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beeeinyourbonnet · 4 months ago

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Covetous | Chapter 22

Pairing: Nostelle

Rating: E

Summary: Father Joseph MacAvoy wakes up in a library across town with no idea of how he got there. When the kind librarian doesn’t kick him out immediately, he considers that maybe there’s more to life than alcohol.

[chapter 1] [chapter 2] [chapter 3] [chapter 4] [chapter 5] [chapter 6] [chapter 7] [chapter 8] [chapter 9] [chapter 10] [chapter 11] [chapter 12] [chapter 13] [chapter 14] [chapter 15] [chapter 16] [chapter 17] [chapter 18] [chapter 19] [chapter 20] [chapter 21]

[read on ao3]

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Belle woke pressed against Nosty—her favorite way to wake up—and was surprised to feel him snoring against her hair still. He never slept this much.

Not wanting to wake him, she untangled herself and crept out of bed and to the bathroom, performing her morning ablutions with haste before creeping back in. Nosty didn’t wake when she tucked herself back under his arm, so she closed her eyes and drifted back off.

She woke the second time to the feel of him kissing her shoulder.

“Good morning,” she said. His hand snaked across her stomach, splaying just beneath her breasts.

“Morning, sweetheart.” He kissed her neck and her entire body responded as if he’d thrust his tongue inside her.

“How’d you sleep?” she asked, sighing when his finger brushed her breast.

“Never better.” He tugged on her nipple, and she jerked against him, feeling his cock already hard behind her. “You?”

He scraped his teeth along her shoulder, his other hand sliding down her thigh.

“Great,” she said, voice weak as his deft fingers moved between her legs, his others still pinching and rolling her nipples between them.

It took him no time at all to bring her off, as though she hadn’t spent all of last night screaming his name, and when she tried to turn in his arms to return the favor, he kissed her, blanketing her with his body.

“Is it your turn to be on top?” she asked, wondering vaguely how she was already ready for more.

“If you’re up for it,” he said, and she grabbed his cock in response to guide it into her.

It was much slower this time, and Nosty held himself up on his elbows as he ground into her, watching her eyes with every thrust.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. “God. Fuck.”

She cupped his cheek, wishing she had a word to tell him how he looked hovering over her, all dark shadows and jagged edges, wonder in his eyes.

He didn’t seem in any hurry to come this time, and neither was she, content to just have him filling her for as long as possible.

Then, someone knocked on the front door. Nosty broke eye contact to glare.

“Ignore it.” Belle pulled his cheek back to face her. “It’s probably just the post.”

He pulled out further and thrust harder, startling a cry from her, and then they were back to the slow rhythm, but now, he ground his hips against her, brushing her clit with every thrust.

“Are you close?” he asked.

“Kind of,” she said, and then whoever it was knocked again. Nosty growled. “Ignore it.”

His leisurely pace disappeared, replaced with slow thrusts that rocked her each time he pushed in. She thought that it might be possible, at this pace and with this friction, for her to come without the aid of his fingers, but then the knocking started up again and didn’t let up.

“Belle!” Joseph’s voice called, and if she could hear it all the way in the bedroom, her neighbors had to have been annoyed. “Belle, please open up, it’s me!”

Nosty growled again, and then he was pounding into her, startling a series of broken cries from her, and pounding faster whenever Joseph spoke.

“What do you need to come for me?” he hissed in her ear. “I don’t want to come first, and making him wait—” He bit her shoulder as if to express just how much the thought of making Joseph wait at the door was going to make him come.

“Tell me I’m beautiful again,” she said, surprising herself with the request.

“God, any time.” He licked her neck. “You’re so fucking perfect. You—” He frowned at her. “You’re perfect. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Say anything nice.”

“You’re sweet.” He ducked his head to suck on her neck, lowering himself to her to just grind again, and her body jolted every time he brushed across her clit. “You’re so competent.” Joseph continued to knock on the door, hollering her name. Could he hear Belle moaning at the sound of Nosty’s voice in her ear? “You’re funny and kind and—fuck!”

She tugged on his hair as a reflex as she came with a scream, and then he came too, and the knocking paused for half a second before resuming with vigor.

Nosty lay on top of her, panting, and after much less time than she’d have liked, lifted his head. “Do you want me to get rid of him?”

She bit her lip. She was mad at Joseph, but she didn’t want Nosty to lord it over him. She also could not stomach the thought of seeing his face, of seeing any hurt in his eyes. She wanted to be mad just a bit longer.

“Yes,” she said. He had to have heard them, because now he knocked as though he knew she was inside. “But don’t be cruel, okay?”

With a groan, Nosty pulled himself off of and out of her. “I’ll be civil,” he said, which, after what Joseph had said to him, was good enough for her.

****

MacAvoy wasn’t sure how long he intended to bang on Belle’s door. Honestly, he was surprised none of her neighbors had emerged to pummel him yet since it was just past ten on a Saturday morning, but maybe they weren’t home.

Every time he paused, he strained his ears to listen for her behind the door, but while he thought he could hear her moving around, he couldn’t hear anything definite. Maybe he should have called instead of spending more money on a taxi to get here, but he hadn’t been thinking straight. The only thing he knew for sure, after dwelling all night, was that he had to apologize to Belle and mean it. After, he could help her find Nosty again.

He heard a scream, remembered Belle’s forehead cut when she’d been too upset to pay attention, and renewed his knocking. She was home, and she was hurt. He would fix it.

The door swung open, and MacAvoy almost dropped to the floor in gratitude before he realized that it was not Belle who stood before him, but Nosty, wrapped in a blanket from Belle’s couch.

“What do you want?” Nosty asked, but MacAvoy couldn’t speak. He was too busy taking in what he could see of the living room from the doorway—a sweater crumpled on the couch, a bra splayed over a chair, Nosty’s shirt on the floor, and a pair of knickers closer to MacAvoy than he ever expected Belle’s knickers to be.

He looked back up at Nosty, who he now realized was naked under the blanket. In his attempt to protect Belle, he’d driven her into Nosty’s arms. At least Nosty wasn’t gone. At least she was okay.

“I want to talk to Belle,” he said.

“She doesn’t want to see you.”

MacAvoy clenched his teeth. His head pounded and his stomach churned like he was hungover, though he hadn’t had more to drink than what he’d licked off his lips before shattering the bottle.

“Please, Nosty, I just want to apologize.”

Nosty bared his teeth. “To Belle? Tough shite.”

“Of course to Belle.” He tried to peer around him, but Nosty moved to block his view. “Come on, I’ll be quick. Please.”

“She doesn’t want to see you.” Nosty hitched the blanket tighter. Had he interrupted them before they’d started? Or was this after?

Tearing his gaze away from Belle’s undergarments, he studied Nosty. Beyond the scruff, his pale face had red splotches, and his already wild hair had come loose from its usual tie to stick out in every direction. MacAvoy flushed all the way to his toes.

“I really need to talk to her,” he said. What would he do if Nosty refused again?

“Look, she knows you’re here. She can fucking hear you. If she wanted to talk to you, she’d come out.”

As much as MacAvoy hated to admit it, what Nosty said made sense. He’d assumed that Nosty had come just to antagonize him, but of course Belle had been the one to send him. How could she not know he was here? Her flat was small.

“Fine.” He could feel each of his organs shriveling up in turn.

The door started to close, so MacAvoy thrust his foot out, not sure what to do next. Nosty raised an eyebrow, but didn’t slam the door on him. A small victory.

“Something else on your mind?” Nosty asked, like he expected a real answer. MacAvoy swallowed, trying to think on his feet—a skill he’d once had for advising parishioners but was rusty now.

“Mass!” he blurted.

Nosty didn’t move, just continued to stare at him. He didn’t know which was more unnerving, Nosty screaming or Nosty silent and still.

“Come to mass,” he said. “Both of you. Please.”

“We’ll see.” Nosty started to close the door again, but MacAvoy held his foot steady.

“Please. Ask her now. I just want to know.”

Somehow, Nosty glared down at him even though they were the same height and Nosty was barefoot. Then, he turned his head and called, “Belle. Mass tomorrow?”

MacAvoy didn’t mean to hold his breath while he waited for an answer, but the silence stretched so long he had to let it out. Then, he heard the sweetest thing he could remember hearing—Belle’s voice calling out, “Okay.”

She was there. She was hearing him.

“So, I guess you’ll have to see me tomorrow,” Nosty said. “Hate to have to give you such shite news.”

He would not rise to this bait. “I’ll be glad to see you both,” he said. “Thank you. For asking her.”

Nosty grunted, then swung the door shut with no more protest from MacAvoy. He stood there for another minute, straining to discern any sex sounds or commentary on him, but he couldn’t even hear their voices this time.

Even though this was a net positive, he still didn’t know what he could do at mass to win Belle back. If he had a drink, maybe she’d take pity on him? Probably she’d just be disgusted by him. He was disgusted with the thought. He didn’t want her pity, he wanted her friendship.

He took the stairs slowly on the off chance that Belle emerged to forgive him. What would that take? Something spectacular, but not showy. A real apology. But what would he say? And when?

His taxi habit was draining his funds almost as much as the liquor had, so he resolved to walk until he could find a bus stop that would take him somewhere he recognized, and as he did, he replayed his fight with Belle over in his mind. There had to be a clue there as to what she needed from him.

There had to be.

****

When Nosty crawled back into bed, Belle received him with open arms, tucking him against her. He buried his face in her neck, and she half expected him to give her another love bite, but all he did was hold her like he could crawl inside of her skin.

She stroked his hair. “Nosty? Did he say something to you?”

“Fuck all,” he mumbled into her neck.

She held him tighter, running her nails along his scalp. “You tried to tell me a hundred times that he was being awful to you, didn’t you? I’m sorry I didn’t listen.”

Nosty didn’t say anything, and then his hand came around to squeeze her ass cheek, startling a laugh from her.

“He wasn’t always awful,” Nosty said. Her eyebrows flew up. Three therapy sessions and some journaling, and he was already giving Joseph the benefit of the doubt? She hoped the health system paid his therapist well.

“Still.”

“He wanted you to not be with me,” Nosty said. “Wouldn’t believe I wasn’t bending you over and buggering you in every room of the church.”

Belle flushed. “I’m sure he didn’t—”

“Belle, he told me more than once not to ‘violate’ you. Every time he thought we fucked, he’d spend all day being a prick.”

A small bead of despair settled in her gut. Had she been so wrong about Joseph? He’d been so supportive. He’d known all along that Nosty had Belle’s heart. She’d told him so when they kissed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Nosty shrugged, kneading her fleshy backside. She hoped that squeezing it comforted him. “Didn’t want to ruin your friendship.”

Belle didn’t realize her hand in his hair had stilled as she contemplated this until Nosty nudged her elbow with his. She rubbed his scalp.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see it,” she said. “I would have done something.”

Nosty burrowed closer to her somehow, tangling his legs between hers. “I was afraid you’d pick him.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I was afraid if you thought we weren’t getting along, you’d take his side, and you’d have every fucking right to.” He lifted his face to look at her. “I didn’t think I’d hurt you that much when I left, Belle, but I know I did. I hurt the only person whose ever even liked me, and he didn’t. And I’m a fucking mess, and he’s the easier choice.”

“Nosty.” She stroked his cheek. “The important thing to me is that you would never ask me to choose.”

He pressed tiny chaste kisses to her neck wherever his lips reached. She played with his hair, not sure whether he wanted her to say anything or just hold him for now.

“I don’t care what he thinks,” he said. She bit her lip and stroked his scalp with her nails. After a few seconds, he looked up at her. His eyes might have been wet. “Why do I care what he thinks?”

She kissed his forehead. “Because he was supposed to be a safe place.”

Nosty buried his face in her neck again and she wrapped her arms around him. “I knew he thought I was a worthless waster, but I thought—” He shook his head, hair tickling her chin. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“Well, if he doesn’t apologize to your satisfaction, then I don’t want anything to do with him,” Belle said, decisive in spite of the pain that lanced through her.

Nosty propped himself on an elbow to stare at her. “What?”

“If I can’t trust him, I have no reason to spend time with him. I’ll help you get your stuff and we’ll—we’ll figure something out.”

“Why would he apologize to me?”

Belle wasn’t sure how to answer that. “You want him to, right?”

“Yeah, and I want a fucking castle on a hill too, what of it?”

“Nosty, you deserve an apology.” She took his face in her hands. “He treated you badly. A lot. At the very least, he owes you an apology.”

Nosty licked his lips, staring at the wall in thought. “You think I deserve it?”

“Of—”

“Wait, no, I know you think I do.” He studied her face, brow furrowed. “But like. Would Kathryn?”

“Yes.”

He settled back into her neck, trailing his fingers up and down her thigh. “Huh.”

“What is it?” She kissed him on the head.

“I thought I was being selfish again.” He squeezed her thigh. “I’ve demanded what’s owed me too much to know when I’m right and when I’m wrong. Always figured I’d be wrong no matter what. Figured that’s what happens when you’re worthless.”

“You’re not worthless.” She lifted his head to look at him. “You were never worthless. None of your friends are worthless.”

“Belle, I appreciate you saying that, but you’re what most people would consider fucking nuts.”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t care. I’m cleverer than any of those people, so I’m right.”

He cracked a grin. “Cleverest bird I know.” He slid his hand down her thigh, then pulled her leg across his. She didn’t know if she could go again. “And you’d really just—pick me?”

“I trust you to judge him honestly,” she said. “And if he fails, then yes. I’d pick you.”

Part of her wanted to know everything, to know all that Joseph had done, but Nosty was protecting her from it for a reason, and she would just have to accept his judgment. If she trusted him, she trusted him, and that was that.

When he rolled her over and settled between her legs again, she considered stopping him, but he was pressing such gentle kisses into her collar that she couldn’t, and besides—they’d waited this long. What was the point in denying them?

****

After another hour, they dragged themselves out of bed and into the shower, where Nosty brought Belle off again with his fingers while she attempted to wash her hair, and by the time they tangled together on the couch with coffee, she felt like a delightfully wrung-out sponge. She had not known she could come so many times.

“Should we get haircuts today?” she asked. “I can look for a salon.”

“Nah, I can’t face mass without the armor tomorrow.”

“Maybe the salon will be a nice way to decompress after.”

She couldn’t see his face from where she leaned against his chest, but the way he stiffened told her he was frowning down at her.

“First of all, the salon isn’t gonna make me less stressed, and second of all, what the fuck are you doing to your hair?”

She rubbed a finger along the handle of her mug. “Would you be upset if I cut my hair short?”

“Aye, if I have to shave my head for the trial, then you have to keep your womanly curls.” He wrapped one around his finger. “I’d think you were beautiful no matter what, but that jury best think we’re a god-fearing couple pledging our eternal allegiance to the queen and tradition.”

Belle laughed, but his declaration sent warmth all the way to the soles of her feet. God, had she ever been happier? “You’d think I was beautiful no matter what?”

“You could grow a cock and an Adam’s apple and I’d count me fucking blessings that you liked me.”

She strained to face him, her heart filling so much, it could have burst. He brushed his thumb across the corner of her lip.

“Nosty?”

“Mm?”

Her heart pounded. “I lo—”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t.”

She wanted to wilt. “Oh.” Were all her internal organs crumbling, or was that just the unbearable weight of sadness? It was one thing for him not to say it back, another for him to stop her from saying it entirely, like he was ashamed.

“Belle, wait,” he said as she turned away, hunching over her coffee.

“It’s fine.” It was not fine. But it had to be, because surely, she could deal with not speaking her heart for just a little bit longer? She’d made it this far.

“Belle, it’s not—” He groaned in frustration, then plucked her mug out of her hand and set both of them on the end table.

“It’s not?”

He wrapped both his arms around her, burying his mouth against her neck again. That didn’t feel like a person who was ashamed of her love, at least.

“I just—” He swallowed. “I’ve never.”

Some of the ache dissipated. She laid her hands over his. “You’ve never what?”

“Said it. Heard it.” He swallowed against her pulse. “Felt it.”

Part of her wanted to force him to spell out what “it” was, but that was unnecessary. Still, she didn’t know where to go from here.

“What if I feel it?” she asked.

He didn’t answer for so long, she thought he might never. Then, he clenched his fists into her shirt.

“I think—” He turned his head so his eyes pressed to her neck now. “I think I do. But I’m not ready to say it, and I think—”

She said nothing, hardly breathing while she waited for him to gather himself.

“You think?” she prompted when he’d been quiet for longer than she could stand.

“I just think I should say it first, hey? You deserve it instead of just my fucking knee-jerk reaction to make you happy.”

It was enough. She could be happy knowing that it was only an internal struggle that kept him from saying it and not a fear of her love.

“I wish you’d known enough love in your life to not be afraid of it,” she said, kissing him on the forehead. “But I’ll wait for you just like you waited for me.”

He squeezed her, then loosened his arms enough to pinch her sides until she laughed. After kissing her neck, he returned their coffee cups, and she settled back against him.

“So,” he said after a minute or so of comfortable silence. “You really can’t get pregnant?”

“Nope,” she said.

“Why not?”

“The easiest way to put it is that I have a weird ovary.”

Nosty was quiet, and she wondered that this didn’t make her anxious. She had never told another boyfriend about it because she had never taken the time to make sure they could have safe, condom-free sex. But just as she wanted to know all of Nosty, she wanted him to know all of her.

“Don’t you want kids?”

She shrugged. “I’ve always wanted to be a mother, but I’ve made my peace with it. Why, do you?”

She couldn’t imagine Nosty wanting kids, but then, she also couldn’t imagine why the L word made him nervous but this conversation didn’t. Maybe this one was too hypothetical to matter.

“Never thought I’d live long enough to have to decide.”

He might as well have wrapped a hand around her heart and squeezed.

“Well,” she said, trying not to sound choked up about him living. “If this is for the long haul, then I guess you should decide if it’s important to you that I can’t get pregnant.”

He drained his coffee, then plopped his mug on the table. “Belle, there’s no imaginary kid more important to me than you.”

“You don’t know that—”

“Belle.” He tilted her chin up and looked down at her. “Being a kid was a fucking nightmare. I had different parents every week, sometimes me own. No one gave a shit about me. There’s no fucking way I’ll ever want to be a dad more than I want to be with you. Let my gene pool fucking die with me.”

He released her chin, and she pressed herself against him since she couldn’t hold him, dying to know more about his childhood. She could wait, though. He’d tell her someday. They had plenty of time. “Well, I guess that’s all ironed out then.”

“Guess so.” He kissed her hair. “Now, you never told me what was so good about the salon.”

****

They took a walk, hand in hand for the first time, and Belle led Nosty all around her neighborhood. Since his gaunt form was still filling out with regular meals and sleep, she didn’t want to go suit shopping just yet, but they did look at a few hanging in windows.

When they got back to her flat, they made a pizza from scratch, Belle showing Nosty how to mix and knead the dough before leaving him to that task while she chopped any bits and bobs of leftover vegetables in the fridge to add to it.

“Are you liking cooking?” she asked while they ate by candlelight again, drinking glasses of a sweet red.

He shrugged. “I like cooking with you. It’s nice to know that if I ever got stranded, I wouldn’t starve.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you think about getting stranded a lot?”

“Belle, I’ve lived under a bridge for fucking years. I think about danger every second of every day. I’m thinking right now about how secure your locks are and how likely it would be for some ripped bloke to knock your door off and kidnap you.”

She took a bite, giving herself time to think. “That’s not going to happen.”

“No, it’s probably not going to happen.” He waved his slice at her. “But I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking about that ‘probably.’”

“Nosty, that is an exhausting way to live,” she said, and he wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“Why d’you think I walk fifty kilometers a day, eh? For me health?”

“What kind of stuff did you worry about in the church?” she asked, because a morbid, anxious part of her was curious.

He swallowed his bite, then studied his slice. “You getting hit by a bus, bunch of other priests showing up and—” He glanced at her and licked his lips. “—let’s say violating you, terrorist attack, walls caving in, pipe bursting and drowning in my sleep.” He shrugged. “More, probably.”

Belle was no stranger to catastrophizing, but there had to be something she could do to give Nosty a break from himself.

“Would it make you feel better to add another deadbolt?” she asked.

He shrugged. “What if there’s a fire and we can’t get the door open in time?”

“Do you think this is maybe something you should bring up to your therapist?”

He paused, pizza halfway to his mouth. “What for?”

“You don’t have to be vigilant all the time. You’re allowed to relax. A therapist might help you.”

Wrinkling his nose, he shook his head. “We’ll see.”

Whatever he decided to bring up or not, he’d already made so much progress, and she had no idea what he wrote in his journals. Perhaps getting arrested had been the last straw, the final push he needed to want to get out of his situation. There was no way a therapist could help him so quickly without him putting in his own considerable effort.

She smiled into her pizza, hoping he wouldn’t see and ask her about it, but of course, Nosty saw everything.

“What? Thinking about getting railed?” He wiggled his eyebrows and she snorted.

“No. Just thinking about how proud I am of you.”

He ducked his head. He might have been embarrassed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Not meeting her eyes, he shrugged. “I’m proud of me too.”

****

The movie they’d intended to watch played on in the background as Nosty lay on top of Belle, hands tangled in her hair, lips and tongue moving against hers.

At this point, it had been so long since she’d even glanced at the TV, she had no idea how long they’d been kissing. It was nice to just kiss, to feel consumed and connected in equal measure, to give as much as she took.

When the movie ended, Nosty lifted his head to glance at the scrolling credits.

“Great film,” he said, lips red and swollen, surely mirroring Belle’s own. “Couldn’t ask for a better ending.”

“Perfectly tied up,” she agreed with a grin, and then he was kissing her again. One of his hands crept down her neck to her hip, then up the hem of her shirt. Somehow, they’d made it all day without his hands wandering, and the biggest surprise was that they’d made out for so long before he started.

“I love your flat,” Nosty said. His hand splayed across her hip, calloused fingers curling around her waist.

“Yeah?” She let her own hands wander down his sides to rest at the waistband of his kilt.

“The church doesn’t have a couch like this.” His hand crept up her stomach. “And even if it did, I couldn’t do this.” He flicked at a nipple with his finger and she sighed into his mouth.

“Maybe you could,” she said.

“Yeah? How about this?” He pinched her nipple and her hips jerked toward him.

“Maybe.”

He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and rubbed his thumb across her nipple, and when she jerked into him again, he dropped his hand to her ass to hold her flush against him. She still couldn’t believe how ready she already was to rub against his stiff cock. When had sex become fun?

“Maybe not on the couch,” she allowed, breathless, tilting her hips in his grasp to get a better angle against him.

“Sometimes I dream about how you sound when I haven’t even touched you yet.” Nosty thrust his hips into hers and she cried out, trying to match him through their clothes.

She wanted to return the favor, to slide her hands up his shirt and flick his nipples until he begged her like she begged him, but there was no room between them anymore, so she settled for sliding her hands up his back.

Nosty thrust against her more, and she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer as she let out soft cries, knowing that, if she couldn’t touch him, her voice at least turned him on.

He brought his lips to her ear and growled, “I’m gonna make you come so hard later, you’ll leave welts down me back,” then bit her earlobe, rewarding her with a harder thrust when she moaned and clawed at his shoulders.

“Nosty,” she said, hardly able to get the word out as they rutted against one another, couch squealing beneath them.

“Yes, love?”

“I want to touch you too.”

He pressed himself closer to her, like he could drive them both through the couch with enough effort. “Not yet, love, not yet.”

She wanted to protest, but instead she clung on for dear life as he slipped a hand into her knickers and replaced his kilted cock with his strong, nimble fingers, coaxing her to ride his palm without going near her clit.

“Oh god, Nosty,” she sighed, forgetting any protest. “How are you so creative with your—oh god—fingers?”

“Book,” he said. “Back section of your library. Written by a lesbian. Are you ready to come yet?”

She’d been ready to come from the start, but she found the answer was no, she could ride him longer, build the pleasure higher, and she didn’t have to worry because his hand had more stamina than his cock, and his other could be fondling her neglected breast, and every time she opened her eyes, she could watch his hungry, awed expression.

“Okay,” she said, voice broken. “I’m ready.”

He bared his teeth and she bucked against his hand. “You sure, love? You don’t sound ready.”

She cried his name, but all he did was grin wider and pinch her nipple.

“Beg me,” he said, and she was happy to oblige with a, “Please, Nosty!”

He pressed his thumb to her clit and rubbed, and she screamed as she came, marveling as the climax ebbed that he could do that with just his fingers. The lesbian sex book had really paid off.

She lay there panting for a minute, happy to have the solid weight of Nosty on top of her, and then she opened her eyes.

“Do you not like being touched?” she asked. It really did seem unfair that she had lost count of how many orgasms she’d had since yesterday and he’d only had three.

“It’s fine,” he said, nuzzling his nose along her neck. “You don’t need to.”

She frowned at this non-answer. “What if I want to, though?”

His jaw clenched, and though she couldn’t see his face, she could feel him grimace. “I don’t—it’s not—” He huffed out a breath.

“Obviously, if you don’t like it or don’t want me to, I won’t.” She slid her arms around his back, careful to keep her hands neutral even as she tried to soothe him. “And you can tie my hands to the bed if that makes it better for you. But if you would like me to, or if you’re doing this to protect me from something, then we should figure it out.”

“I don’t know—” He swallowed, throat bobbing against her shoulder. “I don’t know how to explain.”

“Is this okay?” She reached up to rub his scalp like she always did. He nodded, then tilted his head so she could reach better.

“Are you afraid you’ll hurt me?” she asked.

His thumb traced her waistband back and forth and back and forth, and then he nodded.

Part of her wished that Nosty could just articulate himself, but being willing to try like this was a lot better than it had been before. There was a time when he would have just told her a pretty lie, or she’d have been so afraid of asking him that she would have just kept quiet.

“Why are you more afraid to hurt me if I touch you than vice versa?”

“It’s not—it’s not that I think I’d hurt you physically. I’ve never been afraid I’d harm you.”

“So what is it then?”

“I don’t want you to hate me.” He gripped her hip so tightly, it hurt, but she didn’t want to let him know that if he was already this anxious.

“What do you mean? Why would I hate you?”

“I want to hold you.”

She pursed her lips, glad he could not see this reaction. “This isn’t holding me?”

But apparently, he meant in bed, so she allowed him to lead her back and tuck them in and spoon up behind her, hand on her stomach.

“So why would I hate you?” she asked the second they were settled. He touched his forehead to her hair.

“Because.”

She sighed and squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to tell me, I guess. I just want us both to be open with each other.”

“I want to be open,” he said. “But I don’t want you to throw me out.”

“Nosty, you know I’m not going to throw you out.”

“Maybe not onto the streets, but I don’t want to be in the other room either. I want to be here with you.” He pulled her closer, and she closed her eyes.

“Is it because of your past?” she asked. He nodded. “Do you think you’re—” She swallowed, considering the implications. “—Forcing me?”

He didn’t respond, and then slowly, he shook his head. “It’s nothing to do with you. It’s me.”

“Are you afraid of premature ejaculation?” she asked, hoping this wasn’t too forward. “Because if you are, that doesn’t bother me at all.”

He snorted. “No, not since I know how easy you are to get off.”

It felt like she’d run out of ways to ask him, so she squeezed his hand again and snuggled into him. “Okay, well, if you ever want to just lay back and be taken care of, you let me know.”

“I do not want that!” he said, tightening his arms around her. Her eyebrows flew up.

“Okay, okay, it’s okay.” She stroked his hand. “It’s up to you.”

“Belle, I feel—everything about you. And I don’t want it tainted.”

Finally, something resembling an answer. “Tainted?”

He pulled her so close against him, she could feel his ribs. “When I was with anyone else, it was always about me.”

She didn’t want to breathe for fear of distracting him, so she lay completely still, waiting for him to continue.

“I didn’t care about them, I just cared about being powerful. And I know you’d tell me if I did something you didn’t like, or went too far, or hurt you, but—”

She waited longer than she wanted to before saying, “But?”

“I don’t want to feel that way with you. I don’t even want to feel that way in secret. I just—I asked you to beg me earlier, and that was—”

“I didn’t mind,” she said quickly. “I liked it. I like you.”

“Good.” He loosened his grip on her enough to slip both his palms under her shirt. “But I don’t want to be that person with you. I don’t even want to feel like him.”

She bit her cheek, stifling the I love you trying to claw its way out. “Whatever you need to feel safe,” she said. “And if you ever change your mind, you’ll tell me.”

“Aye.” His hands crept upward, each cupping a breast. “I want to be done talking now.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, going limp as he massaged both breasts, rolling his palms over her nipples. “We might get bored.”

“I think we’ll manage,” he said, just before sliding his hand into her knickers.

#nostelle #anyelle #anyelle fic #anyelle fanfic #anyelle fanfiction #nosty x belle #nosty #covetous #new update #nostelle fic

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worryinglyinnocent · 4 years ago

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Fic: Déjà Vu

Summary: Macelle. Exploring the churchyard of the small town she has just moved to, Belle finds a statue with an uncanny resemblance, and she starts to wonder if perhaps she has been here before, and if she knew the church’s priest in a former life...

Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling December moodboard prompt, available here.

Rated: G

Note: Ealasaid is an old Scottish name from the same root form as Belle.

Déjà Vu

The statue wasn’t frightening as such, no more frightening than any old statue standing alone in a churchyard was, but there was something about it that Belle found distinctly unnerving, nonetheless.

It was likely something to do with the fact that looking at the statue was like looking into a mirror. A weather-worn and lichen-covered mirror, certainly, but a mirror all the same. She recognised the face in the statue as her own, and she really wasn’t sure what to do with this new discovery.

She was so intent on staring down her stone doppelgänger that she didn’t notice the church door opening and the priest coming out and walking down the path towards the statue until he was right beside her, and she jumped out of her skin when he spoke.

“The mystery angel.”

“Pardon?”

“The mystery angel.” The priest nodded towards the statue. “It’s the town’s only claim to fame. No one knows the origins. It’s as if one day it was just here, with no record of how it arrived. No one commissioned it; no one paid for it. No one even saw it being put up. An unsolved mystery.”

This explanation of the statue’s background, or lack of it, did nothing to quell the growing feeling of unease in the pit of Belle’s stomach.

“There are old stories, of course,” the priest continued. “There always are. Some say that the priest who served here a couple of hundred years ago was visited by an angel and fell in love with her, and she with him. She couldn’t stay with him, not whilst he was mortal and she was a heavenly celestial, and although it broke both their hearts, she had to leave him. She left the statue as a reminder, and an anchor to draw her back to her love once she’d found a mortal form.”

Belle smiled. Although the story was a sad one, it lifted a lot of the creepiness away from the statue.

“Did she return in mortal form?” she asked.

“Some say she did. Others say she didn’t.”

“What do you think?”

The priest looked at the statue for a long time. “I don’t think she did. Or at least… I don’t think she has done yet. Finding a mortal form might take a while.”

“I’m Belle, by the way. I’ve only just moved here.” She turned to face the priest fully at last, holding out a hand.

“Father Macavoy…” He trailed off, hand still frozen in hers as he got his first proper look at her face, mirrored in the statue beside them.

“Yeah.” Belle hoped she sounded apologetic. “That was pretty much my reaction when I saw it too.”

“I…” Father Macavoy regained his composure and shook her hand firmly. “Welcome to the neighbourhood, Belle. And, you know, it’s all just a load of old stories. There’s probably a perfectly innocent explanation for it all. Like someone losing the church records somewhere along the line.”

Belle smiled, but at the same time, she knew that Macavoy was about as convinced by his own words as she was.

He turned to go back into the church, and Belle fell to studying the statue again, but as he walked back up the path, she could see him sneaking astonished glances at her back over his shoulder. She tried to look like she wasn’t watching him walk away.

There was something in his face that seemed familiar. It hadn’t at first, but now, thinking about him and his expression of wonder when he had seen her…

Belle shook away the feeling and turned away, leaving the churchyard. She was determined not to go back to it for a long time.

She tried to put it to the back of her mind, but her train of thought kept leading her to things that she also wanted to put to the back of her mind.

Why did Macavoy seem familiar? Why had she come to this town in the first place? What was it that had drawn her here? At first she’d thought that it was just because this was a quaint little place in the middle of nowhere and she’d get along nicely here writing her book.

Now she wasn’t so sure. Why here over all the other quaint little places she could have chosen? What had drawn her to the churchyard as soon as she had arrived – before she had even finished her unpacking from the move?

Something had made her go and find her statue.

Belle shook her head crossly. It wasn’t her statue, although there was definitely an uncanny resemblance. It was the church’s statue. It just happened to look like her. Honestly, the thing was covered in moss anyway, it probably hadn’t looked anything like her when it had first been carved. And after all, it was extremely presumptuous and self-important to think that she could have been an angel in a previous life. An angel would probably remember that they had been an angel.

Not if they were mortal now, a helpful voice in the back of her mind pointed out. Normal mortal people don’t believe in past lives and certainly can’t remember them.

Belle sighed. Her mother had been one of the most sensible people she’d ever known, but even Colette French, with her head squarely on her shoulders, had a superstitious and spiritual side to her. Déjà vu, she always said, was a sign of your past lives getting confused.

And Belle had been suffering odd flashes of déjà vu ever since she’d arrived in the town.

Could she really have been here before in a previous existence? Could she really have been an angel who fell in love with a priest and promised to return to him?

And the priest… No, Macavoy could not have been him. The statue had been there for hundreds of years, after all.

He still seemed very familiar.

Logically, Belle knew that she was dreaming. She knew that she could probably wake herself up if she wanted, but this wasn’t a nightmare that she wanted to get out of. It was weird, yes, but she wanted to see where it went.

She was in the churchyard.

Joseph… My Joseph… Where are you? I’ve come back for you, like I promised I would… I’m sorry it took so long… I never realised just how fragile mortals are… Did you wait for me, Joseph?

She passed by the statue without giving it a second glance, moving into the church itself.

Belle knew that she had not been inside the church, and yet, when she stepped inside, she somehow knew that she was looking at the correct interior, not simply something out of her imagination. If she woke up and went into the church in the morning, she knew that it would look exactly like this.

Maybe if she was awake, that thought would scare her, but as it was, she just let it wash over her. She had more important things to do.

Joseph? Joseph? Are you here? I’m sorry it took me so long, my love… Joseph?

The church was empty, and Belle felt herself beginning to panic in the dream. Something was wrong. Where was Joseph? Who was Joseph?

She left the church. She was moving at run now, slipping in among the graves in the darkness. She was looking for something, dreading finding it but needing to see it anyway.

Joseph! Joseph! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you to have to wait so long!

Belle stopped in front of the stone. How did she know it was the right one?

Two hundred years… Oh, Joseph!

The emotional turmoil was scary now, and Belle found herself wanting to wake up. She closed her eyes in the dream. It was a technique she’d used before when she’d had nightmares in this lucid dream state where she knew she was dreaming. Close her eyes in the dream, and when she opened them, she’d have opened them in real life and be safe in her own bed.

“Belle?”

She felt a touch on her shoulder, and she recognised Father Macavoy’s voice. She turned, but it was too late.

She opened her eyes on her on bedroom ceiling, and sat up, feeling cold sweat dripping down her back.

Something was definitely going on, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it, no matter that it was the middle of the night.

Belle got out of bed and threw her clothes on, grabbing a flashlight and setting out of her cottage along the long lane that led up to the churchyard. She ignored the angel statue, heading straight for the headstone that she’d seen in her dream that had caused her so much distress.

Joseph Macavoy, 1772 - 1820, Father of this church…

Belle didn’t know why she was crying. Crying for a lost love that she sort of half-remembered from a dream, a memory of another life…

Joseph

She felt a soft touch on her shoulder, and someone said her name.

Her name that wasn’t Belle.

“Ealasaid?”

The voice was barely more than a breath, and Belle recognised it. She recognised her name. It had taken her a long time to find a mortal form with a mortal name, but she remembered her other one.

And so did someone else.

She turned and saw Father Macavoy behind her. He looked as dishevelled as she no doubt looked, as if he’d had exactly the same thought as she’d done: waking from a far too real dream, needing to come to the churchyard to see the reality of it for himself. She wiped her eyes.

“Relative of yours?”

Macavoy nodded. “Distant uncle many times removed. I think. Everyone said it was fate when I ended up taking this church, but I think it was more than that… Ealasaid…”

“Joseph…”

They had never kissed before, not the first time she had visited this earth. The sheer force of her celestial will would have killed him.

But she was celestial no longer. She was mortal like he was, and his lips were soft against hers, and his mouth tasted of toothpaste, and she wanted to stay in his arms forever.

It had taken her a while, but she had finally returned, reborn into a mortal form. And here was her Joseph, reborn into another mortal form and waiting for her like she had asked him to, like he had promised to do.

Her statue had guided her home in the end.

#A Monthly Rumbelling #anyelle #anyelle fic #macelle #Belle French #Joseph Macavoy #Fic: Déjà Vu

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nothingeverlost · 5 years ago

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People who should meet: Joseph MacAvoy (The Tournament) and The Preist (Fleabag)

#andrew scott #robert carlyle #the tournament #fleabag #joseph macavoy #so much drinking #and really interesting theological discussions #especially on the nature of sin and forgiveness #and desire and sex #people who should meet

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januarywren · 5 years ago

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I finally have time to start my fanfic recommendation list! This is something that I’ve been dying to do for awhile, especially when most people are still in quarantine/social distancing.

“Gently at Twilight” by Bad_Faery is a Once Upon a Time crossover with The Tournament. Regardless of whether you know either of the series, it truly stands out as a romance story, all on its own. 😘❤

There’s Belle, the sweet, stay at home worker who moves into a haunted cottage and her beloved cat who can see the recently departed Joseph MacAvoy. Unable to move on, Joseph soon falls in love with Belle...

And it’s so, so very sweet, and as realistic as it can be. With only a smidgeon of angst, and relatively little religious implications about the afterlife (no matter what you believe), it’s truly a wonderful story, and will make your heart melt!

I fell in utter love with the story when I read it, and Bad_Faery has other works too, all of them worth a read. ❤❤

#wren's fic recs #gently at twilight #bad_faery #once upon a time #the tournament #joseph macavoy #belle (once upon a time)#once upon a time fanfics #ghostly romance #fluffy fanfic #romance #must read #archive of our own #ao3

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xiolaperry · 6 years ago

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So I finally got around to watching “The Tournament” because of, well, this guy. Not my favorite movie or anything, but I did love Robert Carlyle in it. But the best thing is the amazing Macelle stories that I’ve gotten to read by @bad-faery. I just finished “Gently at Twilight” and it was SO good. Seriously, go to her masterlist & check it out.

#the tournament #robert carlyle #fic rec #bad-faery #macelle #joseph macavoy

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woobienation · 3 years ago

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This is what a muse looks like.

#joseph macavoy #robert carlyle #robert carlyle crying #the tournament (2009)#wn: woobies #woobie supreme #and the winner of the tournament for my heart

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shiftingmuse · 4 months ago

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Father Joseph MacAvoy - The Tournament

#father joseph macavoy #the tournament #2010 #action movies #robert carlyle #joseph macavoy #father macavoy #{Protect this man at all costs!}#images by me

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therosepetalrps · 3 months ago

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🎬 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 @shiftingmuse 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 🎬

independent, semi-selective, and multi-fandom muses from 𝗥𝗢𝗕𝗘𝗥𝗧 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗟𝗬𝗟𝗘'𝗦 𝗙𝗜𝗟𝗠𝗢𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗣𝗛𝗬; including Rumplestiltskin, Durza, Francis Begbie, Joseph MacAvoy, Nicholas Rush, Danny Devine, and more. written by 𝗖𝗬, 21+

❝ ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ yᴏᴜ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀᴛᴇʟʟɪᴛᴇ — yᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ yᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜱʜɪɴᴇ ᴀꜱ ʙʀɪɢʜᴛ ❞

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 𝐀𝐎𝟑

❝ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ, ɪ ꜰɪɴᴅ — ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɪᴍᴩᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ yᴏᴜ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ yᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ — ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʀᴅᴇʀ, ᴅɪᴠɪᴅᴇꜱ — ɪ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪꜱ ʜᴀʟᴏᴇᴅ ɪɴ yᴏᴜʀ ᴇyᴇꜱ ❞

#( ; therosepetalrps graphics gifts )#( gotta put the boys under shrink wrap for you so they don't spoil lmao )#( ; promo )#shiftingmuse #rp promo #indie rp #robert carlyle rp #anyelle rp #rumbelle rp #ouat rp #horror rp #fantasy rp #sgu rp #tw flashing lights

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notonlymice · 1 year ago

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"haha what if I jokingly shipped them" + anyem/anyelle

#anyem #anyelle #anyem meme #ally craig x nicholas rush #hierophant x father joseph macavoy #(i know hiero/ives is a more obvious choice but both the tournament and operation: endgame have the same gory why-have-i-watched-it vibe #+ whatever feelings hiero had about religion = a match made in heaven lol)#belle french x barney thomson #lacey french x lachlan macaldonich #(these two would probably drink themselves to death though🙃)#alice shelly x hamish macbeth #tom monroe x phoebe macnamara #(though alice x tom and hamish x phoebe work too #since both tom and hamish are policemen and their plots allow supernatural assumptions x))

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ask-father-macavoy · 5 months ago

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"Confession is open, I do understand it is a day in which you may want to confess your sins or derive from them today. In either case I do wish all of you the best with out without the guidance of the lord."

confession - submission

#father joseph macavoy #robert carlyle #the tournament #anyelle #anyem #ask blog #rp blog #independent roleplay account

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woobienation · 2 years ago

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The Intervention (1/2)

Summary: Belle leaves the country to study abroad, and Joseph drowns his heartbreak in whiskey. His family stages an intervention, and Joseph's domineering mother all but breathes fire when Belle attends. [Part 1 of 2]

Belle was asleep when the email arrived.

The phrase "NEED YOUR HELP" in the subject line and the unfamiliar sender address automatically routed it to the spam folder in her École Normale Supérieure de Lyon account.

Now because all of this mess (the almost overlooked email, the rebooked Air France flight home, the botched intervention, the angry tears and shouting, and the wreckage and redemption that followed) happened in the days before ubiquitous laptops in dorm rooms and smartphones tucked beneath pillowcases, Belle French rose, showered, dressed from her neatly packed suitcase, and left to turn in her final paper for LIF-4111: French and General Linguistics: Theories and Practices, completely unaware of the frantic, misspelled electronic message from Joseph’s oldest sister Mary.

Waiting for her in single-spaced, unadorned ASCII text, it read:

Subj: WE NEED YOUR HELP Date: 6/10/1999 9:10:05 Eastern Standard Time From: MaryChristi1978_aol.com To: [email protected] Belle, its mary. I’m so sorry i’ve been out of touch while you’ve been away at school but with the baby and everything i think you’ll understand. It’s joseph. He’s gotten really bad drinking like daddy does lately and they’re going to kick him out of seimnary unless we do something. Mama won’t help she thinks if she just ignores it everything will be okay (just like she does with daddy) but he’s no okay he hasn’t been okay since you left. We’re doing an intervention on him on Sunday june 13 at dinnertime 7pm with Father Matthew and we need you to be there if you canbe hom in time. I really really don’t think it will work without you. He talks about you when he's dunk. you have to come home. please/. Please please come. Mary

Belle doesn't see the email from Mary until after she bids a fond au revoir to her beloved academic advisor in the Department of Modern Languages at the université and enjoys a final midday meal of salmon en papillote at the stately and historic Brasserie Georges. (Here, her favorite waiter, Jean-Claude, offers her his most winning dimpled smile along with a jaunty “Bonne journée, Mademoiselle!” and a dry kiss upon the back of her hand. Belle offers him a gracious, pink-cheeked smile in return and a note upon her check: "Merci pour le plaisir.")

When she makes one final visit to the campus computer lab to clean out her university inbox before her evening flight home to the States, Belle almost overlooks the (1) beside her spam folder. Her attention is instead caught and held by an anticipated and characteristically exuberant message from her step-mother Goldi French (Subj: "We'll Be Seeing You SOON, "Word" Traveler! GET READY FOR SUNSHINE!!!!") and an enrollment confirmation for her final semester of literature courses at Middlebury College in Vermont. Her attention is also captured by (yes, still, even after these many, many months away from home studying abroad in France) the reawakened awful, aching disappointment of seeing absolutely nothing from her best friend and childhood neighbor, Joseph Macavoy. Not one word.

Not one single long-distance phone call.

Not the whole time she's been away.

These reminders of his absence from her life (and his apparent indifference to her absence from his) always make Belle's eyes burn and her throat constrict, as if sorrow were attempting to cauterize it shut. Blinking rapidly and swallowing painfully, she finally mouses over "Spam(1)" (although it is only because she is the type of meticulous young scholar who likes things tidy and sorted, and because everything is already folded, packed, and ready for departure in her empty dorm room, and because, after all, she has an hour of idle time before the taxi ride to the aéroport and her planned trip to the Florida Keys with her father Maurice and her stepmother Goldi. The unsettling contradiction between the mad rush to prepare for final exams and finish her end-of-term papers and this present void of things to do is what propels Belle's white cursor arrow to hover.

To pause.

To click.

To see.

Belle, its mary.

She reads Joseph's sister's email hungrily, straight through twice, her brow furrowed and her breath held. Color rises in her cheeks, and she leans closer to the boxy monitor screen.

He’s gotten really bad drinking like daddy does

Drinking? But that doesn't make a lick of sense!

Joseph hates alcohol. He always has, and Belle would be the best to know it because she has known him ever since before their school days, when all there was to do in the world was catch green katydids, build things out of sticks, dirt, and stones in the cool Vermont woods, and avoid the petty tyrannies of their respective families--his large and turbulent, hers small and smothering. Alcohol reminds Joseph of his father, Michael Macavoy, who always sits beached in that infernal sagging brown recliner chair, half-asleep, stomach swollen tight as a drum, lifting bottle after bottle of amber lager to his wet lips, his dark eyes glassy and bloodshot, his gray hair limp and uncombed, his fleshy cheeks flushed with drink. Alone, feared, and unloved.

Mr. Michael Macavoy would holler horrible, profane things at the family's small black and white television set, and also at his grim, contemptuous wife and his six young stair-step children, and sometimes even at tiny Belle, who looked out of place in the Macavoy's threadbare living room with her shiny shoes and tidy brown braids. And then Joseph would take her quickly by the hand and lead her out of the broken back screen door that never locked, letting it slam, down the dirt path, into the woods, far away from his rust-stained, double-wide manufactured home to whichever twiggy lean-to or teepee or tree fort was their favorite at the moment, saying, "C'mon, Belle. Let's start telling our story again. You start. You tell it best..."

they’re going to kick him out of seimnary unless we do something

Kick him out of seminary? Since when has Joseph--her Joseph--who never could keep a secret from her (or the confessional) to save his life, wanted to attend seminary and join the priesthood?

Yes, Joseph and Belle had both attended the same small, private Catholic school in Middlebury where itchy polyester plaid uniforms slightly obscured the differences between the 'haves' (Belle French) and the 'have-nots' (Joseph Macavoy and the five Macavoy sisters: Mary, Brigid, Therese, Agatha, and Hildegard, all on full scholarship), and, yes, he did believe in the saints and the Blessed Virgin and the Eucharist and the Holy Trinity just like she believes in the great virtues: Hope, Courage, Justice, and Love. But he had never wished to become a priest, never once whispered anything of the sort to her while they lay shoulder-to-shoulder on the decaying leaf floor of a tree fort, fingers entwined, telling their story, sharing secrets, staring up at the slivers of blue sky and sunlight through a sagging roof made of branches. When Belle left Middlebury College for a semester in France, Joseph was studying at the Community College of Vermont to become a school counselor. He wanted to help people, young people like himself with fathers who drank and yelled and mothers with pinched, sullen faces who hid the bottles and ignored the yelling and barked at the children, but he also wanted...

Belle stands up from her wheeled computer desk chair abruptly, knocking it backwards. It rolls to the center of the quiet room.

...but he had also wanted her.

She knows it, like she's always known and held tightly to the thread of 'their story'--inwardly, expertly, before it's even been told. Sometimes her plot twists appear like this, sudden, swift, like lightning in a summer sky, burned into the back of retinas, impossible to un-see. He's miserable. He's drinking. He wants her.

She reads through Mary's email one more time to be sure of the details. Sunday, June 13th. An evening intervention with the parish priest, Father Matthew. Mary wants her there. (It's likely Mama Macavoy would sooner see her in Hell, but Mama Macavoy thinks that's where everyone belongs save herself, so Mama Macavoy can well and truly stuff it. Belle isn't the least bit afraid of Joseph's watchful, dour mother, who glares at top buttons left undone and 'tarts' who wear 'face paint.') He talks about you when he's drunk.

There's still time to change her flight! Make it to Vermont by Sunday evening. Join the Macavoy family and Father Matthew at the crowded dinner table and tell Joseph that...

With a shaking hand, Belle bends over and closes her university email account, then jabs an unsteady finger to shut down the computer. Now she's grabbing her canvas satchel full of books off of the back of the chair in the center of the room and hurrying out of the quiet computer lab onto the sunburnt cobblestone streets of Lyon, back to her empty dorm room.

She's burning up to tell Joseph that she's angry at him.

Can you do that at an intervention?

Demand that somebody sit down and listen to how horribly, volcanically angry you are with them?

Belle begins the furious conversation in her head while charging down the street with her heavy satchel slapping against her hip, her sharp heels striking the uneven stones, faster and faster, around the corner, past the boulangerie, and up the steep concrete dorm stairs to where her suitcase and telephone are waiting.

"How dare you!" she thinks, breathing heavily.

"How dare you tell me right before I'm ready to embark on the biggest and most daring adventure of my life that you don't want me to go? And how dare you choose that moment, when there was literally no time left, right before Papa and Goldi brought the car around to drive me to the airport, that moment out of all of our thousands of moments together, to grab hold of me by the jacket sleeve, yank me towards you, wrap me tightly in your arms, and press your lips to my hair--when I had waited years for that kiss? Years of not knowing if you felt the same as I did. Years of not knowing if you were a saint or eunuch or, or, or--simply uninterested in the girl next door. And how dare you clutch me like that, whisper my name like that, breathe ragged breaths into my hair like that, and then startle away at the sound of Papa's car wheels on the gravel--then never write back, never come to the phone for my long distance calls, simply cease to exist. You ended our story! It feels as though you erased me, Joseph!"

Belle gains her dorm room door and struggles momentarily with the key and the doorknob. Inside, everything is as she left it.

"You erased me, Joseph! And I'll be damned if I let you obliterate yourself with drink before you explain yourself!"

She reaches for the corded telephone on her empty desk and stabs a finger at the buttons. The long distance number takes forever to punch in. Her father picks up on the third ring, clearing his throat: "French residence?"

"Papa!"

Belle explains everything once, in a jumble and impatiently, then asks for her stepmother Goldi to be put on the line when her father is too flustered and slow to take onboard the rapid change of plane tickets and plans that his daughter is requesting.

But Goldi is as good as her name: "Don't worry! I'll take care of everything, Bella-rina. Just get yourself to the airport before those red-eye flights take off and talk to the people at the ticket counter for your new tickets," her stepmother says, shushing Belle's father when he tries to interject. "I've been to an intervention or three in my younger years. Don't let your young man leave until you've had your say, dear, and whatever you do, don't let him lie to you. You know, I've always liked that Joseph. And I know he thinks the sun rises and sets with you. I really do think it should go well."

"I hope so, Goldi. And please tell Papa I'm sorry about our trip. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Don't apologize, Bella-rina! Get yourself to the airport and dry out your young man. Show him the stern stuff I know you're made of. And Belle, my darling..."

Belle has twisted the phone cord anxiously around her fingers, and now she slowly exhales and lets it unwind. "Yes, Goldi?"

"Forgive me, but I saw the two of you in the driveway before your flight to France. An old lady knows a thing or two about the 'look of love,' and I'd say he's in it. Deep, deep down in it. Frankly, I'm surprised he didn't climb into the backseat after you and demand to be allowed to follow you to France."

Belle blinks back tears, realizing that's exactly what she wishes Joseph had done. Instead, he'd begged her to stay.

"In any case, Belle, when a man looks at you that way, you've got a great deal of power over him. Don't be afraid of it! Use it for his happiness; use it for yours. Give him a direction to go in, a battle to fight for you, a heart to win, and he's halfway to healed. It's a life without hope of relief that drives men and women to the bottle. Unless I'm greatly mistaken, you are his hope and relief."

"But then why did he cut me off after I left?" Belle interjects loudly. Her voice is high and wobbly, and it embarrasses her, even though it's only Goldi, who loves her unconditionally. "Why hasn't he once spoken to me? Where has he been all these months?"

"That, my dear, is exactly what you need to fly home and find out."

#joseph macavoy #mama macavoy #spoiler: the intervention is sex #wn: woobies #wn: beauties

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