#this one took a while because i had to summon the fortitude to write it

[tes-trash-blog]

ElaborTe

So if you like Nords or stan them or cherish them as much as I do the Snow Elves, you might wanna skip this one.

TW: White supremacy, Neo-Nazism, the trash blog going completely off their shits

From the early days of the Elder Scrolls, the Nords have always been.. Well, Norse-coded. As far as races and their lore-evolutions go, they’re the only ones who have held steady in their Nordy McNordness throughout the series. They’ve always been hardy, fair-haired men and women from frozen reaches of Skyrim. They’ve always had a foothold in that tundra, as early as the days of Labrynthian, first featured in Arena. They’ve always preferred axes and steel over magic and guile, and before anyone says anything about Project Tamriel or out-of-game lore or whatever Kirkbride said about robots and wasabi, I’m talking explicitly about canon here, as canon is what most gamers see in these games.

From their appearance to their armor and weapons to the draugr and ancient gods, the Nords are very much the Elder Scrolls’ answer to the Fantasy Viking, which in itself is based on the Vikings of yonder year.. Give or take a few embellishments. Their axes have harsh-but-intricate carvings, their armor is lined with fur and made from honest steel, they have names like Hulda and Sigrid, Roggvir and Thongvor, their voice actors hail from Sweden or can put on a Scandivan-esque accent. They look, sound, act, and dress Norse.

In media studies, this is called coding, a relatively new term in academia and so far still largely used in queer studies. Unlike allegory, which is an intentional one-to-one comparison of something vis a vis Lion Witch and the Wardrobe or Ender’s Game, coding is by and large unintentional, or at least unclaimed and not explicitly stated. It is a byproduct of beliefs, biases, and bumbletyfucks the writer possessed as they created a work, and left unchecked it can lead to problematic elements.

This isn’t to say that coding is terrible, or Bad, or Problematic (though it often is at least one, and sometimes all three), but rather, it is a limitation of being human. Most writers are human as are most of the audiences the media reaches out to, and as such are bound by their worldview and preconceived notions and biases. Just because it can be problematic doesn’t necessarily mean it always is going to be problematic. A skilled writer can recognize this and work around it, or even play with the preconceived notions the audience has. I’ve seen very few white writers accomplish this, even fewer that were cisgendered men, but it’s doable.

However, if these notions are left unchecked, unchallenged, and uncritically accepted, you end up with uh, things. Things like, oh, the Khajiit who steal and deal drugs and travel in “caravans” (oof), the Bosmer who are the only brown Elves in the game and are also cannibals (yikes), the Reachfolk are dressed in untanned animal skins and wear antlers and do guerilla warfare and fucking yikes Bethesda what were you thinking???

You also end up with the Nords, who really took a nosedive from Fantasy Vikings into Gleeful Killers with Magic Shouting come Morrowind, where the Snow Elves had a proper introduction if only to show that the Nords of old were mass murderers, but, y’know, felt kinda bad about it after a child soldier killed their leader. It makes for a sad story, but it’s a cheap, Ender's Game-esque out so the viewer doesn’t have to feel bad about rooting for them. “They felt bad, guys! It’s okay!”

These deeply problematic aspects of Nords-as-homicidal-maniacs only became more apparent with the arrival of The Elder Scrolls 5: Skyrim.

Here’s where that white supremacy warning I gave earlier comes into play. You still got some time to check out and enjoy your day.

Still here? Alright.

It was a perfect storm. As I said in a previous rant, Skyrim came about in a time of unprecedented White Anxiety. I cannot stress enough how much white people lost their damn minds when Obama was elected president. There were threats on the then-President’s life, on his wife and daughters, on a daily basis. Gun sales reached record highs out of fear that the boogeyman Democrat would take their guns away. Libertarianism soon became a shorthand for a white supremascist who likes to smoke weed. The so called Tea Party screamed about “freedom of religion” while openly applauding anti-Islamic hate crimes and calling the President by his middle name/dogwhistle “Hussien”, white supremacist hate sites saw an influx of traffic; Stormfront, the oldest of the bunch, saw a jump from 23,000 users in 2004 to over 100,000 in 2008, and this was before bot users were a thing admins had to weed out, this was before a certain foreign power took a keen interest in installing a useful idiot.

This was home-brewed vitriol.

All the while, right wing media went batshit. Fox News had their Mustardgate “scandal”, a dogwhistle to their populist audience that their leaders weren’t like “the average American”. Conspiracy theories sprung up right and left (pun intended) about the Obama administration and “the shadow government”, of which those neo-Nazi sites, with their surge in fresh-faced users,  were a wellspring for. Being the Internet, their memes and “facts Big Media doesn’t want you to hear” spread like a cancer to the greater Internet-- Reddit and its subsidiary Imgur, Tumblr, Twitter, 9Gag, countless other pockets of blogospheres and forums and media platforms. It was, and still is, fucking inescapable.

And of course, Nazis love them that Norse aesthetic. They love the cold where only real men could survive, unlike those weak-willed patsies and *checks notes* dijon-mustard lovers. They love the pale skin and light hair of the people as that’s their idea of genetic purity. They love the runes, the affectations, how the Norse folk of old just invaded and pillaged and were so strong, they did Blood Eagles and were so masculine.

And therein lies why I hate the Nords. I hate how they went from Generic Viking to Murder Men, I hate the direction Morrowind and onward took with them, I hate how no one had the foresight to either tone down these aspects or put a spin on them like they seemed to do with other races. I hate how quickly actual racists took to this fake ass race, I hate how they tried to pull a “both sides are the same” in that stupid Civil War questline when one side is an actual ethno-nationalist paramilitary cult. 

I hate how the writers of Skyrim were cowards, and I hate that they apparently looked at Ur-Fascism and saw a checklist. I hate that they gave the Nords, and by extension you, the player, a moral justification for rallying against a “high-brow”, “elitist”, “globalist” “oppressive”, distinctly non-Nordic and non-Mannish group of people because they “threaten the Nord way of life”. But let’s make the Elves the Nazi allegory so there’s no qualms whatsoever about siding with the Fantasy Republicans. I hate that every other stereotype of non-Nord races can be found in that game, from the skooma dealing Dunmer to the thieving Khajiit to the bootlicker Imperial to the fucking High Elves. I hate that they only expanded on the morally-justified genocide of the Snow Elves with Songs of the Return, and then further reinforce how “good” that was by having you meet the guy who slaughtered children. I hate how, barring one easily missable side quest that still uses bothsidesism there is no challenge to this bullshit way of thinking. I hate that a sizable chunk of Stormcloakblr are also very clearly racist. I hate that my Ysgramor/Pelinal shitpost started to gain traction after someone with a rage face icon reblogged it with a “Kill All Elves” tag. I’ve deleted it since. The meaning is lost on those wastes of breath, and was 100% the cause for this rant.

I hate how the writers could have done better, but didn’t.

[lena-in-a-red-dress]

My (jumbled) Thoughts on 5x18

I took a little bit to ruminate on the episode, because honestly for the majority of the episode I just couldn’t get emotionally involved. I just had no connection to it, and as much as I hate to say it, it serves as the perfect example of everything that’s wrong with this season.

They asked us to focus on not one, not two, but THREE competing plots. Four if you count Alex and Kara separately after they divide and conquer. Not only that, but they asked us to focus on the same three plots they’ve failed to meaningfully address since the start of the season. As a result, I was bored and resentful of these plots that mean nothing and yet are still taking up so much episode time, and STILL NOT GOING ANYWHERE.

The destruction of the DEO should have been a powerful and meaningful reset of our Supergirl-viewing foundation, but-- I couldn’t summon up anything more than a “huh. wonder if it’ll stick.” Because honestly? It came at the end of a season where the DEO has been a non-player. It’s no longer the base of operations, the superfriends were getting along just fine without it, and in recent eps it had slid slowly but surely into villain territory with Brainy being Lex’s little bitch dog. The DEO had become a non entity, and so its destruction feels like little more than the striking of a set. 

Now, there was one redeeming factor of the episode. Lena. But only one part of her change of heart. The scene where she confronted Lex had my heart in my throat. The way he got in her face, and she stood her ground and took it just long enough to get an opening to deliver the baddest one liner ever: “It doesn’t mean I have to be (a monster) too.”

The amount of strength that took. The fact she said it to the face of her abuser is the surest demonstration of her strength and emotional fortitude. 

Now. 

The scene between Kara and Lena left more to be desired, because it put Lena in the very position I did not want her: out in the cold, begging for Kara’s trust. Which Kara only provisionally provided: she’s not sold yet, which is the second character assassination this episode (which that deserves its own post). The scene might have brought them together, but it didn’t relieve the tension. It didn’t provide the reconciliation we’ve been waiting for all season. 

I agree that at some point, Lena would have needed to have this sort of confession scene, tear-filled and all but begging for a hug. But it was supposed to come AFTER Kara’s. After all, Kara was the one who hurt Lena first, and the best effort we got from her was international coffee and a couple of scones. Where was Lena’s chance to begrudgingly and wordlessly offer Kara a chair at her table, to plead her case? 

We didn’t get that, and while a nuanced story might be able to give us that in the future, it’s not the kind of writing you typically get out of a television show, and it’s not the kind of writing we get with THIS show. 

[5lazarus]

Hi Lazarus! from the hurt/comfort prompts: “Hey, just look at me. Breathe.” Thank you!!

this story got completely out of control, but I vomited up 2.5k words from this prompt! thank you for sending it! I had a lot of fun with this little story, and while I don’t think I managed to bring it to a successful resolution, it taught me a lot about pacing!

to recap, you inspired a whole story idea with the first hug prompt you sent me. I was thinking about what Hawke & friends must have gone through, escaping Kirkwall, and how utterly miserable and emotionally shattered every single one of them must have been. what would that emotional catharsis have looked like? then ellie-elfie sent me a few prompts, which I looped into the story you inspired here, and then ended with this. I posted it on AO3 as Catabasis, though I realize I stopped the story before they go back underground. Thanks again for inspiring this. This was a lot of fun! 

The warm wet of the woods washes away the ash of the last of Kirkwall. Merrill winds them through the muddy woods. She makes them take their shoes off to confuse their tracks, despite Anders muttering about hookworm and Varric’s hatred of dirt, and routinely casts a spell to shift the leaf litter back over their prints. “It’s going to look like elves were travelling, if they’re looking at all,” she says. “Not four humans, a dwarf, and Dog.” Dog barks merrily at the mention of him and Fenris shushes him. “In Seheron, we had caligo lagoenae,” Fenris says. “Can you do something similar?” “Fenris, I don’t speak Tevene,” Merril says shortly. Hawke puts their hand on her shoulder. She is still irritated over the grammar argument in the cave, and Hawke knows she has refused to learn Tevene as a point of principle. Bethany’s said that the best way to learn old magic is to read the magisterium’s journals. Merrill has said the only elves who know Tevene are slaves and slavers, and she would rather not. She continues, “Do you know it in Common? Or is it a spellword?” Fenris snaps, “Don’t patronize me,” and now it is Anders’ turn to step in and diffuse the situation. “I can work up a fog,” he says. “But you’re better at nature magic than I am, Merrill.” They don’t bother asking Bethany, because Bethany is best at curses and massively destructive rift spells. Hawke smirks to themself. Their family always makes a splash, wherever they go--good thing Merrill knows how to cover it up. Merrill weaves and thickens the humidity of the already cloying woods into a thick fog. Bethany summons a small flame and leads them forward, Fenris at her side, checking for signs that his underground left. Aveline sighs. “Creeping through the forest with a thick fog, as if that’s not suspicious.” She shakes her head. Fenris made her change into a light leather armor and leave her guard’s uniform behind. She looks close to the worn woman that Hawke met, all those long years ago, with the security of Kirkwall of her back. She still clutches her sword. Hawke is sorry they made her throw away the Amell family shield. They cannot help but suspect Fenris took some pleasure out of ordering Aveline out of her uniform. They’ve wanted to do the same for so long too, but they know the only way to balance their friends is to step out of the way. Aveline is an idealist, perhaps even more than Anders is; she finds her disillusionment in her own way. Hawke mutters a curse as they step into a particularly noxious puddle of mud. They’ve pushed her further down it, certainly. “Dunno how you stand this,” Hawke says. “The mud. The bugs. Fungus. Do you ever think you’re going to get infected with, like, mushroom people?” “Mushroom people,” Varric mutters. “That’s a good one. Better than lizards.” “No, really,” Hawke protests, scraping the mud of their feet on a tree. Merrill, irritated, waves a hand and the mud hardens and falls off. Hawke blushes: right, that’s a very clear mark a person was there. “Sorry. But, we’ve all seen some strange things in our time in Kirkwall. Amulets that turn into strange witches who can turn into dragons and eat darkspawn. Trees that turn into angry men-spirit-elf things that guard tombs. An actual ancient elvhen god, living in the sewer.” “You know, it’s not so clear Xebenkeck was one of my people’s gods,” Merrill says testily. “She is referred to as both a Forbidden One in our lore and a Forgotten One in the Chantry’s interpolation of the Tevinter text, and--” “Pedant,” Hawke says fondly. “But given all the weird shit we’ve had to fight, I feel like we’re due for some mushroom people springing up on us.” Merrill says, “That’s not how the Fade works. This is land still roved by the People. Think about it like a garden. A good Keeper prunes back the rot and the overgrowth, and leaves space for growth. And burns it out, when necessary. Kirkwall hasn’t had a good Keeper in a long time.” “Or First,” Fenris says nastily. Merrill says, “That demon took Marethari, Fenris. Not me. And if you’re not able to understand that, I don’t understand how you’re able to tolerate Justice and Anders and not what I did with Audacity.” “Because Justice isn’t a demon,” Anders says angrily. Merrill sighs. “I haven’t the time to argue Chantry propaganda with you. You can lead a halla to the water, but you can’t make him drink. I don’t understand how you can hate the Circles and still impose the way they shape the Fade--” “Oh, come off it, you’re worse than Velanna,” Anders says. “Even you have to admit, that time Hawke dragged us into the Fade, that demons mirror Andraste’s teachings on the seven deadliest sins.” “Only because Andrastians outnumber us now,” Merrill argues. “Because when I dream with my clan, we see spirits inherently different--which implies that there is no set form, as you say. What’s the line between Justice and Vengeance, anyway? Between Pride and Fortitude, Audacity and Courage? Fenris, you must have seen how Seheron feels differently than, say, Minrathous, or Kirkwall, or even Wycombe and the Friendly Homes. Where the Fade touches the Waking World--” “They’re going to go on like this for hours,” Varric says. “And I don’t understand shit. Sunshine, why don’t you ever join in?” “Both of them are far too proud to be fun to argue with,” Bethany shrugs. She pushes the lick of flame over her head and nudges it onward. It warms her tired face. Hawke thinks that she looks like their mother, as beautiful as her too, and Leandra would be furious to see the mess their children had made of their lives, on the run again. But she would be happy that they were alive. They troop through the forest, wet and muddy and irritable, and eventually even Anders runs out of things to argue about. Hawke grows comfortable in the smell of Merrill’s petrichor spells. Though the mud is admittedly unpleasant, they like the feel of wet grass sticking to their feet and legs. The woods are loud, Merrill’s magic feels like a hug from her herself, and they feel like they may just get through this. The ground grows rocky as they climb into the Vimmarks. Varric, though he hates inclined surfaces, argues that it is safer to stay in the mountains and follow a winding path past Ostwick rather than risk crossing them and skirting so close to Starkaven. “Prince Charming won’t think we’ll go up,” he says. “Trust me. One thing Sebastian knows about me, is how much I hate hiking.” They set up camp in rock shelters Merrill picks out. She knows this part of the route better than Fenris. Rain sets back in at night. Hawke wonders if Merrill inadvertently summoned it, with her fog spells. It is hard to gauge what a mage can do, because their friends regularly do the impossible. Varric has plucked arrows out of the air, Fenris can pass through walls like a lyrium-infused ghost, and Aveline took down the eldritch horror of a rock wraith in the Deep Roads. The feel of the caves is fantastic. The air tastes good, somehow, fresh and hungry, and the walls are inscribed with runes, layered through the ages. Some of them Merril can read, and she and Fenris sit down with a notebook and they go over them together, Merrill saying the words aloud and Fenris trying to write them down. Anders sits next to Hawke as they watch them. They are all tired, but the tension has been easing the further they get away from the city. They are not sure any of this can be resolved, but right now, they are too tired to fight. “Has Fenris been teaching  you his dialect?” Hawke asks. “Merrill tries with me, she’s very particular about it. Says my accent is adorably shit.” Anders says, “Justice knows Elvhen. I--sometimes I know it when he says it, sometimes I don’t. It’s easier when the Veil is thinner, but gives me a headache.” “Huh. So spirits speak Elvhen.” Hawke turns to Bethany. “How does that work?” She is the Fade expert, out of the trio, though Bethany disengages with grace whenever Merrill disagrees with her. Bethany shrugs. “Dunno. Maker’s first children? Anecdotally I’ve heard that elvhen mages are more susceptible to the Harrowing--” “That’s not true,” Anders interrupts, “that’s because of templar bias and the way they’re discriminated against--” “Let me finish, Anders,” Bethany says, irritated. “As I was saying. There seems to be a stronger pull between elves and spirits, and Merrill thinks is has to do with Dalish cosmology, though that wouldn’t make sense because Orsino--well, no one has actually studied it. And now no one will, not with what’s happening with the Circles. If they don’t just kill us all.” “Fiona won’t let that happen,” Anders says, face hard. “The Liberati have enough of a majority to push for a vote.” Bethany snorts. “Didn’t know you were that engaged in Circle politics.” “I voted,” Anders protests. “Until it was no longer useful for me.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hawke says. “I’m gonna go talk to Varric instead.” The days proceed much like the rest. People talk. Hawke listens. They learn that Isabela, Anders, and Merrill have all met the hero-wardens of Ferelden before. Merrill comes from the same clan as Warden Mahariel, though Sabrae split before the Blight. Anders still corresponds with Surana, who lives in Amaranthine to avoid the stress of warden politics and to support Warden Tabris, who Isabela hooked up with in Denerim. Isabela also slept with the Left Hand of the Divine, they discover, and the King of Ferelden’s lover. “Though we couldn’t talk him into bed with us,” she sighs. “Though Zevran and Tabris and I really tried. He just--I think he got overwhelmed by all the anatomy. Poor boy.” Hawke snickers. The days go on like this, aching their way through the Vimmarks. These are the paths the Dalish take, and escaped slaves, and occasionally mages. They find marks of all three groups overlapping, though Bethany casts enough obfuscation hexes to keep them from intersecting that she collapses in her bedroll at the end of each day, shaking. Likewise cleaning their tracks begins to take a toll on Merrill. She withdraws into herself, focusing on relentlessly hiding their trail, and not even Varric can get her to laugh. “I’m tired,” she says. “And I need to focus. Please stop.” Hawke decides they need a rest day at the border of Hercinia and Wycombe. Fenris knows a cave system that will take them directly to his friends from Clan Lavellan, who promised him refuge the last time they saw him. He claims it will only take two days, but it will be two days without sunlight, and Hawke remembers how depressed Varric got without the sky. They camp in a treehouse built into a grove right below the mouth of the cave. Everyone is quiet, for the most part, curled around the fire. Aveline hums as she patches a shirt for Isabela, and Anders goes through his medicine bag to reassure himself they have enough to heal them through to Wycombe. Varric stares into the fire. “When I write about this,” he says, “I think I’ll keep this for myself.” “Why?” Bethany asks. He purses his lips, thinking. Hawke wraps their arms around Merrill, who is already half-asleep, and enjoys their friends. It is always fun to watch Varric think, he’s the cleverest out of all them, except maybe Merrill. Merrill buries her face in their arms, and they look down, concerned. She is upset, and there is nowhere private to ask why. The fire casts shadows over his face. Varric looks old. They all do. It has been a hard month. He says finally, “Because there’s no romance in it. No one wants to read about the Champion and their friends all fighting, and not really coming to any consensus besides that they want to stop fighting and be safe. There’s no moral in it, nothing uplifting. Just that people fight, viciously. That we make mistakes we can’t fix. And we just have to live with it. It’s not compelling. Not like our story in Kirkwall, which is more about Kirkwall. Who are we without the city in the background? I don’t know. I think I’ll end it in the docks. Or maybe with us watching the city burn. So people can assign us closure. Choose their own happy ending, because I don’t know what ours will be yet.” Isabela says, “Nothing special, just pieces.” She stretches again. “Keep talking like that and you’ll end up a Qunari. Our story doesn’t need a moral, Varric. That’s not how life works.” “I know that,” he says. “But that’s not the point. The story isn’t life. So I can make it work however I want.” Merrill pushes herself up in Hawke’s lap and whispers in their ear, “If they all start arguing again I will either scream or cry, I haven’t decided yet.” The journey has taken its toll on her. Hawkes examines her closely and sees the shadows like smudges under her eyes. She’s paler than usual, and she starts shaking. Hawke inclines to the edge of the treehouse with their head and quickly they move as far as they can from the others. Bethany looks at them questioningly, but they shake their head sharply. Mercifully they are left alone. Bethany is a good sister. She knows exactly when to look the other way and cause a distraction--and that she does, wheedling Varric to read a piece from his book. As the others laugh at the mess Varric has made of them, Hawke turns to Merrill. They ask, “Are you alright?” The fire casts light into Merrill’s eyes like a cat’s. When she looks at them, her eyes shine and Hawke cannot help but remember how otherworldly she is. She bridges both worlds, the Dalish and the human, but sometimes the old magic wills out. Merrill says, “Clan Lavellan doesn’t like me much. Because of Marethari. I don’t get along with their First. And I’m not sure how their Keeper will respond to me.” “Then they’re idiots,” Hawke says, “and we’ll keep moving. Send Aveline to resupply in town, and move onto Rivain. Dairsmuid or Llomerryn, or that Dalish town Isabela talked about.” Merrill is shaking harder now. “No.” Hawke takes her hands, but she pulls away. “I wish it were that easy, vhenan. But there won’t be anywhere to go. Not with the Dalish. Because of me.” “Hey,” Hawke says. “Just look at me. Breathe. That’s not true. Look at me.” Merrill’s eyes flash back to blue. “We got this far, okay? And I’m okay with--I didn’t grow up as nomadic as you, but I can do it. It could be fun. I liked moving, as a kid. Bethany and I are used to it. And if we can get another ship, well, that’ll make things easier. And you know Isabela’s going to get us on a ship at some point. I know everything is changing. If the Divine calls that Exalted March...well, you remember what that dragon lady said.” “Asha’bellanar,” Merrill corrects, lips twitching. “And it was a prayer to Mythal that revived her, there’s something in that.” Hawke sighs. “Well, you remember what she said.” They close their eyes and focus on the words, which has haunted them since--partly because the delivery had been so terrifying. They quote, “‘We stand upon the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment...and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.’ And, well, we’re lying up in the sky right now, so I think we’re doing alright.” Merrill smiles despite herself. “How do you remember that?” she asks. “I don’t even remember it like that.” “Varric wrote it down,” Hawke confesses. “And it sounded so cool I memorized it. It’s good advice.” Merrill turns to the fire, where Aveline is holding a book with a luridly pink cover over the fire while Anders and Isabela cackle and Varric jumps, protesting. She says, “I know I shouldn’t have let Keeper find out about Audacity. She thought I was weak, but I knew her pride, I knew her arrogance. And her fear, since Tamlen died. I should’ve written to Mahariel, who could’ve convinced her. Or gone to the Applewood--but I didn’t. And though I lost my clan, I still have you. My aravel.” She gestures to their friends. “Walkers of the lonely path, who never submit.” She smiles sadly. “I think I fell into that abyss, Hawke. And now I’m starting to float up.” Hawke takes her hand and kisses it. Her nails are bitten to the quick. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” they say. “Can you teach Anders that spell?” “No, vhenan,” Merrill shakes her head. “It’s--it was part of my duties as First, to clear the tracks of the aravel. I can’t teach a human that. I love you all, but that is for myself.” They accept that, and all the ways Merrill pushes herself too hard, and hand-in-hand they get up and rejoin their friends at the fire. There is a touch of mania to the conversation. Everyone is utterly shattered, but they do not want to go to sleep. No one knows what the next day will bring, and they are clinging to the routine they have set up. Hawke blinks and pretends that they are at the Hanged Man for a moment, but the bar has run dry, so they are all stuck being sober and chummy with each other. It doesn’t work. It feels dishonest, and the woods smell too good. Finally, Aveline takes charge. “We need to rest. Especially you, Merrill. Those spells couldn’t have been easy. We’ll get up before dawn and head out then.” Fenris speaks up. “And Clan Lavellan will hide us, for however long we need.” He looks at Merrill steadily. “First Lavellan promised me that. They will not abandon their vhenallin. And she owes me a favor, anyway.” Varric says idly, “There’s a story in there.” Bethany groans. “Not more stories, please,” she says. “Aveline’s right, we do need to rest. This part’s nearly over.” She banks the fire to keep it burning low through the night and they set up their last camp before the descent. Hawke is struck by the faith they have in them, going through their nightly routine. They have been two weeks on the road, camping through the woods, and though they have spent it mostly at each other’s throats, they have made it through. So little has been resolved, and there is still so much unknown. As Flemeth predicted, they stand balanced on the precipice of change, and they know they are about to launch themselves off that cliff. But they have their friends to slow that crash, and by this point, who knows? Maybe the witch will turn them into a dragon. Settling into their sleeping roll, Hawke cannot help but grin. They faced down the Blight, the long march to Kirkwall, the Deep Roads, their mother’s death, and the start of a revolution. What could possibly happen next? They whisper to Merrill, “I feel like this world is dying. It’s monstrous.” They smirk. “Monstrously exciting. Can’t you feel it? A new world is trying to be born.”

[luxexhomines]

1 saiouma, please ? :3

Thank you for the request, and happy saiouma day!! I didn’t know there was a saiouma day until I opened tumblr and saw all the fantastic art posted. I wasn’t sure if I had the spoons to write today, but I made it! Somewhere, it’s still March 10th, so it’s not late–at least, not yet…

1. don’t leave me

saiouma

Ouma woke up in a cold sweat, his eyes wide open as he lay there, still trapped in the images of the dreams that returned night after night to force him back into undead life within the merciless game of slaughter.

Trembling, all he could do was hold himself tighter–yet it seemed that if he did so, his frail body would shatter like a porcelain doll crushed into countless shining pieces and be lost in the world like the twinkling stars in the vast, dark sky.

Or, maybe, he had already broken, and he was simply trying to hold the pieces of his scattered self together.

He turned over on his side to see Saihara’s back facing him; not particularly wide, but broad enough to be comforting when he clung to it from behind, and strong enough to bear Ouma’s weight, which, while admittedly light, was still almost a good hundred pounds. 

A strange sense of relief ran through his body upon seeing Saihara beside him, like a current heat tingling from head-to-toe, and he let himself lay on his back. He allowed himself a great, shuddering breath, and felt his chest collapse in on itself when the air left him. He couldn’t tell if such a sensation offered him solace or a greater sense of anxiety.

It was then that Ouma felt the person next to him shift in the bed, and the weight of said person eased off of the bed as Saihara stood slothfully, perhaps not having fully cast away the cloak of sleep yet, and desperation seized every sense in Ouma’s body as he lunged across the mattress and grabbed onto something of Saihara’s–anything, it didn’t matter what. All he knew was that he needed to stop him from leaving.

He found himself with the fabric of Saihara’s striped nightshirt between his nimble fingers, pinched with a formidable strength that he didn’t think he possessed, and Saihara turned to look at him.

“Ouma-kun?”

Somehow, the words didn’t want to leave his lips–it seemed so much like confessing to being weak, that he couldn’t survive without Saihara’s presence–but such resistance was futile regardless because it was true that he could barely manage an hour without Saihara around, couldn’t fall asleep when he shared the bed with only himself, would fall into a panic when he woke up from nightmares of being torn away from his beloved only to find him missing from his side.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered, the words breaking as he spoke them, so broken did he feel himself to be that nothing he said or did could ever escape that brokenness, nothing.

Saihara took a second to register the words, piece them back together in his mind, and then nodded, taking the pale, weak hand hanging pathetically onto his shirt in his own, ghostly hands with care, and he crawled back into the bed carefully so as to not disturb its current occupant. He faces Ouma as they lie there, his golden eyes shimmering darkly as they confronted violet eyes with firmness, and holding that one, cold hand with all the fortitude and compassion he could summon from his heart swelling with loving concern.

“You know I wasn’t going to leave you,” he states, eyes searching the features of his lover, which were contorted with tinges of sorrow and anxiety that bled through the facade he aimed to sustain even in the dark of night with the one person he trusted with his life, his entire world.

A moment passes before Ouma nods shakily, letting another breath of air escape him. His hand is numb, even as it lays in Saihara’s two hands, which, no doubt, are warm and resolute.

“I know,” he exhales. “I know.”

But left unsaid is his plea to Saihara to stay, to postpone whatever he had planned on doing in the middle of the night because Ouma was still scared, still weak. And maybe it was the way he always would be.

[wunderlass]

Smoke & Mirrors: Epilogue

His captors think him defeated, but even Odin doesn’t know the secrets Loki holds. Before long, he’ll be free, events set in motion by Frigga’s best intentions and Loki’s worst instincts. He’s seen his future, and nothing is going to stop him from stealing it. Loki/Darcy, M rated

You can also read on AO3 or FFNet.

A/N: There's a tense change here. That's because I wrote this at a time most things I was writing were in the present tense and it was hard to switch back, even though I was trying to get this written while the hot flash of inspiration struck. I hope you'll forgive me, as I think it works if you view this section as us catching up with Loki and Darcy in the present moment, with the rest of the story serving to tell you how they got here.

Laughter peels through the air, a sound as sweet as the honey which is stuck in strands of Darcy's hair. It glints as the breeze catches it, drawing Loki's attention. Though his attention is never far from her—it can usually only be diverted by the toddler who put the honey there.

Said toddler is being enticed towards his uncle with a piece of candy, tottering on uneven feet across the grass with outstretched, grabby hands. Thor encourages him on with a fond smile and nonsense words, which results in giggles even when the little boy stumbles and has to right himself.

Never mind that Loki's son has had plenty to eat already, the staff at the old palace on Vanaheim putting together a feast when they asked for a picnic. Even Thor hasn't been able to make much of a dent in it—instead, Frigga will ensure it is distributed later to the people who need it more.

The trees lining the meadow rustle in the breeze, the cornucopia of their colored blossoms shedding onto the grass. Spring on Vanaheim is a bright, warm affair, and so the family gathers from their respective realms to enjoy a few days at Frigga's childhood home. She has retreated here to live out her time as dowager, except for when one of her sons needs her council.

It is the ideal home for her, brimming with pleasant memories from her own childhood and from Loki's, and also has its own portal which allows swift journeys between realms. Its safety and neutrality also makes it the ideal place for her grandson to spend his own childhood, while Frigga gathers as many memories as she can with the family members she will outlive.

Frigga herself has not aged, not to Loki's eyes. Darcy likes to tease him about his nonexistent gray hairs, but he cannot deny the passage of time on his face—lines he had not expected to wear for centuries. Yet his mother weathers the passing years much as she always has done. She sits as regally as anyone can on a picnic blanket, her silk dress somehow unmarred by sticky hands even though she indulges in as many cuddles as she can entice from her grandson. She is calm, content, freed from the pressures of her own throne and devoted instead to doting on the little boy.

Thor is freed of those responsibilities himself, if only for a few days. He can ride, and spar with his brother, and make an idiot of himself to entertain his nephew as much as his heart desires. Loki is pleased he is playing to his strengths. And yet, there is a calmness to him here, a carefree attitude that Loki rarely sees in him anymore. Much as it pains him to admit, he misses it, and mourns what his brother has lost in gaining the throne. Thor has confided that the spring days they spend in Vanaheim—which come around quickly due to the short solar cycle of the realm—are the happiest of his current life.

Behind Thor, Jane pulls faces at the little boy, eliciting more giggles. Jane adores him: the closest she will get to children of her own. Her chosen legacy will be science, and her love for Thor, when she is dust and he lives on. It doesn't make her sad—not as sad as the thought of Thor raising and losing children with a human lifespan. Instead, he is under firm instruction to live and love again once she is gone, and raise his heirs then.

The little boy is aging slowly, though. It's a positive sign that he may outlive his grandmother, rather than the other way around. There may be a throne in his future, but Loki has other hopes for him, no matter how long he lives. He knows Darcy feels the same.

He cannot count Jane as a friend—she will likely never trust him—but he values her sharp mind and the loyalty she has shown Darcy through everything. He wishes his brother could have eternity with her, if only for the happiness it would bring to Thor, but these things are not meant to be.

They make the most of it, their little extended family. Hela is on lying in the grass, soaking in the sun, though she will never tan. She could lie on a blanket, but she refuses, enjoying all the sensations Vanaheim has to offer. Even the allergies. When the itching becomes too much, she will rise to play with her little brother.

Loki suspects sometimes that the Hela he sees one day is not the Hela he has seen on the previous, even if she still arrives in her teenage guise. One day, they have a girl with more naivety than the daughter of Death has any right to, and the next it is gone, all used up and replaced with a haunted edge. Perhaps she returns often to her mortal family whenever they become too much a part of the past, so she never really has to lose them. Today Hela is naive, experiencing this all for the first time.

She's a strange creature, his first born, yet there is more of him in her than he would care to admit. She is often withdrawn, living in a world of her own imagination, prone to sulking and plotting revenge over trivial slights. But for all that, she delights in the sun, and in the warmth their family provides. And the older she grows, the more her uncanny resemblance to him does as well. Even though he never expected to have the fortitude to deal with a teenager—let alone one who can be a different age from one day to the next—he understands her, and that makes it easier.

As for his son—well, whatever physical resemblance he may have to his father, his sweet nature all comes from his mother. He does not brood, or hold grudges—though time will tell on that score—and he laughs far more than he ever cries. He delights in everything: case in point, the explosion of glitter Loki summons to tempt the boy away from Thor.

His brother feigns a pout of dismay as Loki's son comes running, staring up at him like he's the most wondrous person in the universe.

Loki's heart turns over in his chest. It takes a beat for him to recognize that this is happiness, a moment of pure joy, and a very particular moment at that.

It passes, a fleeting thing which cannot be kept hold of, so strange to be inside it rather than witnessing it. But this slice of happiness, the simple joy of spending time together in the old palace gardens, spurred so much into existence.

Loki catches Darcy's eye: she too has realized what has just passed them by. She wears her own happiness like a shawl, always draped around her and only momentarily set aside when she must.

He brushes the hair away from their son's face and hands him one of the candies. He looks so much like her, and the way Loki feels about the pair of them is a devotion so fierce he couldn't have imagined it, those many years ago as he stared at this scene in the mirror. Darcy has taught him patience, and gentleness, and trust, and forced him to earn her trust until it is unbreakable. She also showed him how to accept, even love, Hela. She has molded him into a different being, a better man, and shown him that a mortal life span does not mean it will be any less fulfilling. He would be grateful to her for the son she graced him with, but even alone she took his existence from bearable to blissful.

All the prices he has paid to be with her are worth it, and he still finds himself scrambling to remain worthy of her love. He is not an easy person to be with—he knows this, even as he refuses to "get some therapy" as she so often suggests. The throne of Jotunheim wears on him, even as he searches for a wise heir amongst the other claimants to the crown. His dreams are often little better than night terrors, black ghouls come to steal any semblance of peace he might hope for. And this is not the future he believed he was striving for when he first saw this moment in his mother's mirror, but it is better. Infinitely better. He would not change any detail of it.

Hela has dabbled with her grandmother's talent for mirror magic, but Darcy refuses to look at the visions her step-daughter captures in glass. Too much of her life became caught up around one moment, and even if all of them were as happy as this one, it wouldn't do to spend her time waiting for them to arrive. Loki agrees. They have limited time before they must pass into Death's realm permanently. It is better to enjoy each and every moment of sunlight while they can, just as Hela does. Instead, Frigga has learned to capture these memories in her mirrors.

Hela gives an excited yell. A butterfly has landed on her outstretched hand. It is calmly basking on her cool skin while she stares with awe, and her brother toddles towards it with a giggle. Loki pauses his progress, unwilling to spoil the moment, and he does not complain, happy to wave and babble at his sister while she studies her tiny visitor.

"It's so fragile," she breathes. "Beautiful, but fragile."

"I once thought the same of your Mama," Loki says quietly, and Darcy tuts at his obvious flattery. "But I was wrong."

"Watch it, buddy," Darcy mutters.

"She's beautiful, yes," he hurriedly corrects. "But not fragile. She's the strongest person I've ever known. Strong enough to put up with me."

Darcy smiles at him, twining their fingers together.

"They don't live long at all, though," Hela says with a pout. "All that beauty, gone so quickly."

"Then make the most of it while you can," says Frigga, as the butterfly alights from Hela's finger and vanishes into the sky.

Here we are. 130,000 words and four years later - it's done. This is the longest piece of fiction I've written (thus far) so bear with me while I take that in.

Yeah, it took longer (FAR longer) than anticipated to write. It's flawed, in ways all serialised stories are bound to be, and in other ways too. But I am mostly happy with it and I hope you all are too - whether you joined me at the beginning of the journey or somewhere along the way. Thank you for cheering me along and I apologise for being so consistently pants at responding to your comments.

Thanks also go to all the people who beta'd along the way or who acted as sounding boards in other ways. The story wouldn't exist without your help!

Here's to the rest of the stories...

[thebarsondaily]

Not What It Looks Like by HaughtyHippogriff

Title: Not What It Looks Like Author: @haughtyhippogriff Rating: M, so very M  Prompt(s): food play Summary: Olivia is summoned to Barba’s office to help with a “situation”, but the result is something she could never have expected.  A/N: I didn’t think I would be able to get this written, but after a marathon burst of writing today I was able to complete it! Also, I didn’t quite meet my prompt, but please enjoy this definitely naughty fic anyway.

“Morning, folks,” Olivia called out as she entered the squad room on her way to her office. Murmured ‘mornings’ and nods accompanied her greeting, but Carisi leapt to his feet as she neared his desk.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Lieutenant,” he said, executing a short bow.

“Thanks, Carisi,” Olivia replied, bemused. “You too.”

“Got any special plans today?” Rollins asked her. Both Rollins and Carisi seemed particularly interested in her answer, which was odd, but then again—maybe they were just being friendly.

“Afraid not. Tucker and I aren’t…” She gestured uselessly.

“Right, of course,” Rollins jumped in. “Sorry to, uh, bring that up. We just hoped that you might, um, have something special today.”

“Nope. Just a typical day at the office,” Olivia replied, beginning to sidle closer to her door. Small talk was one thing, but prolonged discussions about personal matters with her staff was something entirely different.

“Well, maybe you’ll be surprised,” Carisi offered enigmatically. Olivia watched Rollins widen her eyes at Carisi and then look innocently at her computer. Carisi took his seat again and the two exchanged a look. Shaking her head, Olivia entered her office and saw her voicemail was already blinking. It was going to be a busy day.

000

Olivia stepped out of the elevator and entered the ADA’s office not twenty minutes later. Barba’s assistant, Carmen, jumped to her feet. “Lieutenant Benson, thank you for coming over so quickly. We seem to have some kind of…situation.”

Olivia felt her brows rise. “That sounds serious.”

Carmen nodded, glancing around the office before lowering her voice. “Mr. Barba has barred anyone from entering his office, except for you. He was most insistent that you come immediately. No one knows what’s going on.”

“Okay then,” Olivia said, looking at Barba’s closed door. “I guess I’ll just…” She gestured in the direction of his door.

“If you or Mr. Barba need anything, don’t hesitate to ask,” Carmen supplied. The woman looked relieved that Olivia would be the one sorting things out.

“Thank you,” Olivia said, and then she approached Barba’s door. She knocked and waited until she heard him say, “Olivia?”

“It’s just me, what’s going on—oh!” Olivia stepped quickly into Barba’s office and shut the door behind her. Her eyes couldn’t move fast enough to fully take in the sight that greeted her, though.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Barba began.

“Well, it certainly looks interesting,” she answered, coming closer. He was sprawled in his desk chair, blindfolded and yet still managing to look extremely sheepish. As if that wasn’t shocking enough, her detective’s eye landed on all the smaller details—the handcuffs confining him to the chair, the top buttons of his shirt undone…the lipstick mark on his collar. She moved around behind his desk and noted that his pants were down around his ankles, and said ankles appeared to be zip-tied to the chair legs.

“Wow, Rafael. I admit I don’t know where to start with this one. I don’t suppose you can describe your assailant?”

“You’re hilarious, Lieutenant. I called you, specifically, because I assumed that you could help me in a professional manner. Obviously, I was wrong. Just get me out of these cuffs and we’ll forget this ever happened.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be possible. How am I ever going to forget that you wear cheeseburger-print boxer briefs under those fancy suits of yours?”

Barba inhaled deeply and then huffed out an agitated breath. “Again. This is not what it looks like.”

Olivia reached out and pulled off his blindfold. His eyes flicked to her briefly and then he looked away as a blush stained his cheeks. Olivia propped herself up on the edge of his desk and tried to tamp down her amusement. “So tell me what happened. You know I won’t judge you, The Victim.”

Okay, so she probably hadn’t kept all her amusement out of her tone, but really, what else could she do? This was ADA Rafael Barba, the man who was never dressed any less than impeccably, and certainly never flustered. And he was trussed in his chair like a Christmas goose, and halfway naked, to boot. He was lucky she hadn’t burst out laughing yet.

He shot her a glare at her victim comment before looking away again.

“I received what I thought was a singing telegram early this morning, but I was checking my emails as she sang and the next thing I know, she’d jumped me. She had hands like an octopus, Olivia—they were everywhere. Next thing I know, I’m being cuffed to the chair and left like this. Thankfully, my phone has voice-activated command.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Olivia said, looking at the red blindfold as she threaded it through her fingers. Things were falling into place, and she wasn’t sure how she wanted to proceed.

“What? How does that explain anything?”

She looked up at him and smiled slightly. “There was a set of keys on my desk when I came into work this morning. They looked like cuff keys, so I went to put them in the drawer with my extras and realized the handcuffs themselves were gone. Let me guess—did your attacker have curly red hair, no vocal talent, and a ridiculous amount of makeup on?”

“Yes, actually. How did you know?”

Olivia finally did laugh. “I know why you thought she had so many hands. There were at least two pairs involved in tying you up.”

“I don’t have the patience for riddles. Tell me or, better yet, free me and then tell me.”

“I don’t know, Barba…I’m enjoying having you at my mercy.”

“It’s not funny.”

“That’s odd,” she said, twirling the blindfold through her fingers some more, “because I’m definitely amused.”

“Benson. Please.”

Olivia bit her lip against the smile that threatened. It wasn’t often that their indomitable ADA used the word ‘please’ and she didn’t want him to think she would dare to laugh at him on the rare occasion that he did. “Oh, but Rollins and Carisi went through so much trouble to get you here, all wrapped up for me. Or rather, unwrapped. Interesting choice of undergarments, by the way.”

“They were a gift. And it is roughly three days past laundry day at my apartment.”

“Uhm-hmm, right.”

Barba scowled but didn’t argue further. “You’re going to discipline your detectives, aren’t you?”

“Probably.” She grinned again as she took in his astonishment. “I haven’t decided.”

“Seriously? You can’t let them come in here and cuff me whenever they feel like it!”

“But the result has been so very delightful,” Olivia pointed out, tilting her head to the side and grinning at him.

“Shut up, Benson.” His lips curved up ever so slightly, belying his harsh words.

“Make me, Barba. Or perhaps you’ve forgotten the cuffs?”

“Come here, then.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted then, from playful to charged, in the space of a heartbeat. Olivia didn’t think his voice had dropped on purpose; then again, he was looking at her with the level of intensity he usually reserved for witnesses on the stand. That look sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. She briefly considered how shocked he would be if she obeyed his command by plopping herself down on his lap.

Very shocked, she imagined.

Pushing that particular fantasy aside, Olivia sighed and straightened. “I’ll undo your cuffs, Barba, but I have a request. Actually, two requests.”

She could almost hear his teeth grinding together as his jaw firmed in annoyance. His tone when he spoke, however, was exaggeratedly pleasant. “Seeing as I am entirely at your mercy as well as your discretion, I would simply love to honor whatever requests you may have.”

“Excellent. The first is—have dinner with me tonight.” She saw his eyes widen before he wrangled his expression under control.

“It’s Valentine’s Day. Every restaurant in the city will be a madhouse.”

It wasn’t exactly an enthusiastic ‘yes’, but neither was it a ‘no’. She’d take it. She moved around behind him to undo the cuffs as she said, “I’ll make the plans, Barba. You just show up.”

“What about Noah?” As soon as his wrists were freed, Barba brought his hands around to rub at the skin there. He didn’t turn to look at her, for which Olivia was grateful. She knew she was blushing and she couldn’t control it.

“Oh. Um, Lucy was already planning to watch him, you know, a few weeks ago, and I just haven’t, ah…I haven’t really had the heart to tell her that I didn’t need her anymore. So I’ve got childcare for tonight already.”

There was a moment of silence while Olivia bolstered up the fortitude to come back into Barba’s line of sight. Before she could, though, he said, “I was…sorry to hear about that, by the way. You and Tucker.”

Olivia felt the rest of her embarrassment melt away at the kind words, even though she knew Barba had been opposed to their relationship from the beginning. “Thank you for that,” she said softly, moving around the chair and kneeling at his feet. She pulled out her utility knife to cut the zip-ties. “But there’s nothing to be sorry about. It just wasn’t working.”

She cut the ties swiftly and returned the knife to her pocket, only then looking up to realize that she was kneeling between Barba’s legs. His bare legs, since his pants were in the vicinity of his recently-freed ankles. She cleared her throat and frantically tried to think of something to say—anything. The longer the silence stretched on, the weirder this was. But she couldn’t seem to get her legs to cooperate, and Barba was once again staring at her with that intensity that seemed to imply he was the Big Bad Wolf, and he wanted to eat her up.

Olivia swallowed as her gaze dropped briefly to his brightly-patterned boxer briefs. She forced her eyes back up and was still trying to think of something funny to say when Barba spoke, his voice rough. “You mentioned a second request?”

“Um, yes.” As they both watched, Olivia’s hand darted out to brush against the hem of the briefs. Barba’s thighs tensed at the contact, and Olivia couldn’t seem to drag her eyes away from where her fingers were touching him. When she finally did pull her eyes up to his face, she licked her lips. “Keep these on for tonight,” she murmured, her voice gone husky.

Deciding to get out of there before Barba could reply, Olivia stood and bolted.

000

Many hours later, Olivia wound her way through the tables at one of the local bar-and-grill combos by her office until she found an open booth in the back of the restaurant. Practically falling into the seat, she exhaled and slouched back against the seat. It had been an extremely long day at the precinct, made even worse by her mixed feelings of anticipation and dread for this evening’s date.

No, not a date. Just dinner.

Her mind shied away from making this into something romantic. It was just…two colleagues, eating a meal. Yes, that was it.

It surely had nothing to do with her position earlier this morning, crouched at the feet of a half-naked and disgruntled ADA.

Mentally shaking herself and sitting up as the waiter approached, she went ahead and ordered a martini for herself and a scotch for Barba. She suspected she would need the liquid fortitude before the night ended. Their drinks had just arrived when Barba entered the front doors. His eyes landed on her almost immediately, and all of Olivia’s hard-won calm deserted her as the electricity between them shot down her spine. He made his way to her table with a single-minded purpose that she was grown-up enough to admit turned her on, desperately. She wanted all that lovely attention focused on herself, to know what it was like when Rafael Barba had you in his sights with no intention of letting you go. As he neared her, she took in his immaculate suit and repressed a smile at the image of him completely undone in his office earlier that morning. He must have run home to change, though, because the lipstick-stained collar was nowhere to be seen.

He looked exceedingly handsome, as he always did. Olivia was glad that she’d also taken time to go home and change, although she’d had a temporary mental breakdown when she’d been trying to decide whether she should dress like she was on a date or not. In the end, ‘date’ had won, so here she sat in a strappy burgundy dress and heels. Taking in the sight of Barba, she decided she’d made the right choice. At least no one would see them together and wonder what someone as striking as him was doing with her.

Then he opened his mouth and ruined the effect.

“You call this a place for Valentine’s dinner?”

Olivia frowned at him. “I call this the only place in the vicinity that I thought might actually have a table tonight.”

After a second he cocked his head and conceded the point. “Fair enough.” He slid into the seat across from her and glanced disparagingly at the laminated menu without picking it up. “What’s good here?”

“The alcohol,” she replied drily, grinning when he chuckled.

Their waiter returned and took their orders—two house specialty burgers—and then left them on their own.

Which turned out to be far more awkward than Olivia would have expected. Silence reigned for a full minute as Barba looked everywhere except at her. She decided to forge ahead, anyway.

“I decided to let Rollins and Carisi stew in fear for the next couple of days,” she said.

That brought Barba’s attention back to her, and a quirk to his lips as well. “The anticipation is worse than the punishment,” he said, and then nodded. “Nicely done. Did they say anything when you got back?”

“No. I made sure they saw me put the handcuffs back, but then I got caught up in paperwork for a few hours,” she told him, smiling at the memory. “They kept inventing reasons to come ask me questions about their case files. Eventually they quit and just kept shooting worried looks at me for the rest of the day.”

“How exhausting,” Barba commented.

“It was, yes,” Olivia answered, loving their banter. She could trade words with Rafael Barba all day and never tire of it. She took a drink of her martini and then grinned at him as she set the glass back down. “By the time Monday morning rolls around, they’ll have become complacent. Then I’ll bring them in to be reprimanded.”

Barba sat back in his chair, unbuttoning his suit jacket and letting the sides fall open. “You’re far more devious than I would have ever guessed. It’s surprisingly arousing.”

Olivia felt a tingle race through her body at his words. She was also pleased by the compliment, odd though it may have sounded to an outsider. She leaned forward over the table and waggled her brows at him. “You should see me when I lie to perps during interrogation,” she stage-whispered.

Barba mimicked her, resting his elbows on the table and bringing his face closer to hers. “I have,” he whispered back. “And it’s damn sexy, Lieutenant.”

Her breath caught in her throat and Olivia had to sit back or else do something crazy, like kiss Barba over the table right here in an open restaurant. Glancing at him, she saw that he too had relaxed back into his seat, although he was watching her as she struggled to regain her composure. She decided to throw his tactics right back at him.

“Did you wear the cheeseburger underwear like I asked you to?” she said, proud of the fact that her voice didn’t sound the teeniest bit desperate. Even though she felt desperate—extremely so.

But her question had the desired effect, knocking the smugness right off his gorgeous face. He looked both ways to make sure no one had heard her, then shot her an annoyed glare. “You know I did,” he bit out. “That was part of our agreement, wasn’t it?”

“Just checking,” she answered, feeling some of her confidence return. She could handle him; she always had been able to. Their food arrived then and Olivia crossed her legs under the table as she unrolled her napkin and silverware. Barba was still looking a tad flustered, which she enjoyed far too much for her own good. There was just something so appealing about ruffling him up, figuratively.

She allowed her mind to entertain the idea of ruffling him up literally for only a moment before dragging her thoughts back to the present. She waited until he’d finished his scotch before she casually announced, “The underwear I’m wearing also happens to have a food design. Ice cream cones.”

Even though he’d already swallowed his drink, Olivia could have sworn that he choked. His brows rose to his hairline and he stared at her, incredulous. The moment spun out between them, both of them recognizing that talking about each other’s underwear had surely crossed a line. Olivia was about to change the subject, to return them to their sense of normalcy, when Barba wet his lips and said, “I look forward to tasting them.”

Olivia’s body convulsed so hard that her knee shot up and knocked the table. Her drink toppled over and spilled the rest of her martini all over her lap. They stared at one another for just a second before Barba abruptly rose and pulled out his wallet. He tossed several bills on the table and held his hand out to Olivia. “We should get you out of that before the stain sets,” he explained, his voice gone dark and deliciously raspy.

“Of course,” she breathed, grabbing her purse and coat before letting him pull her up and out of the booth. He hustled her past all the other tables, not slowing even once they’d made it outside. He towed her around to the side of the building into the darkened alley, not stopping until they were far enough from the street that the light didn’t quite reach them. Then he propelled her against the brick wall of the building and followed, pressing his body against hers from hip to shoulder as his lips landed on hers. Olivia moaned, all of her senses overwhelmed by Barba in this moment. She dropped her purse and coat as she looped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, frantically tangling her tongue with his as he pressed her more firmly against the wall.

She wove her fingers into his hair and tilted her head, giving him better access to her mouth. He kissed like he did everything else—with his complete and utter dedication. And it was heady, indeed.

He shifted so one of his legs slid between her thighs, and Olivia threw her head back, groaning at the contact. His hands roamed every inch of her body, taking full possession as he continued to kiss the living daylights out of her. His mouth was everywhere—her neck, her jaw, her ear, trailing down the neckline of her dress…

“Rafael,” she managed, not even ashamed when it came out more like a plea than anything.

“Tell me what you want, mi amor,” he murmured against her collarbone. His eyes cut up to hers, and Olivia melted at the desire in their depths.

“I want you to take me right here, right now,” she said, knowing as well as he did that they would both insist on spoken, affirmative consent. At least until they’d been at this long enough to know each other’s signals…

But future encounters were a worry for another time. Right now he was pulling the neckline of her dress aside and licking along the edge of her bra. Olivia’s fingers tightened in his hair, and she growled, “Now, Barba,” as she urged her hips against his.

“You never asked me if this was okay with me,” he pointed out, smirking as he yanked her dress up to her waist. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but you really ought to know better—”

Olivia bit his earlobe. “If you can’t find something sexy to do with that mouth, then please, shut it,” she told him.

“I’ll put my mouth to good use later. Right now, though…” He quickly unbuckled his trousers and then hitched one of her thighs up around his waist. He pulled her ice-cream-cone panties to the side and eyed her, frowning. “Your heels have me at a disadvantage,” he admitted. “The angle is all wrong—”

Olivia couldn’t help her laugh. “It’s alright. Why don’t we go back to—ooh!”

He lifted her up, pinning her against the wall and holding her firmly beneath each thigh. He was surprisingly strong for someone who spent his day reading and writing, but he was able to position her how he wanted, bringing the opening of her vagina more in line with the tip of his cock. At his nudge, Olivia closed her eyes and sighed happily, waiting for him to thrust in. But nothing happened.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. Barba was staring steadily back at her, his eyes hot with the promise of what was to come. “There you are. I wanted you looking at me when I did this for the first time—”

And then he was finally surging inside of her, filling her with the most wonderful sensations. Olivia gripped his shoulders and held on, never taking her eyes off his as he continued to plunge in and out of her, driving her ever closer to the edge. When her nails bit into his shoulders through his suit coat, he sped up, pistoning into her with such precise strokes that she was very close to losing her mind.

“Rafael, please,” she begged him. She started to moan as her climax approached, and Barba leaned forward to take her mouth with his as he slammed into her several more times and she came, spectacularly. She shouted her release into his mouth and he continued to kiss her as he came, too.

Afterwards, he let his head drop to her shoulder but he maintained his hold on her legs. Olivia pressed her lips to his neck, thinking that she was never going to be able to see him in a suit again without remembering this night.

Which was just freaking fantastic, because the man was always in a suit.

Eventually he slipped out of her and released her legs, letting her slide slowly down his body until her feet were on the ground. He fixed her dress with a satisfied look on his face that fired her blood all over again. She hadn’t ever been fucked in an alleyway before, and honestly, she was still raring to go again if he was—

“Let’s get you home,” he murmured.

She sighed.

000

“Thanks, Lucy,” Olivia whispered a short while later, closing the door to Noah’s room softly.

“Anytime, Olivia,” Lucy whispered back, glancing over her shoulder toward the living room where Barba waited. “Although I didn’t realize—I mean, I thought—”

“It’s nothing, Lucy,” Olivia said, hurrying to correct whatever Lucy’s misconceptions may be. “Barba and I just had dinner together after a long day at work. That’s all.”

Lucy looked questioningly at Olivia, but nodded. “If you don’t need me��?”

“I’m good for the night. Thanks again.” Olivia led the way back to the living room, Lucy following closely behind. When she turned to say goodbye to her nanny, she was surprised to see Lucy stifling a laugh. “Is there something else?”

“Oh, no! I’ll just, um, leave you to your night. Have a lovely rest of your Valentine’s Day.” The look she gave Barba was positively mischievous. She put her hand up to her mouth and pretended to whisper. “Next time, make sure she has a sweater or something,” the babysitter said. Then Lucy shot Olivia a look of admiration and slipped out, shutting the door behind her.

“What—?” Olivia stared at the closed door, certain she could hear Lucy chuckling in the hallway.

“What did you tell her?” Barba asked from behind her. Olivia turned and frowned—his voice was definitely amused as well.

“That we had just had dinner, nothing else. Why are you laughing?” Olivia demanded.

“I’m sorry. I should have been paying more attention. Your shoulders, they, um—do you have any healing cream? We should probably apply some.” His amusement faded into a look of concern as he brushed his hands over her shoulders.

It was then that Olivia felt the stinging. Pulling one shoulder forward, she noticed the abrasions there. “The brick,” she muttered, Lucy’s comment suddenly making a lot more sense.

“The brick,” Barba agreed, pressing feather-light kisses to the scratches covering her shoulders. He stepped behind her and continued to kiss her abused skin as he slid his hands around her waist, resting them low over her stomach. Olivia relaxed in his arms as his ministrations slowly became more heated.

“Maybe we should try my bed,” she suggested, grabbing his hand and pulling him behind her without waiting for an answer.

He disentangled himself to shut her door quietly, a move which made her soften that much more. There would be no amorous activities if Noah woke up, and right now, Olivia was so keyed up that she couldn’t contemplate not having at least one more orgasm before he left for the night.

Keeping her eyes on his, she shrugged out of her dress and let it pool at her feet. His gaze darkened as his pupils dilated, and he immediately stripped off his suit coat and went to work on his tie. Olivia stood, transfixed, as he began to undo the buttons of his dress shirt one by one. That done, he kicked off his shoes and undid his pants, stacking all his clothing neatly in her chair.

“You’ve never looked sexier,” he rasped, his eyes traveling from her face to her feet and back again.

“I guess it’s the ice cream undies,” she retorted, cocking a hip. Something about standing in front of Rafael Barba in nothing but her heels and underwear was really intoxicating, and she found that she didn’t feel shy at all.

The grin Barba gave her was purely predatory. “I’ll have you know that I’ve always gotten lucky when I wear these boxers,” he said.

Olivia rolled her eyes and put a hand on her hip. “Shut up, Barba.”

“No, really, they’re batting a thousand.”

“How many other conquests have you made in those, exactly?” she asked.

“Do you really want to know the answer?” He advanced on her, forcing her to back up until her knees hit the edge of her bed.

She bit her lip and debated whether she should call his bluff or not. Ultimately, she decided she didn’t want to know if it wasn’t a bluff. “No.”

“That’s what I thought,” he replied, placing his hands on her shoulders and gently pushing her backwards onto her bed. Leaning over her, he purred, “I think you’ll be the last conquest I make in these, though,” and then he sank to his knees at the edge of the bed. Olivia let out a little whimper, her body on fire at the implications of his words. He lifted her legs up and hooked them over his shoulders. “Now, I believe you owe me dessert.”

His mouth landed over one of the ice cream cones that was located squarely on her clitoris, and Olivia had to press a hand to her mouth to keep her shouts quiet. No matter how much she begged him, though, Rafael kept his agonizingly slow pace until she had climaxed not once, but twice.

When he finally dispensed of both their underthings, she was limp and sated. He soon had her back to crying his name against his skin, though.

000

As the morning sun crept around her curtains, Olivia turned away and burrowed against the warm body sleeping next to her.

Well, ‘sleeping’ wasn’t quite the right term—they never had made it to sleep last night. At the moment, though, Rafael was passed out in a post-sex comatose phase. Olivia nuzzled the skin at the base of his neck, enjoying the subtle scratch of his stubble against her lips. Seeing him totally relaxed and completely unlike he was during the day was its own form of aphrodisiac.

“Ready to go again already, Benson?” he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

She’d made him scream her name last night, too, after all.

“Mmm. Just thinking maybe we ought to thank Rollins and Carisi instead of disciplining them,” she said, trailing one hand down his bare chest towards his already-stiffening cock.

He pulled back, his eyes suddenly open and alert. “Whoa. Let’s not get carried away,” he said, mock-serious.

“I’m going to require some convincing,” she teased him, wrapping her hand around his erection, loving the way his eyes narrowed with pleasure.

He rolled them over so that he was poised on top of her. “You know I can be very persuasive,” he said, and then his mouth was too busy with her body to make any other arguments.

000

Just as Olivia predicted, Rollins and Carisi stopped jumping every time she walked into the room after a few days. A few more days and they were back to their boisterous, bickering selves. Olivia didn’t even feel the slightest bit bad when she called them into her office on a Friday afternoon and told them, straight-faced, that they would be receiving charges on Monday for assault of an ADA. Their gaping expressions of disbelief were priceless, and she managed to snap a picture to send to Barba. She decided to let them sweat it out over the weekend; after all, the copious amount of amazing sex she was receiving was an excellent balm to any lingering pangs of guilt she might have felt.

[unhingedwordvomit]

On the first of many #metoo moments

For the better part of my life, I have been in love with someone who was manipulative and abusive. We started dating when I was 15 and he was 18, after months of me begging and pleading with my parents to let me date him (spoiler alert, they were right, and I shouldn’t have been allowed within 100 feet of this fuck). He was controlling and unhinged from pretty much the get go. He would lose his mind if I wore thongs, tight skirts, or pants with no back pockets (leggings weren’t quite a thing yet). He was extremely insecure and any guy friends I had were basically enemies of the state. If I ever dared to speak to another person with a penis, I was basically cheating on him and he would call me a fat whore and dump me. A few hours later, he would call me begging for forgiveness. I would conservatively estimate this process went on every couple of weeks. And because I was very young and very naïve, I tolerated all of it.

He told me he loved me after we had been dating for two months. I was definitely in love with him, but since it was my first foray into the love business, I didn’t say it until a few months later. The lows were frequent and very low, but the highs were also very high. One day I was a fat (115lb) whore (virgin). The next I was the love of his life. He went out of his way to make up for his shitty behavior by taking me to nice dinners and making me baked goods. I thought this was how love worked.

As I mentioned, I was 15 when we started dating. The pressure to have sex with him crept up, but I wasn’t ready. I told him this. We did everything but have sex for the first year we dated. I did whatever else he wanted, because I needed to distract him from actual, vaginal sex. I knew I was too young for sex. I knew it wasn’t the right time. I found every excuse in the book to not let this man take my virginity. But after a year, the tensions surrounding not having sex were at an all-time high. He was horny and pissed, and I was desperately grasping at reasons to not have sex. The spring after I turned 16, I went on a band trip to NYC. This was another typical ordeal with him, since I would be far away and hanging out with dudes, which was, of course, unacceptable. The whole trip was me trying to manage his emotions and keep the breakup cycle at bay. I texted him constantly and bought him a present. But it wasn’t enough, and during the long drive back home, he dumped me again. He said I didn’t really love him if I wouldn’t have sex with him (* I will return to this later). I was crushed. I was broken. I loved him so much. I didn’t want him to leave me. I didn’t want to have sex.

The day after I got back, I went over to his parents’ house (he still lived with them while in college) and we had sex. At the time, I thought it was sweet and romantic. He was very gentle and loving. In hindsight, I want to vomit. It took me well over 10 years to realize that coercion is rape. For good measure, I’ll insert the legal definition of rape in TN here. Because, as a woman, I have to constantly prove that what I’m saying is true. This is from www.rainn.org.

Let’s return to the asterisk. I endured a year of manipulation and coercion. He would say anything and everything to degrade me, to belittle me, and to make me feel guilty. He would say anything to make me feel obligated to give him sex. I resisted and resisted until he had finally worn me down. This is rape culture. When are men going to realize that no means no, not convince me? Consent is never ambiguous. Pressure is not consent. Discomfort is not consent. Why do men want to have sex with women they have to beg, belittle, and dehumanize?

He (like most men) will never admit that what happened was not consensual. Even though the legal definition of rape includes coercion, he will find a way to reconcile it in his brain to not rape. I’ve actually never confronted him about this. And since I don’t plan on talking to him ever again, I don’t think I will.

One time we broke up for a 3-4 month stint, which was our longest at that point. I started dating someone else. A very kind man. Someone who treated me like a human being. My ex had taken to stalking and harassing me and my new man, probably because he couldn’t handle the fact that he dumped me and I might’ve dated someone else. He would follow me home from work back to my dorm. He hacked into my voicemail and email and changed all my passwords. He threatened to post nude pictures and videos of me online weekly (turns out he couldn’t actually do this because I was a minor in the photos). He incessantly called me and my new man from a restricted number. All hours of the night. He and a cunt (who once pretended to be my friend) drew penises and wrote derogatory things on my car, then covered the entire thing in saran wrap. One of my most vivid memories is driving it to a car wash while sobbing. Eventually I went to the university and had some sort of no-contact order put on him. This finally stopped him. Unfortunately, I was still in love with him. Ugh. UGH. I’m still so disgusted with myself. I dumped my new great boyfriend and went back to him a couple of months after the no contact order. I don’t know if I will ever live this shame down.

We continued our toxic relationship until I was 18. We broke up 5 months after my brother died. Actually, we had just gotten back together right before my brother died. We had been fighting the night he died. If I had taken another route home from his apartment to my house, I would’ve passed the wreck. But for all the abuse I endured during our relationship, he saved me after my brother died. I couldn't have gotten through it without him.

The night my brother died, he was working late at Walgreens, because of extended holiday hours. I had just gotten home and had resumed fighting with my boyfriend via AIM. It was around 1 am. The phone rang. WTF? My mom answered (I found out later they hung up because she thought it was a prank call). The phone rang again. Then my mom was running down the hall shouting my brother’s name. I will never forget the panic and terror in her voice. My parents said the cops had called and they were going to UT Medical Center. I didn’t go because I was pissed. So. Pissed. He had finally got his act together! Because my mom said cops, I thought he had gotten back into trouble. I was sure he and my parents were about to be embroiled in whatever legal ramifications his choices had brought on. So I declined to go. I mentioned this to my boyfriend, as our text fight had been interrupted. Later, a cop showed up at my house. He asked if my parents had been notified of what happened. I said yes. He said that he was still breathing on his own when they left the scene. I was very confused and asked him what happened. He said he couldn't tell me (what??? You can tell me he was breathing, but not anything else???). Then he left and I was mostly very confused, but my brain still hadn’t put it together that something really bad had happened. I told my boyfriend about the cop. A few minutes later, he called and said he was coming to get me to take me to the hospital. I found out later that my mom had called him and told him to bring me after they found out that shit was bad. Even as we were driving to the hospital, I was clueless. I was mostly pondering, “What could he have done this time?” My boyfriend dropped me at the entrance and I went in by myself, because he wasn’t a dumbass and had put together that shit was bad. After I got there, the doctor told us he was going to die, and I had a hysterical breakdown. My boyfriend came into the waiting room and from there, basically carried me emotionally and physically through life for the next few months. I couldn’t function, and he functioned for me. Despite our terrible and toxic relationship, I will always be grateful for this. He transformed into a completely different person for a few months. He stopped being abusive. He was loving and supportive. He was my lifeline. I clung to this version of him for many years after. In all honesty, I still cling to it a bit. When something traumatic happens, it binds you to the people who are there living it with you. I think this is one of the main drivers of why I would go back to him for years after we broke up. It’s strange how one person can break you and save you.

I vividly remember the day we broke up for good. It was a day around his birthday. Since I was 18 and couldn’t go to bars, I was not invited to the birthday celebration (no possibility of having, you know, a party). Instead, I planned on cooking him a romantic dinner. I got up early that morning to straighten my hair the way he liked it. I had bought a new dress I knew he would like. I went grocery shopping and showed up at his apartment just as he was rolling out of bed. I made him muffins for breakfast. He opened my gift of some very nice wine glasses, a great gift for an alcoholic (did I mention he’s an alcoholic?). He left to go run errands, and I spent the next few hours making ribs. At some point during the day, a former coworker and friend (male) texted me to see how I was doing. My shitty boyfriend demanded to know who I was texting and, as usual, had a jealousy tantrum. He was in an immediate and incurable sour mood. We ate dinner in silence. I cut him a piece of cake in silence. I cleaned up the mess in silence. After cake I stuck around because I was sure he would want a birthday blowjob. My devotion to this fuck was BOUNDLESS. Instead, he said to me, “You can go now.” I walked out of that apartment knowing that this was THE END. I later broke up with him, a departure from his usual routine of breaking up with me. He begged me not to. And I somehow summoned up the fortitude to not go back.

For a while, anyway. We’ve actually never gotten back together since. We’ve had “things” every few years. I am filled with shame writing this, but I tried to get back with him several times over the past 10 years. He (not shockingly) would never commit to me in any tangible way, but definitely had no problem fucking me. After getting raped by another guy I had dated on and off, I reached out to him. And he was incredibly supportive. He was actually the first person I kissed after months of crippling PTSD. I actually cried while kissing him, and he was extremely kind about it. I’ll never figure him out.

Almost a year ago I was getting ready to break free from the shitty life I was living in Texas. We had rekindled our “thing” for a couple of months. In fact, he was going to help me move across the country. Then he blows me off, four days before the move. I didn’t have time to find anyone else to help me. I was DEVASTATED, but I was also too overwhelmed with panic and stress to really think about him and my devastation. Once I arrived in NC, I began to process the ordeal and realized I didn’t love him anymore. I don’t know why I needed to endure so much abuse, pain, and disappointment to get here. I’m afraid as time goes on, the negative memories will dull again and the feelings will creep back in. Yet another reason why I need to write this down. I wish I could get a lobotomy to selectively remove this part of my brain. Actually, I would like to forget him altogether. I wish I could never think about him again. I would gladly forget the only genuine love I’ve ever felt, because then I could permanently move on from this fucking ordeal. It is not better to have loved and lost when that person is abusive, selfish, generally shitty, and will never ever ever EVER reciprocate your feelings.

For many years of my life, I have hated him while simultaneously being in love with him. At this point, I don’t hate him anymore, for any of it. I’m still incredibly hurt by it all. I don’t believe in karma, but he’s already been dealt a lifetime of misery. He has certainly not been left unpunished. Revenge is never satisfying, anyway.

I’m sad to say that I’ve never loved anyone else, although I have wanted to. I’ve even told other people that I loved them, probably out of sheer desperation to love someone else. When I look at pictures of him now, it still feels like a punch in the gut. But I don’t feel any love anymore. At least not for now.

Me in 2008, hours before I would finally end an abusive relationship.