow, Iceburg didn’t agree with that assessment. If you really posed a threat, you would likely have made more effort to harm them. But they had seen nothing more strange than the animals.

“I think we should head back,” Kaku said, gripping Paulie’s shoulder. Iceburg could see in the way he looked at Paulie that he disagreed with the other foreman’s assessment, but knew it would be fruitless to argue. Once he set his mind, there was no changing it. “It’ll be dark soon, and we aren’t equipped to deal with things in the dark. 

There were more voices of agreement, and Iceburg nodded as well. “We’ll figure out what to do when we get back to headquarters. Right now, it would be pointless to continue.”

The trek back was quicker than it had been forward, making them feel as if they had made no progress. The sun was still high enough in the sky, but the island had begun to feel cold, like they were suddenly unwelcome.

Wondering if you had something to do with it, Iceburg looked around one last time. The treeline stopped some twenty feet up the beach. There was no gentle transition from sand to woods, it was just one and then suddenly it was the other. He hoped that maybe you would come back and try one last time to greet them, but there was nothing more than the gentle swaying of trees in the wind.

Unbeknownst to him, from the safety of your home, you watched the group in the glass surface of a mirror as they hacked a path through the island and back. You could feel the island was on edge, but you were fighting its compulsion to hurt them for harming it. You understood its want, but you still hoped to meet someone properly. Allowing harm to come to this group could result in something far worse. The island wasn’t indestructible.

One man in particular, the leader, it looked like, kept looking around as if he were waiting for something.

When they arrived back at the beach, his gaze kept returning to the spot you had been hidden. Taking a good look at him, you couldn’t help but wonder…

Was he wearing lipstick?

                                                          _____

Hours later, after the sun had completely disappeared and you knew the darkness would hide you, you moved your house to the beach, where you had the best view of the other island. It wasn’t the same one the men had landed on before, in case they returned in the night and caught you unawares. You didn’t know the name of the other island, but it was just as stunning in the dark as it was in the light. The whole island was lit up, casting beautiful shadows over the water, and the fountain was lit up like a beacon, the beams refracting off of it and creating the most amazing light show.

You were too far from the island to hear, but you could imagine the chatter of the crowded streets, the throngs of happy people greeting each other as they met for dinner or drinks. For the first time, you actually considered what it would be like to be in the midst of something like that. The thought didn’t stick around for long though, your natural aversion to anything social rising up to remind you of just why you were on this island in the first place.

Out of the blue, a ripple traveled over the island. Someone had landed-- just one. You hesitated, rubbing your wrists where the rope had bound you.

But there was only one, and you could disappear as easily as smoke if they proved dangerous. In fact, if you so desired, you could hide yourself the entire time that your island was in this plane. People could peer through your living room window and they would never know.

With that in mind, you cautiously made your way towards the beach where the group had landed earlier. To you, this indicated it was someone from that group, and you had a guess about who it was.

“...Hello?” a voice called, just within earshot of you. “Please come out. I want to apologize for earlier.”

You stopped at the treeline, poking your head around the trunk of a tree to assess the situation.

It was exactly who you had guess, the blue-haired leader. A small boat sat partially in the water behind him, too small to hide anyone to spring a trap. His hands were held out, palms up to show they were empty.

Biting your lip, you cautiously revealed yourself to him, watching for anything suspicious. You could feel the island pulling its own magic up, creating a shroud around you. It recognized the man from earlier too-- as a threat.

As you stepped into the light, Iceburg’s eyes widened, his hands falling to his sides. He took a step forward, and you took one back in response, so he paused, allowing you to approach at your own pace. He could see you were on edge, watching him with sharp eyes. He wanted to call out, to tell you he was unarmed and not going to hurt you, but he knew you had no reason to believe him. He had made the decision shortly after landing back at Water 7 to return, alone, to see if he could find you. He had no doubts that you would remain hidden if he returned with the others, especially Paulie, and felt he was in no danger from you.

At long last, you stood in front of him, shoulders tense, but you didn’t attack him, which he took as a good sign. 

“My name is Iceburg. I��m the mayor of Water 7,” he said, gesturing towards the city behind him. “I’m sorry my foreman attacked you earlier. Paulie can get a little overzealous.”

His eyes roved over your face, drinking in your sharp eyes and frown. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, hoping you would accept his apology. There was so much he wanted to ask you.

You didn’t respond for several long moments, and he could feel his hope fading away. Then you relaxed, your lips curling up at the corners ever so slightly. Your head cocked to the side, your hair falling from your shoulders, and his heart skipped a beat as he realized you were rather beautiful.

“_____,” you said, holding your hand out for him to shake. When he took it, he nearly swallowed it in his. His skin was rough against yours, and you could feel numerous calluses on his fingers. You wondered what kind of work a mayor did to have hands like that. The contact was drawn out as you stared at each other, each lost in your own thoughts, until you realized it had become awkward. You pulled away, looking out across the water towards the lights to cover it up, saying, “You called it Water 7. What’s it like?”

Iceburg started, pulled from his haze and followed your gaze to the city. It was a wonder, he knew, and it wasn’t often that he got to view it from a distance, let alone at night. “It’s a city built atop a city. We build some of the greatest ships in the world here.”

You could hear the pride reflected in his voice and smiled, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. He was smiling, the lights reflecting in his eyes as he watched his city.

“Well, I have so many questions,” he said, turning his whole attention to you. He was sure you had many of your own, but his curiosity was burning far too hot to be patient.

You chuckled, pressing your hand to your mouth to stifle the noise. “I bet. Can I guess what you want to ask first?” you asked, sitting down in the sand. The warm sea water came up just high enough to wash over your feet before receding. It had been a solid year since you had felt that sensation.

Iceburg followed suit, sitting as close as he could to you without touching, although you got the feeling he did that more out of consideration for you than for him. His gaze was just about burning holes in you, and you could already read more than curiosity in them. 

Instead of teasing him, you said, “Right. I would guess your first question is…’How did this island just appear here?’” 

“Correct,” he said, smiling at you. It widened when you pretended to cheer, then drew a tally in the sand. “So, what’s the answer then?”

“It’s a bit complicated,” you said, scooting away from him to create space before turning to him. You began to draw a crude picture in the sand, two circles, one large and one small, overlapping each other like a venn diagram. In the smaller one on the right, you drew an odd, squigly shape. “That one is my island. It’s in its own pocket dimension, if you can call it that, most of the time. Once every year, it jumps…” At this, you erased the shape and drew a new one in the bigger circle. “...to this one. Where it appears is entirely random.”

Iceburg studied it for a minute, pondering things he had heard from others. “I’ve heard legends, mostly from the older sailors, about islands that come and go. Could they all actually be your island?” he asked, staring at the diagram. His brain was working overtime trying to remember everything he had heard over the years. Even Tom had told stories of it. He had believed them, saying that stranger things have happened in the Grand Line, but Iceburg had always written them off as fairy tales.

“Most likely. My island doesn’t usually land near other islands. I get lucky...maybe once a decade. Sometimes, ships happen upon it in the middle of the sea. Their...log...poses?-- I think that’s what you call them-- don’t point to my island, though, so it spooks them. Most avoid landing,” you said, doodling absentmindedly in the sand. The water had washed away most of your drawing, leaving only a vague impression that anything had been there at all. It was sad, really. Even ships passing by were rare, and watching them flee was enough to make you feel more lonely than if you were to see no one at all.

“That would explain why no one can say how often it appears, and why there are ‘multiple islands’,” he said, pieces beginning to fall into place. “Now that I think about it, very few of the stories mention a witch living alone on the island, as the sole inhabitant.”

You nodded and smiled, then snapped your fingers, causing blue sparks to fly. “That’s me. There are so few with me in it because not many people know I’m there. I can count on less than ten fingers how many people I’ve met in the last decade.” You held your hands up to prove it. “You make seven.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “So few. You must be lonely. Why do you stay?” He watched your smile morph, not quite happy, but not sad. It was...content, maybe?

“I can’t leave the island. My magic binds me, trapping me here.”

“Oh,” he said, and reached out to touch your shoulder. “I’m sorry. Can you leave at all?”

The warmth of his hand radiated out, soothing you. It was doused immediately when he pulled away. You wanted to feel it again, but pushed it away. No doubt he would find it strange if you reached out to him and leave, and you most definitely wanted him to stay.

“I can,” you said, rubbing the spot his hand had been. The action was unconscious, and didn’t go unnoticed. “But the distance is small.”

Iceburg looked from you, to the island, then back to you. “Do you think…”

But you were already shaking your head, looking forlorn as you stared ahead of you. “I already know it’s too far. I think it’s on purpose, but the island has never once fallen within a distance I could leave.”

Iceburg could practically feel the disappointment radiating off you, and reached out again, grazing your hand. You jumped, but allowed him to take it, relishing the warmth.

“How long before you leave?” He asked it as if you were just on vacation.

“6 days. Always 6 days,” you said, suppressing the urge to lace your fingers through his.

He stood up, using his hold to tug you up as well. “Alright, well, since I can’t bring you to the island, I’ll bring some of the island to you. How does that sound?” he asked, leading you further down towards his boat.

He watched your face light up, and felt his heart pick up its pace again. No one had ever looked at him like that, and it made him want to see more. “I’ll be back tomorrow night, since I do have to work. Will you meet me here?”

You nodded enthusiastically, but he could see the happiness change to something darker. He covered the hand he already held with his other one, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. “Don’t. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He found it harder than it should have been to release your hand, and as you grew smaller on the shore, he had to fight not to turn the boat around and return to you. He couldn’t imagine how lonely you must have been on the island all those years, but he couldn’t forego his responsibilities. Still, he would give you what he could while you were here.

                                                        _____

The announcement that the island was off limits went over about as well as Iceburg expected. The citizens were outraged, but Iceburg was firm. He hadn’t discussed with you at all about it, and wasn’t sure how you would feel having your island overrun with nosy strangers. Couple that with the oversized predators roaming the island, and it wasn’t safe. The foremen could handle it, but couldn’t be taken from their jobs to play babysitter. It would force the whole of the city to essentially shut down, which would be fiscally catastrophic for the island.

No, it was better that he make the island off limits, at least until he talked to you. He could make plans later, if you were okay with it.

He retired to his office amid boos, which was a first in all his time as mayor, but he would take it, and they would get over it. He was exhausted today, and laid down on his couch to nap. Even Kalifa, who had been nagging him to get his paperwork done all week, left him alone.

His eyes drifted shut, his mind racing with thoughts of you.

                                                          _____

You watched the city begin to light up as it got darker. Instead of leaving your house hidden, and therefore having to sit in the sand again for hours, you settled it down on the beach to wait for Iceburg. You had no doubt that he would show up. He seemed as interested in you as you were in him.

Not too long after sundown, when the lights had finally stopped turning on, you made out a shape approaching the island.

Iceburg chuckled when he saw you waving from the front porch of a house. 

Wait, a house? There hadn’t been a house there last night.

Tonight, he had brought his own personal yagara, since he knew now that it was safe to leave him floating in the water. But it snorted and began to slow the closer they got to shore, trying to resist Iceburg’s directions. That was strange for his normally docile bull, and he was just wondering if something was wrong when it suddenly surged forward, in a rush to reach the beach.

He looked up and saw you standing in the water, up over your knees, your hands turned up as if encouraging him. His suspicions were confirmed just seconds later when the bull pulled up right in front of you and headbutted you gently.

“Animals can sense the island isn’t normal. They take some coaxing,” you said, rubbing its head gently. “What is this, anyway?”

“This is a yagara bull. They’re used to move through the city,” Iceburg answered, watching you. The bull was eating up the attention, and you seemed equally as smitten.

“Why do you need to use them?” you asked, looking up at him. You couldn’t see why an island would need a water animal as the main mode of transportation. Iceburg determined that the yagara could go no further, and got out to stand in the warm water. It rose only to his shins, and he was glad he had kicked his shoes off in the boat. There were a few bags in the back seat, and when he hoisted them up in his arms, your eyes lit up with curious excitement.

Giving the yagara one last pat, you waded after him towards shore, almost bouncing in anticipation. As you ushered him towards the house, he remembered that he wanted to ask you about that.

“How is there a house here now? There wasn’t last night.” 

Your hand on his elbow stopped him, and you said, “Watch.” 

Of course he expected the answer to involve magic somehow, but more in the realm of ‘teleportation’, and not ‘bird legs underneath the foundation’. 

As quick as it rose, it settled again, looking once more like a nondescript log cabin beach house.

Iceburg was at a loss for words as he searched for any sign of the massive legs. Of course he had known you were magical, as was the island itself, but this was the first direct display of true magic he had seen so far, and the most unsettling. He did his best to hide his unease but, judging by the vaguely hurt look on your face, he hadn’t done a very good job.

“We can just stay out here, if you’d rather. I know it takes some getting used to,” you said, rocking on the balls of your feet. You couldn’t fault him; it had taken you a while to get over the shock as well.

“Well, no,” he said, shifting the bags in his hands. “It’s just different. I’d like to see it.”

The smile you gave him blew his discomfort out of the water, and he suddenly couldn’t remember why he had been bothered in the first place as he followed you up the stairs like a puppy. Inside was somehow larger than it looked like it should be but still proportional to the outside of the house, like the room was constantly in flux. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out that was the case.

Surveying the living room as he crossed it revealed a lot about you, and the way you lived. There was a large portion of one wall dedicated to a bookshelf, which was overflowing to the point that a lot of the shelves were crammed full and haphazardly double-stacked. He would have to browse through and see what you liked, and if you wanted anything from the island. He wasn’t sure how often you managed to get new reading material. The rest of that wall was dedicated to potions and ingredients. Plants, both in pots and overflowing to grow up the rafters, decorated the ceiling. An empty bird perch stood next to an open window on another wall, beside a cold fireplace. There were three other closed doors, but he wasn’t rude enough to ask where they led.

The kitchen itself was rather modern, more so than he would have expected, but the counters were cluttered with an assortment of strange objects and ingredients that he had never seen before. A large plant sitting on the end counter caught his eye, its long tendrils wrapping around your arm as you passed.

You caught him staring and picked it up, moving it out of the way as you said, “It’s harmless, but does like to steal things. The leaves are tough, and can be made into twine and rope, among other things. You can set those down here.”

He did as told and placed them where the plant had previously been and began to pull things out of bags, arranging them in the limited space you had given him. He felt your arm curl around his side, your body pressing against him before you peered around him at what he was doing, an excited smile on your face. With plenty of space to either side of him for you to watch from, he could have called you out, but held his tongue. Heat still crept up his neck, though, because he found he didn’t really mind.

In his haste to collect things up and get to you, he had ordered everything on the menu at the water water stand, followed by some of the normal foods at other stands. A stop at Blueno’s bar had raised questions about whether he was throwing a party, but he brushed it off with a laugh.

The last bag was particularly special. It had been on a whim that he bought it, passing by the shop after the rest of his shopping had been done.

You felt the air shift, tension coming into his shoulders as he removed a box from the last bag. You moved around to stand beside him, eyeing it suspiciously while you waited for him to explain.

“There’s an island not too far from here that holds festivals everyday,” he said, opening the top box to reveal a stunning porcelain mask. He lifted it up and cradled it gingerly in his hands, allowing you to view it. The nose was long, the tip angled down, with intricate purple and black lacing painted from the corners of the eyes down to the chin. The lips were painted a vibrant green.

“It’s gorgeous,” you said, running a finger delicately over the paintwork. “This has something to do with the festivals?”

“Oh, well, yes. They wear masks like these, among other costumes. We have a shop that hand makes them. I wanted you to have one,” he said, smiling down at you gently. It was one of the few things special-made on the island that he could actually bring to you. A ship was just out of the question.

You took the mask from him, examining it with a softened grin for a moment, before tucking it back into the box. Then you turned back to him and, to his immense satisfaction, threw yourself into his arms. He cradled you gently to his chest, practically glowing that his gift was so well received.

“Thank you, Iceburg. I love it,” you said, trying not to cry on his shirt too much. It was the first time you could recall receiving a gift since you were human, and the nicest gift you could recall ever receiving, period.

“I’m glad you like it so much,” he said, caressing your hair.

Neither of you moved for several moments, but eventually you pulled apart. It was a mutual decision, with neither of you really wanting to.

With your face much warmer than was comfortable, you focused on the enticing smell coming from the remaining bags. “What is all this?”

“Well, I figured you probably haven't had...er…” He had almost said proper food, but felt that would be too rude. He glanced up to find you smirking, as if you knew exactly what he was thinking. Clearing his throat, he continued with, “Modern food in a while. So I brought you plenty to try.”

You laughed, patting his arm in appreciation before going for plates. The two of you settled on the couch, covering the coffee table with the numerous boxes so you wouldn’t have to get up for more. Between everything, you didn't even eat half of what he brought, but tasted everything at least once. It all tasted spectacular to you, especially the water water dishes. When you told him so, he seemed especially pleased.

“That’s a Water 7 specialty,” he said, sliding his plate onto the table. Normally, he wouldn’t be so rude, but he was so full that he couldn’t move. Judging by the satisfied expression on your face, neither could you.

“That was fantastic, Iceburg,” yo said, smiling at him. “Thank you so much.”

To your surprise, he reached out and took your hand, giving it a solid squeeze. “I told you, you’ve only got a week, so I’m going to bring Water 7 to you.”

Tears pricked your eyes again, but not solely because of Iceburg’s kindness. His words were like cold water, reminding you that, soon, you would return to the solitude of your dimension. After that, it was unlikely you would ever see him again.

Which was all the more painful to think about, because you were pretty sure you were falling in love with him. 

Which was absolutely ridiculous because you had only known him for two days. Still, he had shown you more kindness than you had known in decades, even when you resided in this dimension, so maybe it wasn’t. To top it off, you had seen so few people since you took the island, that it shouldn’t have been surprising that your emotions flared up like gasoline on a fire.

Iceburg realized that he had said the wrong thing when you didn’t answer and your smile fell into a frown. You seemed to see through him, fixing an empty stare at a blank spot on the wall behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, moving closer to you and taking your other hand in his. “Is there no way to break the island's hold on you?” He didn’t have much in the way of hope, but maybe there was something he could do that you couldn't.

You were taken by surprise at his question, then realized that he had mistaken your sadness over never seeing him again as sadness over being stuck on the island. It was sweet, how upset he seemed to be on your behalf, and you felt only a little bad that you allowed him to continue to think so. The truth would be so much harder to explain.

“I wish,” you said, leaning to rest your head on his shoulder. It was comforting, knowing he was willing to help you, even if it was under false pretenses. “‘Only by passing the contract on to another will you be unbound from this island’,” you said, repeating the words the witch had spoken to you before she left, leaving you alone on the island. It had been the best deal you had ever made.

Iceburg hummed, then you both fell into an uneasy silence. His brilliant mind couldn’t see anyway to get you out of it, and he already knew you would reject to submitting anyone else to this. Besides, even bringing it up would be selfish. Still, he would be a liar if he said it wasn't tempting. At least you would be free, able to stay with him. He wanted to get to know you more, show you around Water 7, and...and…

...And that was a dangerous line of thinking. Did he really want to get tangled up with someone he had so little chance of seeing again?

Once more, he had the strange feeling you could read his mind as you sat up and pinned him with an unreadable look.

Instead of giving into the screaming temptation to cup your face and claim your lips with his, he gave your hand a gentle squeeze and stood up. He caught the fleeting look of disappointment on your face before it was replaced with an understanding smile. You stood as well, and together put away the leftovers before he headed towards the door.

His yagara was waiting exactly where he had left it, and he waded out into the water.

“Thank you, Iceburg. For the mask, and the food, and...everything,” you said from behind him.

He turned to find you had stopped at the waterline, the waves barely lapping your toes. You were still wearing that sad smile, and sounded like you were saying goodbye.

But that wasn’t what this was. He wasn’t going to just leave you alone for your remaining time here, just because he was unsure of how to proceed. There was no doubt that you felt the same, but he had yet to decide what he wanted.

“You’re welcome, _____. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ve had an idea I think you’ll enjoy,” he said as he patted his bull on the head. He winked at you before climbing into the boat on its back.

You watched him disappear in the dark with a pounding heart.

                                                         _____

All the next day, you were an anxious mix of excitement and trepidation. 

Whereas yesterday you were certain he would come back, today you were almost positive he wouldn’t. You wouldn’t really blame him, if he didn’t. If you were him, you wouldn’t think twice about getting involved with someone in your position, at least not so quickly. In fact, you were on the fence about it yourself. Was it really such a good idea to kindle something that would be snuffed out in a matter of days? It was slim that you would ever see him again. Would you regret it if you let it slip by?

Hundreds of variations of those thoughts plagued you all day, only adding to the tremendous stress on your nerves.

When night finally fell, your nerves were so fried that you were tempted to pick up and leave to the other side of the island and hide out until you shifted back to your plane. But you didn’t, like you knew you wouldn’t, because that was childish and unfair, so you sat out on the porch to wait.

The lights put on their usual show, dozens blinking on at a time until the island cast a shadow on the water.

From the darkness came a shadow, and you felt like you might cry as you watched Iceburg come closer. When he got close enough that you could see him properly, you found he looked as happy to see you as you felt seeing him.

Instead of getting out of the boat, however, he gestured for you to come to him. You slowly made your way out to him, feeling the sand slip beneath your feet with the ebb and flow of the current. The water was up above your knees by the time you reached him, dangerously close to the edge of your shorts.

He held his hand out to you while trying to keep the yagara from floating too far away. “I know you said you can’t go far, but I hope you’ll allow me to get you as close as I can. I really would like for you to see it.”

You frowned, looking from him to the city, your outstretched hand suspended in midair as you deliberated. The first and last time you had attempted to leave, you had almost drowned when your new found magic had tried to strangle you, resulting in you falling into the water. It wasn’t even like you were trying to actually go anywhere, you had simply been testing the boundaries.

“If not, that’s alright too.” He had thought it was a good idea, but maybe there was something else you had neglected to tell him. “No, I want to,” you said, slipping your hand into his at last. You trusted him well enough to risk it. “Just...I have to be careful. The magic is aggressive if it thinks I’m trying to leave.”

That put Iceburg on guard. The last thing he wanted was for you to get hurt. He helped you into the boat, feeling it rock ominously beneath his feet as you climbed over the side. You clung to him as the yagara turned back to the city. Just as quickly, you let go and focused on the approaching city, watching the lights grow steadily brighter, thus missing Iceburg’s frown.

But as he watched the wonder fill your face, he wasn’t too upset. Even if you grew angry at him, or left without anything more happening between you, he would never regret that he got to be the one to show you this, to see you so happy.

You turned to him, smiling and ready to say something, but then froze. Your hand came up, clutching at your chest, eyes growing wide and seeming to plead with him for help. Instead of going to you as you fell to your knees, beginning to hyperventilate from the pain, he yanked the reins on the bull, urging it to turn back to the island. He didn’t go very far; as soon as he heard your breathing ease, he stilled the yagara.

He was by your side in an instant, the small boat rocking as he knelt down beside you. One hand held yours, the other at the small of your back, rubbing gentle circles as you breathed deeply.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, taking in your pale, scared face. It had sounded like you were choking, and it had happened in an instant. He saw now why you were so hesitant. “We’ll go back. This was a terrible idea, I’--”

He was cut off when you reached up and cupped his cheek, your skin soft against his as you pressed your thumb gently to his lips. You gave him a weak smile, but he could see that, somehow, you were happy.

“It’s not your fault. The magic has a mind of its own. This happened the last time too.” The warning the magic gave you was small, right before it slammed into effect. “I knew it would happen. And it was a wonderful idea. I didn’t think I would get anywhere near, but you did it.”

Iceburg helped you to your feet, keeping one hand around your waist in case you collapsed. You were still shaking, could still feel the flare of magic in your chest, lying in wait in case you strayed too far again.

He was relieved that you weren’t badly hurt, couldn’t imagine how he would feel if it was because of him. His arm tightened around you and, before he realized he was doing it, he pulled you close, tucking you into his side. To his relief, you didn’t pull away. He looked down, watching your fist curl into his shirt and realized that, regardless of how much he fought, he had lost the first time you smiled at him.

Keeping his hold on you, he used his free hand to steer his yagara around to face the city, then led you to sit.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, unable to contain yourself as he curled his other arm around you, effectively caging you to his chest. More than ever, you could recognize just how strong he was, what he could do if he so desired and yet he cradled you so gently. Protective, not possessive, he was warm and comforting.

You knew it was a lost cause to fight it in that moment. No matter how you thought you would feel when it came time for you to leave, it would pale in comparison to the regret of having let it pass by.

“You know, I never did ask you. I think I was too preoccupied with knowing about the island, but how did you come to be chained to it?” he asked. The yagara floated gently in the water, and he kept a watchful eye to make sure it stayed within a safe range of your island.

You laughed a little, realizing that to answer his question you would have to reveal that you had lied, even if it was only by omission. Still, you didn’t think he would be too upset, if he even saw it that way. So you told him your story.

“I was raised in a large, poor family in a small village on an island in the West Blue. I suppose I was pretty enough that a wealthy man wanted to marry me, even though I was still so young. I don’t think that my parents wanted to, exactly. But he offered a large sum of money to my parents, in exchange for me and...they agreed.” When you had first found out, you had been livid and hurt, thinking your parents had betrayed you. Which, technically they had. But as you grew older, you began to realize that they had done it only out of necessity, with several other children and themselves to take care of. It didn’t negate the hurt, and you couldn’t be sure that that was how they felt, but it helped take some of the sting out to believe it. “I ran away and sailed for a few years. It wasn’t long before I finally realized that everywhere was like my village, either poor and in need of help or overrun with powerful people who think they can do whatever they want to others.”

That was enough to make Iceburg’s skin crawl. The idea that your parents essentially sold you to another person was nothing short of slavery, and as he looked down at you, he couldn’t blame you for running away. His hold on you tightened, which you didn’t miss. It wasn’t hard to figure out what was upsetting him when you looked up and saw the black anger in his eyes. But it softened when he locked eyes with you, one hand coming up to brush the hair behind you ear. “So how did you end up on this island then?”

“Oh, yeah,” you said, trying and failing to fight the blush creeping over your cheeks. In the moment, you had forgotten you were telling a story. “Well, one day when I was sailing through to a new island— I never left the West Blue, unfortunately— I happened upon this island. The witch at the time was telling me about how much she wanted to leave, but couldn’t because of the magic. It sounded like a pretty good bargain to me, since I was tired of traveling and of people. Having the magic to keep people away as well as protect myself sounded like a dream. Of course, she didn’t tell me about the whole ‘island shift’, so that was an experience.” You shifted so that you were settled between his legs, your back pressed to his chest, and his arms fell to your waist. “The weather there is terrible, but it’s nice and quiet.”

It was strange, how much you talked about disliking people, and yet here you were curled up with him and talking like you hadn’t had a decent conversation in years. Which probably wasn’t far off, based on what you had said before. He wondered if that made him special, and he chuckled at the thought.

All of that raised another, pressing question which had never actually crossed his mind until now. At a glance, you appeared to be young, 20s, by his guess. But you hadn’t said how long you were traveling before you found the island, and you said it had been a decade since you had seen anyone. “How...old are you?”

You laughed and he immediately realized how that must sound. He definitely hadn’t meant it in a bad way, but he couldn't think of any way to ask politely. 

It was a valid question, you decided, but it made you wonder the same. “I’ll tell you if you tell me how old you are,” you said, eyeing him playfully.

“Well that’s easy. I’m 36.”

“Ah. Well, when I signed the contract, I was 25. That was 73 years ago,” you said. The smile grew a little more rigid as you waited to see his reaction. You knew the answer off the top of your head, because you kept strict track of when you came to this plane. You had no way of knowing for sure, because you hadn’t asked the witch before she left, but it always shifted the day you had signed, and you wondered if that happened to her as well. She had been older than you, with streaks of grey in her hair and a deep frown. She had seemed almost sad when you began to sign, like she regretted that you were doing it, but hadn’t stopped you. You supposed she had thought you would be unhappy, but it was fortunate that it was more than you could have hoped for. “Since then, I haven’t aged. I suppose it’s the island’s way of making sure there’s always a witch.”

“You talk about the island as if it’s a sentient thing,” he said, rubbing his chin. He hadn’t quite wrapped his head around the fact that you were almost a hundred years old, but that didn’t stop his curiosity.

“It is, or the magic is, at least. I know it doesn’t make sense, but the magic owns me, not the other way around. I can see it and control it to some extent, but it isn’t mine. I don’t even know why the contract exists, or who made it, or anything. All I do know is that the witch before me was bound for 230 years, the one before her for 150, and so on.” The house, you had found, passed ownership with the contract, and the possessions of the others remained inside. At least until the next owner cleaned it out. You had found documents and journals going back nearly 1000 years, but there was nothing on how the island came to be what it was. It made you wonder just how old it was, that that information was lost. “I’m pretty sure the witch was tricking me into signing, but based on the way they talk, they don’t want to trick people the way I was, but the loneliness becomes too much, never seeing other people for more than a week at a time, if they see anyone at all that year.” You wondered if you would ever get to that point. Sure, sometimes it got to where you wanted someone around, but it was always fleeting. You wondered if something was wrong with you.

As if he could read your mind, pulled you close, laying his head on top of yours. He too wondered how you managed to last so long with no contact, but it wasn’t his place to ask. If you were happy, he couldn’t see how you were wrong. “Well, if you’re happy, that’s all that matters, right? It’s wrong that they’re tricking people, but, well, after so long, I don’t think I could resist either. We’ll make the most of the time we’ve got left, hm?”

You grinned, burying your face in his neck to hide the furious rush of embarrassment. He had said ‘we’, and even the knowledge that there wouldn’t be a ‘we’ after this week wasn’t enough to douse the warmth of happiness. You had someone, even just for a little while, and it was enough.

“I suppose since you know so much about me now, it’s only fair you talk about yourself. How did you become mayor?” you asked, looking out towards the city again. The yagara had floated a decent ways sideways, closer to the massive door of Dock 6, but remained well within the boundaries your magic had placed.

“Ah,” he said, looking up at the door with a fond smile. He started off explaining to you about Galley-La’s history, which led farther back to Tom and Tom’s Workers. He began to grow sad as he explained what had befallen his mentor, and his friend Cutty Flam, and you laced your fingers with his in silent sympathy. After that, you fell silent, content to rest your head on his chest and listen to the beating of his heart.

He didn’t have much to say after that either, caught up in reminiscing about old memories he had never talked to anyone about. Even Kokoro, who was intimately involved in the whole ordeal, didn’t talk about it with him. And there was no way Franky would, he still felt the sting of guilt for causing it.

After a while, the gentle sway of the boat, accompanied by the warmth Iceburg provided, became too much. Your eyes closed, and you fell asleep.

It took him a little while to realize it, but he chuckled when he did. You looked peaceful, not unlike the content look you wore whenever you looked at him, or talked about your life. But it was nice in a different way, and he wondered if you always looked like that when you slept, or if it was just him. 

He turned the yagara back towards shore, guiding it as close as he could. You looped your arms around his shoulders when he lifted you into his arms, snuggling closer to him as he waded through the water. As he stepped through the front door, he realized he had no idea which of the other three doors led to your bedroom. He hesitated, but then you pointed, and the door straight ahead opened.

He chuckled at that, thanking you quietly as he entered. Your bedroom was markedly less cluttered than your living room, with a bed, a wardrobe, and another bookshelf the only furniture in the room.

And you had moved that clingy plant in, as well.

He gently laid you down on your bed. You let go easily enough, but before he could pull back, you had sat up, looking tired but determined. Your face filled his vision, and then he felt your lips on the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you, Iceburg. I don’t have the words to describe how happy you’ve made me,” you whispered when you pulled back.

Your eyes were closed, and you were still close enough that he could feel your lips move against his. There was no thought as he cupped the back of your head with one hand, tangling his fingers in your hair as he captured your lips properly with his. He could feel your soft hand at his neck, the other curled around his arm, using that to pull yourself closer. Sooner than he would have liked, you pulled away, gazing up at him with a tired smile. His thumb stroked over your lower lip as he fought against the temptation to kiss you again. He still had to sleep and work in the morning.

“I should go,” he murmured, but made no move to leave.

Only when you nodded, giving him a playful push did he step back towards the door, which closed behind him when he was through.

Before you fell asleep, you couldn’t help but laugh. Turns out, it wasn’t lipstick.

                                                          _____

Iceburg was exhausted the next day.

It was the early hours of the morning by the time he got back, and that combined with the previous late nights had finally caught up with him. He was flipping mindlessly through paperwork, signing whatever Kalifa placed in front of him without reading it.

At long last, he was done. Looking at the time, he decided there was enough for him to get in a few hours sleep before he returned to you.

In the meantime, you had been tending your garden. Though you tended to roam the island most of the time, there was a special spot in the center of the island that was clearly the house’s “nest”. It was a literal nest, made of massive amounts of grass and foliage. It was also where the previous witch had kept her own garden, and you were sure that it had been in use for centuries, making it the richest soil on the island. 

The plane you spent most of your time in was shrouded in fog, and you had never seen the sun there, so the plants were specially cultivated to live with little to none. That meant that, when you felt the shift begin, you covered them with a tarp to protect them from the harmful sun. 

Still, they needed water, and the few minutes they would be exposed wouldn’t hurt them. Most of them were ready for harvest, which you would do when you got back. That thought made you wilt a little, but you pushed it down as best you could. You didn’t want to spend any more time moping. It was almost funny how in a few short days Iceburg had weaseled his way into your heart so much that you would forego your solitude for him.

You had started tending later in the day, when the suns rays were weaker so, by the time you were done, the shadows of the trees were starting to blend in with the darkness of the approaching night.

Rising to your knees, you covered the plants back up with the tarp and looked at your hands, deciding to shower on the way back to the beach.

It was past the time he usually arrived by the time you arrived at the beach, but not by much, so when he wasn’t there, you wondered if he had been so impatient that he didn’t wait at all. 

But that didn’t sound like him. No, something must have come up.

You decided to wait, allowing the house to settle down on the sand. Hours passed and there was still no sign of him. Trying to stem the tide of disappointment in your chest, you finally gave in and went to bed.

                                                          _____

Iceburg awoke to the first rays of sunlight hitting his eyes. When he realized that, he jerked up from his prone position, wincing at the pain in his back. That couch wasn’t good enough for a short nap, let alone a good night’s sleep.

There was a knock at the door, and Kalifa entered, looking not at all surprised to find him there.

“You’ve been running yourself ragged, Iceburg,” she said, setting a steaming mug on his desk. She turned to look at him, a knowing glint in her eye. “It’s going to catch up with you.”

He hugged out a tired laugh, even though guilt was eating him alive inside.

“Well, that won’t be a problem for much longer,” he said, standing up. Tomorrow, he reminded himself, it won’t be a problem anymore. He picked up the cup she had just set down and blew on it before taking a sip. The taste of strong black coffee made him wince. It wasn’t the way he normally took it, but today wasn’t a normal day. “Thank you, Kalifa.”

She nodded and made her way out with one last knowing glance.

Finishing his coffee, he made his way to the bathroom. Although it wasn’t something he made a habit of, there were enough occasions where he had spent the night in the office to warrant keeping a spare set of clothes handy.

As he glanced at himself in the mirror, he couldn’t deny that he had needed the sleep. Still, he could only imagine how you must be feeling. He supposed he could only hope you would understand.

It was this hope that allowed him to get through the day, absentmindedly filling out the remaining paperwork as he watched the hands on the clock circle around.

When the bell chimed to signal the day was over, instead of immediately rushing out to you, he decided to go home and shower, changing into something more comfortable. While he was near desperate to get to you, he also needed to feel a little more human after sleeping in the office.

At long last, he was properly ready to face you. As if he sensed his master’s urgency, Iceburg’s yagara took off, weaving through the streets as fast as he could without being a danger.

The island came into view, and his heart leapt into his throat. Relief collided with apprehension when he saw your house sitting where it had every other night. He had thought he would have to go searching for you, that you would be too angry to see him.

But he saw you on the porch swing, watched you perk up as you caught sight of him and step off the porch as he splashed down in the water.

You hesitated at the shoreline, waiting until he stood in front of you. Before you could even open your mouth, he was grabbing your hands and apologizing.

“I fell asleep yesterday and didn’t wake up until this morning. For what it’s worth, I woke up terribly sore. I’ve been waiting all day to come see you. I’m so sorry, _____.”

You let him ramble without interrupting, and when he finally opened his eyes, he found you looking up at him with the softest smile.

“I was upset last night, don’t get me wrong. But...after I slept on it, I realized you must have had a good reason.” Realized wasn’t exactly the right word. Really, you had placed all your hope on it. The gamble had paid off either way, because he now stood in front of you. “I should apologize as well. I didn’t consider how hard it must have been on you, working and then spending most of the night with me,” you said, placing your hand over his heart. The steady rhythm drummed under your palm, a little faster than normal.

He returned your gentle smile, eyes closing halfway as his hands cupped your cheeks. His lips were soft against yours, slanting over them and claiming them in the gentlest way he could manage.

Your hands settled on his stomach, content to lean into him and let him lead. His tongue ghosted over your lips and you willingly parted them. You were met with the fresh taste of mint as his tongue swept over yours.

His hands left your face, sliding down over your shoulders, all the way to your thighs. Before he could try and lift you up, you pulled away, taking his hand in yours and leading him up to the porch. You would be damned before you got caught out on the beach, even if you were never going to be seen again. At the door, he got impatient and pinned you against the wood, skimming his nose down your cheek as he peppered kisses to your neck. His hands massaged your hips, your shirt beginning to hike higher up your sides. You laughed and gently pushed him back, reaching down to skim your fingers over the prevalent hard on in his pants. His hips twitched, and he glared at you as you slipped from his arms, disappearing into the house. 

Somehow, you were nowhere to be seen, but your shirt lay on the floor just inside. He caught sight of your shorts flung over the back of the couch. As he approached your closed bedroom door, he saw your bra hung off the handle.

He couldn’t hold back a laugh as he picked it up, heat rising up his neck to engulf his face. Sweat beaded at the back of his neck as he picked it up and examined it before opening the door. It swung inwards without a sound, and if he wasn’t hard before, he was when he found you laying back on the bed, wearing only your panties. You were propped up on your elbows, watching him stand in the doorway, his eyes taking in everything before him.

Carelessly, he tossed the bra to the floor, making a beeline for the bed. You scooted higher up as he came to hover over you, one knee pinned between yours, trapping you beneath his immense frame.

“Took you long enough,” you said, ending on a chuckle. You reached up, threading your fingers through his hair, destroying his hard work, but he couldn’t be bothered to mind.

Instead, he leaned down, gathering your bottom lip between his teeth and tugging. “You’re a witch, you know that?”

At that you actually tipped your head back and laughed. “Yes, yes I do.” 

You pulled him back down and forced his lips to yours, allowing your fingers to skim down until they found the buttons of his shirt. By feel rather than sight, you made short work of it and pushed it off his shoulders. You groaned against his mouth as you ran your hands over his shoulders and down his sides, feeling the skin and hard muscles flex under your touch. He certainly had the body of a shipwright, strong and lean and tanned from working on ships day in and day out.

You heard the sound of a zipper followed by the rustle of clothing hitting the floor and moved your head to the side for breath, and so you could take him in. He was just as gorgeous as you had expected him to be under all that clothing, standing up straight and proud as he stood completely naked before you. His cheeks were tinted red, and only deepened the longer you stared, until he couldn’t take it anymore and knelt back down on the bed, settling his hands on your knees. Long, delicate fingers slid up your thighs, squeezing here and there, trailed closely by his lips. Your breathing deepened, butterflies fluttering in your stomach in anticipation, until his hands parted your thighs properly, pushing your legs out and over his shoulders. His nose skimmed your outer lips, his tongue licking from the bottom of your quivering slit up to your clit, drawing it into his warm mouth. He sighed, feeling your juices drip down his chin and brought his hand up, slipping just the tip of one finger inside you.

Your hips jerked, one hand fisting the sheets, the other reaching down to gently card your fingers through his hair, breathing out how good it felt. That one finger finally filled you, brushing over a particularly sensitive spot instantly. On the next stroke in, it was joined by a second, and you couldn’t help the moan that followed it’s entrance.

“Iceburg,” you moaned, tugging gently at his hair. His tongue flicked out, lapping at your clit as he set a slow, steady rhythm, seeking that spot he had touched earlier. 

It took him a few tries, but he found it, judging by the stutter or your hips and the breathy gasp you took. He curled his fingers up, massaging gently, until you fluttered around him. 

“Oh, oh,” you cried, back bowing off the bed as the coil in your belly snapped. He was so gentle as he eased you through it, drawing it out until you begged him to stop.

He came up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and climbed back over you. You gave him a wavering smile, your eyelids fluttering. Your pussy was still throbbing, but you still wanted more, and jerked your hips up, rubbing along the length of his cock. He groaned, rolling his hips down to nestle between your soaked lips, grinding against your clit in the process. A jolt of pleasure zipped through you, tempered by your being still sensitive, but you didn’t care. You wanted him inside you, and you moaned, asking with your hips for it.

“Are you sure?” he asked, even as he braced himself on his elbows over you. The height difference between the two of you had never been more obvious as he towered above you; you had to tilt your head back in order to make eye contact with him, but you nodded, begging him with your eyes.

He angled his hips down, catching the tip of his cock in the opening of your pussy, his entrance eased by your dripping walls. You had just came, but were already so wet for him again, his hips stuttering as you clenched around him. He was only halfway inside you, but was already panting, his head drooping down to rest on his forearm. Your hands were wrapped around his wrists, nails digging into his skin as you held yourself still for him. You couldn’t stop yourself from squeezing around him, your body aching for him to seat fully inside you.

Finally, his hips met yours, cock throbbing inside of you as he was fully engulfed in the warm heat of your body. His breathing deepened as he pulled out and rolled his hips back down, driving deep inside you again. With every meeting of your hips, he was grazing your still sensitive clit, but you were past caring at this point, lifting your hips to meet his desperate thrusts every time. You were already speeding towards your second orgasm, somehow, your ankles locking around his back and limiting how far he could pull out of you.

He made up for it by driving harder down into you, grinding deep into you and trapping your clit between his body and yours. You jerked, crying out as you careened over the edge, unable to help yourself as you rolled your hips up into him, begging him not to stop. You were so lost in it that you almost missed the low call of your name, his arms shaking as he worked to hold himself up over him even as you milked him dry. His head came down to rest on the bed, his chest heaving then flexing as you ghosted your fingers down it.

He laughed at the tickle and rolled off of you, flopping down onto the bed with an arm behind his head. The room was silent for several minutes as you both calmed down and steadied your breathing, then you scooted closer to him, laying your head in the dip of his shoulder.

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you were on the verge of falling asleep when he moved, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. His other hand came up to cradle your chin, tilting your head up enough that he could claim your lips. Even though you were exhausted, you knew you only had this one night and didn’t want to waste it by sleeping. You pushed closer, slipping your tongue out to graze his lips, and felt them turn up into a smile against yours.

“I feel the same, but I need a moment. I’m not as young as you,” he said, pushing the hair stuck to your forehead back.

You laughed, hitting him playfully in the chest at his joke. “98 years young and still pushing better than you.”

He chuckled, wrapping his arms around your back and gently pulling you until you sat up and straddled him. He was only half-hard, but viewing you as you sat atop him was doing wonders for that.

It wasn’t long before he took you again, just as gentle as the first time, then again, and again. The last time was almost desperate, all grabbing hands and passionate kisses, like you knew it was going to be the last time. He held you close as you sat in his lap, riding him until the wave broke again, and even after, you didn’t move for a long time, not wanting to admit that it was over.

At last neither of you could deny it and he pulled his soft cock out of you and laid down, settling you on his chest, legs wrapped together, his fingers tangled in your hair. Sleep came quicker than you wanted, but you were content.

                                                        _____

You awoke the next morning sore and still tired. As you tried to roll over, something pulled you back into the warmth of the sheets. For just a moment, you laid back down to snuggle up, then reality hit.

Your gasp startled a still groggy Iceburg, who looked at you in confusion. You rolled over in a panic, hovering over him as you shook him.

“Iceburg, you have to go. Once the island begins the shift, you’ll be trapped,” you said, pushing on his chest.

That got his attention, and he sat up, immediately scouring the room for his clothes. It wasn’t until you were both fully dressed and hurrying across the porch that he paused to look at you. Warmth filled his chest, tempered by a terrible sadness, when he realized that, even though you no doubt wanted him to stay, you were willing to let him go because you knew he couldn’t.

He wanted to, so badly he could almost taste it, he would trade his soul for it; it was so tempting to throw caution to the wind and remain with you.

But he couldn’t and he wouldn’t. Too many people relied on him, and his conscience wouldn’t allow him to abandon them.

Still, he could only imagine how you must be feeling, and he reached out to grab your hand, pulling you to a stop.

“Iceburg, what are you--? You have to go,” you said, trying to tug free. He needed to leave, and quickly, if he wanted to escape. You knew, by the way he talked about Water 7 and it’s citizens, that he could never be happy leaving the city he loved, and you would never ask him to choose between it and you.

“I know,” he said, but still pulled you around and into his arms. Before you could say anything more, he covered your lips with his, feeling you go limp as you gave in. He put his all into the kiss, conveying every unspoken emotion through it, because he knew he might never have another chance.

You allowed yourself this last moment with him, your arms wrapping around his neck to hold yourself to him. You had known it would be hard, had prepared yourself as best you could, but no amount of preparation could compare to the actual stinging pain of separation. Still, you couldn’t regret it. It was the first time in a long time you could say you would be unhappy going back. Even if all you had were memories, you would treasure them.

There was a growing sense of urgency as you felt the push and pull of magic. The shift wasn’t instant, but once it began it would be too late. You sloshed through the water, unheeding of the way it soaked your shorts. His bull was neighing, sensing the powerful change in the air. You stopped and turned his hand palm up, pressing a small object into his hand. “This will guide you to me; it’s imbued with the island’s magic. Just set it on the bow of your ship, and it will point my way. Now go, you’re out of time.”

You pushed him towards the boat, but he turned around one last time and kissed you.

He climbed over the side, his restless yagara already turning towards the grey city walls, and turned to look at you, drinking in your face in the hopes it would sear into his memory, like you had into his heart. 

“I’ll see you again. Maybe years from now, but I’ll find you,” he said as tears began to cascade down your cheeks.

His heart wrenched as you smiled through the sadness and nodded. “I’ll hold you to it. Goodbye, Iceburg.”

Even as you said that, you found yourself moving out, following him until you could almost no longer touch the bottom, watching him grow smaller and smaller until he was just a speck.

He couldn’t remember the ride back, only that he continuously turned around to watch you grow smaller, standing alone in the water. He couldn’t remember getting to work, only the concern his workers expressed at his having been late, but he waved them off. Locking himself in his office, he let only Paulie and Kalifa in, alternating between busying himself with paperwork and watching the island.

He could see now what you meant by a gradual shift, and why it was so important he leave. He supposed being on the island, it wouldn’t ever appear as such, but from his office the island appeared opaque, and seemed to be smoking. It grew more pronounced as the day carried on, until it was more smoke than island. The shadows of evening had long since swallowed the beach up, but you had moved your house hours before, and he thought he could understand why. Watching from his window grew to be too painful at times, at which point he would draw the curtains, obscuring his view. 

Inevitably, though, he would open them again, scouring for a glimpse of you.

It was almost a relief when it grew too dark to see the island anymore, but it also brought with it pain, because he knew it would be gone in the morning.

As if it had bit him, he was reminded of the object you had forced into his hand. At the time, he had deemed it infinitely less important than the final moments he had to hold you in his arms, and so had stowed it in his pocket.

He now pulled it out, finding it to be a battered log pose. Examining it more closely, he determined that it was broken, the needle snapped off at the stem. Yet, as he moved around the office, it always pointed in the direction of the island. He clenched it in his fist, being forcibly reminded of you as he felt the magic roll off of it in waves. Maybe it was because the island was saturated in it, but he had never felt the pull quite so intensely as he did with that log pose in his hand. 

He made a mental note that he would need to get a sturdy container to protect it until he needed it next. A calendar sat on his desk, and he picked up a pen, marking the days that he had spent with you. Not that he could forget them, but he wanted a physical reminder, something tangible he could hold onto.

He sat back, his chair creaking underneath him with the motion, and smiled. He would find you again, he knew it, even if he had to wait a hundred years.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

A Little Piece Of Heaven (part one)

[Tour!verse]

TW: Surprisingly not many...I guess mockery of religion, specifically Christianity and anything in that branch. Very minor mentions of self harm (like one time- if you blink you’ll miss it). But mainly this fic is just psychological.

———————

Lord of The Flies

Let’s get something clear really quickly: Joan Meutas was not religious. Did she used to be? Unfortunately, yes, but after seeing the world for what it really was, after getting an axe to her vagina from her beloved husband, she has realized that there was no merciful God who would save lost souls. It was all a hoax by crazy old folk from wherever Jerusalem was to herd people into one belief, thinking that it may make them more humane and friendly. But religion has done more harm than good- Christianity damns all non CIS heterosexuals to hell, Jews got murdered by the thousands, that one branch literally won’t eat anything besides fucking grain or some shit, Catholics are just rude as all hell, those fasting things literally cause people to STARVE TO DEATH, and for what? To appease some higher being? Do they truly think they will be saved? If God was so merciful and wonderful and kindhearted, why would he make things like murder and cancer and rape and torture?

Joan even once heard that the Bible stated that when a woman was on her period she had to leave her village and wasn’t allowed to come back UNLESS she had a turtle dove. She’s never read the Good Book before, so she doesn’t know if that was true or not, but it doesn’t sound unlikely given all the stupid rules she’s heard about.

So, no, Joan was not religious.

It’s strange, she thinks, how offended people get when she says it or simply hints at it. Their eyes will practically bug out of their skull and they probably pray for her “lost soul”, maybe even do that weird cross gesture on their chest when they think she isn’t looking. They look at her as if she was actually a demon spy loosed from hell and not just someone who has enough common sense to realize that an “all powerful father” was complete and utter bullshit.

That’s the thing- it’s like the word “atheist” was purposely made to seem like the most evil string of letters to ever be created. You know the words- those synonyms that just sound much worse than the actual root phrase (molest, slaughter, moist). Atheist just has this dark shade to it. Or so religious people say.

But enough of that! There’s a reason why such a taboo subject is being brought up.

Joan was going to contact Death.

As they say, desperate times calls for desperate measures. And desperate Joan was.

You see, her queen- Jane Seymour- used to be quite the woman. Sharp, beautiful, powerful, but also warm behind the closed court doors. Joan was very lucky to see this side of her as her youngest lady in waiting, often getting called gentle pet names and sometimes pats on her head if she was particularly lucky that day. As a touch-starved orphan servant, this was like a pot of gold to Joan- love and affection is something she’s craved long before reincarnation in the modern world. And, speaking of the resurrection, Joan thought she would get even more of Jane’s “Mum Treatment” since they had more time on their hands, but she was very, very wrong.

Jane...Jane was different. She changed. No longer was she the motherly, caring, strong woman from the past, but instead coming back as some reduced version of herself- slightly younger (24, 25, maybe even 23), more awkward and timid, and much less maternal. The way she now looked at Joan wasn’t with compassion, rather...plain curiosity, sometimes even aversion. Her memory of her young lady in waiting has waned- it was as if she didn’t remember that Joan had been at her side the whole time when she was bedridden after giving birth to Edward! Like she couldn’t conjure up the remembrance of a teenager literally watching her rot away and slowly die for days!

To say the least, Joan was not happy. Add in trauma, insomnia, hate on social media, constant stress and pressure from her profession, and a severe lack of friends and you can probably see why Joan was going to such extreme measures.

Now, she knew about the stories. She’s read The Monkey’s Paw. She knows about the consequences of one’s actions. Joan wasn’t going into this completely stupid- have some faith, will you?

Gambling with Death was a risk. A huge risk that could very well end with her soul being ripped out of her mouth or her flesh being worn by a supernatural being that then goes on to commit atrocities under her identity. And not only was it a massive risk to take, it was also very, very stupid.

If I have to spell it out for you, listen closely: Death knows things. A lot of things. They don’t call him the “Lord of The Flies” for nothing. Which is why he loves to play games for those desperate enough to contact him because he knows he is much smarter than whatever pathetic, miserable piece of useless garbage comes clawing at a mirror, begging him to reveal himself. And unless you have every secret of the universe, you’re probably going to get ass-blasted back to Tuesday.

Oh, what am I saying? You won’t get a second chance.

You’ll be long gone by then.

And whatever state the cops find your body in the next morning depends on whatever mood the beast was in.

However, in Joan’s case here, she is desperate and stupid enough to take the risk. In her eyes, she doesn’t have much to live for. She’s a slave to SIX- day and night she’s working endlessly over musical paperwork and the same songs over and over and OVER again. It doesn’t help that she isn’t the closest to the rest of the cast and is often left alone when everyone else goes out and has fun. The scars on her wrists are evident of how many nights she’s been alone.

Without Jane, she has nothing to live for. She needed her.

And that’s exactly why she was sitting on the floor in front of a mirror propped against the wall in the dark theater surrounded by candles and a semicircle of salt.

Joan has done a lot of studying up to this point. She knows she has everything correctly, now she just has to get Death to appear...and hope he doesn’t immediately pull her small intestines out from her throat for bothering him.

Joan stares into the mirror as hard as she can, closes her eyes, then counted to ten. Her eyelids lingered shut for longer than she would like to admit after she hit the number one, but she eventually pried them open.

It was not her reflection staring back at her.

To be honest, Joan wasn’t exactly sure of what she was expecting to see. Some parts of her believed nothing would happen, other parts convinced itself that a grim reaper-like figure or a horned, goat-legged demon would be kneeling on the other side of the glass wielding a scythe or pitchfork. However, a suit-wearing young man was not really something that crossed her mind in her theories.

If Joan wasn’t a lesbian, she might have found him attractive, but he definitely was at a straight woman’s perspective. Perfect smile, the most amazing cheekbone structure, unflawed olive skin, neatly combed brown-blonde hair, a broad chest, phenomenal shape- if it weren’t for his yellow eyes with slit pupils, he might have been the perfect lady’s man (although, knowing straight women, they probably wouldn’t care for his demon eyes- after all, you don’t need to see someone’s peepers to suck cock!).

Joan sat completely bewildered, all of her confidence draining and being replaced with dread that drenches her like a thick, dark oil spill. She can feel her hands, which are lying in her lap, starting to tremble and clenching her fingers doesn’t help at all. The ability to form a coherent sentence slips from her mind, so Death speaks first.

“Hello, Joan Meutas.”

This guy is the real deal. He pronounced her last name correctly!

Joan opens and closes her mouth like a fish out of water and Death is thoroughly amused by her sardine impression. He watches her through the glass, waiting patiently for her to learn how to enunciate again.

“H-h-hello-”

“Yes, yes, h-h-hello to you to,” Death laughed. He wasn’t directly trying to be cruel, but Joan’s self esteem was far enough into the ground to hear his jibe as a mockery of her understanding of the English language. “If I let you speak the whole time we are going to get nowhere! Pull yourself together, kid. You should see the look on your face! You look like you just got caught making out with the family goat!”

Joan’s expression remained one of fright.

“What? Didn’t you own a goat back in- god, what year were you born? 1517 or 1525? Historians paint it as both! But I thought a family farm animal was the big rave back then! I apologize- I need to catch up on the modern slang. Say, would you be considered a ‘boomer’? Because I have been DYING to use that phrase on someone who contacts me. Could you imagine it?” He warps his voice into one of a pruny old woman, “‘I wish for great fortune!’ ‘Okay Boomer.’” Death bursts into fits of maniacal laughter that sounded as if a thousand lost souls were chortling together at once.

Joan is still silent, but during Death’s monologue she was able to wire her brain back to functionality. She sits up a little bit straighter and Death notices, so he containers himself instantly, also fixing his posture.

“Ready to talk now?” He asked.

“Yes.” Joan answered.

“Wonderful,” There’s a glint in his piercing yellow eyes, “What is it that you desire of me?”

Joan gathers up all her courage, sits up a little taller, and says, “I desire to challenge you to a game of question-and-answer.”

The glint flares into a blaze of confidence. If Joan stares hard enough, she swore she could almost see the fires of Hell burning in his eyes.

“How fun,” The words ooze out from Death’s pale lips, soaked in liquid menace. “Shall I go over the rules?”

Joan nodded. She knew them, she knew she did, but it would be good to hear them one last time.

“Very well,” Death said. He cleared his throat and began speaking as if he were reading off of a manual, “Death’s Gambit: A two-player game between the Lord of The Flies himself and a human. After being conjured- just gonna skip over that process, you’ve clearly got it down, kid- and initiating the game, both parties will have sixty-six minutes and six seconds to answer as many questions correctly as possible. Anything can be asked- trivia, personal inquiries, riddles, even dares, as long as the salt circle is not exited. The catch of the whole thing is this: The Prince of Darkness is obligated to tell the truth only if the human answers correctly to his question or does a requested dare or the human manages to stump him. However, if he answers correctly or the human answers incorrectly to HIS question, he may lie about whichever question he wants. The score will not be revealed until the very end once the time is over. If the human wins, the Keeper of Souls MUST grant any one wish they have. If He-Who-Lies wins, the human will be the victim to whatever losing punishment he comes up with. Remaining rules include: The salt circle cannot be left- you may find yourself no longer in your dimension-, the game cannot be quit until the time is over, items like watches or phones are not permitted to be used to look up answers or keep track of the time. Good luck and Beelzebub be with you.”

Despite knowing this all already, hearing it out loud, spoken by the beast himself, made it all hit home for Joan. She was really doing this; she was gambling with Death.

She had to be the stupidest fuck to ever grace God’s green earth.

“Are you ready to begin?” Death asked.

Joan took a deep death and answered, “Yes.”

A wicked smile curled on Death’s lips. The candles around Joan blaze.

“The game is on.”

A dark feeling weighed down on Joan after that was spoken. The air around her seemed to shift. Her gut was screaming at her to run away, to hide, to do something other than just sit there, but she couldn’t move. Not from fear, but from sheer will. She couldn’t be stupid. Who knows what lurked outside her thin salt circle....

As he usually did, Death initiates the game and asked his first question.

“What was the name of Catherine Parr’s true love?”

Like that, a cold stone drops deep into the pit of Joan’s stomach. Of all the questions she expected him to start off with, Tudor history was not one of them. It startles her, takes her by surprise, and she realizes very quickly that that’s exactly why Death asked it. He’s trying to disorientate her right off the bat and weaken her before she has the chance to get some points in.

She could not let that happen.

It’s just that- she didn’t know Tudor history outside of knowledge on her queen and whatever is said in the show. The others certainly did talk about their past lives, but Joan- she-

It stung, to say the least, when she realized that Death knew about her nonexistence friendships with the queens. And that he was targeting that.

“Thomas Seymour.” Joan finally said.

She was pretty sure that was the right answer...but not completely positive. And, because of that, her worried mind began to scream doubts inside of her brain.

Was that a trick question? He’s supposed to be the embodiment of pure evil- wouldn’t he think Henry is Parr’s true love? Was Henry the right answer?

“Your turn.” Death said, not reacting to Joan’s answer, which scares her even more.

“What’s- why did you choose to show up in that body?”

“Oooh, you’re starting with a personal inquiry!” Death said, laughing, “How fun! And I hope you’re not flattering yourself, Joan- I don’t look like this to make your pussy wet. Trust me, I could look way more attractive, but I know you.” Those three words slither into Joan’s ears and made her shudder. “Isn’t the whole point of being a lesbian to not be attracted to men?” Death laughed again, “But I look like this because I want to. I can take whatever shape I want! Remember that one time I was a snake? That was weird. Although, peeping at a naked chick was pretty damn fun. As a lesbian, you could probably appreciate the sight.”

For just a moment, the image of Death disappears, the mirror hazes to white, and Eve appears. Not the paintings you always see- THE Eve, bare breasts and vagina and all, and if Joan weren’t also asexual, her own genitals may have been burning with desperate pleasure.

“She was a sight.” Death said, returning to view. He chuckles, then immediately goes to his next question, “What was the exact height of Mount Everest in the year 1666?”

Joan’s heart just about stopped.

How in the holy hell was she supposed to know that? Then again, that was probably the point of asking such a thing.

“Three...hundred feet?” It came out as a question, but it’s taken as an answer and Death doesn’t react except for a slight twitch of his nose. “What...is the hardest piece to learn on the piano?”

“Liszt.” Death answered smoothly. “What animal can see the most amount of colors?”

“A...dolphin.” Joan physically cringed at her answer. “Who wrote Liszt?”

Is this what she was going to be doing the whole time? Asking the King of Hell fucking piano trivia?

“La Campanella.” Death once again answered perfectly. “What is the full chemical name for the antidepressant and anti-anxiety medication, Zoloft?”

Wasn’t that the medicine Joan was supposed to take for her anxiety?

“I- I don’t know.”

Death just hummed and awaited his next question. He didn’t laugh at her like she expected him to, which slightly lightened the blow of her stupidity.

“What’s my favorite song in SIX?”

“None of them. Why did you stop taking your Zoloft pills?”

The answer followed by such a question felt like Joan was just punched in the stomach with a spiked gauntlet. She swore she was winded by some unseen force (probably shock). Her breath hitched in her throat and she seemed like a little kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“I-” She hunched her shoulders around her neck. Death is giving her a curious look, which was at least better than worry or concern. “They- they weren’t helping me...so I didn’t think there was a point taking them if they weren’t going to fix me.”

Death hummed once more, this time louder and more enthusiastic. He clearly liked her answer.

“Interesting,” He mused, then quiets himself for the next question.

“What’s standing behind me?”

Ever since the game began, Joan picked up on the presence of something staring at the back of her head. She could feel their eyes burning into her skull, sometimes even breathing on the back of her neck.

Death smiled. “See for yourself.”

Joan saw nothing in the reflection, just darkness beyond the candles and Death, and she was not about to go and look away. She was scared about what would happen if she turned her gaze away from the mirror for even a second.

When Death realized Joan wasn’t going to fall for his tricks that easily, he quirked an impressed eyebrow and moved on.

“Will you greet the worker who just came in?”

Joan glanced fearfully to the corner of the room. A figure is hunched there. The glow from the candles just barely licks at their claws.

“What was their name? Terrance?” Death said, “Doesn’t he work in lightning?”

“That’s not Terrance,” Joan murmured.

Death took it as an answer, it seems. He leans in close to the glass and when he whispers, his hushed tone is right at the back of Joan’s ear.

“You don’t want to know what he really is.”

Joan can feel a panic attack rising in her chest. Death is trying to scare her, stray her from answering coherently or correctly and get her to waste time by freaking out. She had to steer the game back into calmness.

Or, rather, however calm a Devil game could get.

“What do I have in my pocket right now?”

Death seems a little bothered that the cryptic theme was interrupted, but he gets over it.

“One black pen that’s almost out of ink, a granola bar you promised yourself you would eat, and a rosary you stole from Aragon.” He said, “Oh and, by the way, that isn’t going to protect you from me. So return it as soon as possible or Aragon is gonna be PISSED!” He laughed, imagining the storm the golden queen would cause if she caught Joan with such a precious belonging.

Joan swallowed thickly. She didn’t want to check her pockets. She didn’t want to know that he was right.

“What is the color of the sky?”

It seemed like an easy enough question, but Joan, believe it or not, knew better than to fall for such a simple trick. She wracked her brain for a moment, then answered, “Black.”

Death doesn’t react aside from licking over his dried lips. His tongue is too pointy. Joan moves on.

“Does Jane care about me?”

Honestly, the question kind of surprised her. It bubbled up from her throat from out of nowhere- yes, she had been wanting to ask it so badly, but she didn’t actually expect it to come out.

“Yes.” Says Death.

For a moment, joy bursts through Joan, but the metaphorical, celebratory confetti is sucked up by the vacuum of doubt.

Is he lying? Is he giving me false hope? Or is he telling the truth?

“What’s your blood type?” Death asked.

“A...AB.”

Like Joan fucking knew that.

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Blue.” Death smiled, “Because the blue sky would always remind you of opportunities for a better life.”

A shiver runs down Joan’s spine. She didn’t like how he knew that.

“What’s something that you can’t eat for lunch or dinner?”

He’s asking a riddle. Joan bit the inside of her cheek, thinking.

It couldn’t be a food. That was too easy.

Think, Joan, think!

“...Breakfast.”

Death chuckles. Joan doesn’t know what to think of that.

Twenty minutes pass by in a blur. Cold sweat soaks Joan’s brow, dripping down her face, but she’s too scared to move from her stiff position. Her back muscles hurt from sitting like a statue for so long- how the hell does Death look so relaxed? Then again, he doesn’t really have much to worry about.

He doesn’t have to worry about the possibility of being mutilated or dragged to Hell or that that figure in the corner has been getting closer and closer as the minutes passed by.

“Do you think every human deserves to live?”

The question came out of nowhere, really. Death had been asking mostly trivia up until that point. He tittered at Joan’s stunned expression, then raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Well?”

“No.”

Joan didn’t hesitate because she knew it was the truth. Not everyone deserved to live. Rapists, pedophiles, serial killers, racists, homophobes, terrorists, abusers- they didn’t deserve life. People like them deserved to die.

And anyone who doesn’t believe that is a fucking idiot.

“Do YOU think every human deserves to live?”

Death scoffed. “Of course not.” He peered at Joan, really analyzing her for the first time. His yellow slit eyes raked over the girl, making her feel uncomfortable and violated. “You know, you and I think a lot alike. Not many humans give ‘no’ as their answer. They think optimism will make them seem like a good person. It’s pathetic.”

Joan just nodded silently.

“Now...where were we? Oh, yes.” Death leaned in, “Which queen suffered the most?”

Joan furrowed her eyebrows. The whole point of the show was to not compare, especially traumas, but...

“Katherine Howard.”

Come on- clearly K Howard had it the worst. The girl was violated by four different men before she was an adult! None of the other five stories combined could possibly rank to the fifth queen’s suffering.

“Honestly, I think the same!” Death said, “I mean- what is UP with the whole ‘one of a kind, no category’ gimmick? How stupid! Last time I checked, being a victim of sexual abuse doesn’t make you ‘one of a kind.’ Why would you even think of it that way?“

Joan nodded slowly.

“I agree,” She said, “Um- here’s my next question: Is this question false?”

Death raised his eyebrows and cooed in obvious interest.

“True.” He said, smirking. “My turn. Do you resent the queens?”

Joan actually recoils. Death laughed.

“I-”

Did she? Did she resent the queens? Surely she didn’t... She couldn’t! The queens were perfect! How could anyone ever hate them?

“No.”

Death almost looks disappointed.

“What’s worse than death?”

“You’re living it.”

Cold sweat drips down Joan’s face. It stings her eyes and is salty on her tongue. She hears noises all around her, but doesn’t dare to look. She already knows “Terrance” is on his knees beside the salt circle and his leaning his face in right next to hers. She can smell the rot on him.

“Have you ever wanted to hurt the queens?”

Death’s questions are definitely ramping up in darkness. Was the time close to ending? Is that why he’s getting deeper?

Joan shut her eyes tightly for a moment, but opened them quickly when the fear of losing sight of Death nagged at the back of her mind. Before her, on the other side of the mirror, the being is waiting patiently, eagerly for her answer.

“Sometimes,” Joan breathed, “Yes.”

Death smiles a wicked smile.

“How interesting,” He purred, then gestured for Joan to ask her question.

“Does God exist?”

“Unfortunately.” Death groaned, then laughed. He inspected Joan again. “How would you hurt the queens?”

Joan felt her stomach ache. She didn’t like that question. She didn’t want to think about actually hurting the queens, even if she’s considered it one or two times before.

“I- I haven’t really given it any thought.” She answered, then quickly sputtered out her next question before Death could comment, “Does the Bible speak the truth?”

“Of course not.” Death said. “My next question is this: If I were to give you a task, would you do it?”

“Depends,” Joan said, “What would the task be?”

Death held up both arms in a shrugging motion. “I don’t know! Pick up my dry cleaning? It depends! Don’t put me on the spot like that!” He then laughed that horrible laugh again. Once he contains himself, he says, “Time is ticking. The game is almost over. I want to switch things up before we end. I have a dare for you.”

Joan nods.

“Stab yourself in the hand.”

That flush of icy cold dread floods through Joan’s system again. Every part of her being screamed at her to refuse, there will be other offers or questions she could make up for, but she knew that was just false hope. Like Death said: time was almost up. She couldn’t risk refusing and docking more points (if she isn’t in the negatives already, that is).

“Fine.” She forced out through her teeth.

She reached for the pen in her pocket, but Death held up a hand.

“Don’t use that inky thing,” He said. “It won’t get the job done. Please- allow me.”

He flicked his wrist and a large carving knife appears out of thin air and clatters to the floor in front of Joan. She stares at it for a moment, then picked it up, setting her left hand down in its place. She took a deep breath, screwed her eyes shut, and plunged the blade down.

Joan couldn’t choke back the scream that burst from her lips. She cried at the pain, sobbing in horror when she looked down to see the knife practically pinning her hand to the floor. Dark red blood pools around her fingers, gushing and spurting like spigot from the wound when she pulls the blade free. She cradled her wounded hand close to her chest, weeping weakly.

“Very good,” Death cooed, clapping.

Joan raised her eyes slowly and Death smirked at how lit up they were, almost like hot coals.

“I have a dare for you.” Joan growled, her voice low and dangerous.

“I accept.”

“Change your eye color to blue.”

For a moment, Joan swore she saw the slightly twitch on Death’s features. She watched him close his eyes, sit their silently for a moment, then open them again.

They were still yellow and slit.

“I cannot.” He said. However, he wasn’t angry or irritated at being stumped, rather amused. “Next...what is the flying speed of a swallow?”

Joan ripped off of a strip of her shirt and wrapped it around her bloody hand, hoping it would be a good enough substitute for real bandages for now.

“African or European?”

Death grinned. And that grin only grew wider as the candles around Joan went out until only the one behind her remained lit.

"̸̡̢̢̣͓͚͖̪̼̪͑͊̈́͋̀́̾͗͘ͅT̷̼̺͈̮̜͔̙͂̋̉͋͛̈̿̀̕͜͠͝i̸̢̹̙̼̠͓͚̖̗͔̮̔̌͂̓̐̊̈́̔̃̕m̸̡̱̤̱͙͎̦̱͙̪̻̓̅͌̉̀̈́̐̄͒̌̕͘͝e̸̟̳͒'̸̗͎̞̙̋̎̓́́͑̉͐͑̈́s̷̰̬̙͖̲̩͚̥͈̝̩̻̻̮̭͂̀̐̓̑̓͌̓̀́̐̐ ̷̡̳͍̗͉̝͔̃̑͛̀͊͌͆̌̒̃̔͘̚͠ͅû̵̞̠̣͉̻̖̅̓̄̏͝p̷̛͖͎̮̖͇̬̮͉̥̲͈̟͊̃́̃̏̇̇͛͗̅̕͘,̷̢̧̧̹͈̗̝͙̪͉̖̆̈́ͅ ̸̲̩̥̇͂̓͌̀̋͗̀͛̚J̵̼̣̋ö̴̡͕̺̪̠͓̹͔̂͝ą̶̡̜̭̤͖̭̫̝̘̆̂̾̐͊̾̒̂̏n̶̛̛̬̦̥̠̮̐̓̃̋̍̒̂͐̂̽ͅ.̴̪̰̩̀͊̑̐́̂͗̍̐̈́̚"̴͍͆͛́̈́̈́̍͆̀͗͘͝͝

It was almost impossible to breathe. Joan can barely hold herself together- the tears are flowing freely and she can’t get them to stop. She would say a prayer for her damned soul if it weren’t for the whole atheist thing, and she worried that Death would get angry at her for it, even if it was said in her mind, which he couldn’t possible read (or, at least, she hoped he couldn’t).

Still, she bowed at the waist and thanked Death for the game.

“Let’s tally up the score, shall we?”

Joan first saw blood start to spread across Death’s midsection, then a sharp sting struck her in the stomach. She hissed in pain and lifted her shirt slightly, as did Death, and they both saw tally marks upon their flesh.

Death had twenty-three.

And Joan watched in shock as a twenty-fourth tally carved down through her skin right before her eyes.

“Congratulations, Joan Meutas,” Death says, “You’ve won. What is it that you wish for?”

[ober-affen-geil]

So I have. Done. A meta before. On Michael and Alex outside the trailer in 1x09. But it turns out I have more to say on the matter and a slightly changed outlook so here we go.

I want to start by referring to this most excellent meta because it touches on a lot of the same points as mine, mostly being the massive disconnect between Alex and Michael in this scene. I want to focus on Michael here though, because I’ve already talked a lot about how pivotal this scene is for Alex. (Here is the big one, there are many others.) Also because I believe in this scene, Michael thinks he’s getting that pyrotechnic breakup he asked for in the beginning of the episode, and I am devastated for him.

*Disclaimer before I start: I am not completely disregarding what Alex is going through in this scene. I am focusing on Michael. I am not dismissing, nor undercutting how important this moment is for Alex. It is. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about so. Just be aware I’m not at all giving precedent to Alex’s point of view.*

We start off with Alex pulling up, and you can tell Michael is trying to treat him like a normal customer. It’s killing him inside, but Alex told him it was over and he can be an adult about this. At least he can try. And then he pulls the necklace out of his boot and Alex reacts like he’s hurt and that’s not fair so Michael pushes back to the topic at hand. (What were you saying?)

But then Alex starts to leave walking away again which is just fine by Michael. It’s typical, it’s what he did when they were “together”, why would it change now. It’s expected. But then Alex flips the script. (I’m tired of not saying what I want to say.) And Michael has had it up to here with him.

Because, from Michael’s view, no one has ever prevented Alex from saying what he wanted to say. Not when he’s with Michael. Michael has never found it difficult to speak most of his absolute truth when he’s with Alex, so Alex’s apparent inability to do the same is just one more indicator that Michael’s feelings are not as strongly returned. (See this wonderful meta for more on their love language gap.)

And now not only has Alex apparently decided to make a grand gesture, he’s doing it after he told Michael it was over. Publicly. So Michael is. Yeah. Michael is just about at the end of his rope. (What do you want to say, Alex?!)

And then. And then. 

“That I loved you.”

A sentence which takes the wind from his sails and the breath from his lungs. It literally stops Michael in his tracks it is that unexpected.

Alex doesn’t do this. He doesn’t talk about this “thing” between them. Ever. All he does is accept what Michael gives him and walk away, again and again. So to hear the word “love” from him in relation to Michael, even in past tense, is shocking. But he’s not done.

“And I think you loved me. For a long time.”

And this. Wrecks Michael. Just when he thought Alex Manes had razed him to the ground he finds out there was still a part of him left to hurt. His reaction is of someone who is absolutely destroyed, his only response is “Yeah” because what is he supposed to say to that? Everything he does and says around Alex is designed to show him he loves him and if Alex doesn’t get that what more is Michael supposed to do? “I think you loved me,” as if Michael’s love could ever be doubted. As if he could ever love Alex Manes in past tense.

But no good will come of him trying to correct that. He’s done what he can to say how he feels in the past and apparently it hasn’t worked. So he stands there and listens to Alex stumble over his words. He can’t quite keep it to himself when Alex talks about their connection though, because it’s such a powerful pull. It always has been.

When he says “Cosmic” it’s an argument. It’s a plea, it’s disbelief, and it’s desperation. “This is us. This is what we have, why would you deny that? Why would you say it’s not enough?” But Alex plows over it, dismisses it, and well really that’s par for the course isn’t it. Michael pours his heart out and Alex doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t take it, doesn’t want what it means. Like outside the trailer in 1x02, he will accept Michael’s hands on his body and nothing else. And then Alex says “I want to be friends?” like he’s not even sure about that and Michael just.

I know I already linked to her meta above but I gotta quote @chasingshhadows here because this is it exactly: “This is a man who knows that he and Alex will never be able to be just friends, but who also knows he won’t be able to stop himself from doing whatever Alex asks...That laugh says he knows that what comes next is going to hurt and he’s going to let it.”

It does hurt. What comes next. Because what comes next, so far as Michael knows, is Alex asking a very dangerous question.

“I wanna know who you are, Guerin.”

And Michael makes a choice. If Alex won’t set them alight, he will. Because that look in his eyes as he stalks towards Alex is predatory. It’s dangerous. It’s “if you wanna play with fire, you’re gonna get burned.”

His next line is so, so significant. Aside from giving me heart palpitations, his wording here is incredibly indicative of self-destruction. He douses himself with gas, hands Alex a lit match, and dares him to use it.

”Do you wanna know who I am? Or do you wanna know what I am?”

This goes beyond Michael offering to tell Alex the truth. Look at the wording of the second question, “what I am”. Michael is othering himself. Of the three siblings, Michael is the only one who takes genuine pride in not being human. He has seen the worst of what humanity has to offer from a young age and that has given him an aversion to even pretending to associate with them. Max and Isobel may secretly wish they were “normal” (and by normal, I mean human) but Michael has never wanted that. Michael wants to go home because Earth has never been that for him.

So for him to use this language to describe himself, to play into the picture of the monstrous alien “other” that invades the planet, is him just pulling the pin and waiting for Alex to back away in disgust and horror. He’s braced for it. It’s what he intended to do with that sentence; it’s him slapping the naked truth onto the table and saying “this is the part where you run away.”

But Alex doesn’t run. He doesn’t even step back when Michael pushes into his space. All he does is look at him, take a breath, and say “Yes”. And I would kill for a reaction shot in that moment because Alex just pulled the rug out from under Michael again. But alas. It is left to our imagination.

Anyway. That scene always takes my breath away, even moreso than the Caulfied scene, so I needed to get that out there. A recovery center has been set up for those who need it, complaints may be submitted to my ask :D

[storytellingape]

london calling

NOTTING HILL AU

MCSACKLER

13,000 words (unfinished)

There are two things Thomas loves most in the world: London and a good book.

To a lesser extent he loves other things: a perfectly pressed shirt, the smell of fresh paint, and not the least finding good homes for all books in his possession. He has multitudes stowed away, books hidden in cupboards and wedged between shoeboxes, tucked away in tight nooks and corners while a dozen more spill forth from the depths of his dresser drawers.

Of course, it wasn’t always like this. There’d been a time when things were not in such a state of chaos, when books didn’t materialize at every turn like uninvited guests popping round for tea. Around that time, Thomas worked for Harrods where he kept a tight ship. He was terrific at his job, excelling in detail work; he knew where everything was even with his eyes closed and had a mental grid of every floor stamped into his mind. Then he lost out on a promotion: ten years of hard work crawling his way up from the till and Nigel Bannerman had sent it all tumbling down with a smirk but that’s a story for another time and almost futile to discuss.

The story is set in Windermere which is approximately 400 kilometers away from London. In a bookshop at the end of street with a hunter-green awning, Thomas McGregor flips the sign at the door from closed to open.

The shop, like his violent aversion to dairy and small animals, has been in his family for decades and Thomas has been  its sole proprietor ever since his uncle had legged it to Sussex to try his hand at beekeeping. It’s a dying business when most people prefer digital over print, the commercial familiarity of a big name brand over a shabby little bookshop that hasn’t had a facelift since Margaret Thatcher first became PM. The shop is a fire hazard waiting to happen, crowded and small, poorly lit.

Thomas’ uncle’s only condition before allowing Thomas to take over was that he leave everything as is, undisturbed and untouched. A man of nostalgia and tradition. Thomas has taken that to mean quite literally, electing to keep the unfortunate wallpaper, the brass deer bust, the rotary phone, the paisley sofa. On a regular day, the shop gets about half a dozen customers, rarely more. Most of them are repeat customers, regulars, or tourists asking for directions after mistaking the shop for an entirely different establishment altogether.

This is how Thomas meets his assistant Stensland, who’d wandered in one day and simply never left. That’s an exaggeration: he leaves after business hours and after getting into rows with customers who question his literary tastes. Thomas can’t even remember why he’d hired him, or when, or how; one morning Stensland was just sort of there, making coffee and eating scones, telling Thomas about the new Murakami novel and offering to clean the windows. He’s helpful. Most of the time.

McGregor’s sells all kinds of books: secondhand and brand new, academic and fiction, self-help and the Bible though really the pièce de résistance are the rare and obscure pulp novels sitting in a neat row on an isolated shelf. Mostly people ask for the latest young adult novel anyway or Stephen King, which Thomas stocks on occasion.

It’s easy to accumulate books this way: sometimes Thomas goes on day trips to Marylebone in London to check out what the other shops are selling, or he walks into Foyles or Hatchards to admire the sleek shelving. He always leaves with a book or two tucked under one arm, which he sells for half price back at home in Windermere after peeling off the tags. During these excursions into the city, he feels a kind of triumph but also a certain blankness that’s harder to define these days.

*

Home. Home wasn’t always Windermere. Home was London once upon a time, in a nice little neighborhood near Kensington where the exorbitant rent guaranteed the best views.

There’s nothing to see in the country: just farmland and small houses, and so much green. It’s beautiful, yes, but only to those who don’t have to suffer through it everyday. People see Windermere and imagine that life is easy, and that’s true to an extent but what they don’t know is that it is also slow and dismal; the monotony breaks you down in tiny increments. It’s not the kind of place where it’s easy to disappear. In London you can constantly make and remake yourself.

People know your business here; they know your last name, they know your family tree. Generations of McGregors have lived and died in Windermere but Thomas is the first one to set up shop out of necessity rather than choice. Harrods had spurned him by denying him that promotion. Not just any but the one he’d been eyeing since first setting foot in lower management, several years ago. He was still reeling from the betrayal, a year after the fact. His uncle’s offer of a job couldn’t have come at a better time though Thomas only meant to do it for a few months until he found his motivation to do anything again.

But time is a funny thing and filial obligations even funnier and this, this is his life now: shelving and re-shelving books, selling used James Patterson novels for 50p. He’s losing money faster than he can make it. And on top of everything else, he keeps amassing books and running out of places to put them. Thomas wonders how his uncle kept the shop afloat for over thirty years with his terrible bedside manner and aversion to teenagers who make up the bulk of their customer base. Thomas is a stark contrast; he breathes customer service and can chat up a complete stranger.

Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays see the shop’s peak in foot traffic. On weekends, there’ll often be a few tourists. Business fluctuates depending on the weather and season though that’s only true half the time. A typical day in the shop is punctuated by stretches of silence, interrupted from time to time by Stensland commentating on whatever it is he happens to be watching on YouTube. When the bell at the door tinkles, Thomas shuffles out of his little office in the back to assist the potential customer. That’s his favourite part of the day, when he gets to talk to people about their favourite novels and make recommendations based on the genres that interest them.

He has made it his mission to sell all the ‘hurt’ books sitting outside in a dusty box, books that have been dogeared to death and roughly handled because even books with shabby appearances have their worth and deserve a home. He hasn’t succeeded so far, the box is only a third empty, but one day they’ll all be gone and not because someone has stolen them. It’s this kind of sentiment that his uncle often berated him for; books don’t have feelings, he’d say. Stop anthropomorphizing them Thomas! They were made to be consumed.

“I’m going out for a walk,” Thomas says to Stensland on a day like all others as he massages a crick in his neck.

It’s a slow day and they’ve only sold two books and it’s already half past two. When he doesn’t get a reply, Thomas checks the counter where Stensland is planted throughout most of his shift and sees that Stensland is fast asleep, his arms folded across his chest, his head twitching forward intermittently. Not surprising as the only reason Thomas has hired him, he suspects, is for the company and occasional entertainment he provides, not his work ethic. He takes far too many froyo breaks and is late half the time. He reads sci-fi and trashy romance novels.

Thomas decides not to wake him. He’s gone for only an hour, walking around aimlessly. He goes for a coffee, and buys Stensland a buttered roll and his favourite blended drink, topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. When he returns to the shop, Stensland is nowhere to be found and there’s a man in a leather jacket hovering by the shelf of pulp novels. He already has three books in his grip: two on photography, the other self-help.

The man shoots Thomas a brief look when the bell at the door tinkles to announce his arrival. Thomas sets the drink and pastry down before offering the man his assistance. “Can I help you?” he says, remembering to keep a respectful distance. He folds his hands in front of himself and affects a bland, pleasant smile.

The man looks up. His smile shows a hint of dimple but it’s brief and he turns away again. Thomas has  a feeling he’s seen him before, though he can’t place when or where: not in town certainly, where he knows everybody. But somewhere. The man has a very distinct face.

“Do you work here?” Ah, and he’s American. Therein lies the rub. A tourist most likely. The man picks up The Case of the Seven Sneezes and rifles through the pages with a thumb. His eyes move along the text, never stopping.

“Well, it’s my name on the sign outside,” Thomas says.

“McGregor?” Abruptly, the man stops reading to give Thomas an appraising look that has Thomas feeling mildly self-conscious.

“Ah, not the McGregor,” Thomas says, clearing his throat. “That’s my great great grandfather but a McGregor. It’s a family business, you see.”

The man hums. He lifts a book to eye-level. You’re Lonely When You’re Dead, the cover worn from mishandling. His entire hand encompasses it spine to edge. He has massive hands. Everything about him is — massive. His presence fills the room. And still Thomas struggles put a name to his face.

“Are these any good?” He means the pulp novels. They’ve always been quite a conversation-starter; the lurid covers and outlandish titles attract everyone’s attention as does the sexual imagery.

“I haven’t read them yet,” Thomas confesses. He tried a few times but the writing could never sustain his interest. He prefers his literature maudlin, written before the turn of the century, peopled with solemn characters hellbent on murder, revenge, or rising above their station. “It’s an acquired taste like marmite or black pudding,” he continues. “They were popular in the 1930s a little bit before the first world war. They’re absolutely ridiculous but they have a kind of charm, I suppose, if you look hard enough. Some people collect them and sell them fifty times their worth on eBay. My uncle bought them as a young man; I imagine he’s read all of them.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “There are about a hundred of these that you’re selling. He’s read them all?”

“He had a lot of free time.” Thomas shrugs. “And he was a professor. Of literature.”

The man laughs, not meanly like a schoolyard bully, but in amusement, his dimples making another appearance. He’s handsome, and Thomas has only just started noticing this, hit by the sudden realization like a lighting bolt when the man grabs a handful of random pulp novels and flashes him a soft grin showing a hint of teeth.

“I haven’t read a book in a long time, I’ll tell you how it goes.”

“Are you visiting?” Thomas asks, as he rings up the man’s purchases. It’s an innocuous line of inquiry and there’s a moment of silence before he receives a reply.

“Kind of. I’m here for work.”

“You’re in Windermere. For work?” If Thomas sounds incredulous it’s because he’s never heard that one before. “This is often where people go to retire or hide from their mistresses,” he explains. “No one goes to Windermere for work.” Least of all men like this one who seem better suited to the whims of London. What does he do for a living, Thomas begins to wonder. He doesn’t seem like a businessman, or a corporate executive, or a banker though his clothes fit him very well and seem mortifyingly expensive. It’s the shoes that give him away. Thomas knows the look and style of high end brand; he worked for Harrods after all for ten thankless years. This man looks like he could afford shopping there.

“Are you, then?” The man prompts, and when Thomas gives him a confused look, he adds, “Hiding from a mistress?”

Thomas flushes, not meeting his eyes. Often when he makes small talk with customers, he’s met with either apprehension or polite letdown, never encouragement. It throws him off his game. “Ah, I’ve got no mistresses to speak of. That’s not really my area of expertise,” he says, “Women, I mean. And mistresses. Do you want a pastry to go with that? I seem to be babbling.” He holds up the buttered roll between them, which has sweated through the flimsy paper.

“Thanks,” the man laughs, accepting it.

Thomas hands him his change afterwards, a crisp one-pound note. “You saved this business by buying more books than the average patron. Thank you,” he jokes.

“I’ll be sure to come back then,” the man says with a smile. “I was going to steal them but now I’ve changed my mind.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a good thing,” Thomas says. “As stealing is bad for business.”

The man laughs, then he mimes tipping a hat. When he’s left, Thomas slumps against the wall like a deflated balloon, feeling oddly winded.

The bell at the door chimes again shortly thereafter but it’s only Stensland, his assistant, panting and wearing a different pair of trousers.

“Sorry I left, it was an emergency,” Stensland says, wiping his hands across his bright-orange shirt, same as his hair. “I had to go number two and you know how bad the plumbing is here.”

His expression brightens when he sees that Thomas has bought him a drink. “Ooh, is that for me?” he says.

*

The weather in Windermere, for the most part, is pleasant and temperate. The rain is terrible. It stops for nothing and no one and goes on and on throughout the day, sometimes lasting deep into the night. It rains on a Wednesday, when Stensland is on his day off and Thomas has stepped out for lunch. There’s a deli across town with quaint seating and better Wifi than anywhere else, that makes the best quinoa and mango salad Thomas has ever had. He’s halfway into his lunch when there’s a sudden downpour. Thomas looks up at the sound of rain hitting the sidewalk and remembers where he’d left his umbrella. It didn’t rain in London as frequently as people who didn’t live there liked to believe but in Windermere the rain came often without warning. It could be sunny in the morning, then a torrent well into the afternoon.

An hour later when the rain shows no signs of letting up, Thomas braves the deluge and makes a run for it. It’s only a five minute walk if he hurries. He darts under awnings and bus stop roofs for cover, skidding and slipping in his brown leather shoes. Then he hears his name being called from across the street and he stops abruptly to whip around and face his interloper.

“McGregor!” the man says, and Thomas squints through the rain dripping into his eyes, trying to remember how he knows him. He meets a variety of people everyday, old and new customers, people who come back to the shop and people who don’t. “It’s you! What are you doing out here without an umbrella?”

The man jogs briskly towards him, tipping his bright black umbrella towards Thomas to shelter him from the rain. He stands close enough for Thomas to feel the warmth of him. Thomas notices for the first time the whiskery beginnings of a mustache and goatee. He smells nice, like expensive cologne, nothing too overwhelming or citrusy.

“Sackler,” the man says when Thomas continues to look at him blankly and noiselessly. “Adam. Though I don’t think I introduced myself last time. I saved your business? Bought a dozen books last week and you thanked me for my patronage.”

Thomas nods slowly. “Right,” he says as he remembers. The American. And now he has a name: Adam. They walk the rest of the way, avoiding wayward cyclists and other pedestrians with no trouble, Thomas wet as a drowned rat and just as pitiful while Adam tries his best to keep pace. Their shoulders bump a few times; they exchange smiles.

Thomas drips rainwater all over the carpet. He excuses himself for a moment, thudding up the stairs to the loft to change out of his clothes. He catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror just as he’s pulling a shirt over his head: the blindingly pale back that hasn’t seen a proper sun since 1998 and the narrow but soft waist. Still: nothing to be done about that and he’s made peace with his over all appearance in his thirty-four years of living. He emerges a fair bit later with a towel round his neck and his hair standing in static tufts, skin feeling clammy but otherwise dry.

Adam hasn’t left. Thomas catches him poking at the shelves and picking up books.

“Hi,” Thomas says, announcing his presence.

Adam tears his gaze away from a hardback edition of Jules Verne’s The Mysterious Island. He has shaggy dark hair framing his jaw and it softens the jut of his nose. “Hi,” he says.

“Thank you for the er —” Thomas gestures vaguely at the whole of Adam, trailing off. Handsome men don’t render him speechless all that often, but there’s something about Adam that makes his reflexes sputter a bit before he can find his footing. Maybe it’s to do with the fact he hasn’t had a handsome man walk into his shop, ever, barring that one night a detective in a red flannel shirt asked if he knew someone named O’Malley.

“Sure. Don’t mention it. I mean…” Adam shrugs, trailing off as well, but he does it in a charming way that isn’t as awkward.

“Would you like some tea?” Thomas asks, his usual tactic whenever a conversation hits a low point, which when you’re him is often. He finds that tea always fixes everything more so than a glass of scotch. Tea is warmth and home, a reliable source of comfort however brief; scotch is fist fight in a seedy back alley in Glasgow, leaving you concussed and missing a pair of pants in the aftermath.

“I’m more of a coffee man,” Adam says. Ah, Thomas thinks. A true American.

“I can make you coffee. If you like.”

Adam gives him a look of mild appraisal. He has eyes a shade lighter than his hair but they’re difficult to read and Thomas shouldn’t be looking into the eyes of strange men anyway so he breaks his gaze abruptly. “If you don’t mind,” Adam says.

Thomas excuses himself a second time to disappear into the kitchen upstairs.

Thomas lives in the loft above the bookshop, a cliché to end all clichés. His uncle has a house in the outskirts of town, with a lush garden and several spare rooms, but it always terrified him, the thought of living alone in such a seemingly infinite space as if he were a country governess in a gothic novel haunted by the unrestful spirits of his ancestors. Mostly, he hates being alone and living in cramped quarters lends the feeling of not-quite aloneness. Living in town means living with the noise of people and foot traffic which although pales in comparison to the city’s, reminds him enough of his days in London.

It’s not the same living conditions as he’s accustomed to: a sagging double bed tucked under the eaves and dingy yellowing wallpaper shadowed with the ghosts of posters past. There’s a kitchenette, a bath, a profusion of unhelpfully shaped cupboards which he uses to store new books. Six months ago he brought a reading chair upstairs and parked it next to the window so he could watch his patch of street outside and the comings and goings of everyone that passed his shop. He saw it all.

The kettle whistles and he finishes pouring the coffee. “Up here,” he calls, leaning over the banister to peer down at Adam who’s sat on the countertop and invested in twirling a complimentary Windermere postcard in his hands. He follows Thomas up the stairs, stopping abruptly to survey the room. The loft isn’t made to fit more than two people. Adam can cross it in several strides but it’s clean enough and cozy, outfitted with soft rugs.

“Fuck, wow,” he says. “Nice little setup you have here.”

Thomas doesn’t know if he’s being sarcastic but he accepts the compliment anyway.

“Sorry about the… smell. And the books.” Thomas clears a spot at the breakfast nook and invites Adam to sit. He realizes he hasn’t had anyone up here since he started running the shop. Well, except maybe for Stensland, but he mostly comes up to raid the fridge and nap during his shift.

“No it’s, it’s really cool,” Adam says. He glances around: the flypaper on the wall, the window fringed with succulents, the bed in the corner with mismatched quilts, and then back to Thomas again, his gaze lingering a beat too long.

Thomas flushes. His fair colouring makes him red down to his throat.

They sit at the table, knees bumping. There’s hardly any room but the same could be said for the loft itself. Thomas has laid out a plate of scones which he reheated in the microwave but they’re still as good as they had been this morning. The bakery that sells them makes them fresh every day.

Adam starts stuffing one in his mouth and eating with his mouth half-open. Thomas supposes no one can be perfect and discreetly flicks crumbs off his lap.

“How are the books?” Thomas ventures.

“I have a confession to make,” Adam interrupts him.

“Please don’t tell me you’re a serial killer and I’ve made the mistake of inviting you to my home,” Thomas says in a rush. Perhaps he’s been alone too long because Adam just stares at him for a long time before blinking.

“What?” he says, sounding mystified. “No, what? Do I look like a serial killer to you? I was gonna say I was a comp lit major in college but I didn’t do anything with it and I haven’t finished a book ever since I flunked out. No book ever resonated with me, but movies. I love movies. I’m more…into visual arts, you know what I mean? What’s the last movie you’ve seen?”

Thomas shrugs. “Forrest Gump?”

“Seriously?”

“It was on telly the other day.”

“Fuckin’ Forrest Gump?” Adam lets out a guffaw though he sobers up just as quickly when he sees that Thomas is not impressed. “I’m an actor,” he settles on.

Which explains why he looks so familiar, Thomas thinks. “Have you been in anything I’ve seen?”

“You know you’re the first one to ever ask me that in a while but to answer your question, no, probably not. I mean I’m not exactly Tom Hanks. I don’t make those kinds of movies.”

“What do you mean those kinds of movies?” Thomas says, genuinely curious. “The kind that gets awards?”

Adam gives him a wry smile. “Sure.”

“Well, at least you’re not in pornography,” Thomas says. “Or are you? Not that there’s anything wrong is that.”

Adam laughs again, giving Thomas a look that seems to vacillate somewhere between open amusement and utter disbelief. His smile could thaw snow drifts and cut glass at the same. It makes him seem dangerous but also like the kind of person who would help you change your tires in the middle of a deserted highway. “You think I could do porn?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested in Thomas’ answer.

“Well, you’re a strapping young man,” Thomas replies. And it’s true: underneath those clothes he’s probably a specimen. He works out; that much is clear to any impartial observer. Which Thomas happen to be. Completely impartial, in fact.

“You sound like an old person. ‘Strapping young man’? We’re the same fucking age, I bet.”

“I’m thirty-four,” Thomas sighs.

“Two years older then,” Adam hums. Then he picks up a book sitting on the kitchen counter. It’s the new one from Nora Roberts, rather dry and depressing, set in Turkey. “You’ve read this? All these books?” He gestures to the room at large, all the corners bursting with books. Thomas shakes his head and launches into a very long and involving story of how he’d ended up with more books than he knows what to do with, starting from the very first day he’d set up shop two years ago. It began with that first book which he’d purchased on the way to Windermere and read on the train there. There are brighter points in the story, emphasized by Thomas’ wild gesticulation, but mostly he rattles off the titles of all the books he’s bought since, like it’s a spelling contest where speed actually counts.

When he finishes, the rain outside has thinned to a drizzle and Adam has eaten all the scones, drunk all the coffee. The atmosphere is slow and settled. Adam’s half smile shows a hint of front teeth when he helps Thomas clear the table.

As Thomas is ushering him out, Adam’s phone vibrates in his pocket. He checks his messages and darts Thomas an apologetic look.

“Well, I guess that’s my cue to leave,” he says, sounding sheepish. It’s already late, judging by the grey haze outside softening the murk on the windows. “Thank you for the coffee, and the scones. And the uh life story I guess. I feel like I’ve gotten to know you really well.”

Thomas groans. “Oh  god. I talk too much don’t I?”

“A bit,” Adam admits. “Okay, you talk so fucking much but the accent makes it bearable, makes it kind of sweet.”

“Right,” Thomas says, trying to remember the last time he’d been called sweet. He has a memory of his mother back in primary school, sending him to class wearing a red bowtie and matching jacket. She died when he was eleven. Car accident, the usual story. Afterwards, he lived with various relatives, first in Cardiff, then in Berkshire where he spent most of his young life before moving to London at age twenty-one to try his luck. He got a job at Harrods after working six months as a telemarketer.  

Adam shrugs into his jacket, the same one from a week ago when he’d bought all those books. Thomas hands him his umbrella which he’d left drying by the door, a puddle now seeping into the soft rot of the floor.

Adam nods once he’s all sorted. “I guess I’ll see you.”

“I suppose,” Thomas says, though these words mean nothing and he keeps twisting his fingers into nervous pretzels.

Neither of them moves.

Finally, Adam blinks. “Do you have a business card? With your number on it and your address? Not your personal number or address, I’m not a freak, but the shop’s. It’s my last day in Windermere. I’m flying back to New York tomorrow and in case I find myself in your neck of the woods again, I want to make sure I have the right place. I have zero sense of direction. I’ll need a map to get anywhere. You’d think being a New Yorker I’d have better geographic sense but I spent most of my adult life drunk on booze so my memory is kind of fucked up.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want you getting lost now do we,” Thomas says, as he hastily scribbles his number and address on the back of a receipt of a kebab place. His hand shakes. Business and personal information are practically interchangeable; after all he lives above the shop and his name hangs on a sign right outside it.

“We can’t afford a business card but I suppose that will have to do. Unless you want me to write you a map as well. In which case I wonder if I might interest you in a little travel pamphlet written by a lifelong local…”

“You wrote your name,” Adam points out, perusing the bottom of the receipt where Thomas had signed it. “Thomas. Thomas McGregor.”

“Force of habit,” Thomas says, forcing out a laugh. “Sorry. Anyway, do drop by whenever and don’t be a stranger.”

“Of course not. We shared such intimate life stories, how can I ever forget you?” He grins at the embarrassed look on Thomas’ face. “I’ll see you, Thomas,” he says, no less cryptic, then he’s off, and the door closes behind him with the jingle of a bell.

*

Stensland is quite the character. It’s difficult to fathom how he ever made it to his late twenties without being shivved in an alley or chased by a wild pack of dogs. He’s the worst employee Thomas has ever had the misfortune of hiring, but he’s useful in less discernible ways, more worldly. For example, he can name all the top 100 hits from the summer of 2013 backwards and forwards. He knows the names of all members of the pop band SClub 7, and he consumes more American media than is strictly healthy. Also he makes a great cup of Earl Grey and can haggle anyone including the baker.

One morning he bursts through the door armed with discount pastries and a pilfered copy of The Sun. “Thomas!” he cries, dropping everything onto the counter before shoving The Sun into Thomas’s chest, opened to a grainy photo of a familiar shopfront. “Thomas! I can’t believe you! You met Adam Sackler and you didn’t tell me? How could you?”

Thomas is confused. “Do you two know each other?”

“Well not as intimately as I like! But of course I know who he is! I don’t live under a rock! He’s only the star of every vivid sex dream I’ve ever had in the last five years, but also Detective Yorick, Captain Cobalt, and The Steely Eye.”

Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose. Sometimes Stensland speaks with no pauses or punctuation, making basic information hard to parse. Thomas suspects he learned how to communicate by watching wildlife documentaries as a child or making random noises with his mouth. “None of what you’re saying is making any sense to me. Slow down, Stensland, you’re giving me a headache.”

Stensland shakes his head at Thomas as if to say you poor pathetic sod, who knows nothing of the world and then points at the page again with a sugar-dusted finger. “You’ve made the shop famous. Look! People saw him coming here a few times and then leaving hours later. I’ve always thought you were a bit prudish but I guess you showed Adam Sackler a good time because he’s apparently talked about the shop on Graham Norton.”

Thomas finds all the blood draining from his face. “What?” he says, feeling faint. But there it is, on page 3 of The Sun under the heading ADAM SACKLER AND HIS BOOKSHOP ROMANCE? Several photos from that afternoon: of Adam walking him home in the rain, an umbrella over both their heads, of the two of them disappearing through the door of the shop, of Adam leaving hours later at sundown, alone. He knows what it looks like. But it can’t be farther from the truth.

“He mentioned the shop on Graham Norton?”

Stensland nods. “Says so in the article. Also apparently they think you’re some sort of witch, selling incense and pot along with all the books.”

A quick hop on Google pulls up a video clip of Adam on Graham Norton. It’s three minutes and forty-two seconds long, and he talks about his new movie where he’s playing an AI who mostly has his shirt off. Graham Norton asks if Adam has plans of ever coming back to the UK and Adam smiles in a calculated way before answering.

“Sure,” he says, and he’s more handsome in real life than he is under harsh studio lighting, “There’s this bookstore I’m fond of in Windermere called McGregor’s. I met the owner one time; he made me coffee and fed me like, fu[beep] scones fresh from the oven or some shit. It was all very charming and British. Very sweet. You should check it out if you haven’t.”

“This is in Windermere?” Graham Norton repeats, raising both greying eyebrows. The audience laughs while Adam looks mildly uncomfortable. “People go to die in Windermere, Adam. It’s the American equivalent of Arkansas, only posher.”

“Maybe someone with less imagination would think that,” Adam says mildly. “But I think it’s a really great place.”

The clip ends there. Stensland clicks out of the window and faces Thomas with his hands pressed to his hips.

“He should work for the local tourism board,” Thomas opines, still reeling from everything that’s happening: the realization that he’s met a famous actor and it slipped past his notice, the fact that there are photos of his family’s bookshop splashed across a tabloid read by thousands. That despite all this, he’s still sort of hoping Adam would walk through the door like he’d promised, asking for the latest Franzen.

“Tea and scones? Very British? It all sounds like a very euphemistic way of saying you gave him a blowjob then let him bend you over a desk! Three times!”

“Stensland,” Thomas says, horrified. “I didn’t have sex with him! I didn’t even know who he was, quite frankly, until today. I thought he was just an American, a tourist wanting to buy some trashy books! Is he really as famous as you say he is?”

Stensland’s expression softens, like ice cream melting in the shade. Thomas has only seen this expression once, when Stensland’s favourite couple broke up during season three of Dawson’s Creek after which he had to take a week off to recuperate even when he’d seen the episode five times.

“Oh no. You weren’t lying. You really don’t know who Adam Sackler is, do you? Poor thing.”

Stensland grabs the keyboard off the desk, typing Adam’s name into the Google search field. A dozen images and links pinwheel across the page. Stensland shows Thomas pictures, stills from movies Adam has been in. He’s worked with Liam, the lesser Hemsworth, Tom Hardy and Daniel Craig. He won an MTV award for Best Onscreen Kiss alongside a male costar whose name eludes Thomas, and he’s apparently openly bisexual.

But the real question is: “Why is his shirt always off?” And shiny with oils, Thomas doesn’t say.

“It’s a character choice.”

“He’s playing an alien in space. And in the last photo wasn’t he supposed to be playing an eccentric doctor?”

“Thomas,” Stensland sighs, as if speaking to a particularly slow child. “It’s part of his charm. He’s contractually obligated to have his shirt off in every movie.”

Thomas wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know. That seems a bit exploitative to me.”

“Hush,” Stensland says, holding up a finger, and the rest of Thomas’ afternoon is swallowed up watching clips of Adam on Youtube in between ringing up customers and re-shelving books. The experience leaves him feeling a bit strangely detached. He sees Adam in various scenarios: swimming in the ocean, locked in a sword fight, romancing a beautiful Parisian woman along the Champs-Élysées. In some of these clips he has his shirt off, in others, he’s grunting and soot-covered, wielding some sort of weapon.

Later in the day as he’s flipping the sign at the door closed, a camera flashes in front of Thomas’ face, leaving him blinking and blinking.

Sunspots dance in his vision and when he comes to seconds later, there’s a woman with very red nails standing just outside, holding a tape recorder. “Hi, I work for The Daily Mail, do you have a minute?”

*

To say that Thomas’ life changes after that is understatement. Reporters don’t arrive at his doorsteps in droves but a few drop by to visit and occasionally buy a few books in exchange for a sound bite. He says pretty much the same thing to all of them: that he sold Adam a few books, that he didn’t know who he was at the time, and that the scones Adam kept raving about had been bought from The Little Windermere Bakery which is right across town.

A few of his photos end up on The Daily Mail and Metro, all of them unflattering but one.

Stensland eats it all up.

Just as Thomas is fielding another reporter, his phone goes off in his pocket. Thomas has made it a point not to pick up calls from unknown numbers but it’s been a long day and his guard is down. He just had to explain to a journalist — six times — that he didn’t sell Adam Sackler anything illegal or dubious. But people will spin stories out of anything, it seems, especially if it’ll rake in money.

He excuses himself to a corner, leaving Stensland to answer questions. He’s more than happy to be the center of attention. Now that they have customers daily, he’s even started ironing his clothes and wearing proper footwear, not the socks and flip-flop combination he often prefers.

“Is this Thomas?”

Thomas narrows his eyes at the wall. “Who is this?” he asks, instantly suspicious. Only a few people know his personal number;  two are dead. It’s not information he gives away freely.

“It’s Adam.” A pause. “Sackler.”

“Ah,” Thomas says, and then he leaves the statement hanging because he doesn’t know what else to say. Little things leave him tongue-tied: dogs in appropriate swimwear, very hot soup, his uncle patting him on the shoulder and calling him son after Thomas had come to him confessing all his failures. He doesn’t know how this became one of them. It’s just Adam, a man he met a while ago. Then again he also happens to be one of Hollywood’s hottest rising actors, at least according to People Magazine and GQ. How is Thomas to conduct himself as if the fact doesn’t impress him in some base bourgeois way?

“Is it as bad as I keep imagining it is?” Adam asks, going right to the heart of it. “I saw the pictures on The Sun,” he explains. “My assistant showed me. Sorry I dragged you into my shit. You must hate me. Fuck, I’d hate me too. I mean I already do, I have to live with myself everyday, but fuck. Thomas?” He waits for a response.

“Yesterday, a gaggle of fans came by and waited for you, as if I was somehow hiding you under the counter,” Thomas says. This is true: Thomas ignored them for the most part and then caved and made them tea, the only polite thing to do in whatever social situation requiring the least possible interaction.

“Shit.” Adam winces but then he laughs. Laughter is always strange on the phone, because it sounds longer than it should be. But Adam’s laughter is deep and sonorous, like good whiskey, or the vibrations of a string instrument. And it cuts through Thomas like a knife, catching him off guard. These are strange times indeed.  

“I sent them away, each with a copy of The Hobbit under one arm,” Thomas tells him. “Really, you’ve brought me nothing but business.”

“Well, I guess that’s a good thing, if you’re telling the truth,” Adam says after a moment, “And Tolkien always makes for good reading though I really hated the last movie.”

“I’m surprised you know who Tolkien is,” Thomas jokes.

“Hey, I’m not as much of a Philistine as you probably think I am. I have taste; I have class. My interests are many and varied. Listen,” Adam says, and Thomas leans forward as if Adam were actually there, standing next to him and not oceans away. “I’ll be in town next week for a reshoot and I was wondering if I could. Come see you. I wanna make it up to you. It’s only a matter of time before TMZ gets a hold of you.” His voice drops to a whisper; Thomas suspects he’s hiding in a broom closet.

“You’re always welcome in my bookshop, you know,” Thomas says, confused by Adam’s sudden shyness. “And I don’t know who TMZ is, is that supposed to be rap group? Am I going to be the subject of a very explicit mildly derogatory song?” Thomas doesn’t think he can handle it, if he were. He likes his peace and quiet; he doesn’t want to be dragged out of hiding, immortalized in song.

“No,” Adam says, “What? Listen, so I can’t be seen anywhere near Windermere or my publicist will kill me but I’ll be in London staying at the Four Seasons at Park Lane under the name Evelyn Waugh. And before you’re impressed, no, I don’t know who the fuck that is but my assistant is the intellectual type; she thinks it’s really clever. We could have drinks or whatever the hell you want. Tea, I don’t know. Go on a boat ride on the Thames. You could show me around; I don’t know anyone in London who isn’t working for me in some capacity.”

“Well,” Thomas says, afterwards, fiddling with the hem of his jumper. That seems like a big commitment and he finds himself saying, “We’ll see,” which sounds breezy, promising and dismissive all at once. Safe. “If I’ve got nothing planned then I suppose maybe I can have my assistant run the shop on my behalf, take a day off…”

“Great! Perfect!” Adam says, “I’ll see you then!” he adds, and the line disconnects abruptly. That’s apparently that.

Thomas stares at his phone as if it might grow teeth any second. Then he pockets it and checks on Stensland, making sure he doesn’t show a complete stranger the tattoo on his left arsecheek.

*

London, London. It’s been two years but Thomas has yet to work up the courage to see his old neighbourhood. He goes on day trips to visit friends (Bea, just Bea) but he leaves old haunts well alone. He avoids them like the plague, prefers not to run into anyone he used to know: his manager at Harrods, the employees that used to be in his purview, Mrs Dalloway, his old neighbour with the fat cat and giant glasses like periscopes.

He tells himself it’s because he resents all of them, including London for spitting him out. But the truth is he’s ashamed of what he’s become in such a short span of time, a country bumpkin who startles easily in the midst of heavy crowds. Two years and he’d become complacent, changing shape to fit his surroundings. He’s gone soft in the interim, in more ways than one. He hates traffic with a passion, and prefers comfortable shoes over leather.

Stensland tells him he’s being ridiculous. “You’re being ridiculous,” Stensland says, pulling his jacket tighter around himself and furtively glancing around the street. He’s lived in the country for years, after a decade of living like a Nomad: Dublin, Seattle, West Virginia. He’s more well-traveled than Thomas but a lot less savvy, free of any chips on the shoulder. It’s why Thomas brought him along despite initial misgivings; he needs an anchor. Also he doesn’t trust Stensland not to burn the shop to the ground in his absence, and he’s due a trip outside Windermere anyway. And a paid vacation.

“I can’t believe he’d asked to see you,” Stensland muses as they walk down Oxford Street.

“He didn’t ask to see me, Stensland,” Thomas reminds him, because really, Adam didn’t. He just bandied the suggestion about, leaving it hovering for Thomas to snatch up. Who knew Thomas was a greedy bastard. Frankly, he doesn’t know what he’s doing at all. This seems like a terrible idea whichever way you look at it, and Thomas hates that he’s having this epiphany days after he’s paid for a twin room at a modest hotel and made plans to see Bea for dinner. He’ll only be in London for a few days but it’s unlike him to visit without having planned the trip months in advance.

Then again maybe he needs spontaneity which he finds he’s been sorely lacking ever since he changed locales and settled in the country. He steels himself for certain disappointment, however. Better safe than sorry.

“You need to calm down,” Stensland admonishes him for the third time that day after Thomas complains about a phantom stomachache, an effect of self-induced stress and overthinking. “You’re looking a bit peaky.” When Stensland rubs the pad of his thumb along the tip of his tongue and starts dabbing it across Thomas’ cheek in careless swipes, Thomas jerks violently out of reach.

“Sorry,” Stensland mutters, looking embarrassed, “My mother used to do that to me whenever I was feeling restless. Got your attention though, didn’t it? Now come on, I’m hungry for some fish and chips…”

“But we just ate!” Thomas states, staring at him, completely mystified. “I’m not made of money, you know. That last meal is coming out of your paycheck, I can’t afford another seafood buffet. Stensland, what on earth, where are you going — wait for me!”

But Stensland pays his warnings no heed. He drags Thomas around all of London until they’re too tired to walk anymore and have eaten their weight in all the artisan shops selling anything fried and remotely Mediterranean. In the afternoon, they take the tube, and fall into step with crowds that flow and converge like a wave. Thomas feels vaguely ill, clutching at his belly afterwards.

He gets the call shortly before dinner when his poor feet have been comfortably elevated and he’s halfway into a doze. Stensland is in the shower, singing something off-key, the bathroom door left ajar because he’s a paranoid bastard. The telly is a pleasant fuzz in the background, a wash of ambient noise that tugs heavily at Thomas’ eyelids. He almost doesn’t hear his phone buzz on the nightstand until Stensland points it out to him, having ambled out of the shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around his skinny waist. He’s as pale as a washboard, and narrow as a pole. Good heavens.  

“Would you please put some clothes on?” Thomas begs, shielding his eyes as he cups his phone with a free hand while he presses the other over his eyes. He answers the call without thinking. “Thomas McGregor,” he bites out with perhaps more venom than necessary.

“It’s me,” says Adam. “Adam. Sackler.”

As if Thomas doesn’t know who it is just from the timbre of voice. He hasn’t been driving himself mad wondering if he’s simply making a colossal fool of himself by agreeing to have dinner with  none other than Adam Sackler, no, not at all. But it’s just dinner anyhow: a meal between two people, nothing more, nothing less. Maybe some alcohol. He’s probably getting worked up over nothing. As usual.

“My schedule cleared up for the rest of the night. Are you busy?” Adam asks, and it feels like a long time before Thomas finally gathers the courage to speak. He clears his throat, and his response is an eloquent, “Um.”

*

There are two truths Thomas knows about himself: one is that he hates surprises, another is that he hates being kept waiting. The lobby of the Four Seasons is sleek and modern, marble flooring and glass chandeliers. Thomas could afford a room here if he were a Russian oligarch, or if he were a famous actor that made a lot of money like, say, Adam Sackler.

Adam’s assistant meets Thomas behind a row of potted ferns. A short woman, on the side of stocky, in smart heels and a crisp shirt. In comparison, Thomas feels underdressed in a comfortable jumper and a pair of pleated slacks that make him look like a professor of philosophy more than anything else, or like old pictures of his dad. Thomas has seen a few of them growing up, in photo albums and his mother’s wallet, though he can’t remember him being present for most of his childhood.

“Mr McGregor?”

Adam’s assistant has a handshake that doesn’t bely her appearance; it’s firm and purposeful and she grips Thomas’ hand hard. Her name is Sang Hee. She stares Thomas up and down and then presses a keycard discreetly onto Thomas’ palm. Apparently, it’s all very hush hush.

“He’ll be ready for you in fifteen minutes,” she says, nodding at him before striding off.

Ready for what? Thomas doesn’t know. And he doesn’t get to ask because Sang Hee leaves without explaining anything. He waits, then takes the lifts at the prescribed time, wandering down a carpeted hallway and counting the gilded numbers on all the doors until he reaches the right one. He hesitates a few times before rapping his knuckles against the wood.

The door opens with a click, and it’s Adam, barefoot and wearing only jeans. He’s painfully attractive and it makes Thomas ashamed to be standing in the same room as him, breathing the same air. But the ogling ends as soon as it begins because Adam frowns at him when he sees him standing in the hall.  

“Shit, shit, shit. It’s you.”

“Hi,” Thomas says, noting the lack of enthusiasm in Adam’s expression, his voice. He’s standing with his arms braced against the sides of the open door but Thomas can see the room behind him, in violent disarray. He seems to have company. Thomas can hear the heavy stomp of feet, someone’s voice shouting.

“Thomas,” Adam says, already sounding repentant, “I’m sorry but you came at a bad time.”

“What?”

“It’s my ex,” Adam says, minimizing the berth of the door as he steps outside. “She found out I was doing this movie, and she’s saying I lack artistic integrity, and I don’t know why she cares so fucking much when we’ve been broken up for months. And it’s… fuck, it’s complicated. You don’t need to hear this.”

“Well,” Thomas says, when the smile has all but frozen on his face. “I’m sorry to hear that. It does sound a bit…much.”

Adam shrugs. Thomas tries not to stare at his collarbones. It’s different seeing them up close, in real life, nice, a little surreal, though the effect is marred by the bad timing. Thomas feels himself stumble, blinking stupidly at the sudden draining of energy.

Adam says, “It is what it is but I’ll call you, okay?” Then he starts walking backwards into the room behind him. With one hand on the door he promises one last time, “I’ll call.” And shuts the door in Thomas’ face though he probably doesn’t mean to be so rude. The number on the door is gold plated, distorting Thomas’ reflection.

Thomas stands there in the hall for a full minute before sliding the keycard under the door. Then he leaves and goes on his way.

*

Stensland is eating a bowl of Shepherd’s pie and getting crumbs all over the bed when Thomas returns an hour later. He perks up and flashes Thomas a crazed grin as soon Thomas barrels through the doorway, sitting up quickly and revealing the fact he’s only wearing a flimsy pair of boxers along with his pyjama top. “How’d it go? And why are you back so early?”

At the dour look Thomas throws him, Stensland’s smile abruptly fades. “He was busy,” Thomas proclaims, voice muffled against the pile of pillows he’s thrown himself on top of. His feet hang off the edges of the bed and he feels immediately silly, like a child, having a pout, not a full grown adult whose secret hopes were suddenly and irreversibly dashed. Then again what was he expecting? A private invitation to Adam’s hotel room should have been suspect, his first tip off that something was amiss. Thomas is not that kind of guy.

“What do you mean busy?”says Stensland, peering over Thomas’ shoulder and poking it.

Thomas spits out a wad of fabric. “He told me he’d call me, that I came at a bad time.”

“Uh-oh.” Stensland rubs Thomas’ arm in commiseration, or he would if Thomas let him and didn’t flinch away as soon as he reached out. It’s nothing personal; any unsolicited touching just made him feel uncomfortable, threw him out of his element. Something to do with how he was raised; his family didn’t do hugs.

Stensland continues tsking. “Bullshit! He made you go through all this trouble only to bail on you. He sounds like an utter dick.”

“He’s probably just really busy,” Thomas disagrees, and feels another hot flash of disappointment that quickly morphs into dark self-satisfaction of having successfully avoided a catastrophe before it could happen. He rolls onto his back, hands folded over his stomach, drumming his fingers listlessly. “What are you watching?” He cranes his neck at the telly.

Stensland hands him a spare fork before answering. “Top Gear.” He grins as he shimmies down next to Thomas, sitting with his legs folded on the bed. In another life, they would have been the best of friends, but probably not in school where they would have hated each other. He would have hated Adam then, too: too handsome for his own good, and obnoxiously athletic.

“Shepherd’s pie?” Stensland offers, cutting him off from his ruminations. “It’s all gooey and warm.” The pie smells heavenly, flaky on the outside, still fresh.

“Where on earth did you get that?” Thomas wonders aloud, but he knows he shouldn’t be asking; Stensland is always full of surprises, sometimes delightful, other times outrageous. This time, Thomas accepts his cryptic shrug as a veritable response and helps him decimate the rest of the pie until there’s nothing but crumbs and scrapes of filling left.

They call it a night just after ten pm. Stensland is already fast asleep by the time Thomas finishes brushing his teeth and changing into his pyjamas, snoring with his mouth open on the pillow. Thomas checks his phone before he goes to bed. No messages at all, not that he’s surprised, though a part of him can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment more self-directed than anything. He shuts off the desk lamp before he can truly feel sorry for himself and lets Stensland’s waxing and waning snores lull him to sleep.

*

If there’s one thing Thomas knows about Beatrice is that she loves a good pint. She can drink anyone under the table but still be clearheaded enough afterwards to find her way back to Covent Garden with one eye closed. She swears by The Curtains Up on Comeragh Road in Hammersmith, a little too close to Thomas’ old neighbourhood but the pub is notoriously difficult to book: comfortable, elegant, with a white and red awning, quiz nights on Tuesdays and Fridays. He can’t refuse.

Thomas drags Stensland along because this is what they both have in common: a self-destructive nature and tendency to drink their problems away. Their problems may not have disappeared in the morning, but alcohol is an excellent inducer of temporary amnesia and sometimes that’s as good as it gets.

All three of them squeeze into a booth, Thomas sandwiched between.

“Thomas,” Bea is saying, disbelief writ in the lines of her mouth, “I can’t believe you’ve actually met him, and that he invited you up to his—” her voice drops to a whisper as she ducks her head, “—hotel. I think the only famous person I’ve ever met was that bloke from Big Brother and even then I wasn’t sure if it was really him in the end.”

Stensland snorts. “He’s a dick. An utter dick! And it’s been a day and he hasn’t called Thomas at all even though he promised!” He slams his drink down on the table, sloshing Aspall Cyder everywhere.

“He said he was busy!” Thomas argues though he doesn’t know why he’s defending Adam the same time he’s complaining about him. A part of him is glad to have nipped whatever that had been in the bud well before it could begin; a week before he was followed around by paparazzi on his way to the grocer’s and the post office. Days later, there were more pictures of him on The Sun, as if his daily chores were somehow of interest to the reading public. He’s thankful his uncle doesn’t read the drivel, more inclined to The Economist and The Daily Telegraph. Otherwise he’d probably have a few questions. Thomas doesn’t need that kind of complication in his life. He’s happy, in some ways, with his new life, left alone to brood in peace.

“Forget about him, Thomas,” Bea tells him, raising her glass. “There’s plenty of other fish in the sea!”

Thomas’ upper lip twitches, a valiant effort not to pout or frown or do something with his mouth that may bely his true sentiment on the matter. “What’s there to forget?” he says, “I barely even knew the man. Good riddance, I say! I’m better off!”

“I guess I’ll delete those pictures of him now from my computer,” Stensland muses, “You know, in fealty of my employer/friend. An entire hard drive’s worth.”

Bea raises her eyebrows. “What.”

“I’m joking. But he’s a really good actor. Until he made those movies.” Stensland sighs, his expression turning from disgusted to dreamy in a heartbeat. “The ones with his shirt off.”

“Can we please, please talk about something else?” Thomas begs, fighting the urge to grab at his hair, or throw himself in front of a passing car. “Are we not here to catch up?”

“You two are here to catch up, I never even met Bea before today, and I’m only here for free drinks,” Stensland points out unhelpfully.

Thomas ignores him, then glances up when Bea pats the back of his hand, his responses slowed down by alcohol that he fails to shrug off her grasp until too late. More quietly, she says, “Are you all right though? I mean barring that incident with He Who Shall Not Be Named—”

“You can call him by the name, you know. He’s not Voldemort.” Thomas rolls his eyes. He’s starting to hate how Stensland and Bea seem to be under the assumption that he’s just got his heart broken when nothing of the sort happened, and he didn’t even like Adam all that much anyway. What truly bothers him is the fact he’d made a trip out of seeing him: that’s money spent that could very well have been saved and all that effort gone to waste. But at least he got to see Bea again. They haven’t seen each other in six months.

“All right,” Bea nods, giving Thomas her best sad-eyed baby doe look. “How’s the shop, then? How’s your uncle? You know I’ve been meaning to visit but with right now I’m swamped with — work. But we’re still on for dinner tomorrow night, aren’t we? You can bring Stensland along.”

Sometimes, Thomas marvels over how lucky he is to have a friend like Bea in his life. Admittedly, he’s not the most pleasant person to deal with, with a list of neuroses longer than his arm, but for some reason or another she’d stuck around ever since that day they had bumped into each other at the Farmers’ Market in Marylborne and fought over the last of the gouda cheese.

If he liked women as much as he liked men, Thomas would have probably dated her, married her, began a life with her. But just like him, Bea has awful taste in men and is never in a relationship long enough to develop any true romantic feelings, another thing they have in common. She prized her art above all. Some of it, the ones of anthropomorphized rabbits, is actually good.

“You know I won’t miss it for the world,” Thomas says, giving Bea a genuine smile that she returns with a clink of their glasses.

They get drunk on vodka and horrible whiskey before the night is over, and stumble out in single file before Stensland has them thrown out of the pub with all the racket he’s making. Apparently he has a tendency to cry when he’s three sheets to the wind. Thomas, meanwhile, is a blank slate, completely silent. He feels like he’s watching everything from a distance, far removed from it all like an impartial observer. Which is why when his phone rings in his pocket, he lets Bea pick up the call for him, frowning and shaking her head when she see who it’s from.

“Hello?” she says, losing all volume control, finger plugged into one ear. “No, this isn’t Thomas. And no, you can’t speak to him right now. I know who you are, yes, yes, I’m not an idiot! He’s busy. He’s a busy man! I can’t tell you what he’s busy with, that’s an invasion of privacy. No, you’re being difficult. Sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong number. You’re cutting in and out. What? I can’t hear you. Oops!” She hangs up the call.

Thomas blinks at her, looking up from where he’s watching Stensland hug a streetlamp.

“Who was that?” Thomas asks, a bland smile on his face as Bea slips his phone back into the pocket of his coat. She smiles and pats him good-naturedly on the cheek, and he allows the touch because he’s otherwise too tired and drunk to protest.

“Oh, just your plumber,” Bea says, laughing. She takes a taxi home. Thomas watches the taxi put onto the street before flagging one for himself and Stensland. It’s been quite the day. Miraculously, they make it back to the hotel with time to spare before midnight, kicking their shoes and clothes off before flopping down onto the covers, belly-first. Stensland is the first one out, but that’s hardly a surprise.

The next day finds Thomas groaning awake, telling himself he has to make better life choices. It takes him ten minutes to drag himself out of bed and realize that he’d fallen asleep last night with his pants tugged halfway down his knees, causing him to stumble and knock his chin on the floor. Perfect. On the bed next to his own, Stensland sleeps soundly, in a more chaotic state, with one hole-ridden sock still on and his arse cheek hanging out of boxers.

Thomas sighs and throws a blanket over him, then spends nearly half an hour in the shower until his skin is pink from the hot water and he feels halfway alive. He takes two aspirin for his hangover and is folding his laundry to pack in his carry-on when his phone slips out the pocket of his coat. He picks it up and checks his messages: twenty-two missed calls and at least a dozen texts — all from Adam, one from Adam’s assistant,  Sang Hee. He reads them in chronological order:

-HEY DID U LOSE YOUR PHONE? SOME1 ELSE PICKED UP

-THOMAS

-R U STILL IN LONDN? HOPING TO CATCH U

BEFORE I LEAVE FOR NY ON FRIDAY

-THOMAS

- SORRY ABOUT THE OTHER DAY, REALLY WANTED TO SEE U  

BUT MY CRAZY EX FOUND OUT WHERE I WAS STAYING & GAVE ME SHIT FOR

DOING A MOVIE FOR “MONEY” U SHOULDN’T HAVE TO DEAL WITH THAT

-thomas

Thomas wonders if he should respond, but less than a second later the choice is taken out of his hands when the screen starts flashing. An incoming call from Adam, as if summoned by the static waves of Thomas’ uncertainty. In a fit of mild panic, he ends up answering the call.

“Thomas?” Adam sounds relieved. “I thought — never mind what I thought. Are you pissed at me?”

Always cutting straight to the chase, this one. Thomas presses the heel of his hand between his eyes. The aspirin has yet to kick in, and he needs caffeine badly. “I’m not angry at you,” he replies evenly.“Why would I be?”

“Well, for starters if it wasn’t for me your pictures wouldn’t be all over the British tabloids,” Adam says, “And I kicked you out the other day when I invited you to my hotel. I’d be pissed at me too; I’d be livid. So: sorry. I’m sorry.”

As far as apologies go it seems genuine though that could also mean he’s just one hell of a good actor. Still, it’s too early for Thomas to pick up apart the nuances in his tone, so he settles for a simple, “Apology accepted.”

Adam sputters. “What?”

“What do you mean what?”

“That’s it? ‘Apology accepted’?” Adam sounds incredulous, and maybe he has the right to be: Thomas’ acceptance of his apology may as well have sounded far too much like a dismissal.

“It’s really quite all right,” Thomas assures him, only half-lying, feeling awkward trying to quell Adam’s doubts. “You had… business to iron out. And I was just visiting. Bad timing can’t be helped. Perhaps another time, when we’re both less caught up in other commitments. We can make plans then.”

The way he says it sounds so abstract, like the opportunity is never going to materialize, which is just the effect he wants. He’ll leave things open; there’s less disappointment that way. Less involvement.

“At least let me make it up to you,” Adam says, and he sounds like he’s pacing the room, his voice warping with static as Thomas listens to him breathe, stomp, and move around vaguely over the phone while Thomas  himself remains seated and completely rooted to one spot. He’s never met someone so alive, someone with so much vim and verve it’s any wonder how Adam’s personality doesn’t burst through his skin.

“I’m not a complete asshole. Or at least, I’m not anymore,” Adam tries. “I’d like to think I’m not anymore. I’ve reformed. I’m a reformed asshole.”

“You really think you could charm everyone don’t you? With your — your words,” Thomas says haltingly.

“Is it working?” Thomas can almost hear the smirk distorting Adam’s voice. He’s a cocky bastard, a trait that would be a character flaw in anyone else except him. It should be infuriating and yet. Thomas sighs, giving up. It’s too early for this. He’s not awake or caffeinated enough.

“There’s this cafe on Shepherd’s Bush that makes the best fry-ups,” Thomas begins, in lieu of answering Adam’s question. “I’ll meet you there at half-past nine.”

“Bossy,” Adam notes with a short laugh, “I like that. Are you sure you don’t want me to send a car for you?”

Thomas refuses to be any more of a cliché than he currently is and says as much. “I can take the tube from my hotel, thank you,” he replies curtly.

“Where are you staying anyway?” Adam asks, trying his best to be subtle and failing like an elephant on roller skates. “I could put you up somewhere better, somewhere with an actual view instead of—”

“Good day, Mr Sackler,” Thomas says pleasantly and hangs up the phone.

The Liz Café doesn’t make the best fry-ups in all of West London, that is a complete and utter lie, but it’s home to Thomas in a way that the posh restaurants in Kensington have never been; nothing in Chelsea or Bloomsbury could ever compare. The menu at St. Luke’s Kitchen is a close second but only because Thomas can’t resist a good croissant.

The outdoor seating at the Liz Café is always overrun with smokers but inside it’s beautiful lit and cozy, with just enough room to elbow the next guest. Everything on the breakfast menu is below £7. The toast is plentiful, the coffee strong enough to knock out a horse, the grease flowing. The servers are friendly which is more than what Thomas can say for some of the more upscale establishments in Soho.

Thomas looks up from a copy of Horse & Hound that someone had left on a nearby table when a shadow looms over him. He lifts both eyebrows, though before he can say Adam’s name, Adam presses a finger to his own lips and shushes him. Then he plants himself on the squeaky chair across from Thomas, shrugging out of his coat.

Thomas stares at him. The intent is to probably look innocuous but it succeeds in doing the exact opposite. Adam’s in an all-black ensemble, a black coat and turtleneck, a black beanie, designer sunglasses, also black. Thomas resists the urge to check under the table though he has a nagging suspicion Adam’s footwear is not exempt from this rule. He looks like he’s about to rob a bank.

“I had my driver drop me off three blocks from here and then take two detours, in case anyone followed me,” Adam says by way of greeting. He picks up the menu card and starts perusing his options, flipping it back to front and then back again. Thomas can feel his knee bob under the table; he’ll make a note of this later but for now he’s still staring.

Adam looks ridiculous. He looks good, he’ll probably look good wearing nothing but a sack, but he looks ridiculous nonetheless. Thomas shakes his head.

“Well, better late than never, I suppose,” Thomas says, after a moment. “On the bright side, you didn’t get lost which should count as a win.”

“I hope you didn’t have to wait very long,” Adam says, even though it’s half past ten already, an hour after they’d agreed to meet, and Thomas’ Earl Grey has gone very cold. “I’ll pay for breakfast. I’ll even pay for your Uber. God, you must be sick of me by now. I don’t think I ever run out of excuses. Anyway. Hi.” He leans back in his seat, making it creak on its hind legs, then glances around to check if anyone is watching them.

They’re in the furthest corner of the room; Thomas had picked the spot specifically so nobody would bother them. It’s not within direct eyeline of the door, hidden from view by an open-display fridge. Adam hunches forward, propping his arms on the table and lowering his head. He glances up at Thomas through a curtain of hair, unfairly emotive with his eyes.

Thomas has to look away before he does something embarrassing like wax poetic about the depth of his eyes shining like black moonless pools. He fiddles with the hem of his cardigan instead. He’s worn jeans today and looks a little less like a fussy librarian.

“I like it here,” he finds himself saying, beginning a story that spirals out of him without his permission, “I lived in the area years ago and I would come here every other day or when I was hungover and had a hankering for haggis. And the smell of bread takes me back.”

“You were a baker?”

“Don’t be daft,” Thomas cuts him with a look. “There are just smells I associate with my youth, bread being one of them.”

“You talk like you’re sixty or something,” Adam observes. “Like you’re this old fucking soul who’s lived a rich past life.”

“I like to think I’m just highly evolved,” Thomas says.

“Likely,” Adam agrees. “It’s what makes you so intimidating.”

Before Thomas can press him about that Adam barrels on, “Is it true what you said in that article in The Sun? That you had no fucking idea who I was when you met me? I thought it was pretty weird, you know, when you didn’t seem all that impressed when I told you who I was. Most people are.” He says that with such a straight face Thomas wonders if he’s joking.

“It’s nothing personal,” Thomas says. “I’m just, ah, rather difficult to impress.”

Adam’s smile is wide, but this time it creases his eyes, shows his teeth. “I’m starting to see that,” he says. He lifts the menu card. “Should we order?”

“Yes please,” Thomas says. “I’m starving.”

Adam laughs.

*

Brunch is not as terrible as Thomas had been anticipating. Adam doesn’t go easy on the charm, keeps trying to make him laugh by astute observations of their surroundings, keeps bumping his knee against Thomas’ under the table or at least keeps attempting to if not for Thomas’ smooth deflections. It all feels very strange and surreal all due to the fact it feels deceptively normal. Thomas isn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Paparazzi maybe or being hounded by Adam’s fans. But no one bothers them all throughout their meal or takes their picture and when it’s time to pay the bill, Adam offers to cover it and leaves a hefty check that has Thomas’ eyes growing wide as saucers.

“Oh,” Thomas says, a little more than winded.

“I was a server once in a shitty Italian restaurant in Brooklyn,” Adam tells him, a glitter of amusement in his eye. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t always rolling in money.” Then he winks and climbs to his feet. They fall into step with each other outside where the weather is clear and crisp for the first time in days, with a sky absent of the promise of rain. Pedestrians pass them by headed opposite directions; none give them a second glance. Maybe Adam’s little disguise is effective after all. Thomas should give him a little credit.

“Well,” Adam grins, hands folded behind his head. The action pulls his shirt up a little, revealing a patch of toned stomach. Thomas swallows.

“I had a great old time,” Adam begins.

“Lovely,” Thomas echoes and pivots his gaze back to Adam’s face. It seems like he’s caught Thomas staring because his grin doesn’t falter in the least.

“Are you free for dinner tonight?” Adam asks abruptly.

“What?”

“I’d like to have you for dinner if that’s okay,” Adam says. “I mean, with you. With you. Dinner with you.”

Thomas stares at him. And stares and stares. Brunch he can understand but now Adam wants to have dinner too? Will wonders never cease?

“Normally that constitutes a meal, some conversation. Maybe drinks afterwards except I’m banned from drinks now as I’m a recovering alcoholic…” Adam trails off.

“No, no, I know what you mean.” Thomas rolls his eyes. Then his train of thought is derailed once he’s hit with the sudden realization that Bea’s dinner is tonight. She makes the best Yorkshire pudding. “I can’t tonight. I promised my friend I’d come over for dinner.”

Adam nods though it’s clear from his expression that he’s trying to quell his disappointment. Thomas will have to examine why but that’s for a later time.

“Right, yeah, no problem,” Adam says. “Maybe some other time then.”

“Yes, well, some other time,” Thomas nods back.

Adam turns to go. He’s halfway down the street when Thomas jogs after him, propelled into action by some unseen impulse, the same impulse perhaps that once encouraged him to thrash a ten foot teddy bear and decimate an entire room’s worth of toys. “Adam,” he calls, “Adam!” He knows he’s going to regret this.

Adam turns, stares at Thomas in confusion, Thomas who is huffing and in the midst of what can very well be considered an asthma attack from what is simply light exercise. “You all right?” He looks concerned.

“Yes, just a little short of breath, I think. Do give me a moment.” Thomas straightens and smooths out his hair once his breath has settled. He’s worked up a sweat too but that’s to be expected of a sedentary lifestyle. The most exercise he gets these days is the short walk from the bookshop to the deli or the bakery, and then back. Sometimes he likes to spice it up and walks all the way to the pharmacy but that’s hardly here nor there. “You can come to dinner if you like. If you don’t mind burnt roast beef but the best Yorkshire pudding you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

Adam looks at him thoughtfully. “Burn roast beef? You drive a hard bargain Thomas McGregor,” he says. Then he  grins.

Thomas keeps an eye on the roast beef while Bea regales him with stories of her many aborted attempts to quit her copyediting job to focus on her art full time. She’s getting progressively tipsy on rosé, she’s started to gesticulate wildly, but the pies are looking lovely sitting on the counter cooling and Thomas knows how to hide the alcohol should she reach for it one more time. The doorbell cuts Bea off mid-rant, halting her from knocking Stensland in the face with a wayward arm.

The chime goes off three times before Stensland puts the potato peeler down and promises to get it, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Hold on! I’m coming, I’m coming! Keep your trousers on,” he grumbles. “Are we expecting anyone?”

Bea shrugs, lobbing Thomas a worried look. “I don’t know. Are we?”

“Thomas it’s for you!” Stensland calls from the door.

It’s Sang Hee, Adam’s assistant.

“I hope you like cake,” she says, handing Thomas a box emblazoned with the famous Cutter & Squidge logo. “Mr Sackler can’t come tonight, I’m afraid. But he does sends his apologies. He’s a very busy man.”

“I’m sure,” Thomas says.

[misscrawfords]

Sparkling like granite?

So ITV is making a new adaptation of Pride and Prejudice which is going bring out its “darker tones”.

Here are my thoughts at considerable length (which nobody asked for) about this adaptation (which nobody asked for).

My initial response was mixed. On the one hand, I’m actually not averse to a new adaptation of P&P. Sure, it’s over-adapted and there are lots of novels which deserve a multi-part adaptation more than P&P. (Mansfield Park? The novels of Fanny Burney, Maria Edgeworth, Walter Scott?)  However, P&P is one of the world’s most popular novels and there hasn’t been a straight TV adaptation of it in over 20 years. Adaptations of P&P often say as much about the time in which they are made as they do about the source material and a good adaptation, even if one doesn’t necessarily agree with the choices made, can make you see the book in a new light and provoke discussion. I’m not averse to that.

So there’s that response of muted interest. That warred with deep misgivings about the “darker tones” of Austen’s “adult” novel which is “much less bonnet-y” in an adaptation by someone who has apparently never watched an adaptation of the book, despite loving it. Really? Has she been living under a rock? P&P is so much part of popular culture that it seems impossible to adapt it in a way that does not pay homage consciously or subconsciously to previous adaptations. Can one avoid a “post-modern moment” as Lost in Austen so delightfully made explicit? I’m deeply sceptical. (Does one even want to? Intertextuality can add so much... but that’s a discussion for another day.) Anyway, back to the “darker tones”. My instinct is to say that this seems terribly wrong. Of all Austen novels, P&P is the most light-hearted, the most sparkling, the most comforting. Why oh why, would you want to mess with that? For goodness sake, let us have our romantic comedies and laugh out loud satire and implausible happy endings! Why must everything be marred with the brush of making things grim and dark and equating that grimness with gritty reality? Reality may be sometimes grim and dark but it is also sometimes hilarious and warm and full of love. Why must the former be prioritised? I have a massive problem with reinterpreting texts to “make them dark” as if that is a naturally good thing. But that’s probably also a discussion for another day.

So, mixed feelings. But naturally the purists are up in arms about this idea (and a part of me certainly wants to join them) and that makes me desperately inclined to take a second look and examine the possibilities of this adaptation and some of the potentially intriguing things the writer has said. 

“Darker tones”

Okay, so firstly what does this mean? Does P&P even have darker tones? Surely you have to squint? Weeeeeell, yes and no. It’s a mistake to assume Austen never wrote about the nastier aspects of human nature and experience. The more obvious examples (leaving out Mansfield Park’s troubled potential references to the slave trade) are the fate of Colonel Brandon’s ward, Eliza; the decline of Mrs. Smith; the condition of the Prices in Portsmouth; the fate of Maria Rushworth; General Tilney’s treatment of his wife - and of course Wickham’s role in P&P. Just because Austen doesn’t write rape, seduction, abuse, death etc. explicitly on the page and just because her novels end (mostly) happily doesn’t mean she lives in a fantasy world untouched by these things.

Let’s look at Wickham. He attempted to seduce a vulnerable 15 year old girl who knew him and trusted him and used a woman in a position of authority to her to gain access to her. To use modern terminology, how long, one wonders, had he been grooming Georgiana? The elopement was prevented but only just. And while Darcy clearly thinks his sister’s reputation is intact (and her virtue), is it? Could Wickham have persuaded Georgiana to sleep with him before the elopement? I don’t personally think so - I think she would have somehow told Darcy if that had happened - but it is a possible and interesting idea, even if I don’t know where you would go with that except to show what an awful person Wickham is... which we know.

Wickham then successfully elopes with another 15 year old girl in a vulnerable position away from her family a year later - this is looking like a pattern of a rather unhealthy interest in underage girls (again to use modern theory, which is dangerous as an interpretation but sometimes useful). He’s the same age as Darcy after all - 28. Not an unheard of age gap in those days but still creepy considering the vulnerable positions of the girls in question. Lydia is ruined and by proxy, so are her sister’s chances. Wickham causes a LOT of problems by this one act. And all to get revenge on Darcy for refusing to give him money after he spent all his.

There is, moreover, the Meryton gossip: “He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman’s family.”

Is this true? Has he been seducing (raping?) respectable girls in Meryton? Who knows! This is the wisdom of Mrs. Phillips after all. But they are talking about it openly in the text, there is rarely smoke without fire and it would hardly be out of character.

Is this sufficiently dark? It’s certainly not exactly a riotous comedy. Pride and Prejudice from the point of view of a Meryton tradesman’s daughter who loses her virtue and her father his money would be a very different novel. Georgiana’s history bears close examination. As with Eleanor Tilney’s story in Northanger Abbey, a real Gothic tale right under Catherine’s nose which she doesn’t even notice, there’s something pretty horrible going on in P&P if you care to look. 

Perhaps this is what the writer Raine means by “actually a very adult book”.

What else could that refer to? (Because I give her sufficient credit to assume she’s not going to add in random pornographic scenes for the sake of it. Honestly.)

Jane Bennet. Jane is basically depressed for the duration of the novel. Elizabeth constantly worries over her low-spirits and concern for her affects her own happiness. In fact, Elizabeth herself is miserable for a lot of the novel. She goes on a journey of self-discovery but that comes at a cost. She is affected by Charlotte’s marriage, Jane’s disappointment, her own disappointment in Wickham, the effect of reading Darcy’s letter, Lydia’s elopement and finally realising she loves Darcy and will never have him. That’s a lot to throw at even the most resilient, good-humoured and optimistic person. Just because Lizzy loves to laugh doesn’t mean she is not unhappy in some way or other for a lot of the novel. For example:

After disappointment re Bingley and Wickham: 

“Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all.”

“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.”

(I am always struck by the great bitterness in Elizabeth’s humour in that scene. It’s often overlooked IMO.)

After reading Darcy’s letter: 

...it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.

The only other use of the word “depressed” in the novel also applies to Elizabeth.

When Lydia has returned with Wickham:

Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining parlour.

You’ve got to be pretty much at the end of your tether to run out of the room at the age of 20 because you cannot bear to hear your sister talking any more.

Elizabeth is not happy. Jane is not happy. Mrs. Bennet is certainly not happy. Sure, it’s a comedy and Elizabeth has the delightful ability to laugh at herself and others and Jane tries very hard to overcome low spirits and always sees the best and Mrs. Bennet absolutely must be a caricature or else the humour is lost and everything becomes terribly heavy and not like the novel at all, but we feel triumphant with Elizabeth at the end precisely because she has actually suffered so much along the way in very human ways - romantic disappointment, losing a friend to a lifestyle choice she can’t understand, family troubles... These are not the things of epic but that doesn’t make them unimportant. The Lizzie Bennet Diaries conveys this aspect of the characters so well without losing the comedy. It is possible. Certainly I don’t think any other period adaptation has succeeded so well and I would love to see an adaptation that does. It’s not graphic sex, but I would describe this as in the realm of adult themes.

“Much less bonnet-y”

Okay, I don’t really know what this means. I suspect it’s a dig at the period dramas of the 1980s and 90s with beautiful aesthetics and no dirt and everyone speaking very properly. I thought we got the reaction to that overwith in the 00s and I really don’t want more sackcloths and pigs in the corridors, please. Ladies in that period wore bonnets. Get over it. This strikes me as the most provocative statement in all the things that were said, but it is also largely meaningless without more context. Productions like Poldark and Victoria have made an effort with costumes and sets so I don’t see why this would skimp on them. Will it be set in the 1790s this time with more of a rompish Georgian feel than a neo-classical Regency tone? Time only will tell!

"I hope I do justice to Austen’s dark intelligence – sparkling, yes, but sparkling like granite.”

Now this intrigues me! This is what makes me curious and also hopeful. Because Austen pulled no punches and had a very good understanding of dark impulses and the awful ridiculousness of human behaviour - and she absolutely skewered it.

In Paragon we met Mrs. Foley and Mrs. Dowdeswell with her yellow shawl airing out, and at the bottom of Kingsdown Hill we met a gentleman in a buggy, who, on minute examination, turned out to be Dr. Hall — and Dr. Hall in such very deep mourning that either his mother, his wife, or himself must be dead.

Or

Mrs. B. and two young women were of the same party, except when Mrs. B. thought herself obliged to leave them to run round the room after her drunken husband. His avoidance, and her pursuit, with the probable intoxication of both, was an amusing scene.

Or

I give you joy of our new nephew, and hope if he ever comes to be hanged it will not be till we are too old to care about it.

Or

How horrible it is to have so many people killed! And what a blessing that one cares for none of them!

You get the point. All expressed in very nicely balanced phrases and a genteel tone and they are very amusing - but what sentiments! In short, I think Raine’s description of Austen’s wit and intelligence actually very apt. Similar things are found in P&P as in her letters. Consider Mr. Collins.

You ought certainly to forgive them, as a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing.

Ouch.

“She had better have stayed at home,” cried Elizabeth; “perhaps she meant well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too little of one’s neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied.”

A nice thing to say about your friends and neighbours...

Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”

“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not all expect Jane’s good fortune.”

“True,” said Mr. Bennet, “but it is a comfort to think that whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make the most of it.”

Such kind parental support!

Mr. Bennet’s sarcasm, Mr. Collins’ pomposity which is eventually revealed as truly cold-hearted, Elizabeth’s biting and often undeserved satire, Mrs. Bennet’s foolishness - all of these are funny and the adaptation must make them funny. The dialogue must glitter and shine or you lose the absolute light-hearted sparkling joy of the novel and everything becomes heavy. But there’s an edge to the humour, there really is. And you treat like the stereotype of Sunday night bonnets and swoonable men jumping in lakes to romantic soundtracks at your peril.

You know what, I’m willing to give someone who describes Austen as “sparkling like granite” a shot. Love and Friendship for the first time presented an Austen adaptation that took absurdity, satire and caricature as its starting point in adapting Austen and I would love to see an adaptation of P&P that did the same, with all the greater subtlety that this novel requires over several hours, considering that it is a beautiful love story as well.

Will this adaptation deliver? Who knows? And there are a lot of things to be concerned about in this endeavor. But it might be really quite interesting.

tl;dr Austen is uncomfortable funny, she has a dark side, but they can’t make the adaptation dark and grim because that misses the point.

[pathogenic]

Haydes' relationship to the other Anarchs of LA

Nines

It's one of respect for him as a leader and them as someone who is giving the Anarchs a hand, but not much beyond that. Haydes doesn't think much of Nines as she usually has other things to worry about than him. Nines doesn't wholly trust Haydes on account of her being ex-Sabbat (and then later for the Sarcophagus ordeal).

Damsel

It's a weird kind of vitriolic friendship. Damsel and Haydes largely get along, but they enjoy pushing buttons on each other to see the other one get fired up. Voted most likely to start a massive rant together. Somedays though, they really are best summarized as the image below

Skelter

Being one of the few other Anarch Gangrels, they can at least commiserate on the constant social gatherings and a lot of the bullshit that gathers having an Anarch Movement that is split between a Brujah and a Toreador movement. Haydes also has an easier time getting him than most given her Military Brat type background. Skelter later became distrustful of her after the events of Bloodlines, but isn't outright hostile to her. Just watches her a lot more closely now alongside Jack. He's not bad with them - who didn't want to see LaCroix get the axe? - but it did leave them with one hell of a mess to clean up.

Isaac Abrams

Haydes gets under Isaac's skin, to put it bluntly. Isaac does not appear to approve of the more anarchist approach to the movement that Haydes aligns themself with, and in return, Haydes simply thinks his approach to Anarch ideas is just Camarilla lite. Plus they aren't overly impressed by the state of the Hollywood Anarchs. So, they usually stay out of Hollywood and Isaac prefers to keep it that way.

Velvet Velour

Haydes, comically enough, does not enjoy being manipulated and often feels like Velvet is attempting to do just that. She also tends to think that Velvet is too soft. Given their own background, Haydes is a lot more blase about death, so they tend to find Velvet's aversion to it irksome. However, they can remain civil around Velvet if need be. The moment they can leave, though, they're out.

Ash Rivers

Simply put, I don't really see these two ever really meeting, and if they didn't, they wouldn't hate each other, but they really wouldn't like each other either. They'd give Ash a hand if he needed it, but only because he is another Anarch and nothing else.

Smiling Jack

I mean if you've been following me long enough, you know what goes here. Absolutely adores the man, adores what he does, adores seeing him in action, all of that. They don't see each other too often as their own goals often pull them in different directions, but they always keep in touch. When they do meet, it's either absolutely nothing but them catching up on what the other has been up to, or some city is about to experience true hell. Rarely is there any in between.

[the-end-of-art]

Rapid fire

Two small excerpts from two Comment pieces on attention, distraction and technology:

From Habits of Mind in an Age of Distraction by Alan Jacobs:

This passage reminds me of something the comedian Louis C.K. said a few years ago, in an appearance on Conan O'Brien's show. Louie, as his friends call him, was explaining that he doesn't want his kids to have cell phones because he wants them to be sad. And sadness comes when you are forced to be alone with your thoughts: "That's what the phones are taking away, the ability to just sit there. That's being a person."

He described a day when he was driving along as an emotionally intense Bruce Springsteen song came on the radio, and he started to feel a certain melancholy welling up in him, and his instant response to that melancholy was to want to grab his phone and text someone. "People are willing to risk taking a life and ruining their own, because they don't want to be alone for a second," he said.

But on that day when, in his car, Louie felt the melancholy welling up, he resisted the temptation to grab his phone. As the sadness grew, he had to pull over to the side of the road to weep. And after the weeping came an equally strong joy and gratitude for his life. But when we heed that impulse to grab the phone and connect with someone, we don't allow the melancholy to develop, and therefore can't receive the compensatory joy. Which leaves us, Louie says, in this situation: "You don't ever feel really sad or really happy, you just feel . . . kinda satisfied with your products. And then you die. And that's why I don't want to get phones for my kids."

FREEBASING HUMAN CONNECTION

By our immersion in that ecosystem we are radically impeded from achieving a "right understanding of ourselves" and of God's disposition toward us.

If you ask a random selection of people why we're all so distracted these days—so constantly in a state of what a researcher for Microsoft, Linda Stone, has called "continuous partial attention"—you'll get a somewhat different answer than you would have gotten thirty years ago. Then it would have been "Because we are addicted to television." Fifteen years ago it would have been, "Because we are addicted to the Internet." But now it's "Because we are addicted to our smartphones."

All of these answers are both right and wrong. They're right in one really important way: they link distraction with addiction. But they're wrong in an even more important way: we are not addicted to any of our machines. Those are just contraptions made up of silicon chips, plastic, metal, glass. None of those, even when combined into complex and sometimes beautiful devices, are things that human beings can become addicted to.

Then what are we addicted to?

In February 2016, Ben Rosen, a twenty-nine year-old writer for the massively popular website Buzzfeed, wrote a post about what he had learned about the social media service Snapchat by talking to his thirteen-year-old sister Brooke.

He got interested in this topic when he watched Brooke reply to forty snaps—that's the basic unit of Snapchat, like a tweet on Twitter—in less than a minute. So he asked her questions about how she uses, and thinks about, Snapchat. Three things emerged from that discussion.

First, for Brooke and her friends Snapchat is almost never text, it's all images, usually selfies in which they respond to one another with various facial expressions, as though they're using their faces to imitate emoticons. Second, Brooke is not unusual in being able to do forty of these in a minute. Third: When Rosen asked Brooke how often she's on Snapchat she replied, "On a day without school? There's not a time when I'm not on it. I do it while I watch Netflix, I do it at dinner, and I do it when people around me are being awkward. That app is my life."

Brooke also noted that "parents don't understand. It's about being there in the moment. Capturing that with your friends." And when her brother asked her how she could even mentally process forty snaps in less than a minute, much less respond to them, she said, "I don't really see what they send. I tap through so fast. It's rapid fire." Snapchat is a form of communication drained almost completely of content. It is pure undiluted human connection.

So there is a relationship between distraction and addiction, but we are not addicted to devices. As Brooke's Snapchat story demonstrates, we are addicted to one another, to the affirmation of our value—our very being—that comes from other human beings. We are addicted to being validated by our peers.

OUR ECOSYSTEM OF INTERRUPTION TECHNOLOGIES

If you don't believe in God, you might not think this craving for validation is a problem. But if you do believe in the God of Jesus Christ, it doesn't look good at all. As Paul the apostle asks the Galatians, "Am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? Or am I trying to please man? If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ" (1:10).

Now, to be sure, there is one sense in which we should care what people think of us. Paul tells the Romans, "give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all" (12:17). But that is in order to commend Christ to the world in all that we do and say, to avoid being a stumbling block to those who might otherwise come in through the door of faith. That's a very different thing than seeking to "please man" because you so desperately crave their validation. If you measure your personal value in the currency of your Snapchat score, then you will be profoundly averse to doing or saying anything that might lower that score or even limit its growth.

A few years ago the science-fiction writer Cory Doctorow published an essay in which he referred to "your computer's ecosystem of interruption technologies." Keep in mind that Doctorow wrote that phrase before smartphones. My iPhone's "ecosystem of interruption technologies" makes the one on my computer seem like pretty weak sauce, because the latter is on my desk or in my bag while the former is ever-present. And it's ever-present because I like it that way. I choose the device that interrupts my thinking and, as Louis C.K. observed, gives me an ever-present opportunity to escape unwanted emotions.

I am a living illustration of Technological Stockholm Syndrome: I have embraced my kidnapper. Or, to change the metaphor yet again, I have welcomed this disruptive ecosystem into my mental domicile and invited it to make a home for itself here—like those poor kids who let the Cat in the Hat in.

The church who would draw such novices has a historically new task as well.

But an awareness of the potential gravity of this situation has gradually dawned on me. I have been significantly affected by this pocket-sized disruptor, even though I had decades of formation in a different attentional environment to serve as a kind of counterweight. People like Ben Rosen's sister Brooke, the Snapchat queen, clearly don't have any of that. I wonder what her future—her future as a self, as a person—will hold.

Our "ecosystem of interruption technologies" affects our spiritual and moral lives in every aspect. By our immersion in that ecosystem we are radically impeded from achieving a "right understanding of ourselves" and of God's disposition toward us. We will not understand ourselves as sinners, or as people made in God's image, or as people spiritually endangered by wandering far from God, or as people made to live in communion with God, or as people whom God has come to a far country in order to seek and to save, if we cannot cease for a few moments from an endless procession of stimuli that shock us out of thought.

It has of course always been hard for people to come to God, to have a right knowledge of ourselves and of God's threats and promises. I don't believe it's harder to be a Christian today than it has been at any other time in history. But I think in different periods and places the common impediments are different. The threat of persecution is one kind of impediment; constant technological distraction is another. Who's to say which is worse?—even if it's obvious which is more painful. But I really do think we are in new and uniquely challenging territory in our culture today, and I don't believe that, in general, churches have been fully aware of the challenges—indeed, in many cases churches have made things worse.

In his 1996 essay "Philosophy . . . Artifacts . . . Friendship," the Catholic priest and theorist of technology Ivan Illich provides numerous insights into these challenges for the church in our age of distractions. He writes:

The novice to the sacred liturgy and to mental prayer has a historically new task. He is largely removed from those things—water, sunlight, soil, and weather—that were made to speak of God's presence. In comparison with the saints whom he tries to emulate, his search for God's presence is of a new kind.

. . Today's convert must recognize how his senses are continuously shaped by the artifacts he uses. They are charged by design with intentional symbolic loads, something previously unknown.

And remember, Illich wrote all this before the Internet. What he wrote then is even more true now: the age of television and print ads for Persil now seem a very primitive endeavour indeed. If then it could be said that "our perceptions are to a large extent technogenic," they are now almost wholly technogenic, for most of us. If Illich is right to say that "the novice to the sacred liturgy and to mental prayer has a historically new task," then that means that the church who would draw such novices has a historically new task as well.

SINNERS IN THE HANDS OF—SQUIRREL!!

And what Illich says about how we "search for God's presence" is related to how we understand and talk about and preach sin.

When George Whitefield and John Wesley were preaching sermons that created the First Great Awakening, they almost always started by trying to arouse in their hearers a conviction of sin. The typical sequence of their sermons looked like this:

1. You are a sinner, though no more, or less, of a sinner than anyone else. 2. We sinners cannot rescue ourselves. 3. But God in his grace and love has come to rescue us. 4. So we need only to accept that grace and love, in penitence, to be reconciled to God.

But I don't believe we can readily reach people today with the same sequence. The very idea that I am a sinner sends me groping for my smartphone to avoid unpleasant emotions. I think this will be especially true for the majority of North Americans whose basic default theology is what the sociologist of religion Christian Smith and his colleagues call Moralistic Therapeutic Deism. For such people an awareness of sin is going to be hard to achieve—certainly at the earlier stages of their Christian lives.

But what if we tried to tell people that by disconnecting, however temporarily, they might be able to hear God? Consider these thoughts by Rowan Williams:

The true disciple is an expectant person, always taking it for granted that there is something about to break through from the master, something about to burst through the ordinary and uncover a new light on the landscape.

And I think that living in expectancy—living in awareness, your eyes sufficiently open and your mind sufficiently both slack and attentive to see that when it happens— has a great deal to do with discipleship, indeed with discipleship as the gospels present it to us. Interesting (isn't it?) that in the gospels the disciples don't just listen, they're expected to look as well. They're people who are picking up clues all the way through.

We need to put people—those who don't yet believe, those whose belief is young, those whose lives with Christ have become attenuated in a "technogenic" environment where our thoughts are largely directed by engineers— in a position to "pick up clues."

From Learning with Your Hands by Matthew Crawford with Brian Dijkema:

BD: What you mean by a political economy of attention?

MC: A few years ago I was in a supermarket and swiped my bank card to pay for groceries. I then watched the little screen intently, waiting for its prompts. During those intervals between swiping my card, confirming the amount, and entering my PIN, I was shown advertisements. Clearly some genius realized that a person in this situation is a captive audience. The intervals themselves, which I had previously assumed were a mere artifact of the communication technology, now seemed to be something more deliberately calibrated. These haltings now served somebody's interest.

Over the last ten years a new frontier of capitalism has been opened up by our self-appointed disrupters, one where it is okay to dig up and monetize every bit of private mindshare. And very often this proceeds by the auctioning off of public space; it is made available to private interests who then install means for appropriating our attention. When you go through airport security, there are advertisements on the bottoms of the bins that you place your belongings in. Who decided to pimp them out like that? If my attention is a resource, and it is, then the only sensible way to understand this is as a transfer of wealth. It is an invisible one, but the cumulative effects are very real, and a proper topic for political reflection. Maybe for political action too.

BD: And people who want to guard their inner life are forced into themselves. It forces you to put a book in front of your face.

MC: Right, that's one of the hidden costs. What's lost is the space for sociability in our public spaces. Like you say, we're driven into ourselves with sort of an arms race between private attention technologies versus the public ones.

Of course there's another solution. If you have the means you can go to the business class lounge which in some countries like France is silent, there's just nothing. That's what makes it so incredibly luxurious. When you think about the fact that it's the marketing executives in the business lounge who are using that silence to think — to come up with their brilliant schemes which will then determine the character of the peon lounge — you begin to see this in a political light. When some people treat the minds of other people as a resource, to be harvested by mechanized means, this is not "creating wealth," as its apologists like to say. It is a transfer of wealth.

[laurellgem-blog]

When StubHub loses your Kendrick Lamar tickets... it's for the best

I love going to concerts, but I have strong feelings about paying hundreds of dollars only to watch a favorite artist on a jumbo screen, and to give you a hint, they aren’t positive ones. Frankly, I figure I’d have better sound and visual quality watching that type of thing from home, so my general rule has been that if the actual size of the performer will amount to a single pixel in my field of vision (or a conglomeration of pixels on a screen), it’s a no-go. 

I could proselytize on the incredible talent, soul, and artistry that is Kendrick Lamar, but I won’t. Suffice it to say I bought a single ticket in the nosebleeds to see the Tacoma/Seattle show of Kendrick’s DAMN. tour on August 1st, featuring Travis Scott and D.R.A.M. If that doesn’t tell you who I’m Loyal too, then I don’t know what does. 

 As I shuffle through the metal detector line outside of the Tacoma Dome, the crowd complains that traffic and accidents made us miss D.R.A.M. and most of Travis, to which someone beside me (who apparently does not share my mega-concert aversion) adds that Travis Scott is a better performer than Kendrick anyway. Having just spent my rent money to see Kendrick (at a mega-arena, no less) I strongly protest, to which he nonchalantly says “No he is. Travis is on a bird right now”. 

 Um, ok? 

Fifteen minutes later an animatronic bird of prey charioting a harnessed, blinged-out Travis Scott is hovering just feet away from my slack-jawed face. Oh wow, that dude was serious. As the music blasting through the speakers competes with the feverish screams of an entire arena, sending visceral pulses of energy through my body, my single thought is, “How did I get here?” That’s a great question, actually, because didn’t I just say I bought nosebleed seats? Let’s back up. After weeks of entering sweepstakes and radio concerts in a vain attempt to win prime Kendrick tix, I spent $220 just to be in the same arena as K-Dot. The night before the concert date, however, StubHub emailed me saying that my tickets were no longer available (cue heart sinking to floor), but not to worry, they think they found tickets I’ll like even more. 

 Understatement. Of. The. Year. 

When I enter from the balcony, I immediately scope out the floor of the stadium. I am still disbelieving that the hazy, undulating press of bodies next to the stage will be where I sit—or rather, stand. There would be no sitting. Approaching the usher guarding the entry into my section, I am reluctant to even let the ticket out of my white-knuckled clutches; its existence contains redemption for an entire life of never-winning-anything disappointment. She looks at me dubiously before scanning the ticket, then escorts me all the way to my seat. Each step is an exhalation of awe that we haven’t stopped yet, that we keep getting closer and closer until suddenly she is pushing back a gaggle of rapt high school kids who had unknowingly migrated into the realm of my aisle seat. Yes. Aisle seat. That aisle is the only thing between me and the projecting stage diagonal to me, which also serves to guarantee that not a soul can get in front me.

Meanwhile, Travis Scott is on a bird and the crowd is LIT. To my left is the likely singer of a screamo band. She is so belligerent that I conclude she is definitely “on one”. Or two. Best guess: MDMA with a side of bath salts. And, while I am vaguely afraid this aggressive short chick will eat my face, I silently applaud the absence of Effs she gives and am inspired. Bitch don’t kill my vibe and I won’t kill yours. 

The concert-enthusiast wasn’t wrong about Travis. He clearly understands performance and the power of spectacle, as any mega-show must, and he commands all of our attention. Travis signals for us to put two arms in the air from his lofty stage and then he motions that we should bounce them to the beat. Full disclosure, this is my first rap concert, and apparently they posses their own unspoken etiquette. I have a background in choreographed hip-hop, so I don’t do half-assed dance moves. I’m starting to really get into it… until I realize that no one else is on my level—not even the bath-salts-girl. Apparently this motion is universally understood in the rap community to be a casual up-and-down; it looks nothing like the jagged crumping I was doing. My bad. 

 No worries, I don’t flatter myself that anyone is focused on anything but the stage—that is until intermission. 

The lights turn on and a broad swath of fabric titled “DAMN.”cloaks the stage. Amidst a surplus of anticipation and a vacuum of stimuli, my neighbors and I transform into a crowd of possessed Furbies. We swivel our necks at odd angles to assess our surroundings; I am fascinated by what I observe. 

On the center left (my section) stand a crowd of young people who look like they saved up two paychecks working at Jamba Juice and Forever 21 in order to afford tonight. A mélange of older people, beautiful people, and their beautiful children occupy the center front section. They look like they have one thing in common: connections. My row eyeballs me like they’re wondering why my single-aisle-seat, mid-to-late twenties, industry-girl ass isn’t sitting with all the other schmucks in the center who only know “HUMBLE.” and can’t possibly tolerate the $800+ noise someone paid for them to hear without earplugs. I glance right and a girl already wearing earplugs is passing out the brightly colored status symbols like cocaine at a Hampton’s party. Great, now I’m self-conscious that I look like them…I had hurriedly exchanged my scrubs for something rap-concert-appropriate in a gas station on the way down to Tacoma, but I think I erred on the Boujee end of the “Bad and Boujee” spectrum. 

I, however, am not about to be caught dead with earplugs, and my evil side secretly hopes Kendrick calls out their half-hearted participation like he did to this VIP section in Montreal. 

Suddenly, the room goes dark and a short-film begins to play on the jumbotron. Punctuating the night’s performance, these mock-serious flicks gradually establish Kung-Fu Kenny’s (Kendrick’s alt. persona) directive to find the Glow “where the black is darkest”. The first short blinks out and the suspense becomes palpable in the dim arena. I am basking in the surreal knowledge that Kendrick is about to be five feet in front of me when a massive bang and several jets of fire burst from the stage. After returning to the skin I had momentarily jumped out of, my eyes alight on a crouched Kendrick ascending through a cloud of smoke. Needless to say, the crowd goes wild and I forget how to breathe. 

 Now THAT is how you go digital to physical on all ya’ll, ay? We were warned.

As the first refrains of the track play I lose it. It’s “DNA.”, my favorite song off the entire DAMN. Album (2017). Kendrick makes his way out to the projecting stage where he performs most of the righteously angry single. Is my face melting? I don’t care. Kendrick then migrates upstage for the rapid-fire verse of “DNA,” where he gets busy spitting bars while simultaneously dodging katas from an actual ninja. Kendrick keeps the energy high by seamlessly transitioning to “ELEMENT,” another popular track from DAMN. 

In keeping with the tour’s namesake, Kendrick primarily showcases songs off his latest album, but he also sends the crowd into convulsions by throwing it back to albums like To Pimp a Butterfly (2015) and untitled unmastered. (2016). When he performs one of the title tracks off good kid, m.A.A.d. city (2012), I could die happy. 

I have gone to many a concert, sang and danced along like no one was watching, but this is an entirely different experience. The one person that actually has the vantage to see me IS Kendrick Lamar, and I am so glad I know the words because I’m pretty sure I will probably turn to stone if he catches me slippin’. One song I only half-know, and it transports me back to that one time at Watershed I snuck to the front, touched Tim McGraw’s hand, faux-sang lyrics I did not know and proceeded to look like a gaping fish out of water. 

 At Kendrick’s show you genuinely get the sense that he is watching you, feeding off your participation. In an unforgettable moment, Kendrick cuts the music during “HUMBLE.” and extends the mic to his audience. We spout out every word to the verse and he appears thoroughly, well… humbled. He even makes an effort to include the cheaper seats by transitioning to a central B- stage where he slows the tempo down to perform “FEEL.” and “LUST” from a light strewn cell. 

Similar to Kendrick’s dynamic vocals, his performance lives on a broad spectrum that ranges from subdued to emotional to belligerent. He uses each tone strategically to achieve a masterful performance. The sheer technicality of a mega-concert like this handicaps his capacity for improvisation (which some may have enjoyed at other Kendrick concerts). Regardless, he is anything but mechanical; sweat coats his face, he occasionally loses breath and every motion he makes is electrified with intent. Sure, there is the occasional pyrotechnics and he does perform part of “PRIDE.” frozen sideways in mid-air, but Kendrick Lamar relies less on gimmicks and more on his sheer charisma and musical genius to captivate the room. Should we even be surprised? Kung-Fu Kenny is a virtuoso of his craft.

[mdye]

A human rights advocate on why Comey’s firing is disturbing.

I am no fan of recently fired FBI Director James Comey. As part of a team documenting human rights abuses in the US, I’ve seen too many examples in recent years of overreach and lack of transparency by the agency, and aggressive pursuit of greater FBI powers by Comey himself, to feel otherwise. Yet in the aftermath of his firing by a president who has shown a clear aversion to the normal checks and balances of democratic governance, the risks of an abusive and politically compromised FBI are suddenly much greater.

Every society needs effective, intelligent law enforcement to conduct criminal investigations, help bring offenders to account, and prevent abuses of power. At its best, the FBI does just that: It investigates complex cases involving violence or corruption and provides evidence for prosecutions that respect due process and the rule of law.

But it works only because it’s independent of those in power. Without that independence, it couldn’t be trusted to fairly and thoroughly hold the powerful to account, or to conduct unbiased investigations of others. Without independence, it also risks becoming a tool of those in power, to persecute opponents or disfavored groups.

Trump’s firing of Comey risks that independence. As someone who is familiar with the ways the FBI can abuse its power, I’m keenly aware of the need for checks on that power. The last thing that the FBI needs is someone in charge who answers to the president.

The FBI has made huge mistakes in the past. Comey shares part of that blame.

The FBI has a history of being used for political ends. Under its first director, J. Edgar Hoover, the FBI was a deeply politicized agency. Between 1956 and 1971 it regularly engaged in illegal operations, known collectively as Cointelpro, aimed at carrying out surveillance on, smearing, and discrediting anti-war groups and civil rights activists. The agency’s targets included the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., whom the agency had under extensive surveillance, casting him as a “threat.” The FBI even sent him letters urging him to commit suicide.

As Betty Medsger described in her book The Burglary, Cointelpro was only brought to an end after a group of private citizens broke into the FBI offices in Media, Pennsylvania, in 1971, and seized FBI files that began to expose the agency’s dirty tricks. A few years later, a Senate committee led by Sen. Frank Church also investigated the FBI’s abuses and pressed for a number of reforms — including establishing the intelligence oversight committees in the House and Senate — meant to prevent such abuses from happening again.

Since then, the FBI has never experienced a scandal of that magnitude. However, the agency has at times been implicated in abusive behavior — including under Comey’s leadership. My own organization has documented how, in the past 10 years, the agency has been involved in targeting American Muslims in abusive counterterrorism “sting operations” based on religious and ethnic identity.

In some of these cases, the FBI, working through informants, seems to have selected vulnerable individuals — children, people with mental disabilities, or poor people — and then developed a terrorist plot, persuading and sometimes pressuring the targets to participate, and providing the resources to carry it out.

By suggesting the idea of taking terrorist actions and encouraging the target to act, the agency may have created terrorists out of law-abiding people. The cases we documented in our report predated Comey’s arrival at the FBI, though he was at the Department of Justice at the time. But to our knowledge, he did not take steps to rein in these abuses once at the agency’s helm in 2013. Instead, recent reports suggest these patterns continue and may have become even more troubling.

Comey came into the FBI with a strong reputation for standing up to power in the name of respecting the Constitution: In 2004, when he was serving as acting attorney general, White House officials tried to get him to sign off on a massive warrantless surveillance program. Comey objected to a component of the program. When then-President George W. Bush then reauthorized the program anyway, Comey threatened to resign. Bush ended up backing off and the program was temporarily suspended.

Despite Comey’s principled stance on warrantless surveillance at that time, the FBI has in recent years increased its ability to access information obtained without a warrant, thanks to the vast expansion of mass intelligence surveillance by the National Security Agency and other agencies. The FBI is empowered to conduct warrantless “back door searches” of massive amounts of the data and contents of communications, including from Americans, that the National Security Agency has gathered without a warrant.

In turn, the Bureau can distribute this data to federal, state, or local law enforcement. That means there’s a risk that information obtained by the NSA might be used against defendants without their knowledge in cases that have nothing to do with counter-terrorism operations, undermining core constitutional protections for the rights to privacy and a fair trial.

Comey also made a big push to force technology companies to build a “back door” into widely used encrypted phones and chat applications. The Obama administration never threw its full weight behind the effort and it stalled in the face of opposition. But if he had gone forward with his plans to weaken encryption, they would have endangered human rights activists worldwide, as well as ordinary people and businesses who rely on encryption to protect their data from malicious actors.

There is a lot to criticize about Comey and the FBI under his leadership. But there’s even more to worry about with his firing.

My organization has spent years fighting discrimination and misconduct by law enforcement, as well as the expansion of mass surveillance. We have collected stories of how the FBI surveilled American-Muslim communities based on their ethnic and religious makeup, and in some cases entrapped people who might otherwise have had no ties to terror-related activities. Still, Trump’s firing of Comey magnifies these concerns many times over.

The furor over Comey’s firing erupted because of its apparent relation to the FBI’s ongoing investigation of whether members of Trump’s presidential campaign colluded with Russia to prevent Hillary Clinton's election. Many people view the firing as a deliberate attempt to derail those inquiries.

But Comey’s dismissal also raises serious concerns about Trump’s willingness to respect the FBI’s independence and integrity. Trump’s own admission that he called Comey to inquire whether he was under investigation, and his reference to having had multiple conversations on the topic, reveals an effort to exert political influence over the agency.

It also comes during a presidency whose rhetoric has been contemptuous of institutions and processes that are at the heart of US democracy. Trump has continually railed against the media, labeling journalists who criticize him “the enemies” of the American people. He has picked on the courts, calling a respected federal judge a “so-called judge.” And he has ignored values of equality that are central to a pluralistic, rights-based democracy.

Trump and many of his associates have repeatedly railed against immigrants, Muslims, and the Movement for Black Lives. Attorney General Jeff Sessions — who seems to have played a key role in pushing Comey out the door — is actively going after immigrants already, and talking about doubling down on a war on drugs that has already had a grossly disproportionate impact on black people, even as he seems poised to roll back civil rights protections.

The firing may already be harming the public’s trust in the system, which depends not only on following the law, but also on its behavior or culture. Whatever now happens substantively in terms of the Russia investigation, or others, Trump’s conduct — the implausible explanations, the clear linkage to his anger over the Russia file, his calls to Comey — put that delicate trust in real jeopardy.

Finally, the firing means Trump will get to nominate someone who shares his views, and who may be willing to use the tremendous power of the FBI to pursue a political or discriminatory agenda.

What will an FBI in the hands of someone who shares that agenda do? What will it do with the massive trove of intelligence surveillance information in its hands? Will it return to the persecution and dirty tricks of the Hoover days?

It’s now up to the Senate to prevent that from happening. This is not, or should not be, a partisan issue. The country’s legitimacy as a rights-respecting democracy, at home and abroad, is at stake. The rule of law is in peril. It’s up to both Democrats and Republicans in the Senate to protect it, and rebuild public trust.

Part of that means ensuring the continuation and independence of investigations into the Trump campaign. But there’s more at stake than the Russia investigations. The bigger question is whether Trump will be given the opportunity, through nominations and lack of effective oversight, to remake the FBI as an agency that is accountable only to him, rather than to the people and the Constitution.

The rule of law is not a monolith, but a product of a complex interplay of forces. It is not, in large, mature democracies, overturned at a stroke, but damaged by degrees, and we must be alert and resistant to the threat it now faces.

Maria McFarland Sánchez-Moreno is co-director of the US Program at Human Rights Watch, where she guides the organization’s work on criminal justice, drug policy, immigration, national security, and surveillance in the United States.

First Person is Vox's home for compelling, provocative narrative essays. Do you have a story to share? Read our submission guidelines, and pitch us at firstperson@vox.com.