#propp

[fur-claws-and-eyeballs]

“Here is how everyone that has tried to classify folktales is wrong and why they’re stupid for even trying it that way.” -Vladimir Propp, Morphology of the Folktale

[ellie-bygrave]

Narrative in The Witcher 3

**SPOILERS FOR THE WITCHER 3: WILD HUNT**

What is The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt?

The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt is an action role-playing game released in 2015 by the studio CDProjekt. It is an open world game based on the Witcher series of books written by Andrzej Sapkowski and is the 3rd in this series of games. The game received critical acclaim and holds many awards. It has since had 2 DLC releases, a Game of the Year edition, and an overhaul to improve performance and add new content for the current generation of consoles (PS5 and XBox Series X).

The Witcher 3, like many other RPGs, has a branching story that is influenced by the decisions the player makes during gameplay. Whilst this will, of course, have an impact on the narrative, we can still apply some of the theoretical narrative principles to this game.

The Characters - Propp's Theory

Vladimir Propp theorised that characters in a narrative can be placed into different categories depending on the role they play in progressing the story (Propp, 1968). This theory was based on his studies of many different fairytales and, although it now can seem somewhat outdated, it can often apply to current media with a little stretching of the definitions he developed (Author Unknown, 2023)(Piper, Algee-Hewitt, Sinha, Ruths, and Vala, 2017). Some have discussed how Propp's theories tend to reflect women as a passive character whilst the male archetypes have a more active role in stories, a schema that likely represents how male and female roles were distributed at the time (Roof, 2018).

Propp defined these categories as the hero, villain, princess, dispatcher, helper, donor, and false hero. There are limitations to these archetypes, as discussed by Bordwell (1988), including the limited range of tales from which Propp devised his theory. Additionally, these categories generalise and erase some of the nuances that characters can display.

Applying Propp's Theory to The Witcher 3

If we first look at Propp's hero archetype, we see that he devised 2 subcategories of hero: the seeker and the victim. The seeker is a very active character, and sets of to right whatever wrongs have been committed by the villain, whereas the victim is the one who has directly suffered at the hands of the villain. The hero role is fulfilled in this game by the player character, Geralt of Rivia. Geralt is not the classic hero character we may think of when discussing this archetype, as his grey morals and occasionally violent actions are not typical of the usually morally upstanding hero we see often in other media. He undoubtedly fits this archetype though, as he often finds himself standing up for the little guy and defending others from harm, though this is often left up to the player. Despite his sometimes morally grey actions, he acts in what he believes to be in the best interests of his family. His (and the player's) main quest for the majority of the game is to find his adoptive daughter, Ciri, and protect her from the imminent threat of the villain, Eredin, both of whom we will discuss later on.

Ciri, Geralt's adoptive daughter, best fits Propp's archetypal character of the princess. Whilst Ciri is quite literally a princess, the archetype doesn't necessarily have to refer to a royal character. The princess archetype fits any character who is seen as a "damsel in distress" and requires rescuing. This concept is patriarchal and, as discussed by Roof (2018), would see Ciri take on a passive role of waiting to be rescued. Whilst she undeniably is in need of assistance throughout the game, she takes on a very active role in her own story. She herself is an incredibly powerful person with excellent combat and magical abilities. Ciri also takes on part of the role played by the hero, and we could argue that, whilst Geralt fits into the seeker subcategory, Ciri fits into the victim category. That being said, it is refreshing to see the role of the princess overlapping with the hero to create a more three dimensional and dynamic character who doesn't wholly rely on others to rescue her.

As mentioned previously, the role of the villain is taken on by Eredin or The Wild Hunt, the wider group he is part of. The Wild Hunt are a group of spectral riders from another plane of existence, set on finding Ciri to make use of her magical bloodline. The villains are seeking to harm Ciri, the princess character, as is often the case with media that fits these archetypes. The villain does eventually get his comeuppance and is defeated by Geralt and his companions, Ciri included.

The dispatcher character classically either offers the hero a reward for defeating the villain or is the one responsible for sending them off on their adventure. In this case, both of these actions are committed by Emporer Emhyr, Ciri's blood father. He not only is responsible for Geralt finding out that Ciri has returned to the continent from a long time away, but also offers a reward for him to return her to him (an offer you can choose to accept or refuse once you've found Ciri).

The fifth of Propp's character models is the donor. This is a person who equips the player with the tools they need to embark upon their quest. In a literal sense, this role could be said to be fulfilled by the many vendors the player can encounter, who sell quite literally the equipment the player needs, such as swords and armour. But if we look more into what Propp means by "donor" in a metaphorical sense, we can link this model to Vesemir. Vesemir is another Witcher and acts as a father figure to Geralt. Whilst he does physically equip Geralt with a crossbow at the beginning of the game, his "donation" is more figurative. He has passed down all of his knowledge and skills by training Geralt, raising him from a young age as a Witcher. He also played a grandfatherly role to Ciri, training her for a brief time. WIthout these skills none of the plot of the game would be able to happen and it would certainly make for less exciting gameplay. Ultimately though, Vesemir makes the ultimate sacrifice, giving his own life to save Ciri's. Whilst this not only protects her in the moment, it also provides her with the driving force she needs to go after the Wild Hunt with Geralt and end their tyranny once and for all.

Another of Propp's classifications is the helper. This character - or characters - aid the hero along their journey, and is often thought of as a sidekick. There is no one character who is consistently at Geralt's beck and call whenever he needs help, with the exception of his horse, Roach, but there are many characters who weave in and out of the story to provide assistance when the hero requires it. The first of these character's is Geralt's long lost friend and lover, Yennefer, a powerful sorceress and Ciri's adoptive mother. She is just as desperate to find Ciri as Geralt is and meets him at points throughout the story to inform him of the results of her own search and to point him the right direction. In fact, Yennefer also partly plays the role of the dispatcher in the early game, as she brings Geralt to the Emperor in the first instance after herself learning of Ciri's return to their plane of existence. Another crucial character who plays the role of the helper is Dandelion. He is an eccentric and charismatic bard whom Geralt and Ciri both trust implicitly. He helps both Ciri and Geralt throughout the story, risking his life on multiple occasions, although he does get himself into more than his fair share of bother along the way. There are countless characters who assist our hero in some way throughout the game, showing that the theory can be adapted whilst still fitting with the basic principles that Propp originally devised.

Finally, we come to the false hero model. Propp describes this as a character who initially appears to be good but soon reveals themselves to be working against the hero or other characters. As with the helpers, there are several examples of false heroes in The Witcher 3, escpecially through side quests. The one most present in the story though is a character named Avallac'h, although he is not the classic example of a false hero. He acts as a friend and guardian to Ciri throughout, joining her when she firsts returns to the continent. He even teams up with Geralt at one point when Ciri has to flee Avallac'h's care, helping him find her when all other leads run dry. However, it becomes apparent towards the end of the game that Avallac'h has not been entirely honest with Geralt. Whilst his intention is truly to help Ciri, it has been with the aim of her potentially sacrificing her life to stop a cataclysmic event known as the White Frost. Ciri has accepted that this is her duty and happily goes with Avallac'h to fulfill her destiny, despite Geralt's insistence that she doesn't. So we can see that, although there are aspects of the false hero, Avallac'h doesn't quite fit the role perfectly, as his "betrayal" to our hero is in order to protect the best interests of his ward and, ultimately, the world.

To Conclude

There are limitations to Propp's theory, which can be seen with the characters present in this game that don't fit the molds perfectly, or span more than one. However, if we think of Propp's ideas as guidance rather than a strict structure to follow, it allows characters to be created with more modern audiences in mind and to develop them in a more three dimensional way than the model suggests is possible. What the theory does create is a basis from which writers can build their character. The model has the elements most narratives require to drive the story, with room to create further characters that partly fit one archetype or span multiple, as we've seen with The Witcher 3.

References

[Author unknown]. 2023. Vladimir Propp. Media Studies. https://media-studies.com/propp/. October 9, 2023.

Bordwell, D. (1988). ApProppriations and ImPropprieties: Problems in the Morphology of Film Narrative. Cinema Journal, 27(3), 5–20. https://doi.org/10.2307/1225288

Piper, A., Algee-Hewitt, M., Sinha, K., Ruths, D. and Vala, H., 2017. Studying Literary Characters and Character Networks. Digital Humanities Conference.

Propp, V. and Wagner, L. 1968. Morphology of the Folktale: Second Edition. New York, USA: University of Texas Press. https://doi.org/10.7560/783911

Roof, J. (2018). The Feminist Foundations of Narrative Theory. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press.

[trollsbroppy]

Storyboard by Keely Propp

"It just came back to like want to treat it sort of a little bit more earnestly and saying this is just special, emotional moment for the two of them." Tim Heitz, Director of Trolls Band Together

[uwmspeccoll]

Papermaking at AP3!

A couple weeks ago and even this past Tuesday, we showed you how, after students in my History of Books & Printing class (INFOST 603) read about the invention of type and letterpress in Europe, we went down to Team Nerd Letterpress, set wood type, and printed a poster. Last week, after reading about the history and technique of hand papermaking, we took a field trip to Anchor Press, Paper, and Print (AP3) in the Riverwest section of Milwaukee to engage in some papermaking.

First, AP3 president Marilyn Propp demonstrated hogging the vat, using the deckle, dipping the screen, pulling a form, and couching the paper onto felts (here's a glossary) -- top three images. Then Miria tried their hands at the process, with much success (next three images). Afterwards, it was a free-for-all, with everyone making paper for the next hour and a half; here in succession are Anna, Caring, Adam, Georgia, and Catherine (with Taj in the background).

The last image is of some still-wet paper forms on felts (actually, synthetic pellons), with attempts at inclusions and paper lamination. The students were clearly exhilarated, and everyone went home exhausted and happy!

View more posts on papermaking.

-- MAX, Head of Special Collections

[pookiestheoneliveson]

Doran Propp and Frank Zeuch

[adarkrainbow]

A class on fairy tales (1)

As you might know (since I have been telling it for quite some times), I had a class at university which was about fairy tales, their history and evolution. But from a literary point of view - I am doing literary studies at university, it was a class of “Literature and Human sciences”, and this year’s topic was fairy tales, or rather “contes” as we call them in France. It was twelve seances, and I decided, why not share the things I learned and noted down here? (The titles of the different parts of this post are actually from me. The original notes are just a non-stop stream, so I broke them down for an easier read)

I) Book lists

The class relied on a main corpus which consisted of the various fairytales we studied - texts published up to the “first modernity” and through which the literary genre of the fairytale established itself. In chronological order they were: The Metamorphoses of Apuleius, Lo cunto de li cunti by Giambattista Basile, Le Piacevoli Notti by Giovan Francesco Straparola, the various fairytales of Charles Perrault, the fairytales of Marie-Catherine d’Aulnoy, and finally the Kinder-und Hausmärchen of Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm. There is also a minor mention for the fables of Faerno, not because they played an important historical role like the others, but due to them being used in comparison to Perrault’s fairytales ; there is also a mention of the fairytales of Leprince de Beaumont if I remember well. 

After giving us this main corpus, we were given a second bibliography containing the most famous and the most noteworthy theorical tools when it came to fairytales - the key books that served to theorize the genre itself. The teacher who did this class deliberatly gave us a “mixed list”, with works that went in completely opposite directions when it came to fairytale, to better undersant the various differences among “fairytale critics” - said differences making all the vitality of the genre of the fairytale, and of the thoughts on fairytales. Fairytales are a very complex matter. 

For example, to list the English-written works we were given, you find, in chronological order: Bruno Bettelheim’s The Uses of Enchantment ; Jack David Zipes’ Fairy Tales and the Art of Subversion ; Robert Bly’s Iron John: A Book about Men ; Marie-Louise von Franz, Interpretation of Fairy Tales ; Lewis C. Seifert, Fairy Tales, Sexuality and Gender in France (1670-1715) ; and Cristina Bacchilega’s Postmodern Fairy Tales: Gender and Narrative Strategies. If you know the French language, there are two books here: Jacques Barchilon’s Le conte merveilleux français de 1690 à 1790 ; and Jean-Michel Adam and Ute Heidmann’s Textualité et intertextualité des contes. We were also given quite a few German works, such as Märchenforschung und Tiefenpsychologie by Wilhelm Laiblin, Nachwort zu Deutsche Volksmärchen von arm und reich, by Waltraud Woeller ; or Märchen, Träume, Schicksale by Otto Graf Wittgenstein. And of course, the bibliography did not forget the most famous theory-tools for fairytales: Vladimir Propp’s Morfologija skazki + Poetika, Vremennik Otdela Slovesnykh Iskusstv ; as well as the famous Classification of Aarne Anti, Stith Thompson and Hans-Jörg Uther (the Aarne-Thompson-Uther Classification, aka the ATU). 

By compiling these works together, one will be able to identify the two main “families” that are rivals, if not enemies, in the world of the fairytale criticism. Today it is considered that, roughly, if we simplify things, there are two families of scholars who work and study the fairy tales. One family take back the thesis and the theories of folklorists - they follow the path of those who, starting in the 19th century, put forward the hypothesis that a “folklore” existed, that is to say a “poetry of the people”, an oral and popular literature. On the other side, you have those that consider that fairytales are inscribed in the history of literature, and that like other objects of literature (be it oral or written), they have intertextual relationships with other texts and other forms of stories. So they hold that fairytales are not “pure, spontaneous emanations”. (And given this is a literary class, given by a literary teacher, to literary students, the teacher did admit their bias for the “literary family” and this was the main focus of the class).

Which notably led us to a third bibliography, this time collecting works that massively changed or influenced the fairytale critics - but this time books that exclusively focused on the works of Perrault and Grimm, and here again we find the same divide folklore VS textuality and intertextuality. It is Marc Soriano’s Les contes de Perrault: culture savante et traditions populaires, it is Ernest Tonnelat’s Les Contes des frères Grimm: étude sur la composition et le style du recueil des Kinder-und-Hausmärchen ; it is Jérémie Benoit’s Les Origines mythologiques des contes de Grimm ; it is Wilhelm Solms’ Die Moral von Grimms Märchen ; it is Dominqiue Leborgne-Peyrache’s Vies et métamorphoses des contes de Grimm ; it is Jens E. Sennewald’ Das Buch, das wir sind: zur Poetik der Kinder und-Hausmärchen ; it is Heinz Rölleke’s Die Märchen der Brüder Grimm: eine Einführung. No English book this time, sorry.

II) The Germans were French, and the French Italians

The actual main topic of this class was to consider the “fairytale” in relationship to the notions of “intertextuality” and “rewrites”. Most notably there was an opening at the very end towards modern rewrites of fairytales, such as Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber, “Le petit chaperon vert” (Little Green Riding Hood) or “La princesse qui n’aimait pas les princes” (The princess who didn’t like princes). But the main subject of the class was to see how the “main corpus” of classic fairytales, the Perrault, the Grimm, the Basile and Straparola fairytales, were actually entirely created out of rewrites. Each text was rewriting, or taking back, or answering previous texts - the history of fairytales is one of constant rewrite and intertextuality. 

For example, if we take the most major example, the fairytales of the brothers Grimm. What are the sources of the brothers? We could believe, like most people, that they merely collected their tale. This is what they called, especially in the last edition of their book: they claimed to have collected their tales in regions of Germany. It was the intention of the authors, it was their project, and since it was the will and desire of the author, it must be put first. When somebody does a critical edition of a text, one of the main concerns is to find the way the author intended their text to pass on to posterity. So yes, the brothers Grimm claimed that their tales came from the German countryside, and were manifestations of the German folklore. 

But... in truth, if we look at the first editions of their book, if we look at the preface of their first editions, we discover very different indications, indications which were checked and studied by several critics, such as Ernest Tomelas. In truth, one of their biggest sources was... Charles Perrault. While today the concept of the “tales of the little peasant house, told by the fireside” is the most prevalent one, in their first edition the brothers Grimm explained that their sources for these tales were not actually old peasant women, far from it: they were ladies, of a certain social standing, they were young women, born of exiled French families (because they were Protestants, and thus after the revocation of the édit de Nantes in France which allowed a peaceful coexistance of Catholics and Protestants, they had to flee to a country more welcoming of their religion, aka Germany). They were young women of the upper society, girls of the nobility, they were educated, they were quite scholarly - in fact, they worked as tutors/teachers and governess/nursemaids for German children. For children of the German nobility to be exact. And these young French women kept alive the memory of the French literature of the previous century - which included the fairytales of Perrault.

So, through these women born of the French emigration, one of the main sources of the Grimm turns out to be Perrault. And in a similar way, Perrault’s fairytales actually have roots and intertextuality with older tales, Italian fairytales. And from these Italian fairytales we can come back to roots into Antiquity itself - we are talking Apuleius, and Virgil before him, and Homer before him, this whole classical, Latin-Greek literature. This entire genealogy has been forgotten for a long time due to the enormous surge, the enormous hype, the enormous fascination for the study of folklore at the end of the 19th century and throughout all of the 20th. 

We talk of “types of fairytales”, if we talk of Vladimir Propp, if we talk of Aarne Thompson, we are speaking of the “morphology of fairytales”, a name which comes from the Russian theorician that is Propp. Most people place the beginning of the “structuralism” movement in the 70s, because it is in 1970 that the works of Propp became well-known in France, but again there is a big discrepancy between what people think and what actually is. It is true that starting with the 70s there was a massive wave, during which Germans, Italians and English scholars worked on Propp’s books, but Propp had written his studies much earlier than that, at the beginning of the 20th century. The first edition of his Morphology of fairytales was released in 1928. While it was reprinted and rewriten several times in Russia, it would have to wait for roughly fifty years before actually reaching Western Europe, where it would become the fundamental block of the “structuralist grammar”. This is quite interesting because... when France (and Western Europe as a whole) adopted structuralism, when they started to read fairytales under a morphological and structuralist angle, they had the feeling and belief, they were convinced that they were doing a “modern” criticism of fairytales, a “new” criticism. But in truth... they were just repeating old theories and conceptions, snatched away from the original socio-historical context in which Propp had created them - aka the Soviet Union and a communist regime. People often forget too quickly that contextualizing the texts isn’t only good for the studied works, we must also contextualize the works of critics and the analysis of scholars. Criticism has its own history, and so unlike the common belief, Propp’s Morphology of fairytales isn’t a text of structuralist theoricians from the 70s. It was a text of the Soviet Union, during the Interwar Period. 

So the two main questions of this class are. 1) We will do a double exploration to understand the intertextual relationships between fairytales. And 2) We will wonder about the definition of a “fairytale” (or rather of a “conte” as it is called in French) - if the fairytale is indeed a literary genre, then it must have a definition, key elements. And from this poetical point of view, other questions come forward: how does one analyze a fairytale? What does a fairytale mean?

III) Feuding families

Before going further, we will pause to return to a subject talked about above: the great debate among scholars and critics that lasted for decades now, forming the two branches of the fairytale study. One is the “folklorist” branch, the one that most people actually know without realizing it. When one works on fairytale, one does folklorism without knowing it, because we got used to the idea that fairytale are oral products, popular products, that are present everywhere on Earth, we are used to the concept of the universality of motives and structures of fairytales. In the “folklorist” school of thought, there is an universalism, and not only are fairytales present everywhere, but one can identify a common core for them. It can be a categorization of characters, it can be narrative functions, it can be roles in a story, but there is always a structure or a core. As a result, the work of critics who follow this branch is to collect the greatest number of “versions” of a same tale they can find, and compare them to find the smallest common denominator. From this, they will create or reconstruct the “core fairytale”, the “type” or the “source” from which the various variations come from.

Before jumping onto the other family, we will take a brief time to look at the history of the “folklorist branch” of the critic. (Though, to summarize the main differences, the other family of critics basically claims that we do not actually know the origin of these stories, but what we know are rather the texts of these stories, the written archives or the oral records). 

So the first family here (that is called “folklorist” for the sake of simplicity, but it is not an official or true appelation) had been extremely influenced by the works of a famous and talented scholar of the early 20th century: Aarne Antti, a scholar of Elsinki who collected a large number of fairytales and produced out of them a classification, a typology based on this theory that there is an “original fairytale type” that existed at the beginning, and from which variants appeared. His work was then continued by two other scholars: Stith Thompson, and Hans-Jörg Uther. This continuation gave birth to the “Aarne-Thompson” classification, a classification and bibliography of folkloric fairytales from around the world, which is very often used in journals and articles studying fairytales. Through them, the idea of “types” of fairytales and “variants” imposed itself in people’s minds, where each tale corresponds to a numbered category, depending on the subjects treated and the ways the story unfolds (for example an entire category of tale collects the “animal-husbands”. This classification imposed itself on the Western way of thinking at the end of the first third of the 20th century.

The next step in the history of this type of fairytale study was Vladimir Propp. With his Morphology of fairytales, we find the same theory, the same principle of classification: one must collect the fairytales from all around the world, and compare them to find the common denominator. Propp thought Aarne-Thompson’s work was interesting, but he did complain about the way their criteria mixed heterogenous elements, or how the duo doubled criterias that could be unified into one. Propp noted that, by the Aarne-Thompson system, a same tale could have two different numbers - he concluded that one shouldn’t classify tales by their subject or motif. He claimed that dividing the fairytales by “types” was actually impossible, that this whole theory was more of a fiction than an actual reality. So, he proposed an alternate way of doing things, by not relying on the motifs of fairytales: Propp rather relied on their structure. Propp doesn’t deny the existence of fairytales, he doesn’t put in question the categorization of fairytales, or the universality of fairytales, on all that he joins Aarne-Thompson. But what he does is change the typology, basing it on “functions”: for him, the constituve parts of fairytales are “functions”, which exist in limited numbers and follow each other per determined orders (even if they are not all “activated”). He identified 31 functions, that can be grouped into three groups forming the canonical schema of the fairytale according to Propp. These three groups are an initial situation with seven functions, followed by a first sequence going from the misdeed (a bad action, a misfortune, a lack) to its reparation, and finally there is a second sequence which goes from the return of the hero to its reward. From these seven “preparatory functions”, forming the initial situation, Propp identified seven character profiles, defined by their functions in the narrative and not by their unique characteristics. These seven profiles are the Aggressor (the villain), the Donor (or provider), the Auxiliary (or adjuvant), the Princess, the Princess’ Father, the Mandator, the Hero, and the False Hero. This system will be taken back and turned into a system by Greimas, with the notion of “actants”: Greimas will create three divisions, between the subject and the object, between the giver and the gifted, and between the adjuvant and the opposant.

With his work, Vladimir Propp had identified the “structure of the tale”, according to his own work, hence the name of the movement that Propp inspired: structuralism. A structure and a morphology - but Propp did mention in his texts that said morphology could only be applied to fairytales taken from the folklore (that is to say, fairytales collected through oral means), and did not work at all for literary fairytales (such as those of Perrault). And indeed, while this method of study is interesting for folkloric fairytales, it becomes disappointing with literary fairytales - and it works even less for novels. Because, trying to find the smallest denominator between works is actually the opposite of literary criticism, where what is interesting is the difference between various authors. It is interesting to note what is common, indeed, but it is even more interesting to note the singularities and differences. Anyway, the apparition of the structuralist study of fairytales caused a true schism among the field of literary critics, between those that believe all tales must be treated on a same way, with the same tools (such as those of Propp), and those that are not satisfied with this “universalisation” that places everything on the same level. 

This second branch is the second family we will be talking about: those that are more interested by the singularity of each tale, than by their common denominators and shared structures. This second branch of analysis is mostly illustrated today by the works of Ute Heidmann, a German/Swiss researcher who published alongside Jean Michel Adam (a specialist of linguistic, stylistic and speech-analysis) a fundamental work in French: Textualité et intertextualité des contes: Perrault, Apulée, La Fontaine, Lhéritier... (Textuality and intertextuality of fairytales). A lot of this class was inspired by Heidmann and Adam’s work, which was released in 2010. Now, this book is actually surrounded by various articles posted before and after, and Ute Heidmann also directed a collective about the intertextuality of the brothers Grimm fairytales. Heidmann did not invent on her own the theories of textuality and intertextuality - she relies on older researches, such as those of the Ernest Tonnelat, who in 1912 published a study of the brothers Grimm fairytales focusing on the first edition of their book and its preface. This was where the Grimm named the sources of their fairytales: girls of the upper class, not at all small peasants, descendants of the protestant (huguenots) noblemen of France who fled to Germany. Tonnelat managed to reconstruct, through these sources, the various element that the Grimm took from Perrault’s fairytales. This work actually weakened the folklorist school of thought, because for the “folklorist critics”, when a similarity is noted between two fairytales, it is a proof of “an universal fairytale type”, an original fairytale that must be reconstructed. But what Tonnelat and other “intertextuality critics” pushed forward was rather the idea that “If the story of the Grimm is similar but not identical to the one of Perrault, it is because they heard a modified version of Perrault’s tale, a version modified either by the Grimms or by the woman that told them the tale, who tried to make the story more or less horrible depending on the situation”. This all fragilized the idea of an “original, source-fairytale”, and encouraged other researchers to dig this way.

For example, the case was taken up by Heinz Rölleke, in 1985: he systematized the study of the sources of the Grimm, especially the sources that tied them to the fairytales of Perrault. Now, all the works of this branch of critics does not try to deny or reject the existence of fairytales all over the world. And it does not forget that all over the world, human people are similar and have the same preoccupations (life, love, death, war, peace). So, of course, there is an universality of the themes, of the motives, of the intentions of the texts. Because they are human texts, so there is an universality of human fiction. But there is here the rejection of a topic, a theory, a question that can actually become VERY dangerous. (For example, in post World War II Germany, all researches about fairytales were forbidden, because during their reign the Nazis had turned the fairytales the Grimm into an abject ideological tool). This other family, vein, branch of critics, rather focuses on the specificity of each writing style, of each rewrite of a fairytale, but also on the various receptions and interpretations of fairytales depending on the context of their writing and the context of their reading. So the idea behind this “intertextuality study” is to study the fairytales like the rest of literature, be it oral or written, and to analyze them with the same philological tools used by history studies, by sociology study, by speech analysis and narrative analysis - all of that to understand what were the conditions of creation, of publication, of reading and spreading of these tales, and how they impacted culture.

[spaceintruderdetector]

‘‘Vladimir Propp in his Morphology of the Folktale developed a type of structural analysis that is very useful in analyzing literary forms other than the folktale. His methodology seeks to reduce forms other than the folktale. His methodology seeks to reduce narrative literature to algebraic formulae by depicting the actions of the characters with symbols and letters taken from a catalogue of thirty-one elements he found common to fairy-tales. This thesis utilizes Propp's methodology to structurally critique works by Edgar Allen Poe and Geoffrey Chaucer and to complete a tale begun by Chaucer. This analysis suggests that authors writing rational and acceptable literature are structurally limited by boundaries that may be either socially or genetically inherited. ‘‘

https://archive.org/details/DTIC_ADA085005/page/n5/mode/2up

[lacasadeasterionpdf]

im literally depressed because of nothing.. nothing happened today. what the fuck

[randomalistic]

when I see a gay people

[lunellum]

Also, there is no "original" version of (many) fairy tales. There are just... versions. They are the result of a long and varied oral tradition, which means there is no definitive, known starting point that we know or can determine. (There are branches of academia that try but they can only speculate)

Plus, as the above alludes to, many fairy tales can be categoried as a type or pattern of story. These types (basic story structures) are surprisingly common and pop up in many different regions and cultures with many variations. None of those variations are more "original" than any others.

The first time you can put a concrete date on a fairy tale, as above, is the first time they get written down. But it's important to remember that is the first *published* date. Because they originate in an oral tradition, they probably existed for a long time before they got written down, so the first published date is their *minimum* age.

(If you want to know more about the fairy tale types (from a white, EU perspective), look up the Aarne-Thompson-Uther index. It's pretty fascinating. Also a fun resource for making up folktales when worldbuilding)

I’m tired of hearing people say “Disney’s Cinderella is sanitized. In the original tale, the stepsisters cut off parts of their feet to make the slipper fit and get their eyes pecked out by birds in the end.”

I understand this mistake. I’m sure a lot of people buy copies of the complete Grimm’s Fairy Tales, see their tale of Aschenputtel translated as “Cinderella”, and assume what they’re reading is the “original” version of the tale. Or else they see Into the Woods and make the same assumption, because Sondheim and Lapine chose to base their Cinderella plot line on the Grimms’ Aschenputtel instead of on the more familiar version. It’s an understandable mistake. But I’m still tired of seeing it.

The Brothers Grimm didn’t originate the story of Cinderella. Their version, where there is no fairy godmother, the heroine gets her elegant clothes from a tree on her mother’s grave, and where yes, the stepsisters do cut off parts of their feet and get their eyes pecked out in the end, is not the “original.” Nor did Disney create the familiar version with the fairy godmother, the pumpkin coach, and the lack of any foot-cutting or eye-pecking.

If you really want the “original” version of the story, you’d have to go back to the 1st century Greco-Egyptian legend of Rhodopis. That tale is just this: “A Greek courtesan is bathing one day, when an eagle snatches up her sandal and carries it to the Pharaoh of Egypt. The Pharaoh searches for the owner of the sandal, finds her and makes her his queen.”

Or, if you want the first version of the entire plot, with a stepdaughter reduced to servitude by her stepmother, a special event that she’s forbidden to attend, fine clothes and shoes given to her by magic so she can attend, and her royal future husband finding her shoe after she loses it while running away, then it’s the Chinese tale of Ye Xian you’re looking for. In that version, she gets her clothes from the bones of a fish that was her only friend until her stepmother caught it and ate it.

But if you want the Cinderella story that Disney’s film was directly based on, then the version you want is the version by the French author Charles Perrault. His Cendrillon is the Cinderella story that became the best known in the Western world. His version features the fairy godmother, the pumpkin turned into a coach, mice into horses, etc, and no blood or grisly punishments for anyone. It was published in 1697. The Brothers Grimm’s Aschenputtel, with the tree on the grave, the foot-cutting, etc. was first published in 1812.

The Grimms’ grisly-edged version might feel older and more primitive while Perrault’s pretty version feels like a sanitized retelling, but such isn’t the case. They’re just two different countries’ variations on the tale, French and German, and Perrault’s is older. Nor is the Disney film sanitized. It’s based on Perrault.

[girlscarpia]

I love reading unrelated pdfs and epubs during boring classes. Reading about mutilation rituals as portrayed in fairy tales and going "Ah yes. Just like my guy"

[planetoidsfun]

Read us a fairy tale, Uncle Propperino!

[hockey-cards]

[sbbarnes]

Magic, Lies, and Deadly Pies by Misha Popp My rating: 3 of 5 stars Magic, Lies and Deadly Pies follows main character Daisy, who makes a living selling pies out of her food truck. She has two notable side jobs also involving pie, namely providing a local diner with pies and killing abusive men with magical pies that are only poisonous to them. The plot follows her nearly being discovered as a murderess and trying to save herself, while also competing in a pie-baking contest. On the whole, I enjoyed the read well enough while I wasn't thinking too hard, the writing is pleasant and easy to follow and Daisy was an interesting character to be in the mind of. However, by the end, I was struggling with two issues. Mild spoilers ahead. The first is that there is just a lot going on in this book. There's Daisy's background, her parents and how she got her magic pie powers, which is uncovered bit by bit. Then there's her everyday life at the diner, where she has adopted something of a found family; there's the murder plotline, the pie contest plotline and then there's the question of Daisy's love interest, which is split between two other characters. Some of these plots interlink, which helps, but on the whole, I wished it was a lot longer to really give these aspects some depth. Ultimately I didn't get much of an impression of her relationships at the diner, for instance, even though they were supposed to be pretty important to her. The second is the cognitive dissonance of the whole restorative-justice-through-murder-pie thing. There are no two ways around it; the main character murders several people. Several times in the book it is mentioned that there's a kind of cop-out on whether or not the pie will actually kill the man in question, which is something, but it never actually happens during the book. I kept waiting for some sort of comeuppance for how morally grey the main character ultimately is, but there was none except some vague reference to Daisy struggling with it herself in the past. In my opinion, it would have been a stronger story if she either embraced her own moral ambiguity more strongly, or if she experienced real consequences for it. View all my reviews

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝕶𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕭𝖊𝖉 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖋𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖑

Summary: After your night with Farleigh, you wake in the morning to deal with the new, altered state of your relationship. You know for certain that you want more with him, but you have no idea if he wishes the same.

Warnings: 18+ content, minors DNI. AFAB, usage of 'good girl' . Sex in front of a mirror, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), fingering. A bit of fluff. American reader. Not proofread.

Notes: 12.1k words. This probably won't make sense if you haven't read the first part. A big shout out for those of you who commented on the first part of this. Ya'll really slutted me out with all of the compliments and motivated me to write this second bit. Banner by @saradika-graphics

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦 - 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦𝔦

Everything is warm. Cozy and inviting with a soothing, syrupy kind of heat that saps into your bones and flesh. You don't want to move. The possibility of having to seems like the worse possible inconvenience that you could even face. Your mind is slow to gather itself, caught up within the hazy drag of sleep, reluctant to wake up - outright fighting of the surge of consciousness, in fact. And irritably, you wonder why you're gradually being pulled from the dredges of slumber. Why the comforting threads entangling you is beginning to slip. What could possibly be waking you up right now? 

And that's when your hazed over brain notices that band of light glaring into your eyes; bright and tinged orange from behind your eyelids. It's awful. Horrible even. Where is the light even coming from? You never leave your lamp on, and you always make sure to draw your curtains shut every night before sleep. 

But despite your curiosity, you can't bring yourself to open your eyes. You know that it'll be game over if you do. There's no way that you'll be able to fall back asleep once you get up to check the origin of that offensive glow. But you can't fight the low, tired groan that erupts from your chest in annoyance while you blindly grab at the comforter snuggled around you, sliding it up higher until it's draped over your face and blocking out the light. 

The relief is immediate, and you find yourself shifting in an attempt to burrow yourself deeper into the plush support of the mattress, breathing in a satisfied, deep drag of air. Taking a lungful of something sweet and earthy with hints of something spicy too. It's familiar; comforting and it has you subconsciously drawing in another breath.  It smells like Farleigh, you think contentedly. 

That does have you perking up a bit. Some small part of you becoming hideously awake, like it's trying to remember something that you've forgotten. But you're still actively fighting off the urge get up. You just aren't ready for it. There's some tension in your skull and your mouth feels dry and dehydrated. It's not the worse hangover you've ever had. But then again, the one that you had woken up to on the night after graduation had been near crippling. Honestly, you hadn't thought that you were ever going to survive it. It felt like someone was striking down on your skull with a hammer, trying to split it down the middle. This one was more than manageable, nothing a glass of water and an aspirin couldn't clear up. 

But even then, the urge to get up out of bed to shuffle around in the bathroom was less than thrilling. 

You shift around again, rolling from your back and onto your side, hoping that maybe this position will actually help you in falling asleep again. But you pause when you feel your knee brush against something firm and warm. And a curious nudge from your foot has you coming to the realization that you're prodding at another leg. Someone else's leg. 

It makes your stomach jolt, and the shot of adrenalin combined with the cloud of sleep still seeped across your mind has you squirming in place, while your arms jerk uselessly. It feels like minutes have passed before you're clumsily tossing the blanket from over your head and propping yourself up to look at whoever is lying across from you. 

It's the head of dark curls that you notice first before your gaze lowers, tracing over a pair of closed eye lashes and the set of a familiar pout peeking out from the cocoon of the comforter. It has your brain chugging along sluggishly while it scrambles to catch up. And then last night is rushing towards you in waves. Of running into Farleigh, your shared whispered confessions up on the balcony, and the fervent, relieved fucking that came after it. 

Heat prickles at your skin at the memories. Of the desperate, broken moans that had left his shuddering chest, the feel of his writhing body underneath your thighs, how he had pressed his face between the apex of your legs and - 

Nope, not right now. The last thing you need to be is hungover and horny. 

But that was right, you weren't in your room. He had invited you to spend the night with him afterwards. It had been sweet, and domestic. The two of you had spent the first twenty minutes just soaking in the bath together. And a decent majority of it had been the both of you just leaning into each other. The actual bathing that you had done had been somewhat rushed and done out of necessity so that you could spend the rest of your time leaning against the cradle of his chest. Enjoying the feel of skin-on-skin contact and the other's presence. You stayed in the water until it had gone cool, and the only source of heat was coming from your bodies. And even then, you both were reluctant to leave the tub, basking in conversation and gossip, catching up on the few years where you had never really allowed yourselves to just talk to each other. 

And once the water became too chilled to bear you were quick to get out of the tub and slip into the comfort of his bed. He had been quick to tug you into his arms once you were settled down underneath the blankets. He was practically glued to you since your entanglement on the balcony - not that you were complaining. 

You had all but melted against him for the entire night, laughing and scolding him with no real scorn whenever he had judged or quipped at the movie you were watching in between the kisses he was scattering across your neck. It was disgustingly soft, and light years away from anything you ever imagined yourself doing with Farleigh. If you had told the past version of yourself from yesterday morning that you would be lying his bed and actually enjoying - wanting - to be near him, you would have scoffed. You would have passionately denied the sheer possibility of it. 

But now here you are, admiring the way that he looks underneath the soft pale champagne glow of the morning sunlight with nothing but fondness in your chest. He looks peaceful like this. Relaxed. It's somewhat strange to be able to see him like this. All vulnerable and soft while he's unable to dish out sarcasm and insults. 

"I can feel you staring, you weirdo," he speaks suddenly without opening his eyes. His voice is low and a little raspy from sleep, and the way that it affects you is entirely unfair. A full body shiver runs down the notches of your spine at the smoky quality to it and you try to subtly shift to hide it, but something tells you that he may have noticed with the smirk that's begun to perk at the corner of his lips. 

"Admiring, " you correct, and you shuffle onto your back like you're lifting yourself to get out of the bed, shrugging the blankets off. "But if you don't like it then I can just leave." 

He moves way too quickly for someone who just woke up, slipping his arms around your middle and tugging you back into the warmth of the comforter. But you don't put up any semblance of a fight. You let him take you and you can't hold in the laugh that breaks from your chest when he settles you with your back pressed against him, keeping you trapped with the strength of his hold. 

"You're not allowed to leave, " he grumbles pettishly. It's so different from all of the interactions that you two usually share and a part of you still hasn't caught up to the sudden shift in your dynamic. You feel just as lost as you do happy, but as much as you'd like to start firing off questions you still can't bring yourself to. Not yet at least. And luckily Farleigh is speaking, pulling you out of your thoughts. "Why are you awake so early?" 

"Because someone has very thin curtains that he decided to leave open," you grouse with no real bite.

He tucks his chin over the crown of your head and hums tiredly. You can feel that way that his abdomen vibrates against your back with the sound. The heat radiating from his bare skin is soaking into yours from the barrier of your borrowed shirt, and combined with the scent of his body wash and the left-over remnants of his cologne it has the temptation of sleep beginning to weigh down your limbs. "You could have closed them." 

"Hmm . . . I'm kinda glad I didn't," you admit, snuggling back into his chest as much as you can. "You're so pretty when you're sleeping, and your face isn't all twisted up in a scowl." 

The reprimanding bite that he nips at the junction of your neck catches you off guard, making you jolt with a small, surprised yelp. You can't find it in yourself to even mildly irritated, but you kick at his shin regardless in a playful warning of your own. 

"I'm always pretty," he scolds. 

Then a silence falls across the room. Not uncomfortable but still. Peaceful and light, and the buttery summer breeze pouring from the open window just amplifies the sense of calm. And you smell the dulcet, earthy scent of pollen and fresh morning dew on the air. There's a bird singing from somewhere outside, declaring the rise of the early sun in a gentle coo. And for a moment, it almost sounds like a mourning dove. 

You just allow yourself to relax and lounge in the tranquility of the moment. Idly scanning the contents of his room from the comfort of his bed. Glancing over at the shelf in the corner, stocked full of novels; everything from old literary classics like The Portrait of Dorian Gray, Dracula, The Great Gatsby, a couple of books on mythology, a few Harry Potter novels and you even spy what also seems to be a copy of one of the Sex and the City stories. A few of shirts were discarded in the corner near a small laundry basket like he had thrown them and missed, forgotten on the floor. 

And it suddenly strikes you that this is the first time that you've actually been inside of Farleigh's room. You've gotten glimpses of it of course, typically during brief confrontations while standing in his doorway. Usually, when Felix or Elspeth would send you to his door in their stead to retrieve him or remind him of a mandatory affair. And it's a reminder of the step that you had taken last night. The way that you both had singlehandedly altered the trajectory of your relationship with each other. 

Not even the uncertainty in your gut is enough to disrupt the ease in your bones. But is still there. Unignorable. It isn't awkward or uncomfortable, but it is foreign. This entire situation is new and fragile. The ground that you're treading is something that you've never even grown close to traversing with Farleigh, and with it there is a sense of something delicate and brand new, like eggshells. And a part of you is worried that if you handle it too harshly that it might break. 

But you know that despite your hesitance that a conversation needs to be had. Boundaries and intentions need to be laid bare and the more you hold it off the more confused and distressed you're going to become. 

"Farleigh?" You say softly, and for a moment you think that he's fallen asleep again, but then a questioning hum is purring out into the air in response; you feel it more than you hear it. 

And now there it is. That awful nervousness fluttering at your gut like a ball of panicked, nauseating butterflies. "What are we exactly?"  You nearly wince when you ask it. The dryness in your throat doesn't help anything, and your words nearly catch on their way out. "I know we were both drinking and partying last night, so I just want to make sure that we're both on the same page. That I'm not . . . assuming anything." 

There's another bout of silence. But this time it is distressing, and you wish that he'd just speak. Even if it's just to reject you or say that last night was just a one-time thing. At least, it would be ripping the band aid off. Setting a boundary and cutting you off. As much as it would hurt it would give you closure and let you move on to pretend that it never happened. It would be awkward, tiptoeing around the estate and pretending as though last night - this morning, didn't take place - a beautiful, haunting dream - but you could do it. You would have to. You could still fake all of those old glares and scathing remarks if it meant that a sense of normalcy would remain intact. You could pretend to forget all of his soft touches, and the way that he had called you gorgeous. How he had held your gaze and looked at you like you had hung the moon up into the night sky. You could forget all of it, you swear you could. 

But it's just quiet, and the anticipation is killing you. Letting you choke on your own worry. 

Farleigh shuffles back from you and for one terrifying moment you think that he's leaving the bed, too irritated or indifferent to even try and have this talk with you. But instead, he's softly nudging your arm to guide you to twist around onto your opposite side; making you face him. 

There's something gentle is his eyes, something vulnerable too. And it makes you hopeful that he feels the same way as you do. 

"Well . . . " He starts but then a pause takes over like he's trying to collect himself and find the proper words. You can feel the way that you subconsciously begin to clam up, seizing and waiting to be torn down and told the ugly truth. You brace waiting to have to put on a fake smile and nod before you have to slip from his bed and head to your room in a walk of shame with rejection stabbing inside your chest like glass shards. 

"I was hoping that you'd be my girlfriend." 

The relief that floods through you nearly makes you breathless. And for a moment you think that this is what it feels like to be engulfed in the sun; swaddled in a warmth that reminds you of the nostalgia of a fond, distant memory. It's the joy of a day free at the beach, the repose that comes after holding your breath for a long stretch of time, the exhilaration from finding the answer to a mystery that's eluded you for years. But you can't articulate any of that, can't find a single word that properly conveys your emotions while under the cloud of sleep. 

"Okay," it isn't an eloquent response, by any means. Even just saying 'yes' probably would have read better. But that didn't mean that it wasn't said with any less intensity and enthusiasm. And you can tell that Farleigh must be able to pick up on the true scope of your emotions bleeding through because he doesn't look offended or disappointed. But his eyebrows do lift as he levels you with a look that's purely amused and a little happy. 

"Okay?" He echos with a light chuckle. 

"Okay, " you reaffirm, sliding closer until your noses touch. "I'd love to be your girlfriend." 

The look in his eyes is soft and relaxed, and they're shimmering lightly in the morning glow with hints of amber and a rich brown. And then he's peppering kisses across your face like he's mapping out your features with his lips, trailing them across your forehead and cheekbones and jawline. It's unrushed and slow, like you both have all of the time in the world. Like the sun is permanently fixed in the lavender horizon and isn't due to rise up and give way to a full day. But here and now, it's just you and him, curled up in the covers and one another. 

It's still so strange to be the object of his affections. It's a complete one-eighty from the way that you've interacted for years. Sure, now that you've had your little epiphany last night, you've been able to realize (and come to terms with the fact) that there's always been a kind of attraction and even fondness brewing underneath every one of your little spats and encounters. But never would have thought that you could say that that want, and affection went both ways. That there had ever been anything thing other than animosity and annoyance on his end. 

"What are you thinking about?" Farleigh ask, nuzzling against your cheek to get your attention before he pulls away to hold your gaze. 

"I guess, I'm just a little surprised, is all." You admit, though it is a little cryptic. "I just never got the impression that you liked me all that much." 

Something in his expression sobers, and for a moment you worry that you've said something wrong. That you've accidentally nudged something that he wasn't ready to disclose. 

"That was the point," he confesses, making your eyebrows pinch in confusion. "Of all of the teasing and fighting. For the most part." He pulls back, settling back against the bed and you settle on the flat of your stomach, supporting yourself on your elbows to observe him easier. "Though, I do just genuinely enjoy teasing you. You always get that cute little furrow, right here whenever I do." 

He lightly pokes at the point between your eyes with a smirk. And you swat at his hand, playful and relaxed before his features smooth back into that serious look. You can tell that he's briefly deflecting, trying to drag his explanation out more than it needs to be, and as much as your curiosity is burning at you like a hot ember, you don't make any means to rush him. His gaze skitters around the room with something akin to defeat and exasperation while he tussles with whatever conflict is warring around inside of him. 

Your fingers hesitantly reach for his own, clasping lightly just in case he wants to pull away, and you take it as good sign when he doesn't. Instead, he's threading your fingers together and squeezing, stroking at your knuckles with his thumb. "Felix, " he says suddenly with something like a grimace. "They always pick Felix. The golden boy. And I thought, 'why even try?' " 

The clarification is a little vague and scattered. But you're still able to piece together a mental timeline with the little bits and pieces that he's given. And it finally answers the question as to why your otherwise cordial relationship with Farleigh had seemed to take an abrupt nosedive after Felix's visit to the States all those years ago. Why your interactions went from playful to subtly meanspirited. He was jealous. Envious of his cousin all because he had assumed that you had a crush on or would eventually develop a crush for Felix. 

Sure, you weren't blind. Felix, for all intents and purposes was an attractive guy. And he's has always been a dear friend to you, protective and caring but you can genuinely say that your feelings for Felix had never developed past the platonic sense. Not even out of curiosity. 

And it is a little aggravating to know that all the years of animosity between you and Farleigh was because he wasn't able to sit you down and have a conversation with you. That he had decided to act like a middle school boy who tugs on the pig tails of the girl that he likes because he can't properly convey his feelings. But you also know that that assessment isn't fully fair either. You're aware of the fragile standing that Farleigh has with the Catton's - his own family, and that he no doubt, often feels like a guest in a home that should be considered his just as much as it's his cousins. 

And Felix, whether he realizes it or not, has always been able to achieve and get whatever - or whoever he wants. Usually, from his family's social or financial standing. And so, it wouldn't be the wild for him to assume that you'd be attracted to all of those things too. Especially, considering that you yourself, like many people, don't come from a wealthy family. It's a part of human nature, to gravitate towards the things you can't have. To try and see what life is like on the other side, where you're hand fed from a silver spoon and your every whim can be taken care of by an everlasting stash of money. So, Farleigh's insecurities weren't unfounded by any means, but regardless, it did still hurt to some degree that he felt like wasn't able to just talk to you about the way that he had felt. About the emotions that he had silently been harboring for all of this time. 

"I really did try to hate you. " And when he looks at you his expression is naked and honest. " I tried to push you away, but it didn't work. It never worked." 

He looks vulnerable. Like he's waiting for you to get angry or irritated and he's bracing for an argument. But you don't even contemplate doing anything even close to that. Instead, you're scooting yourself up on your knees to gently swing yourself across his lap, and he welcomes you by gripping onto your hips. You can't feel his skin directly. Not while you're both wearing a pair of boxers (he had lent you one of his to wear for bed last night) but you could still feel the heat of him against underneath you. And it serves to ground you all the same, pulling you into the moment and holding you here. And you take comfort in the sensation of his body against yours. 

"I've never hated you either, " you say, swallowing around the nervousness in your throat. " I thought I did. But I don't think I ever really could, not even back then. I'm mean don't get me wrong, you were arrogant, and rude and some days you made me want to slam my head into a wall . . . But I never hated you." 

There's something akin to relief in his eyes; hopeful and soft. And then he's saying two words that you thought you'd never expect to hear coming from him. 

"I'm sorry." 

It takes a moment for your mind to even register what he had said. But once the apology clicks into place, it has something fuzzy and warm growing in your chest, and you couldn't hide the soft smile pulling at your lips. It's bittersweet. You're remorseful for all the time lost between you but you can't even bother to dwell on it for too long, not now. Not with him gazing up at you, hopeful and waiting. 

And the truth is, is that you weren't entirely blameless, either. Yes, Farleigh had been the one to initiate the friction and enmity between you, but you were also quick to respond in kind. Instead of even trying to take the high road and figuring out the root of his animosity, you were quick to jump on the offensive. Forgoing any ideas of reconciling in the desire to try and get even. You just gave it all up, the months' worth of a gradually cultivated fellowship in the trade of trying to tear him down like he had done to you. 

"I'm sorry, too," you say truthfully. And the last bits of that tense, worried energy that had been tainting the air finally vanishes, carried off on the gentle breeze pouring through the window and out into the courtyard. Its absence welcomes back the playfulness that had been present earlier. "But if we're being honest, I've always enjoyed our little fights." 

The way that he grins in response is the kind that would have concerned you at one time (only just a few hours ago - Jesus, you can hardly believe it still), all cocky and entirely too satisfied. "I know, I clocked that from the very start." 

You can't resist the urge to roll your eyes, and there's a retort on the tip of your tongue, ready to tease him back but instead your mind decides to take a detour and it swerves back around to a different train of thought completely. Making you pause in place, lips slightly parted with the preparation to speak but the initial remark is gone. Leaving to assess your new realization with a bit of confused wonder. The realization that you didn't become acquaintances with Felix until months after knowing Farleigh. And that would mean that he caught feelings before- "Wait, " you pause, squinting at Farleigh questioningly. "You said that you weren't going to even try because of Felix. Then when did you . . ?" 

He sighs lowly, stroking your thighs in a way that seems more absentminded than intentional, like his brain needs a distraction. "The first day that we met there's was something there. It was small. Intrigue, mostly. I didn't think it would go anywhere, and for a little while it didn't." It's matter of fact, not meant to be rude or harmful, just honest. "There wasn't some pivotal moment that changed things. I don't have a specific date to give you; all those feelings were suddenly just there, and I didn't know what to do with them." 

It was the same way for you, you suppose. It wasn't like in the movies where the protagonist shares one defining moment with their love interest that just abruptly opens their eyes to their newfound affection and they immediately fall in love. The build up to your feelings had simmered and climbed up over time. It just sort of snuck up on you so stealthily that you hadn't even recognized that you had them. And even worse, your own hubris had kept you from even acknowledging the little shreds of emotions that managed to sneak by and slip under the radar. You always had an excuse for yourself. 

That fuzzy, tingling feeling that would bubble in the pit of your gut whenever you had seen Farleigh smile back in the past, candid and genuine, that wasn't affection, that was disgust, surely. That searing burn that would scatter across your flesh when someone would lean up against his side and openly flirt with him, coquette and unabashed, it was just your irritation for him, not jealously. 

Your emotions had always been there. Right under the surface and raging, but you had never let yourself see. Had never let yourself indulge. You were so out of touch with them, that honestly, you wouldn't be able to track whenever they had begun to manifest. It could have been from day one for all you know. And maybe it was. Right on that April evening, during the middle of a heatwave that had come in and choked out the otherwise agreeable spring air. The sun had the city in a violent grip, beating down on the concrete and asphalt until it was sweltering. And in an attempt to escape the unbearable temperatures, you and Graham, like many of the other tenants, had taken to the crystal waters of the pool to cool off. And when Graham had asked you if one of his friends could swing by, you had no qualms on the matter. You were honestly intrigued, considering that the said friend was apparently the mysterious Farleigh, who Graham had grown to be quite fond off, with the both of them having met from running with similar crowds. Socializers and party goers. 

When Farleigh had showed up to the pool, you hadn't missed the somewhat disgruntled way that his lip had curled while he eyed all of the people splashing about in the water as he followed Graham over to your seats on the poolside. Like they had offended him by being there. But you could only find yourself being amused by his apparent dislike for the public, and when he had neared you were quick to sit up in your lounger, lifting your sunglasses from your eyes and onto your head to assess him better. 

"You must be the famed Farleigh," you had greeted before extending your hand for him to take, introducing yourself with a smile. 

"That would be me," he had replied, laying back on the chaise beside yours like he had always been there; relaxed and unbothered. Like he had known you forever.  "But 'famed,' huh? Does he talk about me often?" 

"Enough for me to be intrigued." You admitted, folding the corner page of the book you had been reading in a dog-eared marker before shutting it closed so that you could freely turn your focus onto him instead. 

"And what has he told you about me?" He asked. 

Your lips lifted, and for a moment you glanced around the pool, observing the colorful array of plastic floaties and limbs playfully kicking up water. "That you're trouble." 

But it was told without any bite, your tone airy and impish. He didn't necessarily return your smile, but there was a kind of mirth glinting in his eyes. Intrigue as well. He let himself relax into the cradle of the chair without removing his gaze from yours, and you could see his open amusement. And somewhere in the near distance a child squealed in open delight and the laughter of their parent closely followed, but neither of you had so much as glanced away from each other. 

"So, he told you the truth." That had been his response. 

Charming, that had been your first thought of him. And it was one without ire or sarcasm. It was the truth. He had been charming then, and the both of you had spent a good twenty minutes talking to each other after your introduction. Divulging in common interest and gossip. Mostly from you sharing the scandals of your fellow tenants, like how your neighbor from 2E had been cheating on her boyfriend with the guy from 1F or how the elderly woman from down your hall had traded her husband's ashes for a pound of weed. 

But regardless of when your feelings for Farleigh had begun, it didn't change the fact that you were so ignorant and blind, that literally everyone else had taken notice of your attraction before you had. And all of the teasing from Venetia, and Felix, and even Graham hadn't been enough to make you recognize them. 

"And then one day, I couldn't stop thinking about you. " He admits.  There's an intensity in his gaze, and that open vulnerability is still in there too. It threatens to steal your breath, and you have to force yourself to inhale. But it just makes you take the scent of his shampoo; the fresh, delicate fragrance of the detergent and his cologne on his sheets and it just makes the warm haze seeping back into you so much worse. "With your thrifted sweatshirts and bitchy attitude." 

"Oh, I'm the bitchy one?" 

You aren't sure what changes it. What causes the shift. If perhaps it had just been there the entire time and you had been too preoccupied to notice it with your thoughts and heart to heart conversation. Or if maybe it was just from the way that he's looking at you now. With an unmistakable type of want. With a sultry type of need that's hauntingly similar to the fervor that had glinted in his eyes just last night. And the feel of his heated palms gripping your thighs and the pressure of his lap nestled between your legs doesn't make it any easier. But the low heat rising in the room seems to amplify the desire that's beginning to storm inside of you, building up from the sun that's ascended a few more degrees into the morning sky. And combined with the light golden hue casted over the bed, it makes you feel as though you're being incased in a vat of heated honey. Saccharine, hazy and torrid. 

You have to chase after that feeling. Following after it like a flower tracking the suns path across the sky and it leads you to Farleigh. Making you tilt down towards him like it's your purpose, brushing your lips over his and breathing in his air. And all the while you don't break eye contact once. You couldn't. You won't. 

The hold of his finger's flexes on you, like he's trying to ground himself. His anticipation almost seems like a physical thing; like it's brushing up against your body and hanging heavy in the air. And it could be your mind playing tricks on you, but you're certain that he's stopped breathing while he eagerly waits for you to do something. 

It has you lifting a hand up to cup his face, delicate and almost devout in the way that you press your palm against his cheek and his eyelashes nearly flutter from the contact. He looks content like this. No doubt still a little addled from the sleep that's probably still clinging to his brain. But the way that he appears to be so peaceful and fulfilled with something as little as your touch has this insatiable thing growing inside of you, and it feels as though it could grow a will of its own and possess you. The weight of it would have scared you once, if you weren't already so utterly swept up in it.

You can't help but to trace his skin, idly sweeping your thumb across the jut of his cheekbone before dragging it down the fullness of his bottom lip. And it surprises you entirely when he drops his jaw open to take the digit into his mouth. You have to hold back a gasp at the sensation of his tongue brushing over your skin and sucking. And the impish gleam in his eyes almost seems like some kind of dare. Like he wants you to make a move. 

You just press your thumb into his mouth with a bit more pressure and the delicate, airy sigh that leaves him is a reward all in its own. The glide of his tongue, the heat of his mouth, the way that he's looking at you, it's all so blissfully overwhelming. You wish that you could just stay here indefinitely, under the cover of the blankets with his body against your own. 

But . . .

"You're a brat." That's all you say before you extract your digit from between his lips and swing yourself from his hips to climb off the bed. You have to glance over your shoulder when a surprised "what the fuck?" rises out from behind you as you pad over towards the open doorway of the adjacent bathroom. And the outright pouty and exasperated way that Farleigh rolls over onto his stomach and slams his face into the plush of one of his pillows is the last thing you see of him once you cross the threshold, and you can't fight the amused chuckle that leaves your chest. 

You can hear him grumble something, but it's inaudible from your place at the sink, muffled by the walls and distance. You try to ignore those torrential, gushing emotions that are rising up inside your chest but it's hard to fight the smile on your face, and the sight of your reflection in the mirror is humbling almost. You're beaming and your eyes are sparkling with an unhidden mirth. God, you look like a lovestruck idiot. You can hardly recognize yourself like this, but as completely taken as you are by your feelings you can't even find it in yourself to be embarrassed by them. It feels good to just embrace them after years of fighting and lying to yourself. And you finally feel at peace.

It's like relief, being here with him. By wearing his clothes and spending the night in his bed. The toothbrush that you're using was one of his spares. It had still been tucked away in the rigid plastic and cardboard of its packaging when he had let you use it last night. He had been the one to suggest that you take it when you had been fully prepared to swing by the neighboring bathroom near your bedroom to collect you own. But he had told you that you didn't need to bother. That you could just take one of his. And after you had used it, you had placed it in the caddy beside his own for the night. They were all such small things. Tiny minute gestures but they made you feel so wholly wanted. 

When you lean over to spit out the frothy toothpaste into the basin of the sink a pair of arms slip around your middle and press you into the expanse of his front. He hooks his chin over your shoulder to look at you from the reflection of the mirror and you struggle not to make eye contact with him as your rinse the bristles of the brush off underneath the tap. 

"Come back to bed," he says, nuzzling his face into the junction of your neck. "Breakfast isn't for almost another two hours." 

You just hum in response, tapping your toothbrush dry on the edge of the sink before plopping it back into its place in the caddy. "I will, " you promise. "Do you have anything for headaches? I have a little bit of a hangover." 

"Bottom drawer on the left," he directs, and slackens his hold on you for you to slip free. You crouch down to slide the drawer open and rove your eyes over the contents before you single out the white safety lid of a bottle of ibuprofen. Once you have it, you're opening it eagerly and plucking a tablet into the palm of your hand. The throbbing in your skull is still dull, more of an annoyance really. But regardless you're still more than relieved to get something to finally knock it out. 

You drop the sealed bottle back into its place before nudging the door closed with your leg as you rise to stand, and you put the bitter, acrid pill on your tongue. Farleigh is already in the process of brushing his own teeth, and instead of shuffling over to the opposing sink, you're leaning over into Farleigh's space and cupping a bit of water streaming from the tap into your palm to drink up; using it to wash down the tablet. 

He doesn't look peeved in the slightest though, that he has to shift back just a bit on his feet to allow you closer as you toss the pill down. Instead, there's an amused smile on his lips while he watches you. Though you're too busy roving your eyes over your own features to notice, and you can't help the slight exasperation that shows when you spot a few fine pieces of glitter that are still stubbornly clinging to your skin; glinting from your collar bone and the ridge of your left cheek. You'll probably be finding remnants of it for weeks at this rate, in your hair and on your clothes. 

Though you suppose that you can't be all that mad about it, with the way that it serves to be a reminder of last night. Of the balmy satin breeze and the pleased moans that it had carried. You can already feel your body thrumming in response and the depth of your reverie keeps you from noticing that he had finished brushing his teeth and had placed his brush in the caddy until you see his reflection shuffling around and he's suddenly standing behind you, securing his arms around your waist once again.

You all but melt back against him with a happy hum under your breath. It still surprises you a bit, the way that he seeks you and your affection out and clings to you. Though, you suppose that it really shouldn't be all that much of a shock. He has always been a very physical sort of person, even with those that he has a platonic relationship with. Even in the past, he always seemed to have someone touching him, whether it be by having a person clinging to arm, or sitting in his lap, he was always sharing his space in some kind of way. So, it isn't that farfetched that he'd crave physical intimacy in a relationship just as much. And you're all too eager and willing to fulfill that want. 

Though you suppose that the surprise still comes from how new and raw this all still is. You've had your dynamic solidified with Farleigh for years. And it persisted that way, unshifting and constant until it had been swiftly uprooted and altered by a simple exchange of words. And a part of you still has yet to come to terms with it yet. That you're here with him and so completely, and wholly content. That you're happy with the person who had made it his mission to taunt your every waking moment. It is jarring and strange but no less sweet and captivating, and you don't think that you could imagine being with anyone else right now and experiencing the same breadth of joy and tranquility. 

Your body almost goes lax against his, settling underneath the comforting heat radiating from the plains of his chest and abdomen. It's all peaceful and unrushed. Just two people enjoying each other's company without the threat of any responsibilities or tasks looming ahead to move you apart. And for a moment you think that you could fall asleep like this, standing up while cradled in his arms. 

But then one of his hands begins to wander, shifting from its place around your middle to slip underneath your (his) shirt. And you can't help but to smile, basking in the subtle shift that weaves over the privacy of the bathroom. It's simmering and low and it already has a delicate heat blossoming between your thighs. His fingers trace up your stomach, leaving a buzzing trail across your skin in their wake and when they reach the swell of one your breasts it has you gasping. 

"Open your eyes, " he purrs in your ear, smoky and sonorous and it gives you no choice but to comply. You hadn't even realized that you had closed them until they're fluttering open and meeting Farleigh's in the mirror's reflection. And the smoldering want alight within them has you breathless and thrumming with anticipation. 

His other hand starts drifting, but it isn't slipping up to join the opposing one near your chest, it's traveling down low until his fingers are teasing at the band of your boxers that hang from your hips. He lets his thumb glide underneath the fabric to sweep teasing glides across the skin of your pubic mound. And you find yourself trying to lightly grind against his hand like it might get it to move lower to where you want him. But he doesn't budge, and the only thing that greets you is a condescending chuckle against the side of your head as he plants a kiss into the plush of your hair. 

"I'm going to fuck you with my fingers, and you're going to watch." 

That just about nearly makes your knees go slack. And the warmth blossoming in your stomach is thick and heady already. He doesn't even have to ask if you agree, you beat him to the punch, eagerly nodding in response with a quick yes. And it's then that his hand finally moves. Your mouth drops open when his fingers slip in between your legs, parting through the heat of you and gently grinding against your clit in heavy, teasing glides. And the fingertips on your breast softly pluck at your nipple in time with each circle around the sensitive nerves at the apex of your thighs. 

It has you becoming aware of how wet you already are, but you can't focus on the embarrassment for long because the sheer intensity of Farleigh's gaze has you in a grip. He only breaks the contact to briefly admire the shape of his hand jutting out from underneath the fabric of your boxers before it sweeps back up to your face, making you focus on yourself. There's already a glazed over sort of gleam in the reflection of your eyes, and your chest is rhythmically rising and expanding to release low, airy gasps.  

It has heat prickling at your cheeks in a self-conscious response and you can't help it when you look away from the image of the both of you to train your gaze onto something else. It wasn't seeing him that made you feel awkward, it was seeing yourself  like this that was so strange. You couldn't watch yourself like this. So, you pin your gaze onto the golden trim of the mirror instead, tracing the shapes of the cherubim and flora carved into the wood as some kind of distraction while your hips chase after the sultry simmer that's lowly building within the cradle of your hips. 

But even with that pleasure, you can't help the way you whine when the hand stroking at your breast suddenly leaves. Though you can't voice your frustration before it's slipping from underneath the shirt and taking ahold of your jaw, guiding you to tilt your head back. The cradle of his hand is almost light despite the firmness behind it, more of a suggestion really, but you find yourself yielding to it regardless. Allowing your head to loll back on your neck until it's pressed against him. 

And the angle makes you see yourself in the reflection. You want to glance away again and save yourself from the awkward prickling at your skin. 

"Watch," Farleigh orders softly, nipping at your ear like it was a kind of reprimand. 

And you can't look away now. Not with the sound of his command still ringing in your mind, all low and raspy. 

"Good girl," he purrs. Then one of his fingers is slipping inside of you and even though he had just fucked you last night, you can still feel your walls slightly stretching around the thickness of it. A ragged moan tears from your lips at the feel of it and your body mindlessly jerks against the sensation, making you unintentionally grind against the rigid heat of his cock pressing against your backside. You can hear the soft sigh of pleasure that leaves him at the feel of you rocking against him, and his eyebrows pinch close with a near rapturous type of wince. Like it already felt too good.  

It gives you a sense of satisfaction to know that even while he's pumping his finger into the heat of your cunt and working you into the throes of a syrupy, saccharine pleasure that you could still affect him. You can tell that he's noticed the slight smirk that's begun to tilt at your lips if the way that he glares at you from over your shoulder is anything to go by. And never to be one to back down from a challenge, he's gliding a second finger in alongside the other and curling them in deep. 

Your hands reach for the counter, grabbing onto the edge of the sink for some stability. For something to anchor you while pure liquid heat pours over you like melted wax. But you don't stop fucking yourself on his hand, you don't stop grinding against him either, desperately rolling the swell of your ass against the rigid press of his cock; eager to see that near wounded look that crosses his face whenever he's in pleasure. 

And it feels like a reward when his own jaw drops open with a moan. But then he's biting onto the junction of your neck like he's trying to silence himself, and the mere thought of being deprived of his voice has you whining out. Not this again . . . 

"Farleigh," you keen raggedly, almost hiccupping around the steady, repetitive thrust of his fingers. " Please, I want to hear you. Let me hear you." 

There's a brief bout of silence, and for one horrible moment you think that he's going to deprive you and leave you wanting, but then he's removing his teeth from their hold on your skin and nuzzling his nose against your head. Thankfully, he doesn't try to quiet himself. He lets his lips remain parted, allowing that gorgeous, low panting to escape, pushed out by the way that he's started to grind up against you, meeting the thrust of your hips with his own. 

He looks gorgeous like this, with his eyelids settled low over his eyes from an intense type of want and desire and you think that you can see a fine dusting of sweat already glittering over his skin from the low, golden light projecting from the bedroom behind the both of you. And even with the heavy grate from the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit and the pulse of his fingers building that consuming fire in your gut, you honestly think that a large portion of your pleasure is coming from just seeing him. 

And you think that it might be the same for him. His gaze is fixed onto you with an almost enraptured sort of quality to his gaze, like he couldn't bear to look away from you. And with the way that you're both working yourselves against each other, it's apparent that you're just blatantly getting off on seeing the other becoming worked up and clouded over with desire. 

The sounds of your joined moaning and gasps are amplified within the cradle of the bathroom walls, and it just makes your body burn all the more hotter. Your eyes nearly roll back when his fingertips brush against that debilitating spot inside of you, and your back arches involuntarily, drawing tight like a bowstring. 

"Right there, huh, baby?"  He coos a little condescending, but you couldn't care less. Not with how he's working his fingers so well. Threatening to tear you apart and make you unravel with a few more well-placed swipes. And you just nod. Anything to satisfy him and have him keep going. To nudge you closer and closer to that wonderful, tempting edge and guide you over it. 

"You really want to cum, don't you?" There's a taunting quality to his voice that easily would have tipped you off if your mind wasn't fogged over with lust but right now you're too caught up in feeling to even focus. It takes everything to even reply to him, though it comes out as more of a breathless huff of pleasure rather than an articulated response. And he's got that satisfied grin on his lips. Like he has you right where he wants you. "Then go get on the bed." 

That's the only warning you get before he's slipping his fingers from your cunt and cruelly stepping away from you. The glare that you give him is full of hurt and scathing, and you can feel the dull rise of your approaching orgasm fading into a taunting, warm pulse between your legs and your walls flutter around nothing. But he doesn't appear to be guilty in the slightest. Instead, he's lifting the hand that he had used to fuck you and places his fingers onto his tongue to suck the gauzy sheen of your cum from them. 

It has that desire flaring again and whatever quip you had at the ready extinguishing before you could even try to get it out. And you're quick to turn on your heels, trying to ignore the way that your knees slightly quiver with adrenaline and anticipation as you make your way towards the threshold of the bathroom. Though, you can't stop yourself from shooting Farleigh a look when he plants a slap on your ass when you walk past him to the bedroom. 

But regardless of your frustration, you're doing exactly as he told you and crawling back onto the plush mattress of his bed as soon as you cross the wooden floorboards. You move up on your hands and knees until you reach the pillows, and then you twist around onto your back to get comfortable, swallowing around a shaky breath. 

It takes you by complete surprise when Farleigh sweeps over you, urging you to fall onto the inviting warmth of the bedding as he climbs over your body. You hadn't even realized that he was following that closely behind, but you don't even have time to think on it before his lips are connecting with your own, urging you into heated exchange that completely siphons the oxygen from your lungs. 

And his hands are everywhere, like he's trying to feel every groove and notch of you to collect it and put it away for safekeeping. Like he's trying to memorize your body. He tastes sweet, like peppermint and ice, no doubt from the toothpaste that he had just used a bit earlier. But there's something earthy on his lips too that you gradually come to recognize as your own cum, and it has you moaning into his mouth brokenly. It prompts you to claw the boxers around his waist just like he's doing to your own, the both of you are desperate to get the pieces of fabric from your bodies so that you could finally just feel each other. 

You both separate yourselves from the kiss just long enough for you to prop yourself up to tear his sweater from your body and you don't miss the way that his eyes immediately rove down to your exposed breasts. And as much as you'd love to feel him touching them, you still need to taste his lips on your own. It has you cradling his face in your palms and dragging him down to reconnect your mouth to his in an exchange of tongue and teeth. 

You're both moaning into each other, taking in the others air and gulping in it like it's your own. The atmosphere surrounding the room is thick and charged with something so frenzied and wild that it feels like electricity is getting ready to spill over you. It has you reaching down for the boxers that he's wearing and tugging at them like they've offended you personally. And right now, they kind of are, covering him up and keeping you from properly feeling him. Thankfully, he understands what you want, and he shuffles back just enough, rising on his knees to hook his thumbs into the band secured around his hips to work them down his legs.

For a moment you can't help but admire him once the length of his cock springs out from the cloth of his boxers, but the outright desperate whine that leaves him when you stopped touching him for too long is quick to spur you into action. And you follow after him, reaching to help pull them off, but you have to nudge him on his chest, silently directing him to fall back onto the mattress. And he lets you, settling down so that you tug them past his knees and then off his feet to toss them carelessly across the room. 

But then he's on you again, quicker than you can even blink, and now you're the once again the one laying with their back against the bed. He looms over you with something hungry and eager burning in his eyes and it has your body involuntarily writhing to press up against his own. Distraught with the need to just feel him. He's quick to tear your boxers off with an equal fervor, but he doesn't wait for you to try and help him. He practically rips them off of you, nearly dragging you down the bed when they briefly catch on one of the heels of your feet. 

You spread your legs to let him fully settle between their cradle and the weight of his length pressing against the wet heat of your cunt nearly makes you sob out loud. But unfortunately, despite the frenzy that had overcame him before, he still seems to be in the mood to tease, at least somewhat.  Because instead of offering the both of you the relief that you crave and just fucking you, he just settling himself over you, leaning the brunt of weight on his elbows as he ducks his head down low and takes one of your nipples into the sweltering heat of his mouth. 

You cry out when he sucks at it, tracing it with the tip of his tongue and gently tugging at it with the barely-there scrape of his teeth. It makes you grip onto his shoulders for some sort of tether. Anything to keep you from just floating away from your body. But he doesn't give you any sort of reprieve before he starts to grind against you, dragging his cock through the slick warmth of your cunt and nudging the swollen, sensitive bud of your clit with the head of his length. 

Your fingernails drag across the skin of his back, but it doesn't hurt him if the way that he groans around your breast is any indication. You can't do anything other than just lying back and taking it. And as impatient as you feel, you can't deny that it feels good to try and endure the sweet torture of him making you wait. And you just allow yourself to fall into the melted, sugary haze filling up your skull. 

Your legs fall open wider when his cock slips across you and brushes over your entrance, and for one blessed moment you think that he might actually fuck you. But he doesn't. He just continues to grind steadily; increasing that stifling, profound heat in your body, and it trickles down the individual notches of your spine until it's pouring between the cradle of your hips and settling between your thighs like something molten and inextinguishable and fluid. 

His lips leave your breast with an audible pop but he's fast to shift over and take your other nipple into his mouth, moaning around your chest and teasing the rigid, sensitive skin with the suction of his tongue. It makes you whimper, a little pathetic and certainly needy, and you can feel the vibrations of his smug laughter dancing across your skin. 

It pisses you off, the outright way that he's teasing you and as good as this is, as good as it feels, you need him. You can't keep yourself from removing your hands from the expanse of his back and taking his face back into your hands to move his head from your breast to look at you. Something flickers in his eyes, it could have been a mild form of irritation, but you aren't exactly in the best state of mind to be sure. It melts away just as quickly as it had been there, shifting into something satisfied and fond at the sight of you and there's a dazed sort of quality to his gaze too. And you're pretty sure that you look just as drunk on your lust as he does. 

"Farleigh, please. " You beg shamelessly, panting against his lips as you press desperate, pronounced kisses against his lips. You can feel the way that he's smirking underneath each peck, but you can't find it in yourself to be mad. You're too worked up, and the constant, languid drag of his cock against your clit is doing wonders to evaporate every single coherent thought from your brain. "I need you. Please, I need you to just fuck me - please -" 

"Yeah, you do need me, don't you?" It's said such a matter-of-fact way but even with that haze stuffing your head, you swear that you can see something pass over his expression. Something that almost looks vulnerable and maybe even insecure. It reminds you off his earlier confession. How he had admitted that he'd always assumed that you had a crush on Felix, or that you would eventually come to develop one at the very least. 

It reminds you of your own jealously that you had felt every time that you saw someone with their arms wrapped around his neck or exchanging a flirty set of words. How it had always threatened to choke you with the searing, ugly heat. It hurts you to think that he may still carry that pain now, even while he's wrapped up in your embrace. 

"I need you, " you agree. And you do your best to pour all of your emotions into it, to telegraph to him that it's so much more than sex talk. That you want him to know that you do actually need him. That it's been him. That it's always been him. "I need you, Farleigh. Just you." 

And it must work. The scope of your emotions must show across your face because something affectionate and tender melts over his features and he confirms that he's heard you with subtle nod. 

"I've got you, " he says, pressing a long, wanting kiss to your lips. "I got you, baby." 

And he lifts one of his hands down to take ahold of his girth while he softly rotates his hips, grinding the head of his cock around your clit one last time before he's finally guiding himself into your heat. The moan that leaves you is punched out and ragged already, and your walls clench and flutter around him as he splits you open, gradually feeding you every glorious inch at a time. Letting you feel all of it as it slips inside until he's physically stopped by the press of his hips against yours. 

He's panting already too, groaning lowly from the way that your pussy won't stop pulsing around him as it adjusts to his length. But you can't help it. Not when he feels so good. And your eyes fix onto the delicate necklaces draped from his neck, focusing on the pendants dangling from them to try and keep yourself present. 

You don't even have to beg. He's drawing back until it's just his tip inside of you and then he's thrusting forward in a way that leaves you breathless. But it isn't rapid or ardent like it was last night or even just a little earlier, instead it's unhurried and savoring. The both of you seeming to come to the conclusion that you don't have to scramble zealously. That the both of you already have each other. That neither of you are going to leave the other and you could fully relish in your bodies and presence completely unrushed. 

Your hips lift on their own, instinctively rocking to meet the languorous pattern that he's set, and it has your head rolling back. But even while you're fully basking in the rapturous drag of his cock, you can't pull your eyes from him. The burning, smoldering fog taking over you can't keep you from admiring him and the way that the golden sunlight has highlighted the flecks of a rich bronze and even some faint glints of copper in his hair. There's a thin layer of sweat perspiring on the warm shade of his skin and that pinched furrow between his eyebrows is back, telling you that he's enjoying this just as much as you are. 

And the pleasure is washing over you like heated butter, making your toes curl and fingers twist into the sheets for something to keep you roped here; from drifting off from this moment and getting lost. The breathless moans leaving his chest just work you up even more, making you desperate and wanton. 

He's ducking his head down to mouth at your exposed neck, taking advantage of the way that your head is still tilted back. And he reaches down to grip at one of your thighs, notching it up higher around his waist and it somehow makes you feel all that closer. Eliminating just a few centimeters worth of space between the two of you but it's enough to have you gasping. 

"Farleigh," you cry. And you reach one of your hands up to clasp his upper arm, feeling the muscles underneath flex with each shift from his hips. He grinds into you with each thrust, rolling his hips in a way that has his pelvis grinding over your clit and liquefying your brain into useless mush. It almost feels like too much. It's lighting you on fire and scorching you from the inside out. And the sweet kisses that he's peppering across your skin doesn't help your case. It just helps to make you feel even more adrift, lost in a seizing current and frothing waves. 

You can distantly feel him tenderly nuzzle his nose between the valley of your breast, and the sensation of his tongue trailing across your chest quickly follows, tasting the salt of your skin. And the head of his cock brushes against that spot within you that makes you squirm and sob, and you can tell that the way that you've begun to helplessly jerk underneath him is just the reaction that he was searching for, judging by the feel of his smirk against your body. That he's absolutely reveling in the way that tears have begun to prickle at the corners of your eyes from the pleasure ravaging your body; threatening to spill.  

And as cocky as he may be, you can tell that he's not doing much better. The shameless way that he's moaning out gives away as much; airy and debauched. 

God, he sounds so hot, it has that fluid warmth steadily rising up again, just threatening to tip over you and sweep you away. It has you fucking yourself against him with ardor, whimpering at the persistent cant of his hips. And you keep tightening yourself around the shape of his length, determined to drag him down with you, to feel him come undone and spill over. 

You can tell that he's getting close with the way that his breath his hitching. That you're both hanging off the precipice of something extraordinary and debilitating and it makes you cling to him harder, swinging your other leg around his waist to hold him closer, to try and ground yourself. But the air in your lungs keeps getting choked out, and you're barely able to get your warning out from your lungs. "Farleigh, " you moan, gasping. " I'm gonna cum. Farleigh - " 

He just nods against your chest, huffing and panting over your skin. "I know, baby, I can feel it." 

One of your hands blindly searches around, scrambling for his own that he has somewhere above your head. And he seems to take notice of your unseeing pursuit because soon his fingers are slipping between your own and clenching your palm in a soothing, reaffirming gesture. It has pure devotion blooming within your chest, so strong that it feels as though you might fall apart and burn alight with it. 

He lifts his head from its place on your chest, subtly shifting forward without disrupting the pace that he's set so that he could settle his forehead against yours, using the angle to look into your eyes. And the warmth reflecting in them makes you feel like the only being in the world. Coveted and adored and you can only hope that he's able to recognize the same reverence and affection in your own gaze. That he truly understands how much you actually care and want for him. 

And the sheer breadth of your feelings, of his, of this moment has that all-consuming chasm opening up underneath you and threatening to swallow you whole. But you just need something. Just something small to finally tip you over. 

"Farleigh, " you beg. And it's like he can just sense it. Or maybe he can just feel it in the way that your muscles have all coiled up and tensed in anticipation. Because you don't even have to ask or clarify before he's reaching down between your bodies and swiping his fingers over the slick, swollen bud of your clit in brushes that have your jaw dropping open. 

"Farleigh!" This time you all but scream it as your body seizes almost violently, sweeping you underneath a blazing torrent. It's like being scalded by the sun in an exquisite burn, like breathing after drowning. It's pure pleasure. Complete ecstasy. And the entire time, you're fully aware of feel of Farleigh's body against your own. The way that his thrusts have gone choppy and lurching. You can still hear the way that he's moaning and whimpering even though it sounds muffled and distant and miles away while your brain goes blissfully blank from the brunt of all molten elation pouring throughout your limbs, making you go limp. 

But even throughout all of the overwhelming pleasure taking over you, you hardly allow your eyes to flutter closed; desperate to see him come undone. You can tell that he's close. Just seconds from spilling over and getting swept up just as you had. And it has you squeezing yourself around him, desperate to urge him closer to his orgasm, despite the raw, sensitivity clinging to your nerves. 

"I want you to cum, " you say breathlessly. His face twists up in response, and his hips twitch with just a bit more vigor. "Please, baby, I want to feel it. I need to feel you." 

And that seems to be enough to tip him over the edge, because his body goes rigid, nearly curling in on itself while a torn, frayed moan rips from his lungs and the heat of his cum fills you. His breath catches while he uses you to ride out the rest of his orgasm, and his muscles shudder while he grinds into you with weak, uncoordinated thrusts before he goes lax with a strained gasp. 

He lets himself go boneless on top of you, sinking into your body with a light, satisfied sigh. But the weight of him isn't uncomfortable. It feels good, and you have no desire to make him or yourself shift while you soak in the afterglow. Everything is hazy and comforting, and it feels as though all of the energy has been sapped from your body, but in the best way. 

You can hear the birds outside again, singing and jovial, and the scent of the sweet summer air is still drifting through the window. It's pure peace, with the feel of his form up against you. All of the chemicals moving around in your brain make it difficult to focus, but even then, you're aware enough to notice him briefly reaching down to gather up the comforter, which had shifted in the mad scramble of your bodies to pull it up over the both of you. 

And you can hear yourself moan quietly when he rotates you both without pulling himself out from the heat of your body. So now that you're the one tucked into the cradle of his chest, but all you get is a gentle hush in response. And with the heat radiating from his skin and the cushion of the blankets cocooned around you both it already has you slipping into the hold of sleep as you both settle. But even with the lull of unconsciousness threatening to spill over you, you can't hide from the volume of the emotions welling up within you. It all feels unexplainable. All-encompassing and bright. Like it might burst. Like it might eat you alive. But not violently. It's soft and delicate and fiery, and the sheer gravity of it has you struggling to grapple with it. 

You know what it is. What you're feeling. But that's another step to take entirely. 

"We've still got some time to catch up on some sleep, " you hear him mumble above you in a gentle rasp. "I'll wake you up." 

You just hum in response, but not without placing a small peck onto his chest and nuzzling against him, purely content. And you think that you feel him place a kiss onto the crown of your head in turn and you're unable to fight the smile that curves at your lips. 

You fall asleep in his arms with that single, world altering word on the tip of your tongue. A small, otherwise harmless but no doubt powerful word that sounds a lot like love. 

[thecontainerstoreofficial]

the gag of this is it turns out she didnt even particularly want this job and ended up accepting an offer from somewhere else 😭 my Certified Propp Lifehack here is to set your standards so low such that even if a more competent person stumbles along, theyre so deeply uninterested in whatever you want that theres no feasible competition

found out that me and my best friend were in direct competition in the final stages of interviews for my dream job and i got so stressed that i accidentally walked 3 hours in platforms and now my feet hurt