#but we had a long extremely fruitful talk and he was so receptive

[eversncenewyork]

i’m fucked for real LMAO

[teamhook]

Emma and Killian :: Kate and Leopold CS AU for CSMM

Hello lovelies!! So I’m on a schedule and you will be getting updates for my fics. 3 per Month ;)

I want to thank @captainswanmoviemarathon and the wonderful CSMM Discord Family. My co-writer @revanmeetra87

I want to also thank @ultraluckycatnd for Beta-ing thiis thing for us.

|FFN|

|AO3|

Friday and The Weekend

Killian and David shared a guilty look. They had both behaved like children. Killian knew he had more than the other, in part due to his inebriety and the other part was jealousy of what he didn't know. Killian said goodnight to his mate and went home to ponder on his actions.

He decided he would try his best to make amends to her. So he did what he did best, put his thoughts on paper, and hoped that it would grant him redemption.

The next day, Emma woke up and got ready fast. She had to get to work and somehow fix the mess her brother and that jerk that couldn't keep his mouth shut had made.

David greeted her in the kitchen with a cup of coffee ready for her which she promptly snubbed and rushed out.

David had arranged for Emma to find the letter that Killian had dropped off earlier, but she was eager to leave the apartment. He knew they both had misbehaved and his sister was in her right to be angry at them.

He grabbed both the letter and the first fruit in the basket he could and dashed after her.

Emma had reached the street and was just about to hail a cab when she heard David's voice. "Ems! Emma, wait!"

She halted because she loved her idiot brother, and it's them against the world.

She turned to face him with her best 'you're in trouble' face.

"Before you say anything, I'm sorry. I know I fucked things up for us. I know that everything you do is for us to have a better life."

Emma stared her brother down. "I have to go clean up the mess you two made."

"Emma, I know and for whatever it's worth, I'm sorry. Here, you can't go to work on an empty stomach," David said as he handed her a papaya. "Yeah, I know that," Emma says as she looks to the street for a cab. That's when he slipped the letter into her bag. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

Emma arrived at work, waiting for the fallout of the previous night, but it never came. She was told there's a meeting with marketing, and she was the last one to arrive. She rushed into the conference room and took a seat so they could finally begin. The marketing team was going over the troubles they had come across due to the texture of the margarine. Emma peeked at her boss to see if looked angry or like the usual. She really doesn't see a change in him, but they have yet to talk. She sighed and opened her bag to pull out some papers. An envelope caught her eye and she quietly opened it.

 Dearest Emma...

I behaved as an imbecile last night, animated in part by drink, in part by your beauty, and in part by my own foolish pride and for that, I am profoundly sorry. Please accept, as a gesture of apology for my bad form, a private dinner on the rooftop tonight at 8 O'Clock.

Yours truly, Killian

 Emma felt her cheeks blush as her thoughts were interrupted by her boss.

"Emma, dear, where are we on Farmer's Bounty?" Mr. Oz asked.

Emma turned to her boss and took a deep breath. "We are good. As you know, we found our spokesperson. The response room final showed a 98 in the top two boxes. His key female descriptors were handsome, romantic, and with some write-ins of "What a babe".

Mr. Oz sullenly replied with a simple, "Great."

As they ended the meeting and everyone went back to work, Mary Margaret was waiting for her. Emma handed her assistant her bag and rushed after Walsh to say her apologies.

"Mr. Oz, I mean Walsh, I just want to apologize for what happened last night," Emma said.

"I appreciate that," he simply said.

"So are we okay?" she asks, hopeful.

"Yes, we are. Now if you would excuse me, I have to make some calls. We will talk later," Walsh said as he walked to his office.

Meanwhile, Jefferson was losing his patience at the Hospital. He just wanted to get released so he could get home and get Killian back to his time. Out of pure desperation, he thought explaining the situation to his doctor would be enough, but Dr. Hyde wasn't as receptive as he had hoped.

"I didn't jump to my death. I fell because there was no elevator," Jefferson clarified.

Dr. Hyde nodded. "And you feel it's somehow your fault?"

"Well, it stands to reason that nature would correct itself since my great-great-grandfather isn't there to invent the elevator or spawn his seed," Jefferson added matter of factly.

"Both you and the elevator would cease to exist, but clearly do," the doctor said.

Jefferson shook his head. "I can see you are a very busy man and I hate to take up your valuable time. I'm not one of those people who need your attention. Would you please just sign my release papers?"

Dr. Hyde sighed. "I'm concerned you might be a danger to yourself. State law requires that I keep you here in such cases. I'm afraid I cannot in good conscience sign your release."

Jefferson tried to open the door while balancing on crutches.

Before he could open it, the door flew open. "Dr. Hyde, is there a problem?" a lovely woman asked.

"No Priscilla, everything is fine. Could you please assist Jefferson back to his room and ensure this prescription is filled?" Dr. Hyde said to his nurse.

"Jefferson, I'm going to prescribe a mild antipsychotic. Nothing too strong."

Wandering around in circles in Game of Thorns, David looked over his notes, nerves getting worse with each lap.

"Mary Margaret, did you want - no, Mary Margaret, would you like...uggh…"

He was never going to convince her to go on a date if he tried mumbling and bumbling through his invitation. He was already humiliated, and he wasn't even asking her yet!

Outside of the flower shop, he could see Killian handing a street musician some cash as he made a request. Just what the request was, David couldn't quite hear.

Well, he had enough of his own problems to deal with, in any case.

Killian then entered the shop, and David practically pounced on him. "Listen, Killian, about the things you wrote for me here, for Mary Margaret...Some if it seems kind of…"

"Did you pick your flowers?" Killian asked, looking at him expectantly.

"Oh. Yep. Right, uhhh...here," David said, grabbing the nearest arrangement. "Now, about this speech-"

"Oh no, this will not do," Killian said, concerned.

"What, the flowers?" David looked at them for the first time. They seemed pretty enough to him. Plenty of colors. They even smelled nice.

"The orange lily suggests extreme hatred. The begonia and lavender danger and suspicion, respectively. Every flower has a meaning." Glancing around him, Killian grasped an enormous (and to David, absurd-looking) flower and held it in front of David. "Might I suggest the amaryllis, which declares the recipient a most splendid beauty. Or-" Breaking off, Killian strode forward. "- the cabbage rose…"

Sighing, hoping Killian was right about all this, David followed.

Inside her office, Emma lifted a piece of paper that was accepting Killian's invitation.

The only problem?

She hadn't written it.

Grinding her teeth, trying to pretend she was angry at her assistant and not at the fact that she did want to accept Killian's offer, Emma called for Mary Margaret.

Almost immediately, Mary Margaret poked her head in the office. "Yes?"

"What is this?" asked Emma, waving the paper in the air.

"It's your agreement to having dinner with Killian," she responded, as though there was nothing unusual about it. "I made it up for you to sign."

"I hadn't decided if I was going!" Emma cried, slapping the letter on her desk. She knew she was overreacting, but the thought of a private dinner with Killian was making her so...so stupidly nervous.

Mary Margaret lifted her chin, and a bit of fire entered her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said in the strongest voice Emma had ever heard from her. "But that is the best apology in the history of mankind, and if you don't go with him, I know you will regret it! Please, just sign it, and we can fax it to him. There is still time."

Taken aback by her usually shy assistant's firm manner, Emma closed her eyes, bit her lip, and grabbed for her pen.

Inside Jefferson's apartment, Killian was cooking the meal for his dinner with Emma. To his relief and delight, he had received the fax confirming her presence.

Taking his eyes from the stove, while still being attentive to his work, Killian watched as David paced the room nervously with the telephone to his ear.

Suddenly, with a little start, David said, "Oh, hi Mary Margaret; it's me, David. I was calling to see if you got my flowers. I mean your flowers. I mean the ones I sent?" He paused for a breath, then said "Good!" to the reply. He then looked to Killian, voice stalling.

Killian gave him a smile and a nod. "You can do this, my friend."

Pressing onward, David continued. "I was wondering if you would like to go to a movie, and then...perhaps accompany me to dinner?" Waving his free hand, he rushed on, "I-I-I-I understand completely if you are otherwise engaged. But, uh, I just wanted to say, umm…" Stopping to consult his notes, a small furrow appeared in David's brow.

"Come on. No need to be ashamed. You can do the speech as written," Killian encouraged silently.

"I wanted to say you've made an impression on me. And...and it's not only because you are so pretty. I mean, you're very pretty, but it's more than that. It's, umm...You're graceful. You know, the way you move, and speak. You just have a way with words. And I really, really like you."

There was a very long pause, during which David looked terrified. Then, responding to what Mary Margaret had said, he mumbled, "Seven? Yes! Yes, seven would be great. Would be fantastic. See you then!"

He ended the call, then jumped straight up in the air victoriously. "I did it! I am going out with Mary Margaret!"

Killian chuckled as David did a small dance.

"I gotta go get ready!" David exclaimed.

Emma arrived home and she would deny it to anyone, but she was a little excited about the dinner date with Killian. She was about to go to her room to get ready when her brother came out of his room looking very handsome. He had a silly grin on his face that she had not seen in a while.

David smiled wide at his sister as he greeted her with a quick kiss on her cheek.

"You look very handsome David. I didn't know you were going out tonight."

"Yeah, I have plans. It was unplanned until earlier today."

"So is this a big date?" she asked.

"Yeah, Ems I really like this girl."

"Who is the lucky lady?"

"Uhm, if it goes well, I'll tell you tomorrow, but I just don't want to jinx it."

Emma nodded. "Okay, good luck, and for what it's worth, she is lucky to have your attention."

"Thanks, and I think you are supposed to say that cause you are my sister."

"Just stating facts, David. You don't give yourself enough credit. You are one of the good ones."

"Ems, so are you. Have fun tonight, okay?"

She smiled. "I will. Now go before you are late for the big date!"

Finally, in her room, she opened her closet. She ruffled through the hangers, trying to find the right outfit. Her eyes landed on a pale pink dress she purchased years ago, and it never felt right to wear until now.

The dress fit perfectly and it made her feel like a true princess. She put her hair in a high ponytail with very light makeup, just enough to heighten her looks. Why was she so nervous?

It was time to make her way up to the roof.

Emma opened the roof door slowly and was astonished at the display in front of her. There were fairy lights hanging, creating a magical environment, and a man was playing the violin. The table was set with candlelight, and she could see a wine bottle next to plates and the tray with the food. Her mouth opened at the effort Killian made to please her.

"This is beautiful! You didn't have to go to so much trouble," Emma said, biting her bottom lip.

"No trouble at all, lass," Killian confirmed as he met her to guide her to her seat.

"May I?" he asked as he grabbed the chair to pull it out for her.

She nodded, unable to speak. He looked handsome wearing his old-timey outfit. Perhaps the atmosphere he created made him appear as if he was the lead in a romantic novel.

Emma stared into the night for a moment. "My mom was a true romantic." She smiled fondly. "She cried for weeks after Prince Charles and Lady Di got married."

Killian furrowed his brows. "I'm not familiar with them."

"Oh, trust me, you wouldn't want to be. A cautionary tale, proof that you can't live a fairy tale," Emma said and added, "I'm not very good with men."

"Perhaps you haven't found the right one," he said hopefully.

"Maybe, True Love only exists in fairy tales."

"My brother told me I had become a blemish on the family name due to an indiscretion from my youth, and now he tries to marry me off every chance he gets. I would be married now if I hadn't followed Jefferson. I was to announce a bride that night."

"Who?"

He sighed. "I don't know, it didn't matter to him. I suppose the one with the most money. Our family fortune is gone, and all we have is the family name."

After they finished eating, Emma stood up to start cleaning.

"What are you doing?" Killian asked.

"Just cleaning up."

"The night is not over yet. Would you do me the honor of a dance? Please?" he asked as he extended his hand for her to take.

"I'm not a good dancer," she said as she took his hand.

"There's only one rule. Pick a partner who knows what he's doing." He winked, pulling her close to him as she rolled her eyes, and they started gliding.

"Smee always told me love is a leap. I was never ready to jump until I met you."

"Killian, this was lovely but I don't know if I can leap, even if I am inspired." The lightness she had felt while dancing with him was sinking into harsh reality. And she was afraid. "I'm not...not brave enough."

Then, in the next moment, he was quoting something to her, something beautiful and flowery and perfectly Killian, and she was kissing him, warmth spreading from her chest all the way to her toes.

The next morning, after a wonderful date with Mary Margaret, David woke to the sound of Killian cooking breakfast.

They exchanged hellos, each asking how the other's date went. According to Killian, his date had also gone well.

David was pleased, but something was nagging at him. Emma was so rarely happy these days. And it was great that Killian was helping her to take down her walls, but if things were to continue...well, he wanted to make sure Emma was with someone she could really trust.

"Look, Killian, I have to ask you…" David trailed off. "Who are you? I mean, really?"

Killian spread some jam on toast, seeming confused. "What do you mean?"

"It's been a lot of fun doing the duke act with you, but...Emma's been through a lot, and I don't want her to have to deal with even more."

Killian lifted his hand. "I understand, David."

"So...Who are you?"

With a deep breath, Killian said, "I am the man who loves your sister. Who would go to the end of the world, or time, for her."

And with that, David was reassured.

David showed Killian how to master the dishwasher after breakfast was made. Killian was still in awe of the technology of the time.

"Just make sure Emma sees you push the button. Whatever you do, don't press it until she is awake to see you do it."

"Oh, clever. The proverbial tree in the woods. If a man washes a dish and no one sees it...Did it happen?"

"Exactly!" David said, excitedly.

Emma then made her appearance. Her stomach growled at the delicious scent.

Killian's smile welcomed her. "Love, a cup of coffee?"

"Yes, thank you."

David watched the pair making eyes at each other and decided not to be a third wheel and made his escape. Perhaps he could call Mary Margaret to make more plans.

Killian got a plate ready for Emma as she took her seat.

"Nine-grain toast with strawberries and mascarpone, my lady."

"Yum, this is really good," she moaned as she took bite after bite.

He hadn't seen anything as beautiful in his life.

Emma took the last bite and turned to Killian with a smile. "What should we do today?"

"Your heart's desire," Killian simply answered.

Emma and Killian get dressed, independently of course. Killian Jones was always a gentleman, after all. They set out to explore the city together.

Killian stopped at a market table full of sunglasses.

Emma snorted. "Oh no, no, no, no, no, no," she said as she took the glasses away from him, scrunched her face, and put them back on their display.

Killian looked so sad as he faced her.

"Make that face all you want, but those glasses were so inappropriate for you."

He quirked an eyebrow and they resumed their walk.

Killian gasped. "Emma, love. Emma, come!" he said excitedly as he pulled her toward a house.

"Killian, what are you doing?" she hissed.

He had gotten them inside the house; it appeared to be a museum of sorts.

"Bloody hell! This is where I lived. Good Lord. A portrait of my parents, my brother... and me." He pulled her up the stairs.

Emma looked at the portrait and gulped as she passed it. She still tried to find logic and deny what he told her was true. "Killian, I don't think that we should just be barging around here like that."

Killian held her hand as he pulled her all over the house before he stopped and stood in front of one of the rooms. He faced her with a smile. "Emma, this is my old quarters," he said as he walked to his hidden spot.

Emma looked around frantically. "What are you doing?"

He put pressure on a spot, then they heard a crackling sound. "Emma, this is the place where I put everything I most cared for. Things I didn't want Liam to touch. Like our mother's ring." He showed her a beautiful ring that he somehow knew its hiding place, and she hated to think what that truly meant for them, so she ignored the nagging pull in her heart.

Emma smiled. "Oh, it's breathtaking."

Later that evening, Emma and Killian finally end up cuddled on the sofa together after their day exploring the city.

Emma had her hand on his chest, playing with the hair there. She felt so comfortable in his arms. She sighed. "Do you..."

"Hmm, What would like to know, love?" he asked as he gently caressed her back.

She sighed and shifted in his embrace to see his face. "Do you miss where you're from?"

"Ah, I suppose I do in a way. There are things I miss, such as its rhythm."

"Is that slower like today?"

"Aye, quite a bit slower." He smiled.

She groaned. "That means that tomorrow is Sunday. I don't want it to be Sunday. What I do want is more of this." She snuggled closer to him.

He laughed heartily.

"Ooh, Monday is when we shoot your commercial so that's something exciting." She hummed comfortably from her cozy little bubble.

Not long after that, she drifted into sleep.

Killian kissed the top of her head and took out his mother's ring. He knew she had fallen asleep and it was now a lost moment. He picked her up and took her to bed, and tucked her in affectionately.

Emma said sleepily, "You're tucking me in."

"Aye."

"Huh, you're my Smee."

"Yes, I am Your Grace."

"Hey, hey, you don't have to... don't go upstairs. Stay."

He nodded and got in bed behind her, spooning her. He whispered, "I love you, Emma," in her ear before drifting off to sleep himself.

@rumdrum91 @itsfabianadocarmo @xsajx @hookedonapirate @kmomof4  @searchingwardrobes @seriouslyhooked @profdanglaisstuff @let-it-raines @revanmeetra87 @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @kymbersmith-90 @branlovestowrite @thejollyroger-writer @shireness-says @ilovemesomekillianjones @thisonesatellite @thesschesthair @winterbythesea @stahlop @resident-of-storybrooke @superchocovian @lfh1226-linda @artistic-writer @thislassishooked @shardminds @winterbaby89 @xhookswenchx @ultraluckycatnd @gingerchangeling @laschatzi @wellhellotragic @xemmaloveskillianx @courtorderedcake @pirateherokillian @optomisticgirl @darkcolinodonorgasm @andiirivera @djlbg @nikkiemms @jennjenn615  @scientificapricot @officerrogers @imlaxdris71 @therealstartraveller776 @kday426 @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713    @donteattheappleshook @spacekrulesbians @lassluna @carpedzem @captainodonoghue @killian-will-do @jarienn972 @tehgreeneyes  @demisexualemmaswan @queen-serena88 @swanslieutenant @tiganasummertree @whimsicallyenchantedrose @bethacaciakay @ohmakemeahercules @jrob64 @klynn-stormz @mariakov81 @sals86 @elizabeethan @brooke-to-broch @hookedonhiddles @onceratheart18 @the-darkdragonfly @veryverynotgoodwrites @jonesfandomfanatic @wefoundloveunderthelight @cocohook38 @zaharadessert​​

[writefightandflightclub]

Make it last forever (Poe x reader)

Summary: Poe brings you breakfast in bed, and you wish this brief respite from the war could last forever. Fluffy with a lil angst, but only so Poe can comfort you, sweeties.

Author’s note: I’m doing soft blurbs bc you all deserve a hug from one of our fave fictional husbands. Let’s all destress and be comforted one blurb at a time, okay? (Dunno how many I can do but gonna try and blitz a few requests out tonight. I’m doing these quickly so they’ll be a bit scrappy, please forgive!)

Warnings: hints of steam but no explicit smut. Rated TEEN.

GIF: by @wilsonsamt​

You grin as Poe shimmies back under the covers, having carefully settled the breakfast tray on to your lap.

Your hands eagerly reach for him and filter into his raven curls, pulling him to your lips for a quick, lazy kiss before he sits back on the propped pillows next to you.

“Where the hell did you get koyo juice?! Baby! You got koyo juice?!” you exclaim excitedly as you survey the items on the tray. Your eyes widen with joy as you bring the tumbler to you nose and inhale the sweet, reassuring scent of home. You take an eager sip and the flavour is like a taste explosion in your mouth.

Poe smiles widely, utterly happy when you’re happy, and he wraps his sturdy arm around your shoulders as you butter the breakfast cake and eagerly sprinkle some seeds on to the plate of fruit.

“This is perfect. You’re perfect,” you praise, planting another kiss to his stubbled cheek, his face creasing beneath your lips into an easy smile. Before Poe can say something smug in response, you shove the still warm bread cake towards his mouth for him to take a bite.

“Mmm,” he says around a hearty mouthful. “That is good. I did good, baby.” Apparently he doesn’t mind praising himself as well, which makes you smile even more broadly. he deserves all the praise he can get. 

Poe begins shovelling food into his face with little dignity, crumbs falling down on to his gorgeous bare chest. You simply watch him enjoying the moment, your initial joy becoming something bittersweet as you realise how rare it is to share something so simple together. Breakfast in bed like this is special, yes - undoubtedly a treat- but even so, it is a rarer occasion than it should be.

Yesterday had been especially tough. You can still feel yesterday lingering in your body. The stiffness in your joints and muscles, the scrapes and bruises on skin. The residual stress. The despair. The tiredness which goes so deep it can only be described as existensial. You were thankful, as ever, that the two of you made it back, of course. But this domestic, blissful pageant before you only highlights everything you will have to return to tomorrow. As though you are merely playing house while waiting for the war to find you again.

Oblivious to your turmoil, for now, Poe snaffles the remaining half of his bread cake as you idly sip your sweet koyo juice, but he looks at you with concern etched into his strong features as soon as he realises the sadness which has overcome you.

Poe’s eyes soften with understanding, rather than hardening with judgement. His brows furrow briefly in thought before he delves his nimble pilot’s fingers into the fruit bowl, plucking out a strawberry and bringing it up to your lips. He had hidden that treat at the bottom of the bowl, but now, upon seeing the sadness cloud your eyes he figures life’s too short; why wait to put a smile on your beautiful face?

It works too. Your eyes light up again as the rare red fruit catches your eye.

“Take a bite, come on,” he coaxes, holding the fruit out and hovering it in front of your lips. “I know, I know. I’m the best.”

Poe smirks at you, finally managing to be smug, and you can’t resist dipping forward to take a bite. The sweet, ripe fruit bleeds sticky, red juices all over his fingers, which you lick innocently off before they can form rivulets all the way down his hands and onto the sheets. 

Poe eyes you hungrily as your tongue rasps over his skin. Hungrily, as if the tray of delights before him is forgotten, but he doesn’t pursue his urges just yet. Instead, he swipes a rogue drip of red from your chin and cleans it from his finger with a soft pop of his lips, more focussed on the glumness backlighting your eyes. He can see you trying. Trying to be happy, and if anythign that hurts him more.

“You okay, honey?” he probes softly, whispering in case the ghosts in the room hear him. There are often ghosts in the room when you’re alone with him. Especially after days like yesterday. It seems so impossible to escape this war, sometimes, that even mornings like this can remain haunted.

You sigh. “I’m sorry, Poe. This is all so sweet. I don’t know where or how you even found all this stuff. Or how the kriff you convinced Leia to align our rotas. It’s just...” you trail off, looking down at your naval in contemplation.

Poe knows. Poe understands, without you needing to go on, but he also knows that it can feel good to let it out anyway. He brings a sticky, strawberry scented hand to cup your face, gently tipping your head up until you meet his gaze again. His whole manner is open, receptive. Encouraging you to talk to him.

“It’s just... Poe. The war is so long, and moments like this... moments together, they’re so short. I just,” you clench you fists in front of you as you talk, as if you’re grabbing something invisible, “I want to hang on to these moments and stretch them out forever, but before we know it we’ll be back up in the skies, fighting for our lives. For each other’s. For the entire kriffing galaxy.”

You look at Poe apologetically, as if you’ve ruined the morning, but you haven’t. He knows exactly what to do. He scoops up the tray and sets it aside for the moment, before bundling you into his arms, resting your head on his lap while he soothingly strokes your hair back from your face, his other arm draped lightly over your torso.

The sounds and tapping of his fingers brushing over your hair are instantly soothing. The way the rolls of his soft, scrunched up belly press intermittently against the side of your head, with each rise and fall of his breath, is infinitely comforting. When he speaks, his sandy drawl slow and steady, you feel even more relief.

“I see why y’ think that, honey, but I have a different way of looking at things,” Poe muses, a gentle furrow still playing in-between his brows as he mulls over his half-formed words of comfort.

You look up at him hopefully. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he continues, stabbing the air emphatically with his wagging index finger. “Now hear me out.” You watch the furrow disappear, his expression becoming misty as he looks down at you. Poe is handsome even from this peculiar angle, his strong chin and nose and thick lashes prominent as you gaze up at him. “Moments like this don’t pass quickly. They last forever. These moments... they... bury themselves in me, like a tree. Or the seed of a tree. They are planted, and they just keep growing, through me. Like the force tree on Yavin spreads its roots into the ground and its branches up to the sky.”

You look up at him with admiration, even though he has yet to fully flesh out his metaphor, Poe still searching his head for the words to express what flows so easily in his heart. You love his soothing, honest, storytelling voice, and you could listen to him all morning like this, you think. You are happy when he continues, still stroking and caressing you with his fingertips.

“You think the war is long, but it’s moments like this which get me through, sweetie,” Poe says, his eyebrows shooting you, face becoming more and more passionate and expressive as he finds his stride. You love watching him speaking like this when he’s delivering briefings in the command centre, but you never love it more than when he’s animated by his passion for you. With his love for you. You smile fondly, and you wouldn’t dream of interrupting the words which keep coming.

“In this war, I think of what I love. About what I want to keep, forever. And, honey, the sum of all these little moments you think slip away too fast? I’m carrying them with me forever, baby. They’re gonna live forever. This is what I think of when I’m in an X-Wing, fighting for my life; for yours; for the galaxy. When I’m fighting, I don’t really think about flying- don’t have to. I think about you. Us. These stolen little moments last years, honey, last a lifetime, because they play over and over in my head any time I’m not next to you. I’m gonna remember stuff like this, here, right now, and take it with me everywhere. Your face lighting-up when you see a simple glass of koyo fruit, because it reminds you of home. The weight of your head in my lap and your soft hair on my thighs. Seconds? Minutes, baby? No, they’re gonna last forever, and then some.”

You’re crying. Of course you’re crying. Wet tears channeling down the sides of your face and mingling in your hair and your ears and falling on to his hands as he caresses you.

How could you hear that and not cry? How could you be so loved and not weep? How could you love this much?

Poe’s words were raw and spontaneous and spoken right from the heart. From that good heart. That beautiful heart of his. 

You wish this moment, although over in seconds, could be eternal too. Except, now you realise it will be, because it has embedded itself in you like a seed, like a force tree, and it will only keep growing through you. The moments where you love and are loved by him become indistinguishable from your love itself. Your love  for Poe, which has never slowed or wavered but has only grown taller and stronger and bigger and denser, roots reaching to the core of the universe and leaves all the way beyond its outer extremities. 

You raise yourself up from Poe’s lap with a renewed vigour, and you wind your arms into his glorious inky curls. You kiss his cheeks and his lips and his face and you hold him so close. So tightly. This good man. This good heart. This good soul. You know you have to make the most of this moment. Make it the best it can possibly be, because you’re never going to let it go.

“I love you, Poe Dameron. I love you forever.”

Poe pulls back momentarily to look you in the eyes, his warm hands skimming over your back, and the beauty of him as he gazes softly at you makes your heart skip a beat. This beautiful man, who loves you with his whole, good heart.

Poe reaches down for your hand, and twists his mother’s wedding band on your finger. “I love you, Mrs. Dameron,” he says fondly, voice infused with adoration. “I love you even longer than forever.”

“Always so competitive,” you tease fondly, and his lips split into a smile, those delicious creases lining his eyes and mouth, and a crinkle in his nose. 

Poe’s forehead comes to rest against yours as fresh, happy tears mingle on your cheeks. You press your lips to his, mouths moving together in your own private language, your tongues mingling and speaking secrets to one another as you share each breath.His kiss is sweeter than a koyo fruit, and more reminiscient of home.

You wrap your limbs around him, lovingly, fleetingly. And while your bodies may be entwined only for now, you are sure that your souls will be entwined for always.

You sink into the bed as Poe gently lowers you to the mattress, strong, warm hands beginning to roam lovingly over your body, moments becoming lifetimes, seconds becoming eternity.

The war may be long and these easy mornings short, but for now the war can wait. This moment belongs to you and Poe alone, and you intend to make it last; to make it last forever, and then some.

[johnsbleu]

Hold My Hand: John Wick x Reader Chapter 81

warnings: none, just fluffy john hold my hand masterlist

A fence removal company has already been here early this morning and they’ve torn down the fence surrounding the tennis court. The next step is to tear up the tennis court so that John and Jimmy can put down some cement. The work trucks have been coming in and out of the driveway all day, and both John and Jimmy have been keeping an eye on the progress. You have to admit that watching John tell people what he wants, where he wants it, and how he wants it is extremely hot. He’s being so authoritative.

It’s a little past noon and the boys are still outside working on the pavilion, Tess is taking a nap, and you’re sitting on the patio outside with the dogs at your feet while you look at a wedding magazine. Your stomach has been growling for the past 30 minutes, but you’ve been too comfortable to get up and make yourself something to eat.

John is talking to someone and pointing all around the yard, and he waves at you when they walk away, so you give him a small wave. It’s been about three hours since you’ve talked to him and it looks like the workers are leaving, so you head down to see if John and Jimmy are getting hungry.

You wrap your arm around John’s waist and lean against him as you look at the clumps of cement that are piled on the ground, “Well, this is a mess.”

John laughs, “They’re taking their lunch break, then they’re coming back to clean it all up.”

Nodding your head, you look around and envision how great this is going to look. John and Jimmy will build the pavilion in the days to come since the cement will be laid down sometime this week. You gave John a piece of paper with the outline of what you wanted the pavilion to look like, and he had to hold in a laugh when he saw it.

“So, you still have my shitty drawing I made, right?”

John unfolds the paper from his back pocket and laughs, “Yup. See, we’ll get the cement down in a few days, then you and I can go to the flower shop and get some flowers, shrubs, and some trees for out here. Jimmy and I will start getting the wood for the pavilion and then we’ll start to build it.”

“Take your time, John.” you laugh and pat his shoulder, “You have plenty of time, and don’t overwork yourself either. If it’s too much, we can just hire some people.”

Jimmy laughs, “Nah, we’re havin’ fun. Gotta get some practice in too.”

“Are you two hungry? I was gonna make myself something to eat, but I figured if I’m pulling out everything for a sandwich, I might as well ask if you’re hungry as well.”

Jimmy sits down on the ground, then he lays back, “I’m starving.”

You smile at John, then you lean up to kiss him, “I’ll go get some sandwiches made for you two.”

John smiles at you as you lean up to kiss him again, then he waves at you as you walk back up the yard and into the house. You hear a noise in the kitchen, so you walk in to see what Tess is up to.

Tess looks up at you and smiles, “Hey, I’ve been thinking about a mayonnaise and cheese sandwich all morning.”

You open the fridge and pull out some shredded chicken and hand it to her, “Please eat some meat with it.”

“Oh,” she laughs and takes it from you, “Didn’t know you had any.”

“This fridge is like the wardrobe in Narnia, you can find anything in here.”

You dig through the fridge to find some potato salad, which John loves, then you grab out some turkey to make them some sandwiches. John usually eats two sandwiches, but since he’s been working all morning, you decide to make a third to share with him.

“How many sandwiches does Jimmy eat?”

Tess shrugs, “Depends. Just make him two. Oh, you know what, I can do it.”

You shake your head and point at the table, “Go sit and eat. I’ll take these to the guys, then I’ll be back.”

John and Jimmy are sitting at the table on the patio and you swear they’re both drooling when you walk out with their sandwiches and drinks.

“Turkey sandwiches.” you say, setting down their plates, “Some potato salad, a little bowl of fruit, and some chips. Oh, and four bottles of water for my hardworking men. I made three for you, but I cut in half so I could eat part.”

“Thank you so much, baby.” John scoots his chair back a little and pats his leg, “Sit down.”

“Can’t stay. Tess is awake, so I’m gonna talk to her and see if there’s anything she needs help with.” you say, squeezing John’s shoulder a little, “I’ll talk to you in a bit though.”

John frowns a little and nods his head, “Okay. Love you.”

“Love you!” you smile, turning around to head inside.

Tess has already finished her sandwich and now she’s raiding the freezer for some ice cream. She finally finds some fudge bars in the back, and she takes one out to eat as she walks back over to the table.

“How are the boys?”

You cover your mouth as you chew and nod your head, “Good. I guess the crew is on their lunch break, then they’re coming back to clean up all the slabs of cement. We don’t want the pavilion to be as big as the tennis court was, so John and I will have to go and get some shrubs for all around the edges of the flooring.”

“That’ll be fun, picking all the flowers and stuff.”

You nod your head again, sitting back in your seat a little, “Yeah, since we’re going to have our reception down there, I want some really nice white flowers for that, then maybe next spring, we’ll plant some more colorful ones. I don’t really have a color that I want for our wedding, so you can wear whatever color dress you want.”

“Oh, well, hot pink.” Tess says, then winks, “Nah, you can pick my dress.”

“You can pick whatever style you want. We’re getting married the first week of September, so it’s still going to be hot and summery. I think you’d look good in like…” you tilt your head and look at Tess, “Uh, any color, to be honest. We could do like a blush color, or lilac, or something a little bolder like yellow. Honestly, I don’t even care.”

“You’re literally the chillest bride.”

“I just want you to be comfortable, and I just want to marry John.” you laugh, then push your plate forward a little before relaxing back in your chair, “Of course I want my dress to be perfect, and John will wear a suit, duh. I do want a more romantic tone to our day, so we’ll probably end up with some burgundys and dark blues.”

“Sounds good to me.” Tess nods and squeals a little, “Is John gonna go with you to look at dresses?”

You shake your head as you shrug, “I’m not sure. You’re coming with me though, right?”

Tess gasps loudly, “Duh! John told me that the hotel would like to do your dress.”

Rolling your eyes, you shake your head, “Yeah, I just kind of ignored him when he mentioned that. He’s brought it up a few times since we talked about the wedding date. He keeps saying how they’d listen to me and do what I want. He just might get his way.”

“Ooh, Continental Couture.” Tess says, and you both start to laugh, “I would love to go with you.”

Taking a deep breath, you let it out and look at Tess, “Honestly, I’m kinda nervous to stand up there in front of everyone. But with John by my side, I’ll be fine.”

Tess rolls her eyes and laughs, “How is old man Wick holdin’ up? His life is taking a bit of a turn.”

“It is.” you nod and let out a small laugh, “He seems to be doing well, and if he’s not, he hasn’t said anything, or he’s really good at hiding it.”

“I’m sure he’s loving it. He seems to be pretty happy. He’s literally tearing down his tennis court so that you two can have a wedding down there.” Tess says as she gets up from the table and walks over to the fridge, “He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t love you and wasn’t excited about getting married.”

“Well, yeah.” you watch Tess as she gets another fudge bar from the freezer, then you shrug when she looks at you, “He talks more and more about us getting married every day. This morning he woke up and leaned closer to my ear and goes, ‘we’re getting married in 58 days’. It was so cute.”

“He’s counting down!” Tess puts her hand over her heart and tilts her head back, “Shut up, he’s literally the perfect man.”

You laugh quietly as you walk over to the sink and start to clean up the few dishes that have piled up. There’s a few plates and a couple cups, but there isn’t enough to run the dishwasher.

“So, I’ve always wondered…” Tess says, taking a long pause, “Has John told you the worst thing he’s ever done?”

You jerk your head back and look at Tess, “The worst thing he’s ever done? What do you mean? Like work-wise?”

“Yeah, you two are so secretive about his job. You never tell me anything anymore.” she says, turning her head a little and turning up her nose.

“Well, that’s not true, I tell you plenty. You saw what shit happens when he works.” you sit back down at the table and shrug, “What do you want to know though?”

“What’s the worst thing he’s ever done?” she asks, and you widen your eyes and shrug. “Oh, you don’t know?”

“You really think he’d tell me the worst thing he’s done?” you say, then you pause for a moment as your gaze drops to your hands, “He hasn’t told me the worst thing he’s ever done, but I know it’s something that eats him up inside. It’s something that he can’t get his mind off of sometimes late at night. I know it’s nothing like him killing a kid. John has a line that he’d never cross, and he made that very clear to me when he told me everything. He’d never kill a kid or an innocent civilian.”

Tess nods, “Oh, I definitely don’t see him doing that! I could never see John harming anyone, well, except for Matt. He can rot though.”

“I think a lot of people forget that John has morals, he has a conscience. He’s not some mindless killer who is just thirsty for blood. If that was the case, I wouldn’t be with him. I would despise him, but he’s not like that at all. He’s just a good man. As soft as John is, he’s ten times…harder. If need be.” you say, looking away from Tess as you tear up a little, “He left behind his entire life as an assassin for Helen, which was the only life that John knew until he met her. Imagine someone dropping everything that they’ve known just to be with you. I wish someone would do that for me, or even consider it.”

“Me too!” Tess laughs.

“He loved Helen so much that he just…left behind everything he knew. It’s incredibly romantic. John is a huge romantic.” you laugh, wiping away the tear on your cheek, “I couldn’t imagine leaving behind everything to be with someone, but I would to be with John. If he wanted to move half way across the world, I would follow him in a heartbeat, but he’d never make me do that because that would mean leaving you behind and he knows how important you are to me.”

“You’re gonna make me cry.” Tess laughs.

You begin to tear up a little more, then you wipe away the tears quickly when you hear footsteps getting closer to the kitchen. Jimmy walks into the kitchen with John right behind him, and the two of them put their plates in the sink.

John looks at you as you quickly wipe your eyes, and you pray like hell that he can’t tell that you’ve been crying. He furrows his brow in concern and walks over to you, kneeling down next to you and placing his hand on your thigh.

“You okay?”

You nod and pat John’s cheek, “Yup, we’re just talking about our wedding and I got a little emotional.”

John squints his eyes at you, then he looks over at Tess to see what she’s going to say. She nods her head, then takes a big bite of her fudge bar so she can’t talk. John looks back at you and nods his head as he stands up.

“The crew just got back, so we’re gonna head back down there.” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “Don’t be afraid to come down there, by the way. I’d love to see more of you today.”

You laugh quietly, tilting your head back, “I’ve been here all day, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

John frowns a little as he leans down and kisses you, “I miss you. Come see me in a bit.”

“I will.” you say softly as you lean closer to his face, “I love you.”

John leans down to kiss you again, tangling his fingers in your hair, then he presses a kiss to your forehead, “I love you.”

You watch him closely as he leaves the kitchen, then you look over at Tess and furrow your brow, “You noticed how he was acting, right?”

“Like he always does. In love.” she teases, then she nods her head, “Yeah, he was little weird though.”

Your mind immediately begins to go a mile a minute as you rack your brain to figure out why John’s being weird. Maybe he just misses you. You get that way with him sometimes when you haven’t seen him in a few hours. Maybe he thinks you’re mad or upset with him since you didn’t sit outside with him. You’d think that you’d be better at reading John by now, but damn, it’s hard sometimes.

“I wanna see what they’re doing outside.” Tess says, tossing her garbage in the bin, “Wanna come with?”

“Might as well.” you shrug, then link arms with Tess as you walk outside.

John hired people to help clean up the cement, but of course John is out there helping, and he’s gonna hurt himself if he isn’t careful. The cement is heavy as hell, but John doesn’t care. He’s just out there picking it up and putting it into a wheelbarrow. He’s laughing with the other guys, which warms your heart quite a bit.

“Mmm,” Tess shakes her head, looking at Jimmy, who is now shirtless, “God damn.”

“I will admit, Jimmy is pretty hot. I was like…shocked when I saw him shirtless.” you nudge her, “Good for you.”

Tess laughs, then she points at John, “Well, you got a good one as well. Look at him.”

Using the bottom of his shirt, John wipes away the sweat on his forehead, instantly causing an ache between your legs when you see how sweaty he is and the little trail of hair that leads past the waistband of his jeans. John’s arms and face are getting so tan from being out in the sun all day, and you know he’s going to be drained by tonight when it’s time for bed.

Jimmy sees you and Tess watching them, so he runs over to kiss her, then he grabs a chair for her to sit. He leans down to kiss her again, then he rubs his hand over her belly before returning to help clean up.

You sit down on the ground next to Tess as you watch all of them cleaning up, and you catch John looking at you every so often. He has a tiny smile on his face when you make eye contact with him, and he flexes his arms a little more now that he knows you’re watching him.

“God, he’s so funny.” Tess says, laughing at John when he walks past, “You’re an idiot, but I love you.”

“Thanks, Tess.” John says, then he winks at you as he walks up to the house.

The men are almost done cleaning up the cement when you see a guy walking over to you, and he looks back and forth between you and Tess, “One of you is Mrs. Wick, right?”

“Oh,” you get up and reach out to shake his hand, “Sorry, yeah, that’s me.”

He looks over at the other men cleaning up the last bits of cement, then he looks at you, “We’re just about done. Just wanted to let you know that your husband should be able to lay the cement as soon as he wants. We appreciated the help, we were a few men short today, so the extra pair of hands was nice.”

You laugh, “Oh, I’m sure he loved to help.”

“We lay cement too, so if Mr. Wick isn’t up for it, we’d be more than happy to come out and do it.” he says, then he gestures to the torn up yard, “Don’t walk into this without some good shoes. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Thanks.” you smile, looking up at him as John walks back over.

The trucks are pulling out of the driveway now, and John plops down next to you on the ground and rubs his hands over his face, leaving behind dirt. He yawns loudly and scoots a little closer to you until he remembers the dirt on his hands.

“You’re so dirty.” you laugh, moving John’s hair away from his face, “And you got so tan today. Your cheeks are a little sunburned, but your freckles look cute.”

“Oh, my god, I never realized how many freckles he has. Look at his arms!” Tess says, lifting up John’s arm.

You sit back a little so John can put his head in your lap, and you trace your finger along his face, “Look at his nose and his cheeks, and forehead and his chest. They’re everywhere. I love them.”

John has his eyes closed as he chuckles, then he peeks them open to look at you, “I should probably shower. I stink, and now I’m getting my stench on you.”

You laugh as John wiggles, and you nod your head, “Yeah, you do stink.”

John groans as he sits up, then he puts his hand on his lower back, “Damn, I’m gettin’ old.”

“You’re not, Jonathan. You just did too much work, which I told you not to do because you’d end up getting yourself hurt.” you shake your head, then you rub your hand against John’s lower back, “Take a bath and use those jets.”

“Wait, you guys have jets in your bathroom?” Tess asks, crossing her arms and pouting, “We just got a plain bathtub in our room.”

“And our tub is huge. You could probably fit in it with us.” you say, then you intertwine your fingers with John as you start to head inside.

John is being a little sluggish as he follows behind you up to the bedroom, and you laugh as he makes his way up the steps. You start the bath for John as he slowly gets undressed, and you put some soap in the tub that’s made for sore muscles; it also smells quite nice too, so that’s a bonus. You turn around to see John leaning back against the sink with his pants still on, and you let out a laugh as you walk over and start to unbuckle his belt.

You unbutton his pants and tug them down a little, then you look up at him and raise an eyebrow, “No funny business. You’re dirty…and smelly.”

John laughs and nods, “Yes, ma’am.”

You put your hands out in case he falls as he steps into the tub, and he lets out a big breath when he sits down. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes as he sinks further into the water, and a small smile spreads across his face.

You press a kiss to his forehead, moving his hair away from his face, “Let me know when you’re done. I’ll help you out if you’re still too sore.”

John grabs your hand and pulls you back to him, “I want you to get in with me.”

“I’m not dirty and smelly though. I took a shower this morning.” you say, immediately regretting it when John begins to frown. “God, fine. Just because you’re so cute.”

“Thanks.”

You pull your shirt over your head, unhook your bra, then you kick off your shorts and underwear. John puts his hand on your waist as you get in the tub, then he wraps his arms around you, holding you tight to his chest as he kisses your shoulder and up to your neck.

Grabbing the washcloth that you set on the side of the tub, you dip it in the water, then turn around to wipe the dirt away from John’s face. You scrub a little harder on the dirt on his cheekbone, and John scrunches up his face. You hand him the washcloth so he can wash his chest and arms, then when he’s done, he pulls you back into his arms again. You weren’t expecting to take a bath with John this afternoon, but you’re kinda thankful that you’re in it now.

Closing your eyes, you lean back against John more and smile a little, “Okay, I’m actually loving this.”

“Good.” he whispers in your ear, then he moves the hair off your shoulder, “I wanted to talk to you without any interruptions and I knew this was probably one of the only ways to do that.”

You turn around a little and look at John, “What did you need to talk to me about?”

“I heard you and Tess talking earlier.” he says, and you shake your head.

“Which time?”

John laughs, “You talked about me multiples times, huh?”

You blush and shrug timidly, “I like to talk about you.”

“And I like that you like to talk about me.” he says, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “But I meant when you and Tess were talking in the kitchen earlier, when I came in and saw you crying.”

“Oh,” you look up at John and stammer, “We...we were just…talking about wedding stuff and you know me, I got emotional and I just started crying.”

John cocks up his eyebrow and shakes his head, “I heard you, baby. I heard the whole conversation. I heard you mention that you don’t know if I’m happy with how much my life is changing.”

“I said you seemed to be doing well and that if you weren’t, you’re good at hiding it.”

John squints, “Kinda the same thing as what I said.”

You roll your eyes and laugh, “Okay.”

“I am doing well. You know that I can’t wait to marry you, I’m literally counting down every day. I can’t wait until you’re officially mine.” he says, tucking your hair behind your ear, “So, that’s one thing I wanted to talk about: I’m happy, and I can’t wait to marry you.”

“Oh, there’s more than one thing?”

John nods, “There’s a few.”

You exhale loudly, turning around more to face John, “Okay.”

“Tess mentioned the worst thing I’ve ever done.” he says, and you immediately shake your head to stop John, but he keeps talking, “I…did do something that I consider to be the worst thing I’ve ever done, and I don’t know how I can even tell you without you thinking differently of me.”

“You don’t have to tell me, okay?” you say, cupping his face, “You don’t have to tell me.”

John sighs deeply as his gaze falls from your eyes to your hands on his chest, and he grabs them to hold, squeezing them tight, “I was young, I was new to this job. I was only in my 20s, and I was being cocky and reckless.”

“John.” you say, firmly.

“I was around too many people, I thought I’d be able to get this guy with no problems, but this…guy, this innocent guy, got in the way and I…” he closes his eyes and shakes his head, and you scoot closer to him, not letting him finish his sentence. “I didn’t mean to do it. It was the worst thing I’ve ever done. I was…numb for days. I took this guy away from his family, how could I live with myself for that?”

“Baby, you didn’t mean to.” you say, cupping his face so he’ll look at you, “Things happens, things completely out of our control.”

“But it was in my control! I had a gun in my hands, and I...shot him. He got in the way.” he says, and you nod as you listen to him tell his story.

These are John’s feelings, and who are you to invalidate them? This is how he feels. What John needs right now is for you to listen to him and support him. This is probably one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do.

You hold tight to John’s hand as he continues to tell you what happened and you see a small tear forming in his eye. It slowly slides down his cheek and you reach up to wipe it away.

“I found out his name. I visit his grave every Christmas, and I check on his family every once in a while.” he says, and you give him a small smile. “I didn’t know what to do after he died, so I just sent them an anonymous donation. It’s the least I could do.”

You wipe away the tear on your cheek and hold John’s gaze, “You’re incredible.”

“No.” John shakes his head, “I’m not.”

“You are, John. Don’t fight me on it because you won’t win.” you say, and John finally lets out a small laugh. “Jonathan Wick, I don’t think any differently of you and I never will. Your actions that day don’t reflect who you are. You made a mistake, and you have paid for that. You feel that regret every single day, but you send his family money, you visit his grave. I promise you that that probably means a lot to him. I know this is something that has been eating away at you for years, and to finally be able to tell someone feels good, doesn’t it?”

John shrugs, “I guess.”

“Look at me, baby.” you say, cupping John’s face as he looks at you. His eyes are full of tears and you want to melt into tub, “There’s nothing you can’t tell me. I truly mean that. I’m here for you always, no matter what. You’re a good man with an amazing beautiful heart.”

John places his hand on your cheek and gives you a small smile, “You’re incredible.”

You scoot closer to John and the two of you wrap your arms around each other, holding on tight. You move closer to John until you’re in his lap with your legs on either side of him, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

“I love you. Those aren’t just some words that I throw around lightly, by the way. I love you. Get it through your head, dork.” you joke, and John lets out another laugh. It’s so nice to see him smiling after sharing this story with you. “I would do anything for you, Jonathan.”

“Being with you makes me feel better.” he says, nodding his head, “I mean, after everything I’ve done, knowing that someone like you sees something in me makes me feel like maybe I do deserve good things.”

“Your past doesn’t define you, John.” you press a kiss to his lips, then smile, “You learned from your mistake, you’ve paid for it -- you’ve carried around that guilt for 30 years. Now you move on and create a better future for yourself. A better future for us.”

John holds your gaze, then he finally begins to give you a real smile, “How did I get so lucky to have you?”

“I don’t know, but I should be a motivational speaker.” you say, puffing out your chest a little, “I was pretty good, huh?”

John laughs, “You were great.”

You laugh quietly, then it slowly fades as you get serious again, “I really mean all of that stuff, John. And anytime you’re not feeling too great, or you’re starting to let some of your past eat at you, come to me. I’m your best friend for a reason. I will talk to you, I will listen to you, and I will fucking love you.”

John leans back against the tub and nods his head, “I know, and I will. I promise. After telling you this, I know that I can tell you anything.”

“I mean, you should have already known that, but…” you laugh, and John shakes his head as he smiles.

“Yeah.”

“Was that all you needed to talk to me about? The tub is getting cold.” you say, shivering a little now that John doesn’t have his arms around you.

John shakes his head, “No, but let’s get out.”

You pull the plug from the bath, then you hop out and grab two towels out of the linen closet. You wrap one around yourself and walk into the bedroom, plopping down on your side of the bed to apply some lotion to your legs.

“My back still hurts.” John says, groaning a little.

“I’ll get you some ibuprofen in a few minutes. Just let me get dressed.” you say, watching John lay down on his stomach on the bed. You grab a new pair of underwear, then you grab a summer dress from the closet since it’s pretty warm out.

John is still laying in bed with his towel wrapped around his waist, but he’s watching you with a smile on his face. You grab the lotion from your side table and crawl across the bed to straddle his back. You put some lotion on his back as he gasps loudly, and you let out a laugh as you massage it into his back.

“Oh, fuck…” he says, almost moaning, and you rub your knuckle into a knot on John’s lower back and he groans happily, “Right there.”

“Here?” you ask, rubbing a circle into his back near the cross tattoo.

“Mhm.” he nods, and then he laughs when you lean down and start pressing your lips to his back, “Oh, yeah, that feels good too.”

Rubbing your hands up and down John’s back, you swear he’s snoring, so you lean up a little to see he’s completely knocked out. You continue rubbing his back for a few more minutes so you know for sure he’s asleep before you crawl off of him.

John is clearly tired, so you’ll let him get some rest this afternoon -- he definitely deserves it. You turn on the fan next to the bed, and as carefully as you can, you remove his towel since it's soaked from the bath, then you pull a sheet over John so his lower body is covered since he’s naked. You press a quick kiss to his cheek, moving the hair away from his face to see him better. He looks so cute when he’s so sleepy like this, and you just want to continue kissing his face, but it’ll only wake him up.

Staring at him for a moment, you feel yourself tearing up a little. Your bottom lip wobbles the longer you look at him, and you start to smile when John sighs a little.

“Love you, John.” you whisper, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “No matter what.”

Heading downstairs, you hear Jimmy and Tess in the kitchen, and you walk in to see them looking at something on her laptop. She closes the screen a little, and you raise an eyebrow as you walk to the fridge for a yogurt.

“So, uh, do you remember how I kept saying that I wanted to get videos of John working?” Tess says, and you nod your head as you look for the yogurt you want. “Well, uh, Jimmy has a friend, and that friend found some videos. They’re like security camera footage from a few, uh, what does he call them? Missions?”

“Jobs.” you say, walking over to sit at the table.

“Jobs! Yes! Okay, well, we got some videos of him.” she says, excitedly. When you don’t look at her, she exhales and slaps her hand on the counter, “Hello? Goose? I’m talkin’ to you.”

John’s story is still fresh in your mind, and you know he had more to talk to you about but he fell asleep. Your mind is occupied with all the things that he could have to talk to you about, and you’re not paying attention to what Tess is saying at all.

“Mrs. Wick?!” Tess says, slapping her hand on the table to get your attention. You jump a little and look up at Tess, and she smiles, “Finally. Did you hear me? I got videos of John working.”

“What?” you gasp and get up, walking over to her laptop, “You did?”

Tess stares at you for a moment, then she presses her hand to your forehead, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.” you shake your head, trying to clear it for a moment, “Just had a talk with John. We weren’t done talking, but he fell asleep, so now I’m just…waiting to finish it when he wakes up. Poor bub was just so tired from this morning.”

Tess opens her laptop screen and smiles, “I got something to help take your mind off of it. I’ve only watched this one, but I guess there’s a few more here. This one is from a club.”

Jimmy reaches out and touches your arm, “He won’t be mad at me for this, will he?”

“Uh…” you shrug, thinking it through.

John might be upset, but he should have known this was bound to happen at some point. He’s opened up so much about his past, he has to know that you’re interested in seeing him work.

“I don’t know, but if he’s upset, I’ll talk to him. I can’t see him being that upset. He has to know I’d find something eventually. He’s been there when Tess and I have talked about it.” you say, then you pat Jimmy’s hand, “Don’t worry about it.”

Taking a deep breath and letting it out shakily, you pull up a stool next to Tess and sit down as she opens the file that has the video on it. You’re not entirely sure why, but your hands are shaking uncontrollably.

“Okay, so I watched a little of this and the camera cuts to different rooms and stuff, and he’s not always in it, but holy shit, your man is amazing.” Tess laughs, then she pushes play on the video.

You can hear the club music playing on the video, but it’s pretty quiet. The camera flickers from each room to the next and your eyes are wide as you try to spot John. He’s no where to be found yet, which is obviously just what he wants.

“Oh, so here we go.” Tess points at the screen, then she looks at you, “This is obviously the target here. Everyone seems to be protecting him.”

“Iosef.” you say under your breath when you finally get a good look at him, and Tess looks over at you, “He’s the one who…killed John’s puppy and stole John’s car. I remember John telling me about this night.”

“Yeah, well, he’s scared as fuck of John. Just watch.”

You look back at the screen and you’re almost embarrassed by how excited you get when you see John. You bite your lip to keep yourself from smiling, and you lean a little closer as he walks through the back of the club.

“Oh, this part is hot.” Tess says, and you look up at her as you furrow your brow, “I watched this little bit, and god, he’s so hot.”

Jimmy nods, “He’s so fucking cool.”

You watch John as he just…flips over a guy, then he pins him to the ground and zeros in on Iosef. He shoots the guy that he has pinned to the floor, then the camera switches to a different room as people begin to scatter. Your heart is beating out of your chest as the camera flickers from each room to the next, and you clasp your hands in front of your chest.

“He’s okay, by the way.” Tess says, patting you on the back, “I watched this already and he’s fine. Well, I mean, he’s not at one point, but I can stop it before we get there.”

“Oh, my god!” you put your hands over your mouth and widen your eyes, “That guy is shooting at him, does he kill him?”

Jimmy laughs, “No, John is upstairs. He’s not dead!”

Tess immediately rolls her eyes and nudges Jimmy, “You’re such a dork.”

The camera flickers to the next room, and you’re left wondering if John killed that guy or not, even though you’re pretty sure you know the answer. The camera switches to the next few rooms and you don’t see John anywhere, so you’re slowly losing interest.

“Oh, shit, this part is good.” Jimmy leans on the counter and looks at the screen, “John is so fucking awesome.”

You see Iosef run into a room and point behind him to the doorway he just came through, then he runs out of the room just as John enters it. John immediately begins to shoot the men in front of him, and you don’t blame him since they’re literally trying to kill him.

“No!” you exclaim loudly when the camera switches rooms, “No! I need to know he’s okay. Where did he go?”

Tess grimaces as she pauses the video, “You might not want to watch the rest anyway.”

You scrunch your eyebrows in anger and look at her, “No, I want to see it.”

“He gets hurt, babe. I don’t think you realize how bad it’s going to be.” she says, putting her hand on your back, “It’s not good.”

You perk up a little when you hear footsteps coming closer to the kitchen, and you immediately close the laptop screen a little so John can’t see what you’re looking at. He sees the three of you looking at him, and he stops walking and furrows his brow.

“What are you three doing?” he asks, and you can tell he already knows you’re up to no good.

“Uh, oh, I was just…” you shrug nonchalantly, “I was just showing them what I’m getting you for Christmas, so don’t come over here and try to get a peek, mister!”

John can see right through you, but he shrugs it off and walks over to your purse to get some ibuprofen. The three of you watch him as he takes out a few, then he cups them in his hand and pops them in his mouth.

“Ew. I know you did not just take these pills with no water.” Tess says, almost gagging.

“Don’t trust people who can swallow pills with no drink.” you laugh, and John shakes his head a little. “It’s not right.”

John grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and cracks it open, then he turns around and maintains eye contact with you since he knows you’re going to give in and tell him what you’re looking at.

You squint your eyes a little, “You can leave now.”

“Hmm,” John walks closer to you and tilts his head, “What are you hiding from me?”

Tess laughs, “Don’t you trust her?”

“They were showing me videos of you working.” you whisper, and John looks over at you. “Don’t be mad at them. If you’re going to be mad at anyone, be mad at me. I asked them to look for them in the first place.”

Tess shoves your shoulder, “You folded fast.”

“I’m not mad.” he says softly, sitting down next to you, “I’m just…”

“Worried about what I’d think.” you say, cocking up your eyebrow. You give John a look, then you nod in the direction of your bedroom to remind John of what he just told you about 30 minutes ago. “Don’t worry about it. I’m more worried about you than anything else. You just…disappeared on here and I’m worried because I can’t see you anymore.”

“Club.” Tess says, leaning back down next to you, “That Joseph kid.”

“Iosef.” you correct Tess, and the corner of John’s mouth turns up a bit. “Yeah, it was from a while ago. So, none of these are new. I think they’re all older videos, but it’s pretty cool to see you working. You’re very…uh, active.”

John laughs, “Well, if these were from then, then yeah, I was a lot more active than I am now. I’m old, baby.”

“He’s lying.” Jimmy says, shaking his head, “He’s just the same as he was then. Maybe he’s a little slower getting up, and maybe it gets a little more winded nowadays, but he’s still as cool.”

“Oh,” you nod and point to Jimmy as you look at John, “He’s your biggest fan, by the way.”

Tess exhales, “Are you sure you still want to watch this?”

“Yes.” you scoot closer to John and wrap your arms around his bicep, then you lean your head against his shoulder, “Play, please.”

“Okay,” Tess says, then she pushes play, “But just know that I warned you.”

You watch John as he continues shooting guys, and he puts his hand on your knee, squeezing it a little bit.

“Uh,” you pause the video and look at John, “How do you know who to shoot?”

John laughs and points at the screen, “Look at them, they’re all wearing red. They’re idiots. And…I don’t know, I guess I’ve been doing this for so long that I just know who to shoot. Also, this was Viggo, and I worked for him for a while, so I know how he operates.”

“Bad move on his part then.” you nod your head as you look up at John, then you smile, “You’re really hot, by the way. I can’t see you completely, but you still look the same. You look so sexy.”

Tess laughs, “I still think your birth certificate is lying. There’s no way you’re 50.”

Tess starts the video again, then both her and John reach out to pause it at the same time. You look back and forth between them, and John sighs while Tess puts her hand on your back again.

“Again, please just be warned.” Tess says, then she looks at John.

He nods his head and puts his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he plays the video. You take a deep breath and hold it as you watch John fighting with a guy. It’s hard to see since it’s so dark and there are people running in every direction, but the camera switches to a different angle and you finally see what Tess has been warning you about this whole time.

The man picks John up and throws him over the railing, and John lands on the dance floor that’s easily 12 feet or more below him. You cover your face with your hands and bury yourself in John’s arms, and you hear John chuckling softly.

“Holy shit, John. No wonder your back hurts all the time.” you wipe away the tear in your eye, then you look at him, “Baby, you fell so far.”

John laughs, “Yeah, but I’m fine. I’m here. It’s okay.”

You prop your head up on your fist, then you let out a big breath as Tess closes the video. You feel John’s hand on your thigh, and you look over at him with tears in your eyes.

“Baby, I’m okay.” he leans closer to you, cupping your face, “This is why I didn’t want you to watch this stuff.”

“I just don’t understand why people are so mean to you and why they want to hurt you.” you frown as you lean closer to John’s face.

“Well, come on, he’s trying to kill this guy.” Tess says, then she leans against the counter, “They’re just doing their job, just like John does his when he gets hired.”

“I know,” you look at John and frown, “It just makes me sad.”

Jimmy and Tess continue looking through the files on the laptop, and you scoot closer and lean your head on John’s shoulder.

“Try that one.” Jimmy says, pointing at the screen, “Do you remember this, John? New York City?”

“Doesn’t really narrow it down, Jimmy.” John laughs, and he keeps a tight grip on you as he leans over to look at the date, “Oh, yeah, this was a few days after all that club stuff.”

“Let’s watch it!” Tess claps, then she sits back down.

You squint your eyes a little bit to try and find John in the crowd of people, and you immediately spot him, “There he is.”

“Who is this guy?” Tess asks as she looks at John.

“A guy I worked with for a while.” John exhales, shaking his head, “I told him not to do this, but he didn’t listen.”

“Santino.” you say, and John pats your leg a little. “Are you proud of me for remembering?”

John shrugs, then he pulls your chair closer to him, “To be honest, yeah, I didn’t think you’d remember all of this stuff.”

“Okay, so this is the guy who wanted John to kill his sister so that he could take her place at the…don’t tell me…” you look at John, holding up your finger, “The…Council.”

John laughs, “The High Table, but you were close.”

“Oh, well, okay, so he wanted John to kill his sister so that he could have her place instead because their dad had left it for her and not him, so when John followed through with that, Santino then put a hit out on John so he could avenge the death of his sister. It’s very twisted, and these people are all sketchy as hell. I mean, who the hell would kill their sister for some spot at a fucking table?”

“I’d kill you to get that good spot at the adult table during family Christmases 15 years ago.” Tess says, and you both start to laugh. “How did you feel when he asked you?”

John exhales and shakes his head as he gets up to get himself another drink, “I was…pissed when he first asked. I told him not to do it. I told him to find someone else, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“So basically, Santino was a big cry baby because he didn’t get the seat? Figures. Men.” Tess rolls her eyes. “What happened after he took out the hit?”

You look at John as he gestures to you, and you smile when they all look over at you, “So after that, there was a hit out on John and…oh, wait, so John was in Rome when he killed Gianna, that’s Santino’s sister. Wait, wait, wait, I already know John will correct me. Technically John didn’t kill her, she went out on her own. So anyway, he flew back here to the city and he was…uh, I don’t know where you were going, baby.”

“I was going find Santino.” he says, and his voice is so deep that it covers your arms in goosebumps and causes you to shiver.

“Right! He was going to find Santino. He was celebrating his new seat at the High Table, and well, I suppose this is where the video picks up. John found him.”

You, Tess, and Jimmy lean over the laptop as you press play on the video, and you look up at John as he watches you. A small smile spreads across his face as he moves to the fridge to pull out an apple, then he walks back over to sit next to you.

“Look at his face, it’s already covered in blood.” Tess says, frowning a little. “Oh, oh. Oh, my god. They’re in a stand off. Hey, I just realized that John shoots with his right hand. Aren’t you a lefty like this one?”

John gasps, “You’re left handed?”

“Shut up.” you nudge him as you laugh, “Like you don’t know.”

“Jimmy and I are both right handed.” Tess says, beaming proudly. “Which just means Finn will probably be left handed, and we’ll have no idea how to teach him to tie his shoes or hold a fork.”

You smile, “Well, he has an aunt and uncle who are more than happy to help.”

You laugh a little as Tess begins to narrates the video, and you reach over to hold John’s hand, making sure he knows that you’re comfortable. The camera in the museum doesn’t flash from room to room like the club did, which you’re thankful for since you can see everything that John is doing, like shooting 7 guys within 5 seconds and doing that weird flip he tried to teach you once.

“Hey! You tried to teach me that.” you say, looking over at him, “Now that I’ve seen it, I can totally do that!”

John winks, “Next time we practice.”

“Well, now he’s gone.” Tess laughs, then she perks up when she realizes she can switch the camera to a different room, “Let’s try this one. Nope, not here, but there’s a few guys waiting for him. Oh, there’s Santino. God, I hope you kicked his ass, John.”

You look at Tess as she looks over at you, and you grimace a little, “He’s the reason John was excommunicated. John killed him in the hotel, even though he knew the consequences.”

Tess nods her head, then she looks back at the laptop as she clicks through more rooms, “Oh, there he is. Oh, never mind, he’s gone again. God, John, don’t you ever stay still?”

“Gotta keep movin’, Tess.” Jimmy says, leaning against the counter, “Try this one.”

You watch John as he continues to shoot every person he passes, occasionally getting into a bit of hand to hand combat. You’re not really fazed by this stuff anymore. John has told you pretty much everything, and sometimes when he’s in a good mood from a job, he’ll actually tell you how things went down. You’re more interested in how John can easily go from that to this: domestic, calm, relaxed, happy, laughing John Wick.

It makes sense that he’s able to separate the two, he’s been doing it for years, but he’s even better at it now since he doesn’t work as often anymore. He’ll take a job every few weeks, but for the most part, John is at home a lot. And he reminds you every time you bring it up that this is where he wants to be.

“John, you are so dramatic. Like, did you really need to flip over that guy like that and lay on the floor?” Tess laughs, and you smile a little, keeping your eyes on the laptop.

“Okay, but isn’t he hot though?” you say, and Tess nods her head in agreement. You widen your eyes when you think you see something, and you point at the screen, “No, go back, go back! It switched cameras and it’s in this room now, but go back.”

Tess rewinds the video a few seconds, then you lean closer to the screen waiting for John to pop back up again. He comes through the door and just…chucks his gun at some guy’s head.

“You just threw a gun at that guy’s head!” you laugh loudly, then bend over to hold your sides, “Holy shit, I shouldn’t be laughing, but Jonathan, oh my god.”

“Hey, everything and anything is a weapon.” Jimmy laughs, “Even an empty weapon.”

You tilt your head back, then lean your head against his shoulder, “You really are dramatic. We’re going to have the most dramatic children on this planet.”

John laughs, “Yeah, and they’ll get most of their dramatics from you.”

You’re done watching the videos now, but you know that Tess has them on her laptop, and when the two of you are bored, you’ll pull them out for some entertainment. Which is probably a little morbid if you think about it.

Tess yawns loudly, then she looks at the clock, “I’m going to take a quick nap. We still have plans for dinner, right?”

You nod, “Yup! Just you and I. Leaving the boys at home.”

She nods her head as she yawns again, then she walks out of the room with Jimmy right behind her, leaving you alone with John.

You take a deep breath and look over at John, “So…”

“So…” he laughs, “I had a nice little nap. Didn’t even realize I fell asleep.”

“I was rubbing your back for literally a minute and the next thing I knew, you were just snoring. I figured you could use a nap, so I just left you in there.” you smile, moving his hair out of his face, “Sleepy babe.”

John pulls your chair closer to him, then he grabs your legs and puts them on either side of his waist so you’re straddling him, and you wrap your arms around his neck to keep yourself from falling to the ground.

“Since you’re leaving in a little bit and I didn’t get to talk to you about everything earlier, can I talk to you now?”

You nod, “Of course.”

“Not here though.” he says, and he holds tight to your waist as he sets you back on the ground, “Maybe we could go down by the lake.”

You and John hold hands as you walk outside, and you smile when you look over your shoulder and see Bleu following behind you. He picks up his favorite toy that John always tosses for him at the lake, and he runs ahead happily. It’s pretty warm today, so you might even stand in the water for a little bit, but only where you can see the bottom. You can’t trust those fish!

John sits down under the tree, then he reaches for your hand and pulls you next to him, “Sorry, I should have brought a blanket. I can go grab one.”

“No, no,” you touch his arm, scooting closer, “This is fine, and since when do I need a blanket? A little dirt never hurt.”

“It’s a nice day today, isn’t it?”

You look across the lake as you nod, “It is a very nice day. It’s not too hot, which is nice because I hate being sweaty.”

There’s a family who lives across the lake from you and whenever it’s warm out, they’re always outside swimming in the water and jumping off the back of their pontoon. Their laughter is carried across the water, and it almost sounds like they’re right in front of you. You can’t help but smile when all the children stand in a line at the end of the dock and jump in. The mom claps her hands as the children swim around, and you laugh a little when the dad sneaks up behind her and pushes her into the water.

“Ooh, bad move, dad.” John laughs.

“She better get him back for that.” you laugh, then look over at John, “I would totally get you back if you did that to me.”

“You have! Many times.” he laughs, leaning over to kiss your cheek. He wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you closer to him, “So, you got to see me work.”

“I did, it was very exciting. Kind of surreal how different my version of you is.”

John takes his arm from off your shoulder and reaches for your hand, “The guy that you saw on those videos, that's not me anymore. I mean, it is when I need it to be. If something happened to you, I would be that man in a heartbeat. But the real version of me is the one here. The one I am when I'm with you.”

You bite your lip to keep yourself from smiling, and John cocks up his eyebrow a little bit.

“Just say it. It was cheesy.”

“No, no, I'm not laughing at you, baby.” you laugh and squeeze his hand, “I'm sorry, that was just so sweet.”

John cups your face and smiles, “The real version of me is this one. The one sitting here with you right now. The one who...makes you breakfast in bed and loves taking baths with you, and the one who gets to laugh at your jokes, the one who gets to eventually have a baby with you. The real version of me is the one I get to be because of you. The one who is absolutely and irrevocably in love with you.”

You tilt your head back and laugh, “Irrevocably.”

“It's true, and you know it.” he says, nudging your shoulder a little. “I know you feel the same way.”

“I do.” you nod, then you press a warm kiss to John's lips, “I very much do.”

John is staring at you as you look away, and you can feel his gaze on you. He tends to watch you a lot so you're not really bothered by it anymore, it's actually pretty endearing, considering you do the same to him all the time.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t leave behind everything for you?”

You look at John, furrowing your brow, “What?”

“Earlier you said that I left behind everything to be with Helen. You said you wished someone would do that for you.” he says, holding your gaze, “Do you really think I wouldn’t?”

You shrug, “I guess I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But you did.” he says, nodding, “You meant it like that, and that’s okay, but I need you to know that I will leave behind everything for you. Why do you think I don’t work as much? I’m slowly pulling away from that life for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.” you say, a little too harshly.

“You didn’t need to.” he says softly, and you look over at him again, “I would be willing to leave it all behind for you -- I am willing. Once you get pregnant, I will not leave your side. You’re gonna be so sick of me by the end of those 9 months.”

You let out a small laugh as you shake your head, “Not likely.”

“If I can’t leave your side while you’re pregnant, how would I ever do it once we have a baby?” John says, then he cups your face, “A job isn’t important to me. Nothing is more important to me than you.”

“I can’t ask you to walk away from that life again, John.”

“You’re not asking me, I’m doing it on my own.” he takes a deep breath, then he looks at you again, “Working is just not what’s important to me anymore. I don’t want to miss out on any moment of your pregnancy, or our baby’s life.”

You scoff, “Yeah, I’m sure you’re really looking forward to the nausea, constipation, and hemorrhoids.”

“Babies get those?” he teases, and you nudge his stomach.

“Actually, they can, but it’s rare.” you say, and John looks at you quizzically, “Been reading Tess’ baby books. Pretty scary stuff in there.”

John chuckles, “I really need to read some of these books.”

The two of you laugh quietly as you watch the family across the lake swimming, and you tuck yourself even more into John’s arms as you close your eyes and feel the breeze against your skin. You’re fairly certain that nothing is better than this moment, and you’re going to soak in every single second of it.

“58 days.” John says, and you tilt your head back to look at him, “You’re officially Mrs. Wick in 58 days.”

You smile as you nod your head, “And I can’t wait.”

__

@tnu-ree​ @dangerouslystrangecrown​ @weird-civilian @callmeglenncoco @sanctuarygirl​ @meetmeinthematinee​ @jessicajones616​ @artistic-discontentment @cheekybluefox​ @jazzyboo2001 @a-small-independent-princess @thepastrecedes01​ @rubywantsafuitgummy​ @sterekislyf​ @lostandfaceless​​ @sweetgoodangel​​ @racharr @star017​ @ladyren33​ @whatcolourisanorange​​ @lunaticgurly​ @ficsnroses​​ @wheretheriversrunintothesea​

[lia-jones]

Growing Together - Chapter Seven - Storms and Earthquakes

Author’s Note: A special thank you to @aim170, for the beautiful quote. I hope you enjoy the chapter.

He will be like a tree firmly planted by streams of water,

Which yields its fruits in its season

And its leaf does not wither;

And in whatever he does, he prospers.

Psalm 1:3

Victor had heard many life stories filled with hardship and sorrow that usually ended with the protagonist rising above it all. He had heard more than he could count, but the one that warmed his heart the most was the one of the woman with whom he was sharing a bed.

He had said it before, and he would say it again: Andrea was a tree. He hadn’t seen the abuse, but he had witnessed her valiantly take everything that made her life ugly and turn it into beauty with love, perseverance and a touch of stubbornness. He watched her as she faced all the seasons, with courage and faith, and he was the one that sat beneath her luscious branches and ate from her fruit, proud to see her still standing tall, even after the wind, rain, and snow.

For that, and so much more, he loved her. There was nothing he wouldn’t in the name of love. And this was important to her. This was her lifelong dream, the thing she wanted the most, so he would give it to her. He wanted nothing more than to see his tree grow, thicken her trunk and stretch her branches to the sky, embellishing the landscape with her vibrant leaves and beautiful flowers.

When she mentioned the fertility clinic in Switzerland, he carefully read every piece of literature she provided, along with the information obtained by his private investigators. She led him to that doctor’s office and he gladly followed, with a patient smile on his face, open-minded and cooperative, even though his heart was filled with worry.

He listened to the doctor explain how Andrea would receive newly developed hormonal shots to stimulate ovulation, and how her eggs would be fertilized and inserted inside a surrogate womb. That woman would stay under the clinic’s care, and they would be informed of every step in their child’s growth and health. Victor had already prepared a set of questions to ask the doctor, and he posed every single one of them and remained receptive, although surrogacy was something that made him extremely uneasy.

When the doctor left them to discuss their options, Andrea looking at him with pleading eyes, Victor had no choice but to hold her lovingly and kiss her. He walked into that room filled with distasteful porn magazines and ignored them, making love to his wife in his mind instead. She didn’t even need to make her case, she had already won.

The first injection barely had any consequences. Andrea spent the majority of the first day sleeping, probably due to jet lag as well, only mentioning some mild nausea. After the second injection, however, Andrea’s health took a turn for the worse. Victor found her kneeling by the toilet late that night, heaving painfully, her face swollen due to the effort. Her body soon followed, to the point where Andrea found it hard to button her pants or even walk, due to her swollen feet.

Victor brought her every kind of meal he could think of, in hopes of finding something that she could keep in her stomach, only to see her run to the bathroom minutes later to empty it. While she slept, the only thing that seemed to bring her any kind of comfort, Victor would call the doctor, worried that, in the attempt of creating life, Andrea was actually killing herself.

Every night, every single night, he would ask her if she wanted to quit the treatment and fly home. Every single time he would tell her he loved her, that she was all he needed, that their life of two was already more than he ever imagined for himself. He would try to talk her out of it, saying that he didn’t like seeing her make herself sick like that, that he wanted nothing more than his wife happy and healthy. And every time she would put on a strong face, tell him it was not that bad, that she wanted to keep trying. Victor found himself with no choice but to kiss her forehead, secretly checking for fever, only to tell her to get ready for another injection. He would clench his shaking hand to steady it, torn between the feeling that he was helping her make her dream come true and simultaneously making her sick.

The day after the last injection she started eating again, preparing herself for the next phase. The color returned to her cheeks, as well as some of her energy. That allowed Victor to feel some relief, even though the concern never went away. The first battle was over, but the war was yet to be won.

He held her hand lovingly as the medical staff put her under anesthesia, promising her that his would be the last face she would see as she fell asleep, and the first one when she woke up. He never left her side. He witnessed the doctors take from her eight eggs, the seeds that would make one baby hers, and take them to the laboratory for fertilization. He stroked her curls as she slept off the medicine, knowing she would wake up with anxious eyes and a heart full of questions. He would be prepared for all of them, and he would soothe any worry in her heart. The ground was shaking violently under his tree, making her shake due to the consequences of abuse, so he would keep her rooted.

Victor watched as her eyelids fluttered open, a groggy look on her face. His face was the first thing she saw. And his hand on hers was the first thing she felt. He gave her a soft smile.

“When are we starting?” She was still half-asleep. Victor chuckled at his sleepyhead of a wife.

“It’s already finished.” His hand caressed her face, like he could remove the remnants of the drug-induced sleep. “It went very well. They collected eight eggs.”

Andrea started to fidget. Victor’s hand rested on her chest, steadying her.

“Are you in pain? The doctors said you could experience some soreness or cramps.”

“I’m fine, I just need some help sitting.” Victor’s hands immediately rested on her waist and back, supporting her as she tried to sit up. “They just collected eight? They said fifteen was the go-to number.”

“It’s an estimate, they don’t need fifteen eggs. They just need one good egg.” Victor squeezed her hand lovingly. “They are on fertilization as we speak.”

“So it went well? We are going to have a baby?” Her eyes filled with tears. “Is this really happening?”

“It appears so.” Victor smiled, trying to hide his concern.

In all honesty, he should have told her that she should wait, she shouldn’t hope this much, this battle wasn’t over, they weren’t winners yet. But that was the grey, dark, cynical part of him, which used to be all of him before she came into his life. When she did come, she filled his life with sunshine, flowers, branches heavy with leaves, the cool shade for his aching heart, so much in need of a place to rest. He couldn’t repay her with shades of grey when she needed light. So he allowed her to hope, a bit selfishly, because her colors made his colors so much more vibrant, the world becoming a better place when she had a smile on her face and hope in her eyes.

So he wiped away her happy tears and allowed himself to laugh with her, feeling his heart also becoming lighter. That was the power of her smile.

Unfortunately, her happiness would be short-lived. The doctor appeared shortly after, a grim look on his face, making Andrea’s smile fade instantly. Victor took her hand again, offering her his strength.

“Is something wrong?” Andrea questioned before Victor could, and he could swear he felt something shaking in her core.

“I’m just returning from the laboratory.” The doctor explained. “The procedure was a success, however, upon more thorough analysis, we came to conclude the eggs aren’t healthy enough to undergo fertilization.”

There was a long pause. Victor and the doctor were expecting Andrea’s reaction.

“Well, ok.” She nodded after a long deep breath. “We’ll try again, then. We can return next month and-”

“Mrs. Lee.” The doctor interrupted her, and Andrea drew in a ragged breath. “I am so very sorry to tell you this, but despite our previous assessment, your ovaries may not be as healthy as we thought. If we stimulate ovulation again, there is no guarantee that the next eggs will be viable, and doing so could lead to dire consequences to your health. I can’t in good conscience advise that.”

Again, the room fell silent. Andrea’s eyes focused on the comforter covering her legs and she remained still, reactionless. It was Victor that broke the silence.

“Thank you, doctor. My wife and I will reassess our situation and figure out the next course of action.” He looked at her, hoping for her to return his gaze. She didn’t. “She may be released today?”

“Yes, she will be more comfortable at home. I’ll come back in an hour with her release papers and to perform a final examination.”

Finally alone, Victor waited patiently for her to speak. She seemed to be taking a long time forming the words, her eyes watering, sadness seemingly building a deep pit inside her, and she was falling. He took her chin in his hand and made her face him, letting her know he was there, he wouldn’t let her fall.

“We can get an egg donor.” She finally surfaced from her thoughts. “I don’t care if it doesn’t have my DNA, it will still-”

“No.” Victor stopped her.

“Victor, we-”

“No.” He reinforced. “Either it’s from both of us, or it won’t happen.”

“Didn’t you hear the doctor? Mine aren’t...” Her voice failed. He hated to be the one giving the final blow that would crush her dream, but he wouldn’t want a child from another woman. Andrea was the woman he loved.

“Andy…” His voice was soft. “It’s over.” Victor’s heart broke as he spoke the words. He hated to be the one giving the final blow that would crush her dream, but he wouldn’t want a child from another woman. Andrea was the woman he loved.

“That’s it?” She looked down, her brows furrowing in disbelief. “We lost?”

“I’m sorry.” He wiped one of the tears that fell. He hated to see her cry. He wanted to give her everything she could possibly dream of, but it was painstakingly obvious that somethings can’t be bought.

“I should be the one apologizing.” Her voice trembled once more. “I’m the one with a broken body, I’m the one who can’t conceive a child.”

Victor pulled her closer to him. Andrea quickly broke the embrace.

“A hug won’t help. It won’t change the fact that I’m malfunctioning. It won’t ease the fact that I’m a disgrace of a woman, of a wife, I can’t give you a family. And it’s just so unfair!” She smacked the comforter in rage. “I don’t get it, women get pregnant all the time without even wanting to. Why can’t I? Why, Victor?” She turned to him, her eyes full of pain.

“Andy…” He tried to caress her, only to have her evade his touch.

“No! I don’t need comforting, I need answers!” She yelled at him, her emotions out of control. “I want to know, if there is a God, why would he do this to me! Why does he think that it’s fair that some women give their kids away or mistreat them, and I have to suffer through this! We would be such great parents; we have so much love to give, we have the means, the education, everything to make it work. You would be such a great father, we could be such a happy tight family, and I WANT IT SO FREAKING BAD, WHY CAN’T IT HAPPEN?”

The ground was shaking harder, stones coming to surface, her core shaking violently, and all Victor could do was watch. He could hear the storm rumbling inside her chest, the heavy rain taking away the ground, leaving her roots exposed. For a moment, he didn’t know how to stop it.

“This is all my fault! I let that asshole into my life, let him beat me into a worthless piece of crap, who can’t do something as simple as PRODUCE ONE SIMPLE DAMN GOOD EGG, LET ALONE BEAR A CHILD!”

Victor couldn’t stand it anymore. Pulling her towards him quite forcefully, he buried her face in his chest, holding tight to his tree. He would not let her roots be released from the earth. He wouldn’t let her topple over. He would face the storm with her. She wasn’t alone.

“Enough of that!” He commanded the storm. “I understand you are hurting, that you are disappointed, but you are never to speak about yourself in that manner again, do you understand me?” His voice spoke powerful and low in her ear, perhaps a little more sternly than he intended. “You are the most amazing woman I have met in my life; you are so far from being worthless. And you are not a disgraceful wife, you purposefully made yourself sick so I could have a chance at becoming a father. I’ve never had anyone in my life go to such lengths for me, ever! It’s only fair that you are sad, more than legitimate to be angry, but not at yourself, do you hear me?” He pushed her shoulders back and leaned his forehead against her, making her face him. “I understand that you feel like throwing punches, and the world does deserve some of them, but never at yourself! Am I clear?”

Her body shook with sobs, and she finally let herself be properly held. Victor kept her pressed to him,  so close that for a moment he feared she would suffocate. He could feel the rain beating hard against her now naked roots, threatening to wash her away, as the earth broke beneath her. He wouldn’t let it happen. They would weather the storm together; he would allow no rain, thunder or lightning to ruin the most beautiful thing in his world. And at that moment, he too became a tree, and he buried his roots deep in the ground, entangling them with hers.

[adoptegirl-blog]

What People Are Talking About Adopte Une Cougar

I am not saying different guardians don't, however as far as I can tell individuals who have endeavored to become guardians simply appear to appreciate it more. Perhaps it's the fulfillment of accomplishing and working for something the we incredibly needed and didn't know we would get. Do I truly mind the fits? Quite I even revel in them. This is the place I needed to be for such a long time. (I have a youngster and a preschool-matured young lady. Their fits are not that diverse fro one another.)

Loads of individuals have confusions about adopteunefille. They believe it's consistently costly, extremely difficult to do, and exceptionally unsafe. Not so much obvious. Costly, it tends to be, however there are heaps of alternatives that are considerably less costly. We would say, it costs about equivalent to another vehicle. OK mind driving an old vehicle in the event that you can be toting around an excellent child? Not difficult to pick when it's seen that way. I know somebody who embraced 5 youngsters through the child care framework, at no money related cost. It truly relies upon what you are willing and ready to spend and how innovative you are happy to be. There are huge amounts of choices.

So how unsafe is the procedure? A typical conviction is that there is an immense possibility the child's introduction to the world mother will adjust her perspective and keep the infant ultimately. Indeed, this happens once in a while. I do know companions who had that occur. Was it upsetting? Obviously. Did they attempt once more? Obviously. Is it true that they were fruitful? That's right, you will consistently be effective on the off chance that you don't surrender. Also, there's an a lot higher possibility (like 80%) that every selection will be effective than not.

I've had individuals state they are apprehensive they won't love a kid so a lot on the off chance that he/she is definitely not a natural kid. That isn't my experience or that of anybody I know, even companions who have received in the wake of having natural youngsters. The three individuals in this world who are my nearest closest relative, my better half and 2 girls, are not identified with me by blood and it doesn't have a touch of effect to me. I love them with my entire heart.

I've heard others fear being set with a youngster who has clinical or innate issues. In actuality, there is a great deal of decision in reception. You can choose about a great deal of things that you can't on the off chance that you are pregnant, similar to hazard variables and ailment. The selection isn't last until normally weeks or months after the infant is conceived. This doesn't really mean the birth mother has such an ideal opportunity to adjust her perspective; each state is extraordinary, yet it as a rule takes more time for all the administrative work to be settled.

As far as I can tell, there are dangers to being pregnant, and dislike you get the opportunity to pick what sort of infant you will have. We felt extremely associated with both of our young ladies while they were still in utero, and accept they were intended to be with us. That has been the experience of all the new parents I know.

The media causes reception to appear to be so alarming in light of the fact that they love to sensationalize everything and spotlight on the adopte une fille . So the one family in the entire nation who has an extremely awful encounter will be on the news, while the thousands who don't won't be accounted for. In the event that everything you do is tune in to the media, you'll be reluctant to do anything.

I was frightened, thinking it was never going to occur, being vexed about the cash, and feeling overpowered by the procedure. Be that as it may, selections resemble whatever else beneficial: they take commitment and work, and indeed, some hazard. In the event that you do what the lawyer or office lets you know, each day in turn, as well as can be expected, and don't surrender, you'll be remunerated, at some point or another, by a kid who will catch your heart and advance your life until the end of time.

[tsundere-mitsuhide]

Invitation to Exasperation

I've been channeling new job anxiety into silly story ideas all weekend, so I found this languishing in Google Drive and decided to finish it up real quick.

A big shout out and thanks to @darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts for the title, and @breadcheese444 for the beta! 

Modern AU, a wedding, an annoying guest, and the troublesome duo of Tazuki and Mitsuhide. Also available to read on AO3. 

It really was a beautiful set-up. There was a gigantic white tent spreading out across the field, with a view of the fancy old manor house not too far behind it. Cows and horses could be spotted out in the distance, as far as the eye could see. It was a gorgeous spring day, the wind blowing slightly, and the temperature steady. There wasn't a cloud in the vast blue sky.

Mitsuhide walked leisurely across the grass toward the tent. He didn’t think Nobunaga would ever get married, but he seemed happy with Mai. She had changed him, made him more approachable. Nobunaga wanted a big blow-out wedding, but Mai had convinced him to tone it down to a more relaxed but still elegant affair. The preparations for the reception were now complete, and Mitsuhide was scouting out beforehand to make sure everything was in place. It was quiet and peaceful until a cough caught his attention. It was Ieyasu, who was staring him down from inside the tent.

“Everything is done here; let’s go.”

“Why the haste? I just got here.”

“Yeah, it was convenient for you to miss the preparations on purpose.” Ieyasu’s words were dripping in sarcasm. He tugged the lapels of his white linen groomsman suit as if it made him more official. “Now let’s go; we can’t be late for the ceremony.”

“Tsk. What makes you think we will be?”

Ieyasu didn’t answer and just speed-walked past Mitsuhide toward the cars parked in front of the house. Mitsuhide just shrugged, turned to scan the tent and double-check it, and then slowly walked along behind Ieyasu.

When Mitsuhide caught up to Ieyasu in the gravel parking lot, the blond was staring between their two cars as if trying to decide which way was going to be best for the situation. Mitsuhide opened the driver side door of his two-seater. “Hop in.”

“Hell no. Not with the way you drive. You’re as bad as Masamune.”

“You want to get there on time, don’t you?”

“Goddammit, fine.” Ieyasu cautiously climbed into the car and slammed the door. “Just try not to drive at the speed of sound, ok?”

Mitsuhide couldn’t help but laugh as he turned the key in the ignition.

-----

When the bridesmaids and groomsmen arrived at the tent after the required pictures were taken, the wedding guests were halfway through the cocktail hour. Mitsuhide grabbed a dry gin martini from the open bar and began to mingle; not because he wanted to but because that was what was expected of him. He ended up gaining a snooty senator at his elbow, who just would not stop his incessant chatter and a couple of other hangers-on. Already bored by their conversation, Mitsuhide slowly made his way over to the long table of hors d’ oeuvres.

He found her on the far side of the table, shoving a tea sandwich in her mouth like it was the last food on Earth. It was a comical sight considering she was wearing a floor-length dusty lavender bridesmaid dress. She looked a sight in it; it slimmed her figure with its length, as the spaghetti straps and the large ruffle across the chest provided a counterbalance to the elongating silhouette. Her hair, in its classic over-the-shoulder braid, was embellished with little rhinestones and flowers. He stopped a few feet away, forcing his eyes away from her and chuckled, which attracted her attention. “The food isn’t going to disappear, you know.”

“You never know; there are a lot of people here.”

“I’m sure Masamune has provided plenty of food for everybody.”

“I wouldn’t want to risk it.” She quipped as she stuffed a whole tart in her mouth with a smile.

He shot her a crooked grin before the pesky senator “ahem”-ed aggressively to recall his attention. Begrudgingly, Mitsuhide turned back to the older man and pretended to listen.

She listened from afar for as long as she thought she could reasonably pose as picking between the light snacks before she circled back towards Mitsuhide. He looked down at her plate--a massive tower of fruits, tarts, and miniature sandwiches--and nabbed a bourbon-soaked cherry from her. She playfully punched his arm in retaliation. The senator raised a judgemental eyebrow at them, so she reached a hand out to him with a lopsided smile.

“How rude of me, I failed to introduce myself. My name is Tazuki.”

With a haughty cough, the senator shook her hand and returned to his lengthy tale of self-importance. The two managed to move a little bit further away, to not be directly in the circle of intrigued idiots. When Mitsuhide stole a chocolate-dipped rum pineapple slice from her plate, she ventured a comment.

“That man seems to enjoy hearing himself talk.”

“He certainly is long-winded. And he keeps badgering on about Kenya… I bet the man has never even been to the Bronx.”

She laughed hard enough that she leaned over and clutched her sides with her plate held aloft. Mitsuhide managed to look a touch proud of himself. The people nearby looked over at them briefly, before they returned to their conversations.

When the bride and groom made their appearance, everyone stopped to applaud them as they walked hand-in-hand down the grassy expanse from the house. When they reached the tent, Nobunaga grabbed Mai and dipped her for a long kiss, which caused a cheer to erupt from some of the partygoers. Nobunaga gave the crowd a cocky grin as the happy couple turned to greet their guests.

“Show off,” Mitsuhide snarked. “It’s a wonder his face hasn't split in half yet.”

“I would question if it really was Nobunaga or just a very clever fake if they weren’t extremely flashy.” Tazuki countered him with a tongue-touched smile.

He didn’t answer her but instead tried to pull on her tongue. She playfully snapped her jaws at him to fend him off.

Their antics managed to draw the attention of the pesky senator again, and he finally had enough. In a condescending tone, he quipped, “Why don’t you two just get a room?”

They both stared at him for a long minute, before Mitsuhide responded with a razor-thin grin. “Oh I intend to; you see, she’s my wife.” 

Tazuki flashed her large diamond ring in confirmation and the senator angrily stormed out of the tent.

[nevergiveupneverrun]

Bodyguard - Chapter Twelve “The memory of the body” Part One

Hello, I hope you’re all doing great. Here is chapter twelve of my Story Bodyguard. I’m sorry in advance for the mistakes… English isn’t my first language and I do my best. Here is the link to the previous chapter: Click Here.

I hope you will enjoy this chapter :) 💛

A week had passed since the reception for Amelia’s foundation and this chase. A week that Amelia’s stress was climbing with each passing day… not so much because of the threats, she had regained the upper hand in record time… but because of the upcoming concert, which was only a few days away. She kept repeating and I didn’t count the number of trips back to the Conservatoire or the studio. Richard was even worried about Amelia’s diligence, so much that he had imposed today on a day off, which had the effect of annoying Amelia noticeably. She was not particularly happy and had spent much of her day in her composition room playing and humming her songs.

I was looking for her in the house, no longer hearing any melody escape from the end of the corridor. Approaching the room, I soon perceive two distant voices: those of Amelia and April who were be installed on the terrace. - It will change your ideas! - I don’t know April, a quiet evening at home would do me good too, I think… - Not at all… an evening between us, where we drink more than reason and where we dance all night, it is the best remedy for your state of mind… you are a too anxious sweetheart! Even if the best remedy is not the best expression: it is a good remedy but not the best… - Oh yes, and what is the best remedy, doctor? I hear Amelia’s smile through her voice as she challenges her friend. - You know Amelia… but you can not do it alone… April’s mischievous tone echoes in my ears. - April Kepner, you will never change! - Stop, you know that it’s effective, and besides, you don’t have to look far! - Clearly, men are jostling at my door right now… I’m about to move away from their discussion when April’s sentence suddenly stops me in my movement. - Maybe not, but there is a man 24 hours a day at home… - And who works here…Amelia adds. - You should take things more lightly sometimes… frankly, I saw some of the bodyguards on the filmings where I was able to work and they look more like Schwarzy than Ryan Gosling… I’ll pay a lot for a ride with Mr. Hunt… - You know it’s a very bad idea April… - Stop thinking from time to time… - You will not make me believe that you don’t like him? - I didn’t say that… - What do you say then? - He is… I listen carefully despite me but she doesn’t finish her sentence. - Anyway, it’s my bodyguard and I’m not… Amelia stops again without revealing her thoughts clearly. April remains silent a few moments, then I hear her voice again soon, but more weakly than before. - Everyone will not let you… just one person… just fall on the right… then you should take over Owen’s contract and add a clause so that he takes care of you in every sense of the word, ends April in a laugh. I slip away on this remark; I should not have heard this conversation let alone the colorful comments that knew so well April. I had always noticed certain looks from women: I knew that I could count on real ease in contact with them, but this kind of opinion about me always made me feel uncomfortable. I didn’t see at all what seemed to fascinate them. I go down the stairs to join the kitchen and serve myself a glass of fresh fruit juice while trying to chase the conversation out of my mind. I finish my drink quietly when I hear steps down the stairs and a question that reaches me from the stairs. - We will ask him, we will see what he answers, right? April and Amelia step into the kitchen: April first, with a decided step and Amelia behind her, a little less assured. - Owen, we were looking for you, April launches. Amelia told me that my idea of soirée was not compatible with your rules, so I just check with the expert? - I listen to you… - Here: Richard asked Amelia to relax today and decompress a maximum… and for me, it is necessary that Amelia takes a little air and has fun: hence the soirée that I propose, a soirée in a night club for her to let go a little! A soirée in a night club?! I remain silent after April’s announcement. Nightclubs were some of the places I feared the most in my profession: noise, crowds, lack of space. I had always managed to avoid this environment that combined all the risks. - You see April, it’s not a good idea, whispers Amelia taking her friend by the hand. The distant and weak voice of Amelia calls me, she carefully avoids my eyes. Her face strikes me, however: more dull and closed than usual, so that I consider in spite of me the suggestion of April. - Is it really important to you? Amelia stops in her movement and finds my gaze while April moves forward again. - Of course, it’s important… - I ask the question to Amelia, April… Amelia hesitates a few seconds then answers me in a voice almost shy while fixing me. - April knows how to be convincing… and that could change me a little the ideas actually… I look at her for a long time, she really didn’t look better today. I would have like to detect a glow in these two pupils that I could recognize between a thousand henceforth… enjoy a frank smile on her face… April’s idea was perhaps complicated to manage but if it could give a little energy and confidence to Amelia… and revive the joy of life that I missed at this moment by seeing her in front of me. I think quickly reviewing the details of such a soirée. - Are you aware that you can not go out alone? - Yes, of course, that’s why we talk about it, says April. - Well… I’m not going to say that you make my job easier… but if it’s important to you… - Thank you, Owen, you make two happy, exclaims April. - Some small remarks, however… have you already a place in mind? I prefer that it’s not a night club accessible to anyone. A place that already makes a minimum of sorting… and that we can enter through discreet access… - No problem, we expected to go to a friend’s night club: a pretty select place… and since we know the owner well, she can arrange all the necessary details… she can keep us a table in a corner a little less discovered, privatize a VIP zone… - Good, and agree with her that she keeps a table near the exits while giving a view of most of the room… and that we can enter by the entrance of the staff and not the official entrance. - Ok, I will call her, it should not be a problem… - Are you sure, April? Saturday night, she often has a stage with bands playing live… and well-known DJs who mix… tables are often booked well in advance. - She will make us a little place, don’t worry, Amy… something else Owen? - At with time do you plan to leave? - Around 10:30 pm… are you ok? April asks turning to Amelia. Amelia just nods her head. - Okay, I’ll tell Jackson, I said going back to my room.

4 hours later.

One last look at my outfit and I decided to leave my room. I had finally left my tie on my bed, judging that it would have been the accessory of too much for the soirée: shirt and jacket of the suit were amply enough. I go back to the entrance and I’m surprised discovering Jackson at the foot of the stairs. - Hi Jackson, how did you come home? - I have a key you know now, it was Richard who gave me it a few days ago. - Did you see the girls? - Uh… I saw April… she was coming out of the kitchen… and see a woman welcome me in bra and panties, dress in hand, I didn’t have this pleasure fifteen times in my life… you must not be bored, tell me! He said laughing. - If you knew… He smiles a little more in front of my answer before resuming his seriousness. - In any case, you surprised me when you told me where we were going. Are you sure? - Yes, I’m well aware, but we will take all the necessary precautions and everything will be fine. - What made you accept? - Amelia needed to get some fresh air and I’m not here to stop her from living. - Not so long ago, though, you would have categorically refused these kinds of outings… Jackson observes me for a few seconds, when heels slam a few meters away from us, at regular intervals, to the rhythm of the stairs. I turn around and discover April and Amelia come down and walk towards us. I can not help but quickly note their outfits and the difference between them that expresses through their look. April is dressed in a sleeveless white dress, extremely short, arriving at mid-thigh, with black heels. Amelia has opted for slim black jeans with a red silk top, revealing her shoulders and knotted visibly behind her neck. - Good evening, gentlemen, launches April in a singing voice while advancing towards the coat rack to detach a light jacket. Amelia follows her and just smiles, turning around. And the top she wears is actually much less wise at first sight, revealing her whole back… and I realize that the tie behind her neck is the only link hold this piece of fabric against her. A black suit jacket that she puts on, stops me quickly in my observation. - We can go? Can you give me the address? Asks Jackson by my side. - Yes, we are going to Belltown, on the edge of Western Avenue, I will tell you where to go when we were nearby. - All right, let’s go there. Jackson walks out of the house first, followed by April, as I bring up the rear with Amelia. I notice that she almost reaches my height. A look at her shoes quickly gives me the answer to these many centimeters that she had won for the soirée: a pair of stiletto heels at least 12 centimeters to her feet in which she seemed incredibly comfortable. I see her eyes, looking up and she smiles at me having noticed my observation. - I cheat a little… I’m not lucky enough to have a mannequin size. - You should not pay to much attention to these pseudo-standards… but I remain admiring in your mastery of balance, I will be unable! - Ha, something that I know better than you, I’ll remember, she replies in a burst of laughter. I join her, laughing in my turn, happy to have won this sweet melody. The girls both sit in the back and then we head straight for Western Avenue, under the bright, twinkling lights of a Seattle night, worthy of the most beautiful postcards. April and Amelia chat loudly behind us: however, we remain focused with Jackson on the road and especially on the vehicles surrounding us… Jackson taking care not to take the shortest drive to have time to see if a suspicious car was lurking around us. He finally nods to me saying that there is no warning and continues on the road until arriving on Western Avenue. - April, we are there, says Jackson with a look backward. - Okay, then go up the avenue again and you will take the next right at the light you see in front of you. The night club is at the corner and the « discreet » entrance is from the back, we can leave the car, says April. Jackson follows April’s directions and we head down the small street, cutting off Western Avenue, and skirting a glittering signboard showing “Rainbow World”. Jackson parks in a nook in the back of an imposing building where I guess a door marked “staff only”. - It’s here? - Yes, mission accomplished, announces April with a wink. We can enter through this access, we will arrive by the offices and the owner will let us pass. - Okay, …wait until I go out, ok? - A quick question… what will Jackson do? Jackson looks at me for a few seconds, surprised by the question, before answering to April. - I will wait here as usual. - Are you going to wait for hours alone in this car? Frankly, it will not help much, you should accompany us. - April… - You run fast, you will be quickly in the car less than a minute if we had to leave quickly… - I don’t… - And it might be more prudent to have to former agents with us than one, right? April’s last remark makes me seriously consider her suggestion. Jackson looks at me for a moment again not knowing what to say. - As long as you’re driving when I need you… the rest is up to you… - Ok, so if I can keep company to O’, why not? I think it’s not going to be easy… Jackson and I get out of the car at the same time and open the door respectively to April and Amelia. We go all four towards the « Staff Only » door facing us, a door that I open to let April then Amelia enter first. The heat of the place is stifling from our first steps inside. The light is weak and almost less pronounced than the street lighting we had just left. We walk in the corridors, leaving several doors on both sides of our passage, while I quickly see a silhouette in the background. As I go, I gradually distinguish a young woman, small and thin in front of us, dressed in a long black dress slightly slit on the side and put on… caster shoes. - Hi girls, she said while we are still a few steps away. Her voice is soft and cheerful which is a stark contrast to her assured look. - Hello Ari, April answers by making her a kiss on the cheek. - Good evening Arizona, continues Amelia imitating April. - Access is right for you? - Yes, it’s perfect, thanks… by the way, I present to you Owen and Jackson who are with us tonight. - Good evening sirs. Arizona Robbins, the club owner.

Thank you so much for reading. 💛

[eclisseacontextforfilm]

why should we be here talking, arguing? Believe me Anna, words are becoming less and less necessary; they create misunderstandings

eclisse inspirations, vol. IV Michelangelo Antonioni’s Trilogy of incommunicability  part. 1 - L’avventura, 1960

When Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’avventura arrived in 1960 – amidst a tumultuous reception in Cannes that saw some disturbed audience members wanting to throw something at the screen – cinema was already changing in fundamental ways. The makers of individual, handmade films that had been institutionally kept out on the fringes (Stan Brakhage, Shirley Clarke, Norman McLaren, to name but three) were starting to draw more viewers and critical attention. The narrative feature film underwent a revision, from inside the nouvelle vague (Godard’s Breathless) and out (Agnès Varda’s first films, Alain Resnais’s Last Year in Marienbad). Meanwhile the Italian film world had already seen the old codes of neorealism swept away – much of it Antonioni’s own doing – and had moved towards a post-neorealist cinema liberated from melodrama and political ideologies, perhaps best exemplified in 1959 by Ermanno Olmi’s first feature Time Stood Still.

A new, maturing modernity became widespread in cinema. The years 1959 to 1960 can be identified as a world-historical moment for film. In line with the development of lenses, film stocks and new and smaller cameras (including a more ubiquitous use of 16mm), the modernism that took hold showed yet again the time lag after which cinema typically comes to embrace changes that have occurred first in other artforms: for instance, the radical overhaul of jazz by bebop; the transformation of the sound world of music by such figures as Edgard Varèse and Harry Partch; the abstract-expressionist movement in painting from Pollock to Rothko; the ‘new novel’ invading literature (on which Marienbaddrew, courtesy of a script by novelist Alain Robbe-Grillet).

In this exceptional moment, some of cinema’s old props were being kicked away, including Hollywood’s genre formulae, the three-act narrative structure, the privileging of psychology, the insistence on happy and ‘closed’ endings. But what did it mean to free oneself of the securing laws and traditions of genre, its capacity for creating worlds and codes? What did it mean to reject a storytelling architecture that had served dramatists well since Aeschylus? What kind of moving-image experience with actors could exist beyond psychology – which, after all, was still on the 20th century’s new frontier of science and society? What if endings were less conclusive, or less ‘satisfying’? These are the questions Antonioni confronted and responded to with L’avventura, the film that – more than any other at that moment – redefined the landscape of the artform, and mapped a new path that still influences today’s most venturesome and radical young filmmakers.

For some that film would instead be Breathless. Godard’s accidental discovery of the jump cut (courtesy of his editor) helped him rejig a more conventional yet sly imagining of the crime movie into a piece of radical art, a way of fracturing time as important as Picasso’s and Braque’s Cubist fracturing of space and perception. It’s also arguable that Godard had the more immediate impact, especially through the 1960s, since his taste for pop-culture iconography, graphic wordplay and politics positioned him a bit closer to the centre of the period’s cultural zeitgeist than Antonioni (despite the Italian’s subsequent ability to capture swinging London and The Yardbirds in 1966’s Blowup, and Los Angeles counterculture in 1970’s Zabriskie Point). Even a movie with huge pop figures and crossover attraction like Richard Lester’s A Hard Day’s Night (1964) would have been unthinkable without the example of Godard.

Yet I’d argue that L’avventura and Antonioni’s subsequent films – perhaps most importantly L’eclisse (The Eclipse, 1962) – have exerted a greater long-term impact (his effect on the generations after the 1960s is something I’ll consider later). One of L’avventura’s many remarkable qualities to note now is its staying power – its ability to astonish anew after repeated viewings. Many great films are of their moment, yet lessen over time. Here, the entrance of Monica Vitti, with her classically hip black dress and sexily tousled blonde mane, amounts to an announcement that the 60s have arrived; a lesser work with her in it would be no more than a key identifier of that moment.

It’s the film’s subtle straddling of an older world and a new one still in the process of defining itself – reflected immediately and perfectly in composer Giovanni Fusco’s opening title theme, alternating between nostalgic Sicilian strummings and nervous, creeping percussive beats – that establishes its rich, unending landscapes of physical reality and the mind. This is part of the film’s timelessness, within an absolutely contemporary / modern setting. The early images of L’avventura trace a parting of the generations, as Anna (Lea Massari) – seemingly the film’s central character – tells her wealthy Roman father that she’s going away on a holiday to Sicily with girlfriend Claudia (Vitti), then seen very much on the periphery of the action, tagging along. But after Anna inexplicably disappears during a boat trip to an uninhabited island, it is Claudia who moves to the centre of the narrative – and into the affections of Anna’s architect boyfriend Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti) – as attempts to find Anna gradually peter out.

What makes L’avventura the greatest of all films, however, is its assertion, exploration and expansion of the concept of the ‘open film’. This had been Antonioni’s great project ever since he started out as a filmmaker after an extremely interesting career as a critic (like Godard). His early documentaries, such as The People of the Po (Gente del Po, 1947), and his earliest narrative films, such as the astonishing Story of a Love Affair (Cronaca di un amore, 1950), suggest an artist pulling against what he perceived as the constraints of neorealism towards an openness based on a heightened perception of constant change – a dynamic that was for him the fundamental quality of the post-war world.

A NEW QUESTION

For Antonioni, the issues of neorealism were essential, in that they gave him an aesthetic base from which to launch. The People of the Po is an early neorealist work, both in its submersion in unvarnished realism and its interest in the lives of working people, but it also works against the predominant tendency in neorealism to project sympathy and sentimentality. By the time of Story of a Love Affair, teeming with characters from the upper and middle classes, his was not a class-based cinema; it offered instead a broader perspective – observant, distanced, occasionally unsympathetic. It reached into a more modern realm than neo-realism, a realm that had no name for it – and in fact still doesn’t.

Antonioni was never a leader – nor even part – of a movement. That’s partly because with each successive film he constantly redefined his approach. Roland Barthes, in his profoundly perceptive and concise 1980 speech honouring Antonioni, identified the process this way: “It is because you are an artist that your work is open to the Modern. Many people take the Modern to be a standard to be raised in battle against the old world and its compromised values; but for you the Modern is not the static term of a facile opposition; the Modern is on the contrary an active difficulty in following the changes of Time, not just at the level of grand History but at that of the little History of which each of us is individually the measure. Beginning in the aftermath of the last war, your work has thus proceeded, from moment to moment, in a movement of double vigilance, towards the contemporary world and towards yourself. Each of your films has been, at your personal level, a historical experience, that is to say the abandonment of an old problem and the formulation of a new question; this means that you have lived through and treated the history of the last 30 years with subtlety, not as the matter of an artistic reflection or an ideological mission, but as a substance whose magnetism it was your task to capture from work to work.”

L’avventura builds on the work and experiences of Antonioni’s previous decade, which saw him working through his doubts about genre (film noir in Story of a Love Affair, backstage drama in La signora senza camelie, 1953); about narrative form (the counter-intuitive three-part structure of I vinti, 1952); his love of writer Cesare Pavese (author of the source novel for 1955’s Le amiche) – as important a literary voice to Antonioni as Cesare Zavattini was to the hardcore neorealists. And add to this his growing interest in temporality, the emptied-out frame, the composition that maintains both precision and an expansive gaze that treats bodies, buildings and landscapes with equal importance.

With only a few filmmakers (Mizoguchi, Renoir, Dreyer, von Sternberg, Resnais, Olmi, Kubrick, and more recently Costa, Alonso and Apichatpong) is there such a visible, constant seeking of artistic purpose through the process of each successive film – a striving, a refinement. Antonioni’s 1950s work represents one of the most fruitful directorial decades to watch of any filmmaker. Already in some ways a master in 1950, he proceeded to question his own positions with each film, as if the doubts he had about the state of the post-war world resided, originally, in himself, and then fanned out to the making of the work itself, so that the expression of mortality (most explicitly conveyed in a Pavese adaptation such as Le amiche) inside the film was part and parcel of the director’s own tentative stance. (Tentato suicido/Tentative Suicide is the title of Antonioni’s segment in the 1953 omnibus film L’amore in città.)

These were not only cerebral matters – though the intellectual currents running underneath these films and under the neorealist movement preceding them were crucial to their fecundity – but real concerns rooted in the hard factors that faced any Italian filmmaker trying to get a project off the ground. Antonioni’s tentativeness – a constant fascination to his supporters in the French critical community, and an irritation to many of his Italian contemporaries – was partly based on the tentativeness of Italian film production itself. In almost no case during the 1950s did he encounter a smooth pre-production, firm financial backing or drama-free production periods. The typically poor performance of his films at the box office did little to enamour him to distributors and producers, though in the then nascent world of the auteur film business, it helped enormously that his films did well – even smashingly well – in Paris.

After the commercial failure of Il grido (1957) and an initially limp critical response, Antonioni seriously considered abandoning the cinema altogether, and returned to the theatre, where he had worked in the early years of his career. Even when he did come back to film, to shoot L’avventura, all of his worst concerns came back to haunt him. Already shaky producers bailed out mid-shoot as their company, Imeria, went bankrupt, leaving the crew literally high and dry on the desert island of Lisca Bianca, without sufficient food and water, in a hair-raising episode that makes Coppola’s misadventures filming Apocalypse Now in the Filipino jungle sound like a stroll on the beach.

SURPASSING MYSTERIES

This context, in all its intellectual and practical dimensions, is crucial to comprehending the massive achievement that L’avventura represents. How a film of such constant perfection could even be made under such dreadful conditions is, for me, one of the surpassing mysteries of film history. Viewed in isolation (and aren’t almost all films, even more now in our isolated viewing environments?), L’avventura can superficially be seen as magnificently beautiful in its constant chain of stunning black-and-white images from cinematographer Aldo Scavarda (with whom Antonioni had never previously worked, and never would again).

L’avventura is populated by good-looking actors oozing sex appeal. Monica Vitti, for one, had never had a starring film role before, but with her smouldering presence it was she – as much as Sophia Loren or Ingmar Bergman’s ensemble of intelligent and worldly actresses – who set the standard and the look for the new, sexualised European movie star that was key to the successful foreign-film invasion that hit English-language shores (and was perceived as such a threat by LBJ and his White House crony Jack Valenti that they set up the American Film Institute as a nationalist bulwark against the foreigners supposedly taking over US cinemas). For New York downtown hipsters, London cosmopolitans and Paris cinephiles alike, the combination of serious cinema and sexual beauty was simply too much to pass up.

All that may be why L’avventura had its immediate impact. (A special jury prize from Cannes, after all that booing and hissing, also didn’t hurt.) But the endurance of the film, residing crucially in its conceptual openness, describes a pathway that cinema has been exploring and testing ever since. Much as Flaubert’s novels and Beethoven’s symphonies, concertos and string quartets are continually regenerated by way of the new directions they paved, and the new generations of work following such directions, so Antonioni’s work – and L’avventura in particular – is regenerated by the subsequent cinema that came in its wake.

As Geoffrey Nowell-Smith observes in his essential study of the film, the periphery in Antonioni is of absolute importance, for this is where the sense of drift in his mise-en-scène and narratives resides – a de-centred centrality. No filmmaker before Antonioni, not even the most radical visionaries like Vigo, had established this before as a part of their aesthetic project. In the early scenes when Anna visits Sandro, or when they join their holiday boating group, Vitti’s Claudia remains for a long time on the outside looking in, marginalised, seemingly unimportant. And yet there is something in her nervous gaze, her subtle physical gestures, that makes her impossible not to notice, especially in contrast to Anna’s inner tension and outward unhappiness – an unhappiness she can’t identify, even in private to Claudia.

These are most certainly not Bergman women, forever examining themselves, forever able to articulate the exact words in whole spoken paragraphs about their state of mind, their relationship with God. For one thing, in Antonioni, God doesn’t exist. The state of the world is one of humans searching for some kind of connection amidst a disinterested nature; the island on which the floating party lands is both exotically remote and barren, like a volcano frozen during eruption. The landscapes in L’avventura have been interpreted in a number of different ways that testify to the film’s Joycean levels of readings: from Seymour Chatman’s insistence on metonyms for his reading of what he calls Antonioni’s “surface of the world”, to Gilberto Perez’s more valuable view of the work in his extraordinary film study The Material Ghost, across a whole range of possible interpretations, from the literary to the visual. For me, however, it’s always tempting to see these people – on this island, at that moment – as the last humans on earth.

In L’avventura, more than any film before it had ever dared, the centre will not hold. The open film is a fluid thing, pulsating, forever changing, shifting from one centre to another, not quite beginning and not quite ending (or at least beginning something new in its ‘ending’). Anna, the centre, vanishes, with no visual or verbal clues to trace her by, except rumours of sightings. She was in effect the glue that held the party together, having helped bring Claudia in closer to her circle of friends – and to Sandro. But with Anna’s disappearance, the film alters shape in front of us; a sudden absence actually expands the film’s eye. Individual shots become more extended and prolonged, the sky and land grow larger, the elements become more tangible (clouds, rain, harsher sun).

HERE AND NOW

What’s even more disturbing is that nothing happens – no discovery, no evidence, no detective work and, finally, no memory. L’avventura is, in part, the story of how a woman is forgotten, to the extent that long before the film is done, Anna is less than a trace on a page, a ghost or a photo in an album. A more sentimental filmmaker or a Hollywood studio would have ensured that Anna lived on through Claudia and Sandro’s love affair and possible union. But here, after a while, they don’t speak of Anna anymore. She gradually fades, which is what happens to the dead as regarded by the living (not that Anna is necessarily dead; the film neither encourages nor discourages the suggestion). Although their joint actions ostensibly trace an effort to collect any information on Anna’s whereabouts, Antonioni suggests that the activity of Claudia and Sandro isn’t nearly as important as their time together in this moment, in this or that place.

About those places. The greatness of L’avventura is multivalent, situated in many realms at once: cinematic, aural, existential, literary, architectural, sexual, philosophical – all of them of equal importance. The open film, beyond its fluidity, is amoral in the best sense, or at least unconcerned with a hierarchy of values. Almost all films of any kind privilege certain artistic values above others, and the great ones do it for several: Singin’ in the Rainhonours the body, the sounds of showbiz, the fresh memories of Hollywood at its height; Vampyr celebrates the psychological effect that optical dislocations have on the viewer’s psyche, the spiritual possibilities of the horror film, the blurry line between genres and those alive and dead.

But L’avventura marks a new kind of film, not made before, in which the story that launched the film dissolves and gives way to something else – a journey? a wandering? – that points to a host of possible readings beyond what mere narrative allows, and yet at the same time is too specifically rooted in a form of acting – in situations, episodes and events – to ever become purely abstract. (Though this was an area Antonioni did address in various ways, including the semi-apocalyptic ending of L’eclisse, the visualisations of madness in 1964’s Red Desert and the slow-motion explosion near the end of Zabriskie Point.)

For Geoffrey Nowell-Smith, “L’avventura is a film about consciousness and its objects, the consciousness that people have of other people and of the environment that surrounds them.” It is a film that’s also about a change of consciousness – what that looks and feels like: for instance Claudia’s move from the edges to the centre and, in the final passages, back to the edges. This change of consciousness is realised in terms that encompass Antonioni’s grasp of a vast range of materials: Sandro’s relationship with architecture is framed with the couple’s bodies, both above buildings and nearly swallowed up by them, their shared sexuality first shared in open space and then further and further contained within smaller rooms; the sense of new possibilities (new towns, new relationships) seen in the curve of a highway, a train hurtling down the tracks and through tunnels; the insistence on the Old World in the hulking presence of churches, formal dinner parties, rigid bodies against Claudia’s free and easy one, always in motion; the sounds of creaky nostalgic ‘Italian’ music against Fusco’s disturbing atonalities and unnerving syncopations (in one of the greatest film scores ever written).

Antonioni, as Perez often notes, infuses his cinema with doubt – a doubt that extends to his questioning of psychology as a basis for cinematic drama (let alone his doubt in the value of cinematic drama). But doubt is not an end point in this or his other films; instead it represents the beginning of new possibilities. Thus the open film’s mapping of changes of consciousness – through the tools of mise-en-scène, temporality, elliptical editing, a matching of sound to image combined with a de-emphasis on actors’ faces presiding over scenes (close-ups are fewer by far in L’avventura than any of his previous films) – is a picture of a post-psychological topography of the human condition, a radical effort to find a cinema grammar to express inner thought with photographic means.

This is a map that did (as Perez has noted) go out of style for a time, perhaps during the period of postmodernism, and definitely during the period when Fassbinder ruled the arthouse. But the map has been opened again by a new generation. Its influence can now be seen in films from every continent – to such an extent that the Antonioni open film can be said to be in its golden age. Here are some examples: the work of Apichatpong Weerasethakul, from Blissfully Yours to Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives; Lisandro Alonso’s La libertad through to Liverpool; Uruphong Raksasad’s Agrarian Utopia; C.W. Winter and Anders Edström’s The Anchorage; Ulrich Köhler’s Sleeping Sickness; the entire so-called Berlin School, of which Köhler is a part; Albert Serra’s Honour of the Knights and Birdsong; James Benning; Kelly Reichardt; Kore-eda Hirokazu; Ho Yuhang’s Rain Dogs; Jia Zhangke’s Platform and Still Life; Li Hongqi’s Winter Vacation. The list goes on…

Some of these filmmakers may disavow any Antonioni influence – but we know that what directors (including Antonioni) say about their films can’t always be trusted. Besides, the ways in which L’avventura works on the viewer’s consciousness are furtive and often below a conscious level. In Apichatpong’s fascination with characters being transformed by the landscape around them; in Raksasad’s interest in dissolving the borders between ‘documentary’ and ‘fiction’, or the recorded and the staged; in Alonso’s precision and absolute commitment to purely cinematic resources and disgust with the sentimental; in Köhler’s continual refinement of his visualisation of his characters’ uncertain existences; in Reichardt’s concern for what happens to human beings in nature – especially when they get lost: in all these and more, the open film is stretched, remoulded, reconsidered, questioned, embraced. A kind of film that was first named L’avventura.

[by Robert Koehler, from BFI. November 2016]

[tae-kae]

finally talking about jonghyun

the following post talks about depression, kim jonghyun, and brief mentions of suicide. please do not read if it will harm you.

so I've been wanting to get some stuff off of my chest just because no one in my personal life seems to be comfortable with me talking about these kinds of things, but I can't keep bottling them up like I usually do. I'm at the point where I need to talk about it. I know I've been pretty mute about jobghyuns passing on my blog and it must be strange because SHINee is my ultimate group. my love for them is pretty much unconditional at this point. and I'd like to explain why.

last april (maybe late march) I had reached a pretty low point with my mental health. I wasn't sleeping well, I wasn't really treating my body well in general because I had stopped caring. and that is a scary point to be at.

I don't want to say that k-pop in general saved my life because that isn't the case, but it helped. it made me feel creative again. it made me want to pursue writing again. it made me feel connected in a community. it helped me with my identity when I was talking to people who live such different lives, but we all shared such a simple common interest. I made friends, good friends who cared about me and supported and encouraged me when I was looking for advice and help. and for months I was feeling better, I felt rejuvenated. I cared.

during this I found the group that I felt most connected too. SHINee. they helped tremendously, and it was more than just the music. it was the members. individually they were such good, wholesome people, and together they were magnetic and unstoppable. their chemistry is beyond anything I've ever seen, and that's what drew me in. I was introduced to them a few weeks after they were on weekly idol. this cute, small man wearing the softest pink sweater and beautiful round eyes captured my attention. jonghyun is beautiful. and I soon came to learn that the beauty on the outside didn't even compare to how beautiful his heart, soul, and mind were. it was soon after though that I realized my love and affection for their maknae. I adore taemin. everything about him. his artistry. his creativity. his shy and awkward nature. his jokes. when he's teasing his members, and sometimes exposing them. his loyalty. his creative edge in the industry is rivalled by only a few handful of people. jonghyun of course being one of them.

december came. it started off fruitful. taemin was excelling. kibums drama was doing well. minho was finishing his drama. jinki, unfortunately, was still ostracized, but he had finally written a letter to us and things were looking so good. we were promised jonghyuns album and music video, he had just finished up concerts. jinki and minhos birthdays passed. christmas was a week away.

my friends had to tell me what happened. the news broke when I was awake and talking to them and both of them immediately told me to check it out. I was devastated. my heart ached and broke. I prayed. for the first time in a long time, I prayed that he would be saved because the world needed him. we needed his voice and his gentle and kind soul in this world. I woke up to the news that he had passed. I felt like I was in limbo. I couldn't believe it, and a part of me still doesn't. it's difficult thinking about it and accepting it. the world lost a good man far too soon.

I stopped writing. I stopped talking to my friends, and my friends drifted away as well. I was depressed. I wanted to shout into the void how angry and sad I was, but I felt like I wasn't entitled to those emotions because I didn't personally know jonghyun, but my heart ached as if I lost an old friend, and the ache was there for months. I struggled talking about him. I didn't feel like I had the right to feel the way I did. I was a new shawol, a baby fan, and my heart hurt for those fans who had been with him for as long as they've been debuted. what right did I have to mourn and grieve? it felt like I didn't. so I stopped talking about him. I stopped talking about SHINee, and only occasionally brought up taemin. because it hurt talking about them. february/early march I was extremely depressed. I was having anxiety AND panic attacks practically daily. I had reached the end of my rope. at least it felt like I did.

they promised a comeback. as four.

and I needed to know how they would do. I needed to see how they were going to honor jonghyun and his memory. nobody could do it better than them. they were his brothers. so it sustained me. and in between this period I fell in love with another group, pentagon. and on a whim I reached out and asked if anybody would join a group chat and people wanted it. the reception was amazing. I've made friends and feel that close community I felt like I’d lost. I'm so grateful.

when good evening was released, it was hard for me to watch it. there was a sense of wrongness not seeing five, but the boys still kept jonghyun in their music. they made sure we couldn't ignore his spirit and memory. they were keeping him alive so no one could forget him.

and I saw my boys tear up talking about their loss and struggles, and how much they didn't want to separate. it restored my faith. and if they could come out of this, so could I.

I don't want to not talk about jonghyun. I'm at a point where I want to start talking about him. and feeling okay about posting stuff about him or of him on my blog. I miss him, and now instead of hurting talking about him, I'm hurting not talking about him. I need to talk about it. I need too.

so for those of you who aren't ready for that and not in the same position as I am, I totally understand if you need to unfollow me and block me. I know not everyone is in the same place I am, and I want you to take care of yourself. but I'm ready to start talking about him and healing. I am entitled to that, just like the rest of us are.

[thegirlwiththecoffintattoo]

Is this really turtle soup?

I’ve never had it before. It’s marvelous.” 

Jamie was unmoved by contemplation of Fergus’s tender state. 

“Aye, well, he’ll be wed a long time,” he said callously. “Do him no harm to keep his breeches on for one night. And they do say that abstinence makes the heart grow firmer, no?” 

“Absence,” I said, dodging the spoon for a moment. “And fonder. If anything’s growing firmer from abstinence, it wouldn’t be his heart.” 

“That’s verra bawdy talk for a respectable marrit woman,” Jamie said reprovingly, sticking the spoon in my mouth. “And inconsiderate, forbye.”

 I swallowed. “Inconsiderate?” 

“I’m a wee bit firm myself at the moment,” he replied evenly, dipping and spooning. “What wi’ you sitting there wi’ your hair loose and your nipples starin’ me in the eye, the size of cherries.” 

I glanced down involuntarily, and the next spoonful bumped my nose. Jamie clicked his tongue, and picking up a cloth, briskly blotted my bosom with it. It was quite true that my shift was made of thin cotton, and even when dry, reasonably easy to see through. 

“It’s not as though you haven’t seen them before,” I said, amused. 

He laid down the cloth and raised his brows. 

“I have drunk water every day since I was weaned,” he pointed out. “It doesna mean I canna be thirsty, still.” He picked up the spoon. “You’ll have a wee bit more?” 

“No, thanks,” I said, dodging the oncoming spoon. “I want to hear more about this firmness of yours.” 

“No, ye don’t; you’re ill.” 

“I feel much better,” I assured him. “Shall I have a look at it?” He was wearing the loose petticoat breeches the sailors wore, in which he could easily have concealed three or four dead mullet, let alone a fugitive firmness. 

“You shall not,” he said, looking slightly shocked. “Someone might come in. And I canna think your looking at it would help a bit.” 

“Well, you can’t tell that until I have looked at it, can you?” I said. “Besides, you can bolt the door.” 

“Bolt the door? What d’ye think I’m going to do? Do I look the sort of man would take advantage of a woman who’s not only wounded and boiling wi’ fever, but drunk as well?” he demanded. He stood up, nonetheless. 

“I am not drunk,” I said indignantly. “You can’t get drunk on turtle soup!” Nonetheless, I was conscious that the glowing warmth in my stomach seemed to have migrated somewhat lower, taking up residence between my thighs, and there was undeniably a slight lightness of head not strictly attributable to fever. 

“You can if ye’ve been drinking turtle soup as made by Aloysius O’Shaughnessy Murphy,” he said. “By the smell of it, he’s put at least a full bottle o’ the sherry in it. A verra intemperate race, the Irish.” 

“Well, I’m still not drunk.” I straightened up against the pillows as best I could. “You told me once that if you could still stand up, you weren’t drunk.” 

“You aren’t standing up,” he pointed out. 

“You are. And I could if I wanted to. Stop trying to change the subject. We were talking about your firmness.” 

“Well, ye can just stop talking about it, because—” He broke off with a small yelp, as I made a fortunate grab with my left hand. 

“Clumsy, am I?” I said, with considerable satisfaction. “Oh, my. Heavens, you do have a problem, don’t you?” 

“Will ye leave go of me?” he hissed, looking frantically over his shoulder at the door. “Someone could come in any moment!”

“I told you you should have bolted the door,” I said, not letting go. Far from being a dead mullet, the object in my hand was exhibiting considerable liveliness. 

He eyed me narrowly, breathing through his nose. 

“I wouldna use force on a sick woman,” he said through his teeth, “but you’ve a damn healthy grip for someone with a fever, Sassenach. If you—” 

“I told you I felt better,” I interrupted, “but I’ll make you a bargain; you bolt the door and I’ll prove I’m not drunk.” I rather regretfully let go, to indicate good faith. He stood staring at me for a moment, absentmindedly rubbing the site of my recent assault on his virtue. Then he lifted one ruddy eyebrow, turned, and went to bolt the door. 

By the time he turned back, I had made it out of the berth and was standing—a trifle shakily, but still upright—against the frame. He eyed me critically. 

“It’s no going to work, Sassenach,” he said, shaking his head. He looked rather regretful, himself. “We’ll never stay upright, wi’ a swell like there is underfoot tonight, and ye know I’ll not fit in that berth by myself, let alone wi’ you.” 

There was a considerable swell; the lantern on its swivel-bracket hung steady and level, but the shelf above it tilted visibly back and forth as the Artemis rode the waves. I could feel the faint shudder of the boards under my bare feet, and knew Jamie was right. At least he was too absorbed in the discussion to be seasick. 

“There’s always the floor,” I suggested hopefully. He glanced down at the limited floor space and frowned. “Aye, well. There is, but we’d have to do it like snakes, Sassenach, all twined round each other amongst the table legs.” 

“I don’t mind.” 

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “it would hurt your arm.” He rubbed a knuckle across his lower lip, thinking. His eyes passed absently across my body at about hip level, returned, fixed, and lost their focus. I thought the bloody shift must be more transparent than I realized. 

Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I let go my hold on the frame of the berth and lurched the two paces necessary to reach him. The roll of the ship threw me into his arms, and he barely managed to keep his own balance, clutching me tightly round the waist. 

“Jesus!” he said, staggered, and then, as much from reflex as from desire, bent his head and kissed me. 

It was startling. I was accustomed to be surrounded by the warmth of his embrace; now it was I who was hot to the touch and he who was cool. From his reaction, he was enjoying the novelty as much as I was. 

Light-headed, and reckless with it, I nipped the side of his neck with my teeth, feeling the waves of heat from my face pulsate against the column of his throat. He felt it, too. 

“God, you’re like holding a hot coal!” His hands dropped lower and pressed me hard against him. 

“Firm is it? Ha,” I said, getting my mouth free for a moment. “Take those baggy things off.” I slid down his length and onto my knees in front of him, fumbling mazily at his flies. He freed the laces with a quick jerk, and the petticoat breeches ballooned to the floor with a whiff of wind. 

I didn’t wait for him to remove his shirt; just lifted it and took him. He made a strangled sound and his hands came down on my head as though he wanted to restrain me, but hadn’t the strength. 

“Oh, Lord!” he said. His hands tightened in my hair, but he wasn’t trying to push me away. “This must be what it’s like to make love in Hell,” he whispered. “With a burning she-devil.” 

I laughed, which was extremely difficult under the circumstances. I choked, and pulled back a moment, breathless. 

“Is this what a succubus does, do you think?” 

“I wouldna doubt it for a moment,” he assured me. His hands were still in my hair, urging me back. 

A knock sounded on the door, and he froze. Confident that the door was indeed bolted, I didn’t. 

“Aye? What is it?” he said, with a calmness rather remarkable for a man in his position. 

“Fraser?” Lawrence Stern’s voice came through the door. “The Frenchman says the black is asleep, and may he have leave to go to bed now?” 

“No,” said Jamie shortly. “Tell him to stay where he is; I’ll come along and relieve him in a bit.” 

“Oh.” Stern’s voice sounded a little hesitant. “Surely. His … um, his wife seems … eager for him to come now.” 

Jamie inhaled sharply. 

“Tell her,” he said, a small note of strain becoming evident in his voice, “that he’ll be there … presently.” 

“I will say so.” Stern sounded dubious about Marsali’s reception of this news, but then his voice brightened. “Ah … is Mrs. Fraser feeling somewhat improved?” 

“Verra much,” said Jamie, with feeling. 

“She enjoyed the turtle soup?” 

“Greatly. I thank ye.” His hands on my head were trembling. 

“Did you tell her that I’ve put aside the shell for her? It was a fine hawksbill turtle; a most elegant beast.” 

“Aye. Aye, I did.” With an audible gasp, Jamie pulled away and reaching down, lifted me to my feet. 

“Good night, Mr. Stern!” he called. He pulled me toward the berth; we struggled four-legged to keep from crashing into tables and chairs as the floor rose and fell beneath us. 

“Oh.” Lawrence sounded faintly disappointed. “I suppose Mrs. Fraser is asleep, then?” 

“Laugh, and I’ll throttle ye,” Jamie whispered fiercely in my ear. “She is, Mr. Stern,” he called through the door. “I shall give her your respects in the morning, aye?” 

“I trust she will rest well. There seems to be a certain roughness to the sea this evening.” 

“I … have noticed, Mr. Stern.” Pushing me to my knees in front of the berth, he knelt behind me, groping for the hem of my shift. A cool breeze from the open stern window blew over my naked buttocks, and a shiver ran down the backs of my thighs. 

“Should you or Mrs. Fraser find yourselves discommoded by the motion, I have a most capital remedy to hand—a compound of mugwort, bat dung, and the fruit of the mangrove. You have only to ask, you know.” 

Jamie didn’t answer for a moment. 

“Oh, Christ!” he whispered. I took a sizable bite of the bedclothes. 

“Mr. Fraser?” 

“I said, ‘Thank you’!” Jamie replied, raising his voice. 

“Well, I shall bid you a good evening, then.” 

Jamie let out his breath in a long shudder that was not quite a moan. 

“Mr. Fraser?” 

“Good evening, Mr. Stern!” Jamie bellowed. 

“Oh! Er … good evening.” 

Stern’s footsteps receded down the companionway, lost in the sound of the waves that were now crashing loudly against the hull. I spit out the mouthful of quilt. 

“Oh … my … God!” 

His hands were large and hard and cool on my heated flesh. 

“You’ve the roundest arse I’ve ever seen!” 

A lurch by the Artemis here aiding his efforts to an untoward degree, I uttered a loud shriek. 

“Shh!” He clasped a hand over my mouth, bending over me so that he lay over my back, the billowing linen of his shirt falling around me and the weight of him pressing me to the bed. My skin, crazed with fever, was sensitive to the slightest touch, and I shook in his arms, the heat inside me rushing outward as he moved within me.

His hands were under me then, clutching my breasts, the only anchor as I lost my boundaries and dissolved, conscious thought a displaced element in the chaos of sensations—the warm damp of tangled quilts beneath me, the cold sea wind and misty spray that wafted over us from the rough sea outside, the gasp and brush of Jamie’s warm breath on the back of my neck, and the sudden prickle and flood of cold and heat, as my fever broke in a dew of satisfied desire. 

Jamie’s weight rested on my back, his thighs behind mine. It was warm, and comforting. After a long time, his breathing eased, and he rose off me. The thin cotton of my shift was damp, and the wind plucked it away from my skin, making me shiver. 

Jamie closed the window with a snap, then bent and picked me up like a rag doll. He lowered me into the berth, and pulled the quilt up over me. 

“How is your arm?” he said. 

“What arm?” I murmured drowsily. I felt as though I had been melted and poured into a mold to set. 

“Good,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Can ye stand up?” 

“Not for all the tea in China.” 

“I’ll tell Murphy ye liked the soup.” His hand rested for a moment on my cool forehead, passed down the curve of my cheek in a light caress, and then was gone. I didn’t hear him leave.

Voyager: CHAPTER 56 – Turtle Soup

[deutscheshausnyu]

Interview with recent writer-in-residence, Dana Grigorcea

Dana Grigorcea was born in Romania in 1979 and now lives in Zürich. She studied Dutch Philology, Theater and Film Directing, and Quality Journalism.  Dana worked in the media industry in Austria, Germany and France. Among her German novels are Baba Rada (2011), Das primäre Gefühl der Schuldlosigkeit (2015), and Die Dame mit dem maghrebinischen Hündchen (2018). She has been awarded several prizes, including the Schweizer Literaturperle and the Ingeborg Bachmann Prize, and was shortlisted for the Swiss Book Prize 2015.

Your recent books include a novel (An Instinctive Feeling of Innocence), a novella (Die Dame mit dem maghrebinischen Hündchen), and a book of non-fiction (Über Empathie oder Macht uns die Kunst zu besseren Menschen?). You’ve also published children’s books. How do you choose what format your next book will take, and where do you draw inspiration from?

I write about topics and stories I find pressing: about the search for meaning, sense, and sensuality; about the search for home and the loss of all certainty; about fear and overcoming it. I strive to find the right tone, the right form for every story. In An Instinctive Feeling of Innocence, the story of a love triangle unfolds alongside the story (and history) of Bucharest, in dramatic as well as comic episodes—so it had to be a novel. Die Dame mit dem maghrebinischen Hündchen (“The Lady With the Little Maghrebian Dog”) is a classic love story, told in a linear narrative, and it felt natural to keep it in the short form of a novella. I also write essays, especially when German newspapers and other publications invite me to: I’m happy to express my opinions on current events, politics, and what art means to us nowadays. My book-length essay Über Empathie (“On Empathy”) is a reflection on whether art makes us more sensitive, and whether it can make us better, more empathetic people. I start out with stories from Romania and Switzerland, share some anecdotes from reading tours—including experiences in Siberia and elsewhere—and use them to explore exactly what it is that art means to us, and what it does to us.

As for the children’s books, I use them to address issues my kids have. Sometimes they don’t want to go to bed, even though they’re both exhausted and overexcited. So I came up with the story of a wolf who desperately wants to sleep, but can’t. My kids listened, then said, “But going to sleep is easy, you just close your eyes and wait a bit,” and then they showed the wolf how it’s done. That story, sparked by such a practical goal, was a hit in German-speaking countries, and the title was Mond aus! (“Turn the Moon Off!”). Then I just kept going: I wrote a haircut story for kids who are afraid to go to the hairdresser and change their appearance; then came a scratch-and-sniff book about vegetables, starring a prince who has to go to the market and cook for the princess; and a story about sibling rivalry in a flower garden—the fight is triggered by the big sister, who knows everything, even the names of all the flowers.

 Is this your first stay in New York? What were your first impressions of the city, and has anything about New York surprised you?

 This was my second visit to New York—the first time I came with my husband, the writer Perikles Monioudis, who knows the city well. He’d come shortly after 9/11 to write a book about the aftermath, and the city’s indestructible spirit. I feel like I know the city pretty well, too, from movies and literature—every time I turn the corner I recognize something, everything’s so familiar—and yet at the same time I’m always surprised that it actually exists, that it’s not just a figment of our collective imagination.

You were born in Bucharest, Romania and were raised bilingually. What made you decide to write your literary texts exclusively in German? To what extent does writing, thinking, and feeling in your two mother tongues differ?

 I write in German because I’ve lived mainly in German-speaking countries for about twenty years now, and because I want to write in my readers’ language and hear their reactions firsthand. I also love the language because it allows for such long sentences, and exploiting its elastic syntax can turn sentence construction into an amusing game—I like getting to the last word, the verb, without losing the thread. The German language helps me structure the plot, too: much like with its syntax, you can weave in and out and maybe get a bit sidetracked, but what you’re writing still has to make sense and, in the end, get to the point—period.

In translation, my sentences are often halved or even quartered, depending on the language. In Romanian and English, for example, people usually communicate more concisely, in tighter sentences—anything else sounds like blabber or sheer delirium.

Here I’d like to acknowledge my English-language translator, Alta Price, who managed to faithfully convey the atmosphere of my Bucharest novel An Instinctive Feeling of Innocence in English. Translation is a high-wire act that requires intuition and precision, and only real artists can pull it off.

One of your most recent books, Über Empathie, is about the power of art and empathy. What made you want to write about this subject matter, and what role does empathy play in today’s society? What role should it play?

 As an artist, I deal with the meaning of art: I write literature and travel in artistic circles, and on my many reading tours I usually meet people who hold art in high esteem. Are people who deal with art better than others, are they the more sensitive members of society? Can art transform us for the better in these turbulent times? Can it make us more empathetic? Empathetic people, who really see and respect one another, are essential to democracy. We’re currently witnessing how traditional democracies we thought were utterly stable are on the brink of being toppled. Can we effectively oppose populism, intentionally stoked fear, and apathetic individualism with art? I think so.

You participated in several public events as part of this year’s Festival Neue Literatur. What is your experience with reading your work in public and/or speaking about your books? Is this something you find enjoyable and fruitful?

The Festival Neue Literatur in New York and the Zeitgeist Festival in Washington, D.C. marked the end of my first North American book tour, after delightful events in San Francisco, Seattle, and Chicago. It seemed to me that every audience was interested, receptive, eager, and open to the humorous twists and turns of our conversations, so it was a pleasure to present the book here in the US. When you see everyone looking so busy, people rushing through the city, hurrying by with headphones on, staring at their phones and laptops—even in cafes and strolling around the park—you don’t expect to meet many people who are willing and able to spend their leisure time with a book. Reading in places like the powerHouse Arena in Brooklyn and McNally Jackson in Manhattan were a revelation to me.

The panel discussions and literary conversations were dynamic and fast-paced yet profound. My translator Alta Price was always there, and when she talked about translating my book I felt like the privileged witness of an alchemical process.

At the Festival’s opening-night event, Germanist and theatrical artist Endre Malcolm Holéczy introduced us. He’s a true man of letters, had read my book An Instinctive Feeling of Innocence quite closely, and expertly conducted a clever and entertaining conversation. His enthusiasm for the novel was, of course, extremely enjoyable.

Interview translation by Alta L. Price

[turnoftherogue]

A Mad TeaParty Part 1

A Mad Tea Party Part 1 Sam, Dean and Lacey walked down the hall of the hospital until they reached the morgue. "Maybe you should have changed." Sam said glancing at Lacey. Lacey looked down at what she was wearing. She had on a yellow vest top, denim cut off shorts and grey moccasins showing off her long legs. Dean looked her up and down too. "I don't see anything wrong with what she's wearing." He shrugged. "You wouldn't Dean."Sam rolled his eyes. The doctor walked out of one of the offices and joined them. "Agents Page and Plant, FBI." Dean told him as they flashed their badges. "Gentlemen." The doctor nodded. "What brings you here?" "We need to see Amber Greens body." Sam told him. "Really? What for?" The doctor asked surprised. "The police report said something clawed through her skull?" "You didn't read the autopsy report I emailed out this morning?" "We had, uh server issues." The doctor nodded and led them into one of the freezers and pulled out the slab with Ambers body on it. "When they brought her in we thought she was attacked by a wolf or something." "Or something." Dean concurred looking down at the body. "But we were wrong." The doctor picked up a plastic bag and showed it to them. "Is that a..." Sam started looking shocked. "It's a press on nail. We found it in her temporal lobe." "Oh that is so gross." Lacey exclaimed putting a hand to her mouth. The doctor looked at her disapprovingly. "She's new." dean exclaimed. "Is that even possible?" Sam asked, steering the conversation back. "Wait are you saying she did this to herself?" "Uhuh, she scratched her brains out. It'd take hours and it'd hurt like hell, but sure it's possible." "How?" Dean asked. "Pick your acronym, OCD, PCP. It all spells crazy. My guess some kind of phantom itch. I mean an extreme case but." "Phantom itch?" Sam asked. "Yep, all it takes is someone talking about an itch or thinking about one even and suddenly you can't stop scratching." "Thanks doc." The three of them walked away scratching. They headed over to the house where the girl had been babysitting when she was found. Sam was in the living room interviewing the parents. Dean and Lacey were staying back letting him get on with it. Dean spotted the kid sitting at the bottom of the stairs and motioned to Lacey to follow him. "Whatcha lookin' for?" The kid asked as they approached. "Don't know yet. It's jimmy right?" The kid nodded. "So Amber was your babysitter?" "Yes sir." "Yeah most of my babysitters sucked. Especially Mrs Chaney. She only cared about two things, Dynasty and bed time. Did you uh, see anything strange that night?" "No sir." The kid answered woodenly. "You sure about that?" Dean asked, suspicious. "I would tell you if I knew something. I promise, one hundred percent. Cross my heart." The kid sounded scared. "Well Jimmy I uh, I happen to know you're lying." "I'm not." "We gonna start talking truth or are you and me gonna have to take a little trip down town?" Lacey glared at him for added effect. They met Sam on the front porch of the house. "Anything?" Sam asked. Dean held up a small packet. "Kid said he put this on the babysitters hairbrush." "Dean there's no way itching powder made that girl scratch her brains out. It's just ground up maple seeds." "If you have any other theories I'm open to 'em." Sams phone began to ring as they climbed into the Impala. "Yeah? Yeah we'll be right there." They headed back to the hospital. As they walked into the ward someone was being wheeled past them in a body bag. They headed over to the doctor they had spoken to earlier. "What happened?" Sam asked. "Guy got electrocuted." "Any idea how?" "Eh maybe a loose wire or a piece of equipment shorted out. So far we haven't found anything." "Witnesses?" "Yeah, guy in there, Mr Stanley. He says he saw it but he's not making a lick of sense. Senile." "Thanks." Sam replied and they headed into the room to talk to the old guy. "Um Mr Stanley?" "It was just a joke. I didn't know it would really work." "What would work?" "All I did was shake his hand." He held out his hand showing them a joy buzzer. Sam and Dean looked at each other. Dean put on a pair of goggles and leather gloves before picking up the joy buzzer. On the table in front of him was a joint of ham. "You ready? He asked. "Hit it Mr Wizard." Sam put his goggles on too and Lacey hid behind Sam. Dean pressed the joy buzzer to the ham and with a crackle it began to cook. When it changed color Dean pulled away from it. "That'll do pig." Lacey peeked out from behind Sam and laughed. "I actually get that one!" "What the hell?" Sam asked as he removed his goggles. "That crap isn't supposed to work." "This thing doesn't even have batteries." "So what? Are we looking at cursed objects?" "Sounds good." Dean cut a piece of the ham off. "Maybe there's a powerful witch in town." He ate the ham. "Is there any link between the uh, the joy buzzer and the itching powder?" "Uh one was made in China, the other Mexico but they were both bought from the same store." Dean cut off some more ham. "Hmm." He offered some to Sam who shook his head and Lacey who wrinkled her nose. "No thanks." They headed over to the conjurarium where both of the objects were bought. As Sam headed towards the counter Dean and Lacey perused the aisles. "Sam!" Dean called and with a big grin on his face held up a whoppee cushion. Sam shook his head and carried on up to the counter. Lacey smiled at Dean fondly, he was such a big kid. Dean shrugged and took the whooppee cushion up to the counter. The assistant emerged from the back room. "Welcome to the conjurarium, sanctum of magic and mystery." "You the owner?" Sam asked. "Yep." "You sold any itching powder or joy buzzers lately?" "Yeah a grand total of one each. They aren't exactly big ticket items. Look you boys here to buy something or what?" Dean pulled out his wallet and handed the owner some cash for the whoppee cushion. "So you get many customers?" "Kids come in. They don't buy much, but they're more than happy to break stuff. These days all they care about are their iphones and those kissing vampire movies. The whole thing makes me just.." "Angry?" Dean supplied. "Yeah, yeah I am angry. This shop has been my life for twenty years, and now it's wasting away to nothing." "Which is why you hate them." "I suppose." "You wish there was something you could do about it." "Yeah I guess I do." "So you're taking revenge." Dean pulled a rubber chicken off a nearby display and slammed it onto the counter. "With this." He pressed the joy buzzer to the chicken. It began to crackle and melt. The owner leapt back with a yelp. "Oh! No!" He stared dumbfounded at the chicken. "Something tells me this guy is not a powerful witch." "Sorry. Sorry." Dean called as they hastily left the store. After the disastrous events at the magic shop the previous day Lacey was hoping todays trip would be a little more fruitful. They had got a call from the doctor they had seen yesterday to say that they had another strange case admitted to the hospital that morning. Lacey and Sam were leaning against the wall in the reception area waiting for Dean who had gone to speak to the doctor. He appeared moments later talking to one of the nurses. "Well I appreciate that Nurse Fremont." He said glancing at her name tag. Lacey felt anger building inside her. "Please... call me Jen." "Oh, Jen it is." Lacey sighed and glanced down at herself. She was wearing black uggs, black and white tie dye trousers, a black band t-shirt and a thick grey cardigan. Dean seemed to notice everyone but her. Sure he flirted occasionally but she felt it was more part of his nature than he actually liked her. Dean approached them and clapped his hands together. "What's up with toothless? Cavity creeps get a hold of him?" He asked referring to the guy who had been attacked and had all his teeth removed. "Yeah close. He wrote up a description." Sam replied leafing through his notebook. "Five foot ten, three hundred and fifty pounds, wings and a pink tutu. Said it was the tooth fairy." "So he's obviously whacked out on painkillers." "Maybe. Whatever it was got past locked doors and windows without triggering the alarm." "Come on. Tooth fairy?" "And it left 32 quarters underneath his pillow. One for each tooth." "Well, I will see your crazy and raise you some. There's a couple of kids with stomach ulcers, say they got it from mixing Pop Rocks and Coke. Another guy, his face... froze that way." "What way?" sam frowned. Dean pulled the sides of his mouth wide and crossed his eyes. Lacey sighed and rolled her eyes. Dean glanced at her questioningly but she looked away. "Uh he held it too long and it... stuck. They're flying in a plastic surgeon." "So I mean if you add all that up... I got nothing." "I thought sea monkeys were real." Dean said randomly. "They are. They're brine shrimp." "No, no, no I mean like in the ads. You know like the sea monkey wife cooks the pot roast for the sea monkey husband , and the sea monkey kids play with the dog in a sea monkey castle, real. I mean I was six but I believed it." "Okay." "Point is...maybe that's the connection. The tooth fairy, the Pop rocks and Coke, the joy buzzer that shocks you, they're all lies that kids believe." "And now they're coming true. Okay so whatever's doing this is..is reshaping reality. It has the powers of a god or of a trickster." Sam said rolling his eyes. "Yeah with the sense of humour of a nine year old." "Or you." Lacey snickered. Lacey was still a bit miffed with Dean so she went with Sam. Once they had got the information they needed they headed back to the motel where they found Dean polishing off more of the ham. "Dude seriously still with the ham?" Sam asked pulling a face. "We don't have a fridge." Dean reasoned. Sam pulled a map out and laid it out on the table. "Well I found something." He said pointing to red x's that he had marked. "Um tooth fairy attack was here, Pop Rocks and Coke was here, then you've got itching powder , face freeze and joy buzzer all located within a two mile radius." "So we got a blast zone of weird and inside fantasy becomes reality." "Looks like." "And what's the A-bomb at its centre?" "Four acres of farmland and a house." "Our motel isn't in that circle by any chance?" "Yeah. Why?" Dean held up his hand, the palm covered in hair. Sam closed his eyes and shook his head. "Ugh dude. That's not what I think it is, is it?" Lacey scrunched up her forehead. "What do you think it is?" "I got bored, that nurse was hot." "You know you can go blind from that too." "Give me five minutes. We'll go check out that house." Dean said heading towards the bathroom. "Hey do not use my razor!" Sam yelled after him. "I don't get it." Lacey said turning to Sam. "What is it?" "I'll tell you when you're older." Sam replied, chuckling at the look she gave him. @18crazybutcutealsopsycho

[sassmill]

answer ALL those questions BIH 1-97 or however many there are

Great panini Michelle... every damn time...1. Would you have sex with the last person you text messaged?Uhhhhhhhh yeah2. You talked to an ex today, correct?Idk I guess technically?3. Have you taken someones virginity?Lmao nope4. Is trust a big issue for you?YEAH WHOO BOY YEAH I have a lot of issues and trust is a huge one5. Did you hang out with the person you like recently?Yes yup I definitely did. She told me I looked pretty and it was the first time I've ever been sure she was flirting with me. 6. What are you excited for?Going back to school holy shit. I've had a countdown going. I move back in at the end of the month. I can't fuckening wait. 7. What happened tonight?I told myself I was going to shower and clean my room but instead I'm sat here watching dan and Phil games videos?8. Do you think it’s disgusting when girls get really wasted?I don't think it's disgusting I just worry for their safety. I'm the mom friend that takes care of the lightweights. 9. Is confidence cute?Hell yeah10. What is the last beverage you had?Brisk iced tea with lemon 11. How many people of the opposite sex do you fully trust?I wanna say like three. I don't have an exact count because I've managed to direct my daily life to have very few males and I can only think of three men I regularly interact with. 12. Do you own a pair of skinny jeans?Yeah and my fuckin thighs are wearing a HOLE IN THEM which means I need to order a new pair but they're EXPENSIVE and I hate CAPITALISM 13. What are you gonna do Saturday night?That's a good fucking question. I have nothing planned, nothing to do within walking distance, and no license. Probably masturbate in all honesty. 14. What are you going to spend money on next?Well I just spent like $150 on an old navy order today so probably not clothes Oh you know what I need a new bookbag so probably that. IKEA has some good ones. 15. Are you going out with the last person you kissed?The only person I've kissed was for a scene in acting class so no. I had a really elaborate dream the other night where I was kissing my crush but alas also no. 16. Do you think you’ll change in the next 3 months?Oh for sure. 17. Who do you feel most comfortable talking to about anything?Honestly???? Reese. 18. The last time you felt broken?This is more or less a weekly to daily occurrence but the most intense instance I can recall was Saturday night at my cousin's wedding! Being most likely the only gay person out of a group of 300 people made up of mostly married couples with children was absolutely horrific because as soon as one cousin gets married the aunts start placing bets on who's next and each time I'm closer to the top of the list. Combine that with varied intrusive thoughts and you've got a lovely shitstorm of self loathing!!!19. Have you had sex today?Not ever m'dude20. Are you starting to realize anything?That if I want to be less anxious when shopping for clothing, I need to only shop at places that actually cater to my body type aka I've just accepted that I have a mom body and will always look better in well made and sort of pricey old navy clothes over cheap shitty forever 21 clothes. 21. Are you in a good mood?I'm kind of eh. All I've done today is watch the MSNBC news cycle for hours on end and that was really depressing and anxiety inducing but I've isolated myself in my room for a bit since then and had a nice salami sandwich so I've mellowed. 22. Would you ever want to swim with sharks?Hell yeah. Sharks are nowhere as violent as media portrays them and need to be protected like any other species. Also I went to the aquarium yesterday. 23. Are your eyes the same color as your dad’s?Yes between my parents I got pretty much all of my father's genetics and it's really funny. 24. What do you want right this second?Someone to cuddle with because I realized when I was staying at a hotel that I literally can't sleep unless I'm holding something and every single night my body pillow is a little bit more pathetic. 25. What would you say if the person you love/like kissed another girl/boy?Fuckin jokes on you she's married 26. Is your current hair color your natural hair color?Technically no. I mean I am a natural blonde but currently I am several shades blonder because my natural shade is on the darker end of the blonde spectrum and I'm so pale that I need to lighten and warm it up from time to time so I don't look like a less stylish Addams child. 27. Would you be able to date someone who doesn’t make you laugh?That's a hard fuckin pass m828. What was the last thing that made you laugh?I answered this before but I've laughed again since then soS A N D R A29. Do you really, truly miss someone right now?Yes. 30. Does everyone deserve a second chance?Yes, as long as they are actually willing to modify their behavior/habits/what have you. Life is a learning curve. I believe in third chances too, under the same conditions. At some point, however, you have to acknowledge that some people just will not change and it isn't worth the energy you're investing to try and force it. Then it's time to cut bitches off lmao. 31. Honestly, do you hate the last boy you were talking to?My brother is walking a fine line right now. He's a shit head but I don't hate him. 32. Does the person you have feelings for right now, know you do?I think so. 33. Are you one of those people who never drinks soda?Cherry Pepsi flows through my veins. 34. Listening to?I've honestly been listening to the original London cast recording of The Witches of Eastwick the musical on repeat for like a week? That and the original cast recording of Sunset Boulevard. Which reminds me, I downloaded Dangerous Liaisons...35. Do you ever write in pencil anymore?Yeah... do people like... stop writing in pencil at some point? Y'all hate erasers????36. Do you know where the last person you kissed is?Probably somewhere in Pennsylvania where I left her. 37. Do you believe in love at first sight?Maybe chemistry at first sight? I think you have to know a person before you can love them. Chemistry doesn't have to be romantic either, I think it's just a significant reaction. I'm a fan of hate to lover arcs in fiction. Cough cough swan queen. 38. Who did you last call?Probably my brother to tell him to preheat the oven. 39. Who was the last person you danced with?My aunt when she was trying to convince me not to leave the wedding reception even though I was dead on my feet and dissociating so hard I felt like I wasn't in my body40. Why did you kiss the last person you kissed?Because that's how Phyllis Nagy wrote the script. 41. When was the last time you ate a cupcake?The wedding reception. It didn't have frosting because my brother brought me a fucking cupcake without frosting. 42. Did you hug/kiss one of your parents today?No43. Ever embarrass yourself in front of a crush?Countless times! I'm strong but clumsy so when she asks me to move things for her it's like a 50/50 chance I'll drop it. She never makes fun of me though. 44. Do you tan in the nude?I don't tan period because I am pasty and extremely at risk for skin cancer *finger guns*45. If you could, would you take back your last kiss?If by take back you mean literally take it back by purchasing the full play to read it 46. Did you talk to someone until you fell asleep last night?I usually do47. Who was the last person to call you?Idk probably my dad to tell me to preheat the oven. 48. Do you sing in the shower?Am I even showering if I'm not singing49. Do you dance in the car?I'm generally pretty cramped in most cars so no50. Ever used a bow and arrow?Yes! I'm a pretty decent archer. 51. Last time you got a portrait taken by a photographer?Probably my headshots that I got when I was doing my dance photo shoot senior year. 52. Do you think musicals are cheesy?I'm a theatre major what fucking kind of question is this. In this house we respect triple threats. And have a healthy fear of the wrath of patti lupone 53. Is Christmas stressful?Half my family is EXTREMELY Roman Catholic and a quarter is Jewish so if it's not stressful it's definitely complicated 54. Ever eat a pierogi?Fuck yes holy shit we had a cooking unit at camp and they'd make staff lunch and they made pierogies from scratch like dough potatoes and all and I swear I nutted. 55. Favorite type of fruit pie?Lemon meringue. Oh fuck elies mom made such good pie last year. 56. Occupations you wanted to be when you were a kid?Forensic examiner! I wanted to do autopsies! Like deadass I wanted to be Doctor Jan Garavaglia from the discovery channel. Also retrospectively definitely had a crush on her. That was when I was in like elementary school though. In middle school I wanted nothing more than to be an Imagineer and design attractions for Disney. 57. Do you believe in ghosts?I'm from New England. Next question. 58. Ever have a Deja-vu feeling?Yeah holy shit I see stuff from my dreams a lot. 59. Take a vitamin daily?These strawberry flavored fuckers for hair skin and nails they're so good!60. Wear slippers?Not so much at home but at school I practically live in them because our dorm is always disgusting 61. Wear a bath robe?Yes I have a super fluffy long one62. What do you wear to bed?Ideally nothing but I have to wear clothes because my room gets too hot to sleep with the door shut so normally a t shirt and underwear and then I keep shorts or sweatpants by my bed so I can put them on quickly if I have to leave my room. Plus I have a roommate at school so no naked napping there either. 63. First concert?Probably one of the free concerts Eight to the Bar used to do in my mom's hometown64. Wal-Mart, Target or Kmart?Target I'm a loyal Pinterest mom65. Nike or Adidas?Neither. Whatever is on clearance at Kohls. 66. Cheetos Or Fritos?Cheetos. I'm not a fucking heathen. 67. Peanuts or Sunflower seeds?No. Cashews. 68. Favorite Taylor Swift song?LOVE STORY (The og country version) IS THE REALEST BOP IVE EVER HEARD69. Ever take dance lessons?Hahaha only 16 years of them70. Is there a profession you picture your future spouse doing?Something creative. Strongly probably theatre related. 71. Can you curl your tongue?Yeah72. Ever won a spelling bee?No but I performed a song from The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee73. Have you ever cried because you were so happy?Short answer yes. Long answer: please see my post on Tired Thesbian about Indecent directed by Rebecca Taichman and written by Paula Vogel 74. What is your favorite book?To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf75. Do you study better with or without music?With, but it has to be instrumental. I really like film scores; Cracks, The Hours, and the Mildred Pierce miniseries are my favorites. Honorable mention for Carol. 76. Regularly burn incense?Not allowed to. 77. Ever been in love?Yes. 78. Who would you like to see in concert?Fleetwood Mac/Stevie, Celtic Woman, Dolly Parton, Florence + The Machine. That's the non showtune half of my music taste. Isn't it an unsettling combination. 79. What was the last concert you saw?I don't really go to music concerts but I went to the so you think you can dance tour a couple years ago. 80. Hot tea or cold tea?Porque no los dos 81. Tea or coffee?Porque no los dos 82. Favorite type of cookie?I'm a slut for shortbread but that's more of a biscuit soooooo Oreos. 83. Can you swim well?I've never drowned 84. Can you hold your breath without holding your nose?People can't do that?85. Are you patient?I guess so86. DJ or band, at a wedding?Dj BRUH 87. Ever won a contest?I won a writing contest in eighth grade!88. Ever have plastic surgery?No but I'd love to get some for various reasons. And when it comes down to it, we really shouldn't judge others cosmetic choices be they hair color or plastic surgery. Insert Dolly Parton. 89. Which are better black or green olives?Olives are evil and I was once locked out of my dorm room over this argument90. Opinions on sex before marriage?Holy fuck heterosexual culture is wild isn't it91. Best room for a fireplace?Already answered 92. Do you want to get married?Maybe not married but certainly in a committed long term relationship. To quote Lily Tomlin, I'm not particularly keen on imitating heterosexuals. Holy fuvk that took like a full hour

[garden-of-succulents]

Wait, so you don't have BPD but you want to write parse with bpd as your representation? How does that work? I'm really sorry, I like your Parse stories and read them and I don't mean to say that you shouldn't write them, but I don't understand where you're coming from on this. Is it really that difficult to identify with any of the characters of color on the same level?

I’ll answer your questions backwards so the long personal story can go under a readmore:

“Is it really that difficult to identify with any of the characters of color on the same level?“

That’s something I’ve been thinking about a lot over the last few weeks. Like, mental health is my wheelhouse, that’s a huge thing I write about; what about writing mentally ill characters of colour?  I can do it pretty easily with my OCs (cf. Luis and Maida) but feeling my way into mental health themes with canon characters of colour is more difficult while Kent and Jack are kind of like... low-hanging fruit, for me.

It’s why I’ve started bugging @abominableobriens with thoughts about BPD Nursey, gone back to trying to work my way into Ransom’s anxiety (I can’t find the post where I talk about where I was with this a couple months ago).  It’s not a smooth process, though--I’m flopping around being like “but how do I respect Ransom’s personality and preferences but get him some TREATMENT and REST” and “Okay but I haaate conflict-laden relationships and Nursey and Dex’s canon relationship is so full of sniping, how do I write Nursey without Dex?” and that’s the kind of flailing and experimentation I have to do internally or talking to a few people. Mostly the for-public-consumption stuff that’s come out of that process so far has been fluffy romantic headcanons.

So we’ll see how that goes. It’s partly that positive depictions of BPD/the kind of complex trauma I’m interested in are really rare. Before OMGCP, I spent most of my time writing straight-up OCs in fandom contexts because I couldn’t find what I wanted in the source material. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Oookay, and now for the long bit: Why I care really personally about representations of BPD even though I don’t have it myself.

So basically, I’ve been depressed/mentally ill since elementary school, but growing up I kind of internalized the idea that letting my family know I was suffering would be so awful and unbearable for them that I could NOT do it. So I hated myself and I was miserable and was convinced that I couldn’t tell any adults about it. The big lifeline for me were young adult problem novels--books about teens in treatment programs for eating disorders or self-injury or, heck, kidney disease or parapalegia--I never saw myself in the symptoms, precisely, which was confusing, but I did see myself in the emotional experience of overwhelming pain, and I was captivated by the idea that feeling so awful all the time wasn’t normal, it was a disease; and a disease that could be treated. There were people who could help me be Not-That--but I couldn’t ask my parents to see a therapist, since that would be too awful for them, so I tried to soak up what knowledge I could through those books (or the nonfiction books that were available to me).  The books... were very  bland, whitewashed, rendered down to be acceptable; the girls were very soft, very fragile, would never hurt a fly (except themselves). I kind of internalized that as what a Good Mentally Ill Person should look like, and didn’t realize there was any other sort of mental illness.

In junior high school I started being able to articulate this depression to other kids and started making friends, online and in real life, who were also mentally ill like me. We could talk together about feeling worthless and unlovable, and participate in a conspiracy of silence Not To Let The Adults Know.

I’m struggling to explain this and keep my narrative somehow concise, not an essay about my entire childhood--long story short, I’m not Borderline; I was a lot more emotionally stable, even if my stability was in absolute fucking misery. I could take an emotion like a punch to the gut and sit with it, when a lot of my friends would have to get it out somehow--it drove them to do crazy and self-destructive things. (As an adult I know this difference is a lot about genetics and our lives before the age of three.)  And also, long story short, I learned that one way to make people like me was to pay attention to them and take care of them. I nurtured out of self-defense and because it was the only way I knew how to socialize. So I was the person all my friends told about their problems.

And I thought they were like me, that we had the same problems, the same illness? I tried to take what I learned from books and apply it, which was all about being patient and giving and empathetic and loyal and A Good Friend. I thought friendship could cure anything.  No matter what anybody did to me, I was totally disconnected from my anger and self-protective instincts; I thought I had to be a sponge, soaking up all their bad emotions and loving them no matter what.

So I was totally unprepared for them to split on me. I didn’t know anything about the idealization/devaluation cycle.

Splitting is... so, Borderline Personality Disorder is basically an inability to self-regulate, to integrate, to tolerate ambiguity. Either the person with it is an amazing perfect god, or a destructive piece of shit. Either their friend is a wonderful loving angel, or an evil demon who hates them and wants them to suffer. And this is an opinion that can flip on a dime, depending on how the person feels in that moment. So like--

I was maybe 16 or 17, and made a friend through a speech and debate club I was part of. From out of nowhere she liked me, thought I was pretty and smart and special. I stayed up until 3am one weekend and talked with her; we shared our hopes, our dreams, our favourite books. She sang a Scottish ballad that she said reminded her of me (”black is the colour of my true love’s hair”). The next time we met she gave me a little teddy bear with a hand-written note about what a good friend I was.

Then in the club, it was my job to make sure everyone got to meetings on time and was properly dressed and everything, and someone pointed out to me that my friend was wearing a skirt that was way shorter than dress guidelines allowed for. I had to go tell her that she was supposed to change and said, squirmingly uncomfortable, “People have talked to me...”  She stalked off.

That night was a ceremony where people who aged out of the group got to talk a little bit about what the group meant to them, and say goodbye to people, and play or sing a song. Her turn came, and she announced that our entire group was full of fake, awful, petty monsters, two-faced liars, almost as hurtful, hateful, and abusive as her foster parents. The song she played was “Just Like You” by Three Days Grace. I sobbed the entire time and tried to apologize to her, but it didn’t work. 

About a month later, she emailed someone in the group to say she’d been angry and hadn’t meant it, and she was sorry for ruining the ceremony.

That kind of thing happened to me with... maybe five or six different people, to greater or lesser degrees, from the time I was 12 to the time I was 20, which is when I finally got a handle on what was going on and how to predict it and keep it from happening. Friendships where everything was fine, wonderful, great thanks, how are you, fine, wonderf--KABOOM YOU’RE A FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT LIS YOU ABUSER (oh wait sorry i didn’t mean it where are you going).

It took a lot of work to learn that I had to get my sense of self from something other than helping other people, to look after my own needs as well as other peoples’, to learn (GASP) to accept and even ask for help. A lot of things changed when my mom told us, when I was 15, that she was depressed and going into therapy, because that meant we were allowed to do these things in our family. I immediately blurted out, “Can I see a therapist too?”  So I got more centred in myself, and also finally figured out what was going on with my friends, and got better at maintaining friendships with people with BPD that did not explode, at making friendships that were not based around me being a pseudo-therapist, and at getting my helping-people jonesing out with actual paid work.

So you might notice that a lot of my fics about Kent and BPD aren’t actually from Kent’s perspective or about him--they’re about people trying to live with him. Hurricane or Campsites are stories about people who know what to expect, who have some understanding of what he’s like and how to keep themselves safe. They can find ways to love him for his good parts without letting his bad parts hurt them, can love him without letting themselves be sucked in by the extreme warmth of his regard, can maintain their own boundaries and make their own decisions.

(To be honest, I was initially really amazed to find that people with BPD appreciate my fics or me talking about the subject? Because I am an outsider, because I am writing from this perspective--a medical perspective, no less! The voice of the Establishment! But a lot of people have been really receptive to my POV--which might just be, again, the paucity of positive representations at all.)

I didn’t really think about it this way until I got this ask and started trying to explain it, but... I’m trying to write the kind of story I could have used when I was a kid.

(So then you ask, Lis, you’re still writing about other people, about meeting other peoples’ needs--when are you going to write about children like you were, about experiences like yours? When are you going to tell your own story? and then I change the topic and sidle awkwardly out of the room. I’m not ready for that yet.)

[staciejcc]

Everyone is always asking the cast about the print shop scene, I’m looking forward to the turtle soup scene “Turtle; Stern took a big hawksbill last night. He sent word he’s saving ye the shell to make combs of, for your hair.” Jamie frowned slightly, whether at the thought of Lawrence Stern’s gallantry or Ishmael’s presence, I couldn’t tell. “As for the black, he’s not loose—Fergus is watching him.”

“Fergus is on his honeymoon,” I protested. “You shouldn’t make him do it. Is this really turtle soup? I’ve never had it before. It’s marvelous.”

Jamie was unmoved by contemplation of Fergus’s tender state.

“Aye, well, he’ll be wed a long time,” he said callously. “Do him no harm to keep his breeches on for one night. And they do say that abstinence makes the heart grow firmer, no?”

“Absence,” I said, dodging the spoon for a moment. “And fonder. If anything’s growing firmer from abstinence, it wouldn’t be his heart.”

“That’s verra bawdy talk for a respectable marrit woman,” Jamie said reprovingly, sticking the spoon in my mouth. “And inconsiderate, forbye.”

I swallowed. “Inconsiderate?”

“I’m a wee bit firm myself at the moment,” he replied evenly, dipping and spooning. “What wi’ you sitting there wi’ your hair loose and your ni**les starin’ me in the eye, the size of cherries.”

I glanced down involuntarily, and the next spoonful bumped my nose. Jamie clicked his tongue, and picking up a cloth, briskly blotted my bosom with it. It was quite true that my shift was made of thin cotton, and even when dry, reasonably easy to see through.

“It’s not as though you haven’t seen them before,” I said, amused.

He laid down the cloth and raised his brows.

“I have drunk water every day since I was weaned,” he pointed out. “It doesna mean I canna be thirsty, still.” He picked up the spoon. “You’ll have a wee bit more?”

“No, thanks,” I said, dodging the oncoming spoon. “I want to hear more about this firmness of yours.”

“No, ye don’t; you’re ill.”

“I feel much better,” I assured him. “Shall I have a look at it?” He was wearing the loose petticoat breeches the sailors wore, in which he could easily have concealed three or four dead mullet, let alone a fugitive firmness.

“You shall not,” he said, looking slightly shocked. “Someone might come in. And I canna think your looking at it would help a bit.”

“Well, you can’t tell that until I have looked at it, can you?” I said. “Besides, you can bolt the door.”

“Bolt the door? What d’ye think I’m going to do? Do I look the sort of man would take advantage of a woman who’s not only wounded and boiling wi’ fever, but drunk as well?” he demanded. He stood up, nonetheless.

“I am not drunk,” I said indignantly. “You can’t get drunk on turtle soup!” Nonetheless, I was conscious that the glowing warmth in my stomach seemed to have migrated somewhat lower, taking up residence between my thighs, and there was undeniably a slight lightness of head not strictly attributable to fever.

“You can if ye’ve been drinking turtle soup as made by Aloysius O’Shaughnessy Murphy,” he said. “By the smell of it, he’s put at least a full bottle o’ the sherry in it. A verra intemperate race, the Irish.”

“Well, I’m still not drunk.” I straightened up against the pillows as best I could. “You told me once that if you could still stand up, you weren’t drunk.”

“You aren’t standing up,” he pointed out.

“You are. And I could if I wanted to. Stop trying to change the subject. We were talking about your firmness.”

“Well, ye can just stop talking about it, because—” He broke off with a small yelp, as I made a fortunate grab with my left hand.

“Clumsy, am I?” I said, with considerable satisfaction. “Oh, my. Heavens, you do have a problem, don’t you?”

“Will ye leave go of me?” he hissed, looking frantically over his shoulder at the door. “Someone could come in any moment!”

“I told you you should have bolted the door,” I said, not letting go. Far from being a dead mullet, the object in my hand was exhibiting considerable liveliness.

He eyed me narrowly, breathing through his nose.

“I wouldna use force on a sick woman,” he said through his teeth, “but you’ve a damn healthy grip for someone with a fever, Sassenach. If you—”

“I told you I felt better,” I interrupted, “but I’ll make you a bargain; you bolt the door and I’ll prove I’m not drunk.” I rather regretfully let go, to indicate good faith. He stood staring at me for a moment, absentmindedly rubbing the site of my recent assault on his virtue. Then he lifted one ruddy eyebrow, turned, and went to bolt the door.

By the time he turned back, I had made it out of the berth and was standing—a trifle shakily, but still upright—against the frame. He eyed me critically. “It’s no going to work, Sassenach,” he said, shaking his head. He looked rather regretful, himself. “We’ll never stay upright, wi’ a swell like there is underfoot tonight, and ye know I’ll not fit in that berth by myself, let alone wi’ you.” There was a considerable swell; the lantern on its swivel-bracket hung steady and level, but the shelf above it tilted visibly back and forth as the Artemis rode the waves. I could feel the faint shudder of the boards under my bare feet, and knew Jamie was right. At least he was too absorbed in the discussion to be seasick. “There’s always the floor,” I suggested hopefully. He glanced down at the limited floor space and frowned. “Aye, well. There is, but we’d have to do it like snakes, Sassenach, all twined round each other amongst the table legs.” “I don’t mind.” “No,” he said, shaking his head, “it would hurt your arm.” He rubbed a knuckle across his lower lip, thinking. His eyes passed absently across my body at about hip level, returned, fixed, and lost their focus. I thought the bloody shift must be more transparent than I realized. Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I let go my hold on the frame of the berth and lurched the two paces necessary to reach him. The roll of the ship threw me into his arms, and he barely managed to keep his own balance, clutching me tightly round the waist. “Jesus!” he said, staggered, and then, as much from reflex as from desire, bent his head and kissed me. It was startling. I was accustomed to be surrounded by the warmth of his embrace; now it was I who was hot to the touch and he who was cool. From his reaction, he was enjoying the novelty as much as I was. Light-headed, and reckless with it, I nipped the side of his neck with my teeth, feeling the waves of heat from my face pulsate against the column of his throat. He felt it, too. “God, you’re like holding a hot coal!” His hands dropped lower and pressed me hard against him. “Firm is it? Ha,” I said, getting my mouth free for a moment. “Take those baggy things off.” I slid down his length and onto my knees in front of him, fumbling mazily at his flies. He freed the laces with a quick jerk, and the petticoat breeches ballooned to the floor with a whiff of wind. I didn’t wait for him to remove his shirt; just lifted it and took him. He made a strangled sound and his hands came down on my head as though he wanted to restrain me, but hadn’t the strength. “Oh, Lord!” he said. His hands tightened in my hair, but he wasn’t trying to push me away. “This must be what it’s like to make love in Hell,” he whispered. “With a burning she-devil.” I laughed, which was extremely difficult under the circumstances. I choked, and pulled back a moment, breathless. “Is this what a succubus does, do you think?” “I wouldna doubt it for a moment,” he assured me. His hands were still in my hair, urging me back. A knock sounded on the door, and he froze. Confident that the door was indeed bolted, I didn’t. “Aye? What is it?” he said, with a calmness rather remarkable for a man in his position. “Fraser?” Lawrence Stern’s voice came through the door. “The Frenchman says the black is asleep, and may he have leave to go to bed now?” “No,” said Jamie shortly. “Tell him to stay where he is; I’ll come along and relieve him in a bit.” “Oh.” Stern’s voice sounded a little hesitant. “Surely. His…um, his wife seems…eager for him to come now.” Jamie inhaled sharply. “Tell her,” he said, a small note of strain becoming evident in his voice, “that he’ll be there…presently.” “I will say so.” Stern sounded dubious about Marsali’s reception of this news, but then his voice brightened. “Ah…is Mrs. Fraser feeling somewhat improved?” “Verra much,” said Jamie, with feeling. “She enjoyed the turtle soup?” “Greatly. I thank ye.” His hands on my head were trembling. “Did you tell her that I’ve put aside the shell for her? It was a fine hawksbill turtle; a most elegant beast.” “Aye. Aye, I did.” With an audible gasp, Jamie pulled away and reaching down, lifted me to my feet. “Good night, Mr. Stern!” he called. He pulled me toward the berth; we struggled four-legged to keep from crashing into tables and chairs as the floor rose and fell beneath us. “Oh.” Lawrence sounded faintly disappointed. “I suppose Mrs. Fraser is asleep, then?” “Laugh, and I’ll throttle ye,” Jamie whispered fiercely in my ear. “She is, Mr. Stern,” he called through the door. “I shall give her your respects in the morning, aye?” “I trust she will rest well. There seems to be a certain roughness to the sea this evening.” “I…have noticed, Mr. Stern.” Pushing me to my knees in front of the berth, he knelt behind me, groping for the hem of my shift. A cool breeze from the open stern window blew over my naked bu**ocks, and a shiver ran down the backs of my thighs. “Should you or Mrs. Fraser find yourselves discommoded by the motion, I have a most capital remedy to hand—a compound of mugwort, bat dung, and the fruit of the mangrove. You have only to ask, you know.” Jamie didn’t answer for a moment. “Oh, Christ!” he whispered. I took a sizable bite of the bedclothes. “Mr. Fraser?” “I said, ‘Thank you’!” Jamie replied, raising his voice. “Well, I shall bid you a good evening, then.” Jamie let out his breath in a long shudder that was not quite a moan. “Mr. Fraser?” “Good evening, Mr. Stern!” Jamie bellowed. “Oh! Er…good evening.” Stern’s footsteps receded down the companionway, lost in the sound of the waves that were now crashing loudly against the hull. I spit out the mouthful of quilt. “Oh…my…God!” His hands were large and hard and cool on my heated flesh. “You’ve the roundest arse I’ve ever seen!” A lurch by the Artemis here aiding his efforts to an untoward degree, I uttered a loud shriek. “Shh!” He clasped a hand over my mouth, bending over me so that he lay over my back, the billowing linen of his shirt falling around me and the weight of him pressing me to the bed. My skin, crazed with fever, was sensitive to the slightest touch, and I shook in his arms, the heat inside me rushing outward as he moved within me. His hands were under me then, clutching my br**sts, the only anchor as I lost my boundaries and dissolved, conscious thought a displaced element in the chaos of sensations—the warm damp of tangled quilts beneath me, the cold sea wind and misty spray that wafted over us from the rough sea outside, the gasp and brush of Jamie’s warm breath on the back of my neck, and the sudden prickle and flood of cold and heat, as my fever broke in a dew of satisfied desire. Jamie’s weight rested on my back, his thighs behind mine. It was warm, and comforting. After a long time, his breathing eased, and he rose off me. The thin cotton of my shift was damp, and the wind plucked it away from my skin, making me shiver. Jamie closed the window with a snap, then bent and picked me up like a rag doll. He lowered me into the berth, and pulled the quilt up over me. “How is your arm?” he said. “What arm?” I murmured drowsily. I felt as though I had been melted and poured into a mold to set. “Good,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Can ye stand up?”