#or Sam handing him a triangle and he plays like one additional note in The Summoning's drum solo or something

[melit0n]

So, on note of this post; Instruments that we want Vessel to pull up on stage with:

Flute

The triangle

Harp

Kazoo

Bagpipes

Saxophone

Accordion

Ukulele

[katehuntington]

Title: In Bad Waters - part eight Word count: ±2900 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part eight summary: Zoë might have accepted the boys help, that doesn’t mean they get along. If the hostility between them isn’t enough, Sam and Dean have some unresolved issues of their own. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​​​​ and @deanwanddamons​​​​​. Thanks, girls! Gif isn’t mine. If you are the creator or know who made it, please tell me so I can credit you.

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

     A little less than an hour later, Sam, Dean and Zoë are sharing a table in In-N-Out. All three scheduled in some time to trade their business suits for their everyday clothes. The boys are comfortable in plaid shirts, worn jeans, and dusty old shoes, while Zoë looks like a totally different person now that she left her black pumps, blazer and dress pants in her hotel room. She’s wearing her hair down, her blown locks playfully curled up after last night’s shower. Her grey shirt has the famous Pink Floyd logo on it; a ray entering a triangle and breaks off into a rainbow when it exits. The brand new biker jacket hangs over the back of the bench while she plays with the loose tie of her All Stars shoe, wiggling her foot rhythmically. 

     U2’s Beautiful Day is playing in the background. It fits, considering the clear blue sky and warm sun outside. Satisfied, Dean and Zoë devour their burgers while Sam has settled for a milkshake, since they don’t have salads at this restaurant. Stunned and a little disgusted, he watches how Zoë intends to break the world record, tailed by Dean. The younger Winchester stares at them both, as the huntress swallows the last bite of the massive Animal Burger and starts on an additional cheeseburger she ordered. Apparently, Zoë doesn’t feel the need to hold back, despite having company, but then again, she wouldn’t change her demeanor for anyone.

     Dean doesn’t even notice her manners as he shares her appetite. He’s more annoyed that she finished her burger before he did. He looks up for a moment as she licks the sauce from her fingers after finishing, then continues eating even faster than he did a moment ago.

     “Dude! Seriously, a food race?” Sam chuckles.      “Wholth?” Dean says with his mouth full.      He swallows his bite, which apparently was a little bigger than he anticipated. He coughs and hits his chest with his fist, Zoë can’t help to laugh when she sees tears appear in his eyes.      “What are you? Fuckin’ five years old?” she grins.      “I wasn’t racing you,” he mutters hoarse.      “Oh, you so were.” She sniggers, dipping one of Dean’s fries in mayonnaise. “Are you gonna eat that?”      Obviously enjoying herself, she waits for his reaction. He watches her move the fry to her mouth with a look of shock and repugnance on his features. How dare she?      Zoë chews on the snack provokingly. as expected he goes for the counter attack.      “Don’t touch my fucking food,” he warns, pulling his portion of fries to his side of the table, clearly annoyed with his colleague stealing. “And I wasn’t racing you, ‘cause if I did, you would be many burger lengths behind, woman.”      “That’s what’s bugging you the most, isn’t it? Dean Winchester just got defeated by a girl,” she nags.      “I can take you with ease,” he claims, confidently.      She laughs in return.“You wouldn’t stand a chance.”      “Wanna bet?”      “Knock it off, you two.” Sam breaks it up and looks from one to the other. “Now, could we concentrate on the case? We all got better things to do.”      “I have better things to do. You on the other hand just have an unhealthy obsession with helping me,” she corrects, as she drinks from her milkshake through the straw.      “Whatever,” Sam counters with a huff. “Let’s focus here. We’re dealing with a frustrated child spirit most likely on a killing spree.”      “Yeah, but how the hell is she still here? I already burned her bones,” Zoë brings to mind.      “She must be connected to some kind of object then, are you sure you burned everything?” Dean checks.

     Zoë slightly tilts her head and glares at him with an attitude. Is he fucking kidding?      “We’re sure, I was there with her,” Sam confirms, jumping in before the huntress can snap at his brother.      “Nothing more romantic than a night at the graveyard,” Dean comments with a little grin, earning a death stare from Sam, and so he continues seriously. “We need to figure out what’s keeping her here before she goes all Mike Tyson again.”      “She probably targets the people who are directly or indirectly responsible for her death. I don’t think she’ll rest until she kills every single one of them unless we do something about it,” Zoë speaks up.      “So, who could be her next target?” Sam wonders.      “It could be anyone, but the biggest candidates for a one way ticket to the land of the dead are probably Mrs. Shire and her son, maybe even Mrs. Dawlson,” Zoë realizes.      “Who?” Sam and Dean question at the same time.      “Her teacher at Elementary School. She knew about the abuse,” she informs, sipping her shake.

     Dean seems confused. After all, he knows Zoë only arrived here last night. “How do you even know that?”      “Because I had a fucking chat with her, asshat,” she claims, snappy.      Dean bites his tongue and shakes his head slightly, letting a silent sigh slip from his lips. This woman is unbelievable. If it wasn’t for Sammy being so dead set on helping the bitch, he would get the hell out of dodge.      Ignoring her comment, he picks up a few fries and stuffs his mouth full, not noticing the exchange of looks between Zoë and Sam. As soon as the youngest Winchester makes eye contact, he knows she didn’t talk to Mrs. Dawlson; she saw something in one of her flashbacks.      “There could be a dozen more possible victims we don’t know about,” Sam states, quickly filling the void before it becomes noticeable.      “True, but to figure out who might be next, we need to find more info on what happened to Laura,” she declares.      “We already know what happened to her. Her dad abused her till death followed, nothing to add to that,” Sam says.      “No, I mean after that.”      Zoë leans forward, snitching another fry from the hunter across from her, who snaps his head up to her, staring her down and wondering where she got the nerve to steal his food twice.      “Don’t you think it’s a little strange that no one found out about this murder yet? Because that what it was; murder. Her father killed her. Child services should have been all over this, especially with another minor in the household. Laura was buried without a conviction, while she obviously did not die of natural causes,” the smart woman brings to mind. “Why is that?”      “I mean, the system is flawed. Maybe they missed it?” Sam suggests.      “No, I don’t believe that. She must have been a mess, considering what her victims look like,” she ponders.      Both boys nod as a sign of agreement; she has a point. Dean rubs his chin as he thinks. Then his facial expression changes, the metaphorical light bulb switching on in his brain. He glances up at the woman opposite of him, who watches him questioning.

     “Dr. Hughes”, he says out of the blue.      “I know that name,” Zoë realizes, trying to remember where she has heard it before.      “It’s the doc from the morgue that we talked to,” he fills in. “He did the slicing on Shire’s dead body and also mentioned Ronald was a friend of his. I thought he responded weird when Sam mentioned the Hobbit dude.”      “Is the Methodist Medical Center the only dead men’s storage in town?” Zoë asks the whizkid on Dean’s right.      “Not sure. Let me check.” Sam takes out his laptop and sets it up on the table. As he works the computer, Zoë continues their brainstorming session.

     “One way or the other, we need to get our hands on Laura’s death report and we need to figure out who wrote it. I’m guessing someone covered for Shire,” she speaks up.      “How is that even possible these days, with all the paperwork and the forensics?” Sam rubs his temple, taking in Zoë for a second, but then returns his gaze to the laptop screen in front of him.      “You think we’re the only ones who lie and deceive?” Zoë returns, smartly. 

     “We need to talk to more people. Someone who was there and experienced the abuse first hand and might know more about the cover-up. The Shire dude’s wife maybe?” Dean suggests.      “We can’t turn up on her doorstep and confront her. If she doesn’t know her husband possibly erased evidence, it’s just gonna bring a shit ton of drama and a hell of alot explaining to do when she starts asking questions,” Zoë makes clear.

     She forks her fingers through her hair and checks her phone for the time; shit. It’s almost 1 PM. Frustrated about the many blank pages of this case, she sighs, pulling at the corner of her bottom lip with her teeth. There’s so much about this job that doesn’t add up.      “I don’t get how she could still be here. There was nothing left of her remains,” she sighs.      “There has to be an explanation for that,” Sam ponders, as he stares at the address on display. “Anyway, there are no other morgues in town besides the one at the hospital on W. Kingshighway.”   

     “I tell you what.” With a neat throw Zoë tosses her empty plastic cup into the garbage can across the aisle. “Sam, you keep an eye on the Shire family. Dean’s gonna have a chat with Dr. Hughes, see if you can get some info on the death report. I’m gonna tail the teacher for a while,” she decides.      Sam nods approvingly before his brother can object. He folds down the laptop screen and gets up. “Sounds good to me.”      “Make sure you keep your eyes open, that little pain in the ass manages to beat up grown ups without the people next door noticing,” Zoë warns as she picks up her helmet from the bench.      “You think this is our first rodeo?” Dean responds with a scoff.      “You didn’t see me coming the other night in Rochester,” she counters sassy.

     As she passes him she pets his shoulder, the one she put a bullet in only two nights ago. Dean flinches when a dim pain shoots through his arm again. That fucking b--      Before he can call her names, she exits the fast food restaurant, probably expecting the Winchesters to follow like obedient dogs. Stunned, he watches her walk over to her motorcycle, huffing in disbelief. First she doesn’t want their help, and now she’s giving out orders like she rules the fucking world. He didn’t think it could be possible, but his detest for her just grew to an all time high.

     “Mark my words, one of these days I’m gonna shoot her down,” he announces frustrated.      “Ahuh,” Sam responds, cynicism on his tongue as he puts the laptop in his backpack. “Just make sure you don’t pull a gun on her in public, will you?”      “Can’t make any promises.” His brother huffs. “Anyway, you can have the car if you drop me off at the hospital. Let’s get this over with so that we can put some distance between us and the Wicked Witch of the West.” 

     Sam’s lips form a constricted smile, luckily his brother doesn’t notice. He has to admit that he’s enjoying the fact that his big brother is being told what to do by a girl, while normally he only takes orders from one person and one person only; their dad. What he finds interesting, however, is that despite a few muttered objections, Dean actually follows through with it. 

     “And you know what’s the fun part about all this?” Sam nags as they exit In-N-Out.      “What?” Dean responds, annoyed, scanning the parking lot in order to spot Zoë’s Road King.      “You have to dress like a penguin again.” The younger Winchester grins as he opens the door to the passenger’s seat.

     His brother stares at him over the top of the car, realizing he’s going undercover as the FBI Agent Young once more.      “Ah, come on! Can’t we trade?” he asks desperately.      Sam laughs and sits down. “No way, dude.”      Dean does the same and closes the door, complaining. “Man, I hate suits.”      “You think I’m comfortable in one during these temperatures?” Sam returns.      “Sam, even if I’d be freezing my ass off, I will never be at ease in that ridiculous outfit,” Dean states while turning the ignition, allowing Gimme Three Steps by Lynyrd Skynyrd to play on the cassette deck.

     “I’m not trading places. I can work some stuff out while I’m guarding the house,” Sam explains, looking outside the window, squinting his eyes to protect them from the sun.      “What stuff?” Dean questions, making sure it’s not just some lame excuse.      Sam looks aside and hesitates for a moment, but then tells him anyway. “I want to call some friends of Dad,” he admits.

     He feels Dean’s piercing gaze, but doesn’t look up. It’s only a matter of seconds before Dean pops the first question.      “Why?” Dean asks sternly.      “Why?! I don’t know about you, Dean, but I wanna find him,” Sam returns defensive.      Dean grips the wheel a little tighter; as if he doesn’t want to find Dad. Seriously? “So do I, but I don’t think it’s wise to start calling random hunters to ask where he is, Sam.”      “I won’t call ‘random’ hunters. I’ll call a few old friends, and why the hell not?” his brother questions.      “Because Dad doesn’t want to be found,” the oldest of the two claims.      “How could you possibly know that, Dean?! Seriously, do you have some kind of telepathic connection with the guy or what?” Sam reacts.      “Hey, you’re the psychic one, not me,” Dean counters. “If Dad wants us involved in his hunt, he will contact us one way or the other. You know that.”      “No, I don’t! I haven’t heard a word from him since I left for Stanford. I don’t understand the blind faith you have in the man,” the younger brother argues.      “You were the one who fucking left, Sam. And let me tell you somethin’,” Dean pauses to enforce his words. “I trust him because he’s a damn good hunter.”      “He’s human! He makes mistakes just like anyone else, only this time you won’t be around to back him up. It’s not some monster that he’s hunting, this is the monster! The one that killed Mom, that killed Jess!” Sam adds up.      “You think I don’t realize that?” The car stops at a traffic light and Dean turns to him, his piercing green eyes judging his brother, the same way John so often has. “Of course I’d rather be backing him up right now, but he decided to do this alone and I accept that.”      “Why the hell, though? Just because he says so?” Sam huffs, shaking his head disappointed.      “Hell yes, because he says so!” his brother snaps. “He leads this mission, and we stick to the orders he gives us. It’s about fucking time you show him the respect he deserves.”      “He has to earn that first,” the younger Winchester responds.      “He earned that a long time ago. Every time he protected you, protected us. Everything that we were taught, all the skills that we’ve learned. You were so caught up in the illusion that school was gonna work out, that when he objected because he didn’t want you to be on your own, you cut all ties,” Dean barks at him as he accelerates faster than necessary. “Why the hell do you want to find him so bad if you hate his guts, huh?”      “I don’t hate his guts,” Sam says, his voice a lot less hostile than a moment ago.

     Dean takes his eyes off the road again and glances at the passenger, noticing the defeated expression on Sammy’s face. Annoyed with himself he looks ahead again, shutting his eyes for a second when a pang of guilt distinguishes the anger in a matter of seconds. He meant to give his little brother a reality check, but all he did was hurt him.      “Sam, I get you want answers. But calling his friends isn’t the way to do it. We just gotta be patient.”

     His brother's jaw clenches and he looks away, not denying nor confirming that Dean is right and that he himself will listen. It doesn’t matter anyway; there’s no way he can turn his brother’s mind around. And Dean claims Sam is the one who is like their old man? Just now he was sure to sit next to a younger version of Dad. 

     He can't agree with the reasoning behind Dean’s actions, though. His older brother dragged him out of school to find Dad and now that it’s coming down to that, he doesn’t want to go out on a search. Sam on the other hand, he has to find him. Not only does he have some unresolved issues with his father, John is also the only hunter who has been tracking the thing that ruined their lives. He is the key to finding answers. It’s all he can think of; hunting down the bastard that killed Mom and Jessica. 

     Without saying another word, Dean drives his Impala to their motel, convinced he made his point, even though he hurt his brother’s feelings to get the message across. But Sam isn’t going to let go, neither will he trade places with Dean on their jobs. During his hours of watching the Shire family, he’s gonna make those calls and he is going to find their father. Whether Dean likes it, or not.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).    

Read chapter nine here

[dweemeister]

The Stalking Moon (1968)

By the late 1960s, the American Western’s zenith had passed, and the genre was reinventing itself. Bonnie and Clyde (1967) unleashed a wave of films in all genres depicting violence more openly and graphically; meanwhile, the rise of the Revisionist Western (1962’s Ride the High Country, 1966’s The Professionals) led to the deglamorization of the genre’s protagonists and their sense of morality. Released by National General Pictures (NGC), The Stalking Moon reunites producer Alan J. Pakula, director Robert Mulligan, and Gregory Peck – no longer a dashing young man – a six years after To Kill a Mockingbird (1962). Though the team is a throwback, the mindset of The Stalking Moon fits squarely within a Revisionist Western. Mulligan’s dialogue-light film incorporates elements of atmospheric thrillers and, in its tensest moments, seems to resemble a proto-slasher. As a hybrid thriller-Western, The Stalking Moon – once the narrative pieces are in place – is a sharp-edged, gorgeously-shot affair.

On Sam Varner’s (Peck) last day before retiring from the U.S. Cavalry, his regiment surrounds and arrests dozens of Apache warriors. Among the group is a white woman, Sarah Carver (Eva Marie Saint), and her half-Indian son (Noland Clay; Clay’s ethnicity/race is unclear). That afternoon, Sarah pleads for an immediate escort from the Cavalry’s camp instead of waiting for five days for an official military escort. The boy’s father, Salvaje (Nathaniel Narcisco in redface; Narcisco’s ethnicity/race is unclear), is a ruthless assassin and, according to Sarah, almost certainly in pursuit of their son. The Cavalry commander rejects Sarah’s request, but Sam agrees to take them to a remote train station. At the station, disaster strikes, and Sam invites Sarah and her son to stay with him at his rugged, mountainous ranch in New Mexico. Sarah and her son find the personal adjustments to live on Sam’s ranch difficult, but they have help thanks to ranch hands Ned (Russell Thorson) and Nick Tana (Robert Foster, whose character is a half-Indian scout). But even in this ranch, protected on three sides by treacherous rock formations, Sarah and her son have not yet eluded the violence to come.

Mulligan also appears to make comments on how the United States treated the American Indians of the West, but ultimately never does so. The Stalking Moon never highlights indigenous perspectives, declining to even give Sarah’s son a name or expressive space. These perspectives only exist through implication – the wars of the American West are going poorly for the tribes, and white settlers are moving ceaselessly westward and are cementing themselves in these lands. Sarah and Salvaje’s child, being of mixed race and approximately eight or nine years old, would almost certainly be the target of sociopolitical discrimination and the suspicious gazes of many a stranger. Never discussed by any of the characters is the possibility of such behavior towards the child; if Mulligan and screenwriters Wendell Mayes (1959’s Anatomy of a Murder, 1972’s The Poseidon Adventure) and Alvin Sargent (1977’s Julia, 2004’s Spider-Man 2) attempted to insert subtext regarding the child’s treatment, they do so far too subtly.

Salvaje himself is a largely faceless antagonist who never exchanges any dialogue, let alone a grunt, a cry of pain, a primal exclamation. Like numerous American Western movies too numerous to name, this is a reinforcement of stereotypical depictions of American Indians in Hollywood – anonymous, without specific bearing to the lead characters. Is he pursuing his son to reclaim him or the murder him? The movie never says. To Salvaje’s credit, he is a physical menace that could easily overtake an aging Sam Varner. More often than not during the Western’s heyday, indigenous Americans – whether individually or as part of a collective – would be all too easily slaughtered in a hail of protagonists’ gunfire or explosives (in part because of their antagonistic anonymity). Such developments would serve The Stalking Moon, which is partly a thriller, poorly. Thus, Salvaje is an aversion of the too-easily-killed Indian trope, but his complete lack of non-violent interaction with any character and empty characterization beyond his capacity for violence and vengeance uphold the trope of the anonymous indigenous menace. His physicality and obvious threat to the protagonists serve thriller genre; his nature as a blank slate killer is a legacy from American Western narrative traditions (and now largely a relic to that tradition’s contemporary practitioners).

Now in his 50s when he made The Stalking Moon, Gregory Peck – if only because of Hollywood’s obsession over age – was reaching a point in his career where opportunities for lead roles inevitably begin to decline (but not his influence, as Peck was currently serving as the President of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences). The Stalking Moon will, on paper, appear to be typical material for Peck. His Sam Varner, when no one else will tend to Sarah and her son’s safety, will take the initiative even though this decision, at best, is an inconvenience or, at worst, might cost him his life. As it is so often with Peck, his screen presence – assuredness of posture, the timbre of his voice, and calming persona – engineers a great performance. Even with a screenplay that avoids providing dialogue-driven details about his character’s life, Peck makes Sam Varner another entry in his long filmography of upstanding heroes.

The screenplay also consigns Eva Marie Saint to playing her character as a trauma survivor whose apprehension is pervasive. If one is seeking a role where Saint is able to display the fullest breadth of her acting range, The Stalking Moon is certainly not that movie. But for how the screenplay portrays her character, this is a capable performance from Saint alongside child star Noland Clay as the boy (this film remains Clay’s only screen credit).

Cinematographer Charles Lang (1947’s The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, 1959’s Some Like It Hot) and editor Aaron Stell (1958’s Touch of Evil, To Kill a Mockingbird) pay lip service to the Western genre with luxurious takes of the mountains and rock formations that mark their landscape photography. With on-location filming in Red Rock Canyon and Valley of Fire State Park in Nevada, the low-to-the-ground, slightly upward-angled camera shots suggest that Sarah and her son, while making Sam Varner’s ranch house their new home, have nowhere to escape to. Dry shrubs line this small, sloped canyon with somewhat steep angles that make even walking without ascending or descending hazardous. Yet Lang and Stell’s collaboration truly impresses during the action setpieces – most notably in a scene where Gregory Peck, in a darkened room, awaits the entrance of the man who has been hunting the people he has been protecting. Before the naming and identification of the slasher subgenre of horror film, The Stalking Moon – noting its selective cinematography and editing in its tensest moments – relies on numerous lighting and staging techniques that the likes of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) and Friday the 13th (1980) would later adopt. Though shot and edited like a thriller, much of the film has scenes of people-watching: adults observing children, children observing adults, people noticing small behavioral details otherwise glossed over in a less patient movie. These moments of observation substitute for the dialogue and are as important as the most critical pieces of dialogue in the film.

An unconventional score from composer Fred Karlin (1970’s The Baby Maker, 1973’s Westworld) is a restrained effort, making use of a full orchestra but rarely employing the aural grandiosity that an orchestra is capable of. Repeated often throughout The Stalking Moon is the opening motif whistled in the main titles, with the sparse melodies – usually performed by the whistler or a limited number of woodwinds and/or brass – suggesting the vastness and emptiness of the American West, even in the days of westward expansion. Karlin’s music has an unsettling quality that permeates into The Stalking Moon’s most joyous scenes. When Sarah and her son arrive and Sam’s residence for the first time, the cue “Sarah’s New Home” opens with solo triangle before the entrance of a lone flute. The occasional dissonance from the triangle conflicts with the flute – a subliminal, harmonic message (in addition to the various string harmonics used throughout) that Sarah’s dangers have not passed. So often in modern film composing, a director will relegate the music as background noise or the composer themselves will dispense almost entirely of melody. In the latter, numerous modern film score composers have reasoned that melody cannot serve action films or thrillers, so they will compose a wall of amelodic texture instead. But, as Karlin so ably demonstrates in his score to The Stalking Moon, the juxtaposition of memorable melodies and effective action scoring is more interesting dramatically and musically.

Today, The Stalking Moon’s influence has been limited in part due to NGC’s dissolution and sale to Warner Bros. in 1974. For anyone willing to dive into this relatively undiscovered piece of American Western, few of the film’s immediate contemporaries adapted its thriller-influenced cues for their own purposes. Its depiction of American Indians is not as egregious as other Westerns and it appears to make some sort of attempt at commentary, but many of the damaging preconceptions of indigenous Americans make their way into the film’s screenplay. Yet considering the undemonstrative approach that Robert Mulligan takes for his film, The Stalking Moon is a serviceable Western torn between the passing of eras for the genre.

My rating: 7/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

[forlornmelody]

Now That’s The Tea

Rating: Explicit / Lemon (fluff and smut)

Ship: Shaynor

AO3 Link: Here

Summary:   Shepard doesn't seem to be a big fan of tea, or maybe she's just a fan of giving Traynor a hard time. But this is a game they're both willing to play if it means relaxing in the middle of a war.

Note: Written as part of @spectre-requisitions-exchange for @comefeedtherainn

“Tea? Really? I prefer my bean juice, thank you very much.” Shepard pulls at her pressed collar, seemingly itching to take it off.

“Give it a chance.” Sam’s presses her lips together, trying to hide her smile. She’s decent at chess, indecent at Kepesh-Yakshi, but she’s never had much of a poker face. “Now sit up straight and keep your elbows off the table.”

Shepard groans as she complies. “This is the last time I let you plan our dates.”

Sam leans forward, biting her lip. “You said you wanted to get to know me better. High Tea is a valued tradition of my people.”

Her girlfriend deadpans, “You’re from Horizon.” She clicks her tongue. “A country-bumpkin colonist, just like me.”

“But I studied at Oxford. And you better believe I had tea with my professors every time I had the chance.”

“To boost your grades?” Shepard quirked an eyebrow.

“No! To learn.” Sam sighs longingly. “To learn as much as I could.”

“They ever teach you that coffee is better? Or Beer?”

Sam rolls her eyes as the waiters bring in the carousel filled with treats. “No. And besides, it’s not just about the tea.” She can fix a mean cocktail, but there’s just something about holding a warm cup between her hands, regardless of the time of day or the weather.

“Hot Damn,” Shepard swears under her breath, staring at the chocolate covered strawberries and chocolate dipped cherries, sandwiches cut into triangles, saucers filled with cream, other saucers filled with honey, chocolate and pomegranate tarts, and apples cut into the shape of roses. Narrowing her eyes, Shepard eyed the selection. “Half of these are aphrodisiacs.” She looked up at Sam, a smirk pulling at her lips. “If you wanted me in your bed, you could have just asked.”

Keeping her posture perfect, Sam nudges Shepard’s calf beneath the table, allowing her nylon covered toes to slip beneath the hem of Shepard’s trousers. “Ah, but playing the game is half the fun.”

Shepard swallows, her voice cracking as it dips low. “You’re--”

“--Exquisite? Beautiful? Stunning?” Sam fills in for her.

“--Impossible.” Shepard bumps the table as she catches the elbow of the retreating waiter. “Could I get a glass of water, please?”

“Of course.” The turian’s mandibles flick in distaste.

He returns with a rolling cart. “One pot of chai, one pot of pomegranate tea and,” The turian sighs. “And one pitcher of water.”

Shepard pores herself some chai, drinking it black. “Should I put my pinkies up?” She manages to say.

Sam snorts. “That’s only for royalty.” She pours herself some pomegranate tea, but instead of sipping it right away, she bites into a strawberry. “Mm.” Shepard’s gaze locks on hers. “These are so good.”

“Oh?” Shepard pops a cherry into her mouth, chewing and swallowing. And then she sticks the stem inside. Out comes a bow.

“Mm-hm.” Samantha manages to say, though her voice is strained, far too easily imagining what else Shepard can do with her tongue. She knows from experience. How Shepard made her knees quake in their hot tub this morning.  “That’s---not fair.”

Shepard’s eyes twinkle. “Nothing’s fair in love and war, Traynor.” She then proceeds to lick the chocolate off her next strawberry.

“Oh dear.” Why does her girlfriend have to look so suave in her blazer and trousers?

After the mission on Tuchanka--the one where Shepard cures the Genophage--because merely saving the Krogan from a Reaper invasion just isn’t enough for the Alliance hero--Sam finally confronts her commander. She does so “with respect” as she clears her throat. Shepard replies with an edge to her voice--and it only proves Sam right. Her favorite commanding officer isn’t sleeping.

Sam orders a special blend of tea--one that’s way out of her budget with import prices--but who’s counting? She can pay off her debt when the war ends--if any of them make it out alive. A blend of chamomile, lavender, and rose petals--a tea that will help Shepard sleep, hopefully without grogginess the next morning or additional nightmares.

“Specialist Traynor.” Shepard glowers up at her from a streaming mug two sleep and wake cycles later.

Sam stops short of the mess hall table, a bead of sweat slipping down her back. “Commander Shepard.”

“Cortez tells me you’re responsible for this.” Shepard gestures at the mug, holding a conspicuously pink beverage with a floral aroma.

“Y-yes, Commander.”

“Sit down, Traynor, and quit using my title if you’re going to be buying me gifts."

Traynor sits down, her face warming early as hot as the tea. “How is it?”

“Flowery.” Shepard takes a sip. “And sweet.” Her gaze lingers on Sam just a little longer than necessary. “But why go to all the trouble? Especially with your pay.”

Honestly, Sam could use a calming cup right now. “I was...worried about you, Com--Shepard,” she says quickly.

“Worried? About me?” A soft smile blooms across the Commander’s face.

“Everyone needs someone to look out for them. Even you.”

“Mm.” Shepard sips her tea, closing her eyes. Maybe Sam’s imagining things, but she think she sees some of the tension release from Shepard’s shoulders. “You drink this stuff a lot?”

“All the time. This is one of my favorite blends. Had it during high tea with some cucumber sandwiches and it was glorious.” Sam thinks back, the cold steel of the Normandy slipping away as a warm Oxford sun spills across her arms. “You should've seen it, Shepard. The way the sun shone through the leaves--the buzz of bumblebees collecting nectar from the roses--the smell of roses complementing the taste of the liquid in your cup.” She can’t help but sigh longingly at the memory. Who knows if that garden will survive the war?

“I imagine so.” Shepard’s watching her from the rim of the mug, much like her opponents do during a match. Something about her gaze, though.

“The company could have been better.”

“Ah. Not really all that interested in him?” Shepard sets the mug down.

“Her, actually.” Sam watches her carefully, completely unsure of why it matters so much what her commanding officer thinks of her dating history.

Shepard brightens at that, and something stirs behind Sam’s belly button. Oh no. This is not good. Not good at all. “I see.” She studies Sam again, tracing the rim of the mug with her finger. “Maybe when this war is over, you can show me how it’s done.”

That was before Sam invited Shepard into the shower. Maybe they did things a little out of order, but who has patience for something traditional in the middle of a war? Sam’s still shocked she even found this cafe, especially after the Coup. “Try this one,” Sam says as she pours some pomegranate into Shepard’s empty cup.

“Mm. Not bad. Kind of a tart,” Shepard says as she smirks at Sam, clearly not talking about the tea.

Sam kicks her calf. “Pot meet kettle.” She pops a cherry into her mouth, after licking off all the chocolate, pleased with the way Shepard’s mouth drops open.

Shepard clears her throat. “How much longer is this gonna last?”

“Don’t tell me you’re no longer hungry.” Sam pouts, gesturing at the uneaten food.

“Oh, I’m hungry all right.” Shepard shifts in her seat, pulling at her collar while a nice flush creeps up her skin.

“You have to eat your food before you get dessert,” Sam says with a twinkle in her eye.

“This is dessert.”

“Is it?” Sam runs her foot nearly the length of Shepard’s leg, and she choked on her sip.

“Sam.” She pleads after gulping down a big glass of water. “You’re killing me.”

“Nothing’s fair, Shepard.”

Soon enough, she does whisk Shepard away to a sky car, and to Shepard’s apartment (well, technically Anderson’s apartment, but he’s not going to show up there any time soon.) Good thing too, because Sam’s locking the door behind them.

“I’m still not sure why you had me take allergy medicine in the sky car--oh.” Sam’s hit with the aroma of flowers--the minty smell of roses, the sweetness of peonies, the strong, cool scent of lavender, the heady fragrance of verbena.

Shepard grips Sam’s shoulders, spinning her around. Her warm breath stirs the air around Sam’s ear as she murmurs. “Remember that story you told me about afternoon tea in an English garden? It was kind of hot.” She squeezes Sam’s hips. “I’d hate for you to have a reaction.”

Sam sees more flowers than she can reasonably smell-- petunias, violets, impatiens, chrysanthemums and primrose. It’s as if she's standing in a dream. “Shepard--” she protests bashfully. “It must have cost you a fortune to import all these flowers.” Any surface large and stable enough for a vase or a pot has one.

Kissing her ear and down her neck, Shepard continues her previous thought. “Chakwas says those pills would be perfect for you. Are they working?”

Daring to take in a deep breath, Sam shivers. “I think so.”

Shepard grins against her skin. “Good. Cause I want to make love to you when you’re surrounded by your favorites.” Taking her hand, Shepard leads her to the middle of the living room pulling a quilt off the couch so she can spread it across the floor in front of the fire. “Not quite English sunshine, but it’ll have to do.”

Sam pulls her into a kiss. “Nonsense Shepard, this is lovely.”

“Mm.” Shepard kisses back, her lips warmer than the fire. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it.” Sam deepens her next kiss, squealing as Shepard sweeps her off her feet and lowers her to the quilt.

Shepard hums her satisfaction, running her hands over Sam’s dress. “You look good in yellow.”

Sam grins, fiddling with the buttons on Shepard’s shirt. “You look good in a suit.” She unbuttons it enough to slip her hand inside, caressing the cotton of Shepard’s bra. Pulling her shirt out of the way just a bit more, she finds an N7 logo. “Really, Shepard.”

Leaning over her, and sliding a hand up Sam’s dress, Shepard smirks. “How else would you know it was me and not a clone?”

“Your clone wouldn’t be trying to undress me.”

“Who says I am?” Sam flushes as Shepard grins wider.

“Are we ever actually going to take off her clothes before we go down on each other?”

“Mm. Maybe. But I need you, right now.” Shepard kisses her in earnest, wetting Sam’s lips with her tongue.”

“Wait, hold on.” Sam presses against her lover’s chest with her hand.

“Now what?” Shepard pouts, sitting back on her heels.

“I have something for you too. Just a moment.” Sam dashes up the stairs, rummaging around until she finds what she’s looking for. Her heart races as she searches, and her breath falls short--any moment away from Shepard feels like an eternity. It'll be worth it, Sam tells herself. She returns, handing Shepard a black box wrapped with a red ribbon. Hopefully her girlfriend would like it. Would she find it too forward? Too corny? Ugh. Sam should have included a gift receipt.

Tearing off the ribbon, Shepard’s eyebrows shoot up when she finds the gift inside. “Hot damn.” She pulls out a double-ended dildo and a harness.

“I thought we should celebrate.”

Shepard’s eyes widen. “Shit, did I forget an anniversary?”

“Not at all.” Sam sits back down with her, cupping her face as she kisses her again. “I almost lost you the other day.”

Shepard runs a hand down the back of Sam’s neck. “I almost lost you, too.”

“Me getting fired is not the same as you getting killed, Shepard.”

“I really try not to die, you know.” Shepard sighs. “Sometimes I fuck up.” She stares at the primrose on the coffee table as if it’s the void of space.

“This wasn’t your fault.” Sam runs her thumb across Shepard’s cheek, feeling awful for taking her out of the moment. Surely they can get it back somehow. “You mean the world to me, you know that right?”

Shepard looks at her and smiles. “Always.” Their lips meet again, reverently as they work together to rid Shepard of her trousers and her and her damp boy shorts.

Sam grins against her lips, tracing her wetness with eager fingers. “You’ve been worked up since tea, haven’t you?”

Growling softly, Shepard grips her a little tighter as she nips Sam’s bottom lip. “You knew exactly what you were doing to me the entire time.”

“You sound annoyed. Do you want me to stop?” Sam puts on a pout, starting to pull her fingers away.

“No, please. I need you,” Shepard pleads, gripping Sam’s wrist. It does something to her to see Shepard so desperate.

“Need?” Sam presses harder and faster, slipping a couple fingers inside her.

“Nng. Need.” Shepard arches into her hand, her jacket falling open just a bit wider.

Sam whispers against her ear, pumping faster. “I do love feeling needed.”

“Sam!” Shepard cries out as she comes. Sam’s about to work her through it, but her girlfriend tackles her, pressing her into the quilt. “Hey Sam,” she says hungrily, leaning over her.

“Hey Shepard.” Sam grins, shivering at the look in Shepard’s eyes. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Mostly. But I’m still starving.” Shepard leans closer. “Whatever will I eat?”

“Should have stayed for dessert.”

“I think I found some.” Shepard’s hand darts up Sam’s dress again, caressing her thighs freely. Sam shivers as her fingertips brush the lace of her panties.

Sam’s mouth feels dry. “Did you?”

Shepard answers by diving underneath the skirt of her dress, pulling the panties out of the way so she can lick her folds more freely. “Mm. You taste so good.” Sam clutches her head, feeling the rasp of Shepard’s buzz cut as a moan slips from her own mouth. Grinning, her girlfriend drags her tongue up and down her clit to her cunt and back. Just as Sam’s about to swear loud enough for the neighbors to hear, Shepard adds her fingers, sliding in and out of her easily. Nothing remotely resembling a word will come out of her mouth now. “You ready for me, baby?”

Sam answers with a moan, rocking into her touch as she shakes apart. Shepard grins at her smugly as she settles down next to her, lying on her side. She squeezes her hand, weaving their fingers together. “Mm. Best dessert I’ve had in a while.”

Sam swats her. “You’re the worst, she scolds her breathlessly.

“You didn’t seem to think so when I was eating you out.” Shepard kisses her again, and Sam feels a stirring inside when she tastes her own juices on her lips. “Ready to test out our new toy?” She asks when Sam’s hands start to wander.

“Actually, I was thinking I would test it out on you.” Sam stays Shepard’s hand when she reaches for the harness.

“Oh.” Shepard reddens as she hands it to her. “Alright.” She fumbles to her feet, jogging upstairs, and grabbing a bottle of lube. Sam laughs, watching her shirt and jacket bob up and down her bare ass.

Bottle in hand, Shepard returns with a grin on her face. Sam guides her back to the floor, laying Shepard on her back before she steps into the harness, one foot at a time. She stands in front of her lover, fingering herself while maintaining eye contact. Shepard watches her hungrily as she lubes up both ends of the toy, parting her lips slightly as she hands it off. Swallowing, Sam slides one end into the ring of the harness, and into herself slowly, relishing the feel of the ridges inside her most sensitive places.

“How does it feel?” Shepard parts her legs, shifting her weight restlessly. She snickers as she watches the free end tent the skirt of her dress. It must be a comical sight, but Sam’s too busy enjoying herself to care.

“Amazing,” Sam breathes, half moaning, “but it’ll feel even better when you’re sharing it with me.” She lowers herself to the floor, crawling over Shepard, kissing her wetly before grabbing the free end of the dildo. “Ready, love?”

“Please, baby.” Shepard runs her hand through Sam’s hair, returning her kiss.

Sam uses her fingers, edging the other end into Shepard, shivering at the way it makes her eyes close. It takes them a few minutes of awkward grinding to find a movement and rhythm, laughing more than they moan. Even their positioning is off at first, with Shepard’s foot falling asleep before she moves it. And then the pressure builds.

“Holy shit,” Shepard grips Sam’s hips, her knuckles going white, “Sam.”

She leans in, drinking in Shepard’s moan with a hungry kiss. The dildo moves between them both, Shepard’s thrusts pushing into Sam and vice versa. “It feels so good, darling.” Sam finds herself gripping Shepard’s shoulder, clinging to her as they move faster and faster and harder until…

Sam bites Shepard’s neck, unable to contain herself as her world flares hotter than the Normandy’s engines. “Oh god.”

“Y-yeah,” Shepard replies, her toes curling against Sam’s feet. The helpless cries of Shepard coming undone sounds like music to Sam’s ears.

“That’s it, darling.” Sam kisses her throat, grabbing the middle of the dildo for leverage, pumping it back and forth between them until they are a mess of limbs on the living room floor.

“You were right,” Shepard says later, after they’ve set the toy aside so they can snuggle closer.

“Am I ever wrong?”

Shepard laughs at her, pinching her butt. “Never.” Her eyes twinkle. “Except when you're talking about tea.”

[phosphorescent-naidheachd]

GOT 8x01 liveblog below the cut:

--Love the new opening credits!

--Poor Missandei and Grey Worm look so uncomfortable rn

--Jon: “I had a choice: keep my crown or protect the North.” But that’s... not what we saw onscreen?? Not unless some variation of political!Jon is actually true. But knowing D&D, this may simply be their retconned explanation for the nonsensical writing last year. Well, that or Jon is trying to make his stupid decision look better in front of the lords.

--Sansa, I love you, but do you have to smirk when you raise your (very valid) concerns? It’s not helping anything and you have to know it.

--Yessss, mentions of the food shortage!! Now let’s see if they’ll actually do anything with it...

--Show!Dany, I’m still trying to like you, but you’re not exactly making it easy, what with the whole “whatever they like” reply to “What do dragons eat, anyway?”, and smirking when the dragons swooped in and scared the fuck out of everyone in the Winter Town. The Northerners haven’t given you the warmest of receptions and I understand your frustration over that fact, but that’s no reason to think their fear is funny.

--Ah, yes, the oh-so-subtle handholding in front of the entire hall. *sighs at Jon and Dany* [ETA: never mind, they aren’t actually holding hands... Dany is just resting one of her hands on Jon’s arm. Which isn’t all that much more subtle lol.]

--It’s 100% my shipper confirmation bias at work, but the way that they’ve blocked this scene really does make it feel like a Dany/Jon/Sansa love triangle to me. #sorrynotsorry That said, if TPTB choose to go a belligerent sexual tension route w/ Dany/Sansa I wouldn’t turn it down. ;-)

--They’re actually letting Arya show human emotion again? *tosses confetti in celebration*

--Bran and Jon reunion!! My Stark Feelings heart overfloweth.

--Sansa and Tyrion reunion! I like that they’re keeping that hint of tension between them over the way they parted.

--Tyrion: “Many underestimated you. Most of them are dead now.” Subtext: I have no intention of repeating their mistakes.

--Sansa: “I used to think you were the cleverest man alive.” Talk about a burn!

--OK, Bran is looking at Tyrion Significantly(TM) with music playing in the background almost ominously.

--Confirmation that Yara is alive!!! Also, she and Euron are a disturbing but kind of hilarious dynamic at the moment.

--The Arya and Jon reunion was A++. Sweet and heartfelt, but with a hint of underlying tension. And Arya’s comment that Sansa is the smartest person she knows just made my heart an even bigger pile of Stark Family mush.

--Oh, and the “Have you used it?” line re: Needle just hurts because it shows us and Arya how little Jon knows about what Arya has gone through and who she’s become. And Arya’s “once or twice” line just tore out my heart. She doesn’t want to tell Jon what she’s done, both because she’s afraid of how he’ll react and because that will finally make it real to her.

--I feel kind of terrible for Cersei. Yes, she’s made her own bed, but the fact that Euron Greyjoy is lying in it... *shudders* The fact that she’s still forced to resort to sleeping with a man she despises despite ostensibly being the most powerful woman in the realm is incredibly depressing.

--Ahhh, and now we have The Temptation of Bronn(TM)

--The rescue mission! Theon getting to shoot arrows!!

--Greyjoy sibling feelings!!!!

--And Theon is headed to Winterfell! ...He’s going to die there saving a Stark, isn’t he? *braces self for emotional pain*

-- ...you couldn’t have proposed this Jon/Dany marriage, oh, four or so episodes ago, Davos?? The mind still boggles that no one brought this very obvious diplomatic solution up on Dragonstone last season.

--Varys: “Nothing lasts.” 

Camera: *pans to Jon & Dany* 

Me: I n t e r e s t i n g

Also me: Is this foreshadowing, or a red herring to up the dramatic tension?

--Is that... something resembling a smile from Jon around Dany? And he actually looks like he might genuinely enjoy her presence and/or care about her? It’s a miracle! ...A miracle that we really could have used some of last season too, GOT!!

--“She doesn’t need to be my friend. But I am her queen. If she can’t respect me--” *nods* That’s more or less what I figured their initial dynamic would be like. And their attitudes make sense on both ends of the equation! (Note: I can’t decide whether that was a veiled threat from Dany or not; if so, though, she jumped to them pretty darn fast.) I’m curious to see where D&D go with this.

--Oh, only that many goats and sheep. *rolls eyes* I mean, I get it, the dragons are huge; they need a lot of fuel! But on the other hand, that’s an awful lot of food the people don’t get anymore... It’s a no-win situation.

--“They don’t like the North.” Huh, I wonder what it means that the literal breathing symbol of the Targs aren’t fans of being in the North. [/sarcasm]

--Look, I’m glad Dany feels comfortable enough around Jon to be playful, but... would it have been that difficult for her to give him one or two tips before he mounted this incredibly dangerous flying weapon of mass destruction??

--How are these waterfalls not completely frozen over?! It’s the North and it’s winter. I know, I know, I shouldn’t expect anything resembling realism from this show, but still...

--Ah, so Dany is the one who has the line about how they could “stay here a thousand years and no one would find us”, not Jon. But on the flip side, Jon has his eyes closed for the kiss, not open... at least, not until the dragons start to talk lol.

--Emilia Clarke has such a beautiful smile!

--Yeah, I’m still not feeling the J0n3rys ‘chemistry’. Oh well; you can’t win them all. At least they aren’t totally unbelievable as a couple this episode.

--Ugghhh, yet another joke about balls (or the lack thereof) in this episode.

--Arya and Gendry reunion? Arya and Sandor reunion? Yes!

--Wow, Arya/Gendry are so awkward together right now! Sweet, but awkward. And yeah, here come the shippy feelings again... I’m predictable that way lol.

--“As you wish, m’lady.” *squeals delightedly*

--“You don’t know any other rich girls.” The look on their faces!!

--Can I mention again how much I love that they’re letting Arya and Dany emote so far this episode? It makes a world of difference. Now all we need is for Bran to be allowed to show emotions...

--Ooohh, this must be the promised Jon/Sansa argument scene. 

--Good. I’m glad that there are already some consequences from the lords for Jon having bent the knee... the decision would feel incredibly cheap otherwise.

--And already we have more emotion from Jon in this one scene than in all of his scenes with Dany combined. I’m not saying Jon/Sansa is where the show is going, but it still works much better for me than Jon/Dany does. YMMV, of course, and that’s as it should be.

--”Do you have any faith in me at all?” “You know I do.” <3 <3 <3

--*sighs* Jon, it’s all very well and good to say that Dany will be a good queen, but you could, I don’t know, give Sansa some examples to help her understand why you think that instead of just expecting her to go entirely on your word?

--Ah, this must be the scene with Sam and Dany!

--Oh, poor Sam. I’m so glad they’re letting him be upset about it, though. His dad may have been an abusive dick, but his brother wasn’t... and besides, emotions aren’t always that clear-cut.

--“Now’s the time.” OK, but why now? Why now? Also, is it just me or did Bran’s voice sound different there?

--Jon and Sam reunion!!!

--Ouch, poor Jon. This revelation was always going to hit him hard.

--Jon (in a whisper, looking horrified): “That’s treason.” Uh, Jon, that doesn’t seem like the normal reaction of someone in love with another person? Just saying.

--“You gave up the crown to save your people. Would she do the same?” Samwell Tarly, asking the important questions! This question has always been one of--if not the--cruxes of Dany’s arc, IMO. That and her search for home/belonging.

--Ooo, is this the rumored scene with the WW symbols on the walls?

--Hmmm, this actually looks a bit like that clip from the trailers. Is Edd going to show up soon then?

--Hah! Called it.

--“Stay back, he’s got blue eyes!” “I’ve always had blue eyes!” LMAOOO

--Called it. I knew little Ned Umber was going to be the first named character death of the season. (For the record, I have him slated as the first named character death in my AU S8 fic outline, even though the chapter in question hasn’t been written yet.) Also, wow-- talk about a creepy way to display him!

--Still, that’s odd that he’s just dead rather than a wight-- oh, never mind he is a wight after all!

--Hmm, who are you, tall and mysteriously hooded man? (I mean, realistically everyone onscreen in the North should have their hoods up right now when they’re outside, but this is TV.) Could you possibly be... Jaime Lannister?

--Hah! Called it again.

--They’re going to cut to the credits now that Bran & Jaime have locked eyes, aren’t they? Yep, they just cut to the credits.

Additional Thoughts:

--I wonder where Brienne is... we haven’t seen her this episode IIRC. [ETA: Never mind, she is there in the background in several scenes, she just doesn’t say anything.]

--I wish D&D had given Dany more space to react to the news about undead!Viserion. This should be a big deal for her. Also, why is no one freaking out about the Wall coming down?

--Honestly, the pacing and tone of this episode could have used a little polishing IMO.

--I’m delighted that the show is letting characters speak positively about Sansa and her skills, but I wish the writing wasn’t so very heavy-handed about it.

--Ooo, interesting trailer, though still nothing terribly surprising. I’m curious to see what they do next episode... but not nearly as curious as I am to see what happens in 8x03 and beyond. ;-)

Overall, I enjoyed this episode! So many callbacks to earlier seasons. I may have deeper thoughts on a rewatch.

[wendibird]

A Witch with a Sandwich on a Sandy Picnic

Summary:   Rowena decided a picnic was in order, and a certain exclusive golf course had a beautiful patch of sand just perfect for the occasion. Of course, ulterior motives were at play, and she and her Road Trip buddy, Charlie, were up to some mischief, but what does one expect from two fiery red-heads like them? Characters: Rowena & AU Charlie, (Sam mentioned) Ships: None explicitly stated (though if you DO ship Rowena/Charlie, it doesn’t outright deny it) Word Count:  1536 Cross-posted to AO3 at: https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/14961677   Author's Note: This is actually my response to the GISH puzzle challenge titled "We Put a Spell On You" where we were supposed to find any creative way we wanted to depict the answer to the riddle. The answer itself is the title of my piece, and what you see here is the result of me picturing a certain red-headed witch eating a sandwich at a picnic someplace sandy. It went through a few variations, (originally, it was MUCH more bloody, but, I figured present-day Rowena is trying to turn over a new leaf and all,) and I hope people enjoy it for the fun piece it's meant to be. (I also hope the PTB at GISH will accept this as my artistic rendering, since I kind of suck at drawing anything other than trees and rocks. *LOL*)

Also, this takes place sometime between the end of episode 13X22 and most of what happens in 13X23.

The sun which beat down with unrelenting intensity was reflected back up again by the bright sand and would have proven horribly uncomfortable for the ginger-haired witch if it weren't for the large, colorfully striped beach umbrella under which she lounged on a blanket. Just next to her was a little wooden table on which perched a cocktail, the glass beading with condensation as well as a small plate with tiny cucumber sandwiches, all de-crusted and cut into dainty triangles. 

She languidly selected one from the plate, her nails, the deep red of scabs, complimented the plum-colored dress she wore, and took a bite, savoring the cream-cheese spread used, seasoned with dill and a hint of roasted red-pepper. "Och, Peter, I must say, your chefs here are quite up to par." She then laughed a little at the unintended pun as Peter, a tall, tanned, dark-haired young man smiled in a manner that could only be considered solicitous.

"We all strive to do our best, Miss Rowena," he responded, bowing his head a little, the earpiece that had formerly been in his left ear now dangling from where it emerged from under his shirt collar. He had also loosened the straps on his utility vest which had SECURITY in large, white, block letters emblazoned across the back.

On Rowena's other side another man in security clothing waved a large fan towards the witch while a third man wearing the clothes of a golf caddy was busy peeling a small bowl of grapes.

A few others in various clothing ranging from security personal to caddies to waiters all seemed engaged in some task or another for the red-head.  Some fetched food, one was plumping a pillow behind her, and a middle-aged, somewhat plump man who was wearing expensive golfing clothes was quite busy giving her a foot massage.

From further off, yet another security man cautiously approached the sand trap on which Rowena had set up her little picnic, the brilliant green grass of the golf-course contrasting sharply with his black attire. He tilted his head a little as something apparently came to him over his earpiece. "Negative," he responded in a low tone, "still no indication as to why Jones and the others haven't apprehended the... security risk," he finished, not seeming too sure of what to call her exactly. "Moving in now."

As he drew a bit closer he paused, a look of confusion blooming on his face as he got a better look at the scene before him. "Um... the Senator has been located. He... uh... he seems... er... it appears he's giving the "security risk" a foot massage." He winced a bit as a sharp response came over the earpiece. "No, I am NOT making this up!" he loud-whispered. "Everyone else is accounted for. No one appears to be injured but... no one's... well, acting right. I'll try to move in closer to see if I can make contact."

As he indeed moved closer he crossed an unseen barrier, one formed by the 5 hex-bags Rowena had placed around her little beach oasis amongst the rolling fields of green, and his eyes briefly flashed with a violet light before his entire demeanor changed. Where before he had been tightly wound, like a cat stalking its prey, he now relaxed, holstering his gun as a somewhat vague but happy smile spread over his face. When the voice on the other end of the earpiece continued squawking at him, he simply pulled it out as the others before him had done and continued walking towards the sand trap at a leisurely saunter.

Rowena looked up, lowering her sunglasses a bit to better appraise the newcomer approaching them. "Well, aren't you a tall drink o' water?" she observed of the man who flashed her a cheery grin. "Why don't ye help Julio over there with the grapes?" she suggested as she gestured towards the shorter man.

Nodding, the man hopped down into the trap and walked over to Julio who moved over just a bit to give the other guy room. Just then, the distinct tones of "Scotland the Brave" jingled from her little clutch-purse and with a world-weary sigh, Rowena retrieved her phone and answered. "Yes Charlie dear, everything's going splendid. Have ye finished with all your computer-y mumbo-jumbo yet?" She waited as the voice on the other end of the line chattered away for a few moments. "Excellent! I'll just wrap things up here and meet ye at the rendezvous in five minutes."

With that, she ended the call, dropping her phone back into her clutch purse. Seeming to know what she wanted, the Senator had already started putting her glitzy, bronze-looking sandals back on her feet, and once that was done, she beckoned Peter over who gave her a hand standing back up again. The one who'd been fanning her set about retrieving the blanket and after he and another shook the sand from it, they folded it up carefully. Julio and the newest addition to her appropriated "staff" eagerly presented her with the bowl of peeled grapes, which she happily took, along with the blanket which was draped over her other arm. Someone else had already collapsed the beach umbrella and now they handed her that too.

Seeming satisfied, she fished a 6th hex bag out of her clutch-purse and muttered an incantation. Everyone who'd been under her spell all started yawning before apparently deciding it was a great time for a nap and began laying down wherever they stood. Once everyone was down and out she dropped the hex bag and said a few more words in Latin and that one, along with the five others arrayed out around her burst into flames. She then sauntered away, heading for a gap in the fencing through which she'd entered the golf course in the first place.

Waiting just on the other side was a little yellow Prius with the hatch already popped open. After depositing the blanket and umbrella inside, she closed it and went around to the passenger side, climbing in. Extending the crystal bowl of peeled grapes to the other red-head, she removed her sunglasses and quirked an eyebrow, smiling mischievously. "Well, that went well."

Charlie giggled and happily plunked one of the grapes into her mouth before hitting the gas. "Definitely! I was able to hack into ALL of that douche-bag's tech he had with him. His phone, his tablet, his laptop. You would not BELIEVE the things he's kept on that, by the way."

Rowena sighed happily and enjoyed one of the grapes herself, leaning her head back as her co-conspirator rattled on.

"I got his passwords for his porn subscriptions, especially the VERY illegal ones, texts between him and his mistress, his account info for the rather expensive escort business he patronizes regularly, not to mention all the e-mails talking about the bribes for this, that, and the other-" Rowena made a shushing gesture as she finished chewing a grape.

"Yes, yes, I get the picture. Lots o' dirt on the filthy blighter... though, I will say he gives a good foot massage, but now what are ye goin' to do with it?"

Charlie grinned as she reached over, taking another grape herself. "Already done. While I was still connected to their server, I uploaded it to several news outlets as well as a bunch of online forums. That way if they try to trace any of it, it'll just lead back to the golf course. Which, by the way, is owned by our supreme ruler-in-chief."

Rowena just smiled as Charlie got them onto the freeway, heading for the open road. "So..." Charlie hedged a little, "Your distraction sure seemed to work. No one even noticed what I was up to. But, everyone's okay, right?"

Rowena rolled her eyes a little but nodded. "Don't be worryin' about that. None of em'll remember a thing, and no one got hurt. They're all takin a nice nap, and should be wakin up..." she took a moment to consult the gold, locket-like pendant watch hanging around her neck, "eh, in about five more minutes."

Charlie smiled with relief. "Good! Cause, they're all just-"

"Doin' their jobs." Rowena finished for her, chuckling a little herself. "I know, I know. Trust me, Samuel already gave me "the talk" before you an I left."

Charlie nodded emphatically. "So... what's next on our itinerary?"

"Ah, I don't know." Despite the attempted bored look she was affecting, mischief glinted from the witch's green eyes. "There's a certain Orange Baboon that could stand to be taken down a peg or two from what I hear."

Charlie grinned. "Oooo... Secret Service. You're actually gonna make me flex my muscles on this one."

"Practice makes perfect m'dear." Rowena sing-songed. "I have my witchery an' ye have yours. An clever witches can make strange magic happen in the world."

Charlie titled her head a bit, a contemplative look on her face. "Does this make me a technomancer?"

Since Rowena wasn't quite sure what that was, she just chuckled and popped an Enya CD into the player, and the ladies drove on towards the next destination on their extended adventure.