#this was written in a sneaky stolen hour and a half when i was supposed to be wrapping

[zmediaoutlet]

come upon a midnight clear

hey, guess who finally finished a goddamn fic.

Is it the fic I was supposed to be writing? Of course not. Is it clever and brilliant? Prolly not. Was it wildly self-indulgent? Sure was, and we’re going to go with that.

title: come upon a midnight clear pairing: Sam/Dean rating: E tags: Established Relationship, Bunker Era, A/B/O (meaning my halmanverse version), Cracky smut, Christmas-ish fic

summary: Sam sets a challenge for the festive season, and Dean is more than happy to join in.

(read on AO3)

It’s not until the 4th of December when Dean’s laying on his back in their bed, panting, and Sam rolls off of him and lets out a long breath and says, "Done," that Dean starts to suspect something might be up.

They’d had a dry spell for most of the last month. They’d fought about something stupid—how to handle a hunt, a stupid should’ve-been-easy job, and them being off-kilter to each other led to a guy dying who shouldn’t have, and one of the werewolves getting away. Stupid, stupid, and they were almost over it except that Dean said something bitchy at just the right time, and then that set it all off again. Sam spent a lot of time "researching at the library"‌ after that, and Dean worked on the car and cleaned the bunker top to bottom and even worked out a few times, though he remembered pretty quick why he never did that after his ass was sore from squats and for no fun reasons. Another job came along, vampires that were hard to clear out of a tight-knit town. That hunt went better and things felt smoother, but still, even if Sam kissed him soft after saving Dean from a close call with a fang, he stayed awake in the bunker’s library when they got home and Dean went to bed alone, and it was—nothing was going to crack them, but it was a little lonely. Dean hasn’t had much occasion to feel lonely, these last few years. He’s not a fan.

When Sam did come back—yeah, that was a good night. And then the day after, that was a very good morning, Dean hitched up against the kitchen island and gasping into Sam’s hair with his shorts caught around one ankle. Yesterday, Sam woke him up with two fingers in his ass and his mouth working at one nipple, long enough that when Sam pulled off and smiled good morning the air hurt on the swollen-soft flesh—and oh, they stayed in bed for a while, and Dean could hardly walk once Sam was done. No complaints.

Still:‌ "What’s today?"‌ Dean says, when he’s got more of his breath back, and Sam licks his lips and says, "The 4th, why?" and Dean narrows his eyes at the ceiling and counts backwards in his head, and then rolls onto his side and punches Sam in the arm and ignores the ow! and says, "Are you fucking with me?"

Sam’s holding onto his bicep, his nose wrinkled. "What do you mean?"

It’s that aw-shucks Sammy tone. It didn’t work when Sam was lying about doing his shooting drills when he was a teenager, and it doesn’t work now. "The 4th,"‌ Dean says, exaggerated. "Four times? Seriously, are you—what, are you playing a game?" Sam shrugs, eyebrows high, and Dean rolls his eyes and pushes up on his elbow, shoving his hand into Sam’s face as he counts.

"One," he says, his extended finger nearly jabbing Sam in the cheek, "‌was this morning when you tried to suck my clit off, and two"‌ (Sam flinches back from the second finger) "was when you had me on your lap, and then three was after lunch, when you brought me the beer when I‌ was changing the oil on my baby, and four—just now, and we haven’t even had dinner yet, you horndog." He jabs Sam in the chest with the damning four fingers. "December 4th, four fucks. What is it, a spell or something? You’re supposed to ask, dumbass."

Sam grabs Dean’s hand before Dean can poke him again, and sighs. "Okay," he says. "You caught me. But it’s not a spell, come on."

"What, an experiment?"‌ Dean says. Sam wrinkles his nose again, caught, and Dean yanks back, annoyed. "Dude, that’s not better!"

Sam sits up, waves his hands. "It’s not like—I’m not—" He sighs again, runs a hand through his hair. "I’m more experimenting on—me?"

Dean frowns, shifts on the bed. "Like, how?"

He watches Sam’s mouth quirk, and then Sam touches his hip. "Figures, that’s what would freak you out more," he says, quieter, and then runs his fingers along Dean’s leg to the tender back of his knee. Dean shifts again, his thighs slicking against each other, and Sam’s lips curve easily, knowing exactly what Dean’s feeling.

"Shut up," Dean says, automatically, and Sam says, "It’s a challenge."

"What, you shutting up?"

Sam pinches the back of his knee, lightly. "What I’m—this." His hand runs back down Dean’s thigh, long fingers curling around to the tender inside, and Dean bites the inside of one cheek, his engine threatening to rev up again. Sam shakes his head. "You’re going to laugh."

Dean breathes in through his nose, the smell of them heavy in the pit of his throat. "Try me."

"Dickcember,"‌ Sam says.

Dean blinks at him. "I’m sorry?"

Sam shrugs. "It’s a—well, like, have you heard of No-fap November?" Dean must make a face, because Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Well, it’s just, we kind of—we sort of did that, on accident. Or—at least I‌ did." Dean shrugs at him. Whatever happens between him and the showerhead is his business, if Sam’s not putting out. Sam huffs. "Yeah, well. So, after holding it in for a while, I‌ thought, you know, we could try this."

"Dickcember,"‌ Dean says. It doesn’t sound any less stupid the more he hears it.

"Come as many times in a day as the number of that day,"‌ Sam says. He shrugs one shoulder. "We’re doing pretty good, so far."

Dean feels like his eyebrows might never come down. "Sammy,"‌ he says, and Sam half-laughs, and maybe Dean didn’t need to sound so damn admiring, but. "This is the… proudest I have ever been. Seriously. Brings a tear to my eye."

"Yeah, yeah,"‌ Sam says, but he’s got a grin peeking in at the corner of his mouth, and his dimples are all over the place, and hell, he’s naked and hot as hell and Dean came four goddamn times today, he can afford to be magnanimous. But—

"Wait a second,"‌ Dean says, "but you haven’t—I‌ mean, I got there, but you—"

"I figure we can share,"‌ Sam says. "Not like there’s a judging panel or something."

"We’d get straight tens,"‌ Dean says, immediately, and Sam laughs again, leaning in. Dean accepts the kiss, soft and precise with intent, and winds his fingers into Sam’s hair. Jesus, a fuck-challenge. May his brother never cease to amaze. "Except from the Russian judge,"‌ Dean murmurs, when Sam pulls away enough that he can. "We’d probably get docked down to like an 8 or something. Fixing the competition."

"Should’ve recused himself,"‌ Sam says, seriously, the amber light in his hair, and Dean could go for number five right now, he really could.

When he reaches down, though, even if Sam’s lashes dip at the familiar grip at the base of his dick, he’s stopped. "It’s only the fourth," Sam says. He removes Dean’s hand from his lap and kisses the knuckles. Dean’s stomach goes molten hot. Sam’s such a sap. "Gotta pace ourselves."

"You think I‌ can’t make it?"‌ Dean says, laying the outrage on thick. "Buddy, you’re on."

"We’ll see," Sam says, and drops Dean’s hand in favor of thwacking his thigh. "C’mon. Shower, and then dinner. We’re going to need our strength."

He rolls off the bed, all golden tan and long muscles, comfortable and easy. Dean sucks in a long breath, and follows. This is going to be a fun month.

*

He still thinks it's fun as of the 9th, when Sam dredges up three superb erections and makes Dean come twice with each, morning, noon, and night. "Six for you, three for me," Sam says, with Dean's thighs still shuddering around his head. "Nine down."

"We kick ass," Dean mumbles, sweaty, and Sam grins at him and passes out.

By the 13th things are getting a little hairy. Sam's still game, but it turns out fucking takes a lot more time than they thought and they do actually have other things to do. It's a weird moment when Sam says that he's going to make a run to the grocery store in Lebanon and Dean says, "Wait, we need to bone first," and Sam agrees. 'Tis the season, Dean thinks, when Sam goes down to his knees.

Still, even if the spirit is willing the flesh may be weak. Dean's clit can get sensitive at the best of times; on the 16th, he wakes up naked and a little plumped from dreaming strange blurred things about Sam, and the touch of the sheets against his skin makes him shudder, and not entirely in a good way. Even so: "Sammy," he says, and Sam grunts next to him, but turns over, and number one that day is a ginger grind against Sam's hip with Sam's hands on his ass, Sam's mouth against his ear urging him on, sleepy at first but then, delightfully, not. Two and three come in quick succession, but Sam grimaces afterward and says, "Should've tried to hold on, we've got a bunch to do today," even while Dean's sloppy with him and too comfortable to climb off.

So, the romance is coming off of it, a little. Dean actually goes on the internet and researches foods that boost testosterone, and feeds Sam tuna often enough that he starts to kinda hate it. The 20th finds them with Sam making a schedule and giving Dean an early Christmas present: a dual vibrator/clit sleeve, and once an hour Dean settles down in his favorite armchair in the library and knocks out two orgasms, until he's sore and overstimulated and too drippy-wet to want to even put his jeans back on. Sam's good for four, that day, the last of which ends with Dean tipped over the back of the armchair with his sleeve still buzzing, practically crying into his folded arm while Sam shakes against his ass and gasps, "Twenty, oh god, turn it off, turn it off—"

Dean's not sure they're going to make it. Sam pulls off his clit, having woken him at three in the morning to ensure they hit their schedule, and says, "Baby, you need to check the calendar more often." Turns out, Sam's had a secret weapon this whole time, and on the 22nd it hits: Dean's heat, coming exactly when it's meant to like clockwork. That day he gets four off before Sam even touches him, pressed with his sensitive tits against the cold shower wall with three fingers in his ass, and when he comes back to bed he's soft and overwarm and his fingers are pruny and Sam wakes up just from the smell of him, his nostrils flaring and his dick revved and ready and the way he says Dean makes the slick leak down the inside of Dean's thigh. On Sam's knot they hit four more before breakfast, and Sam doesn't even need to work for it. "I think I'm getting dehydrated," Dean says, his head light as air. Sam rubs the base of his clit where it's still standing proud and smiles at him, a smug tilt to it. "I'll get you water," he says, and flexes his hips up, "when you give me one more."

Dean shudders, clenching around Sam's fatter dick, and leans into it. "This was a stupid idea," he says, but he leans down anyway and lets Sam play with him.

On the 30th it's snowing, hard, and they don't really get out of bed. Sam's sore, and Dean's sorer, but it's hard not to keep touching each other. One lamp on, and they've got a twelve-pack of beer on the table, and a pitcher of water, and they're riding a fuck-drunk tipsy wave that's enough that when Sam has to piss he lets Dean convince him to just go right in the sink.

"You're nasty," Dean says, from the bed. The sound's ridiculously loud on the porcelain. "Gross. Why do I deal with you."

"This was your idea!" Sam says, over his shoulder, and Dean grins at him, stretching out. God, his hamstrings. The vibrator's somewhere by his feet, sloppy with lube and his own slick, and there's all sorts of nasty on his thighs, and they really might need to just burn the bedding. Who cares. This is the best month ever.

He tells Sam so, when Sam gets back into bed, and Sam shrugs, leaning over him on one elbow. "I don't know," he says, and fills Dean with three fingers like it's just punctuation in the conversation. Dean gulps air, spreads his thighs. "There was that month when I was—seventeen? And we had that rental house in Colorado and we went hiking a bunch. That was fun."

His fingers grind up into Dean's sweet spot, swollen and oversensitive. "The idea," Dean starts, pushing into it, "that this even begins to compare to that is—is downright offensive, Sammy."

Sam starts up slow circles, his thumb dragging against the base of Dean's clit. "I mean, I did get a lot of mosquito bites, that's true," he says, and Dean grips his shoulder, laughs. Sam grins at him. "Come on, give it up."

Dean does, fast, rippling. His thighs clench around Sam's wrist, his heart hammers in the pit of his chest. "God," he says, when it's over, but it doesn't really feel over, and it's not—they've got… he doesn't even know how many still to go. Sam will. He's probably got a checklist in the bedside table. Dean laughs again, slinging his arm over his eyes. "This is so dumb."

"Yeah," Sam says, and he sounds happy. "Hey. Hey, Dean."

Dean sighs, unclenches his thighs to let Sam's wrist go. "What, Sammy."

A touch to his cheek, and he uncovers his face to see Sam just looking at him—not smiling, really, but Dean knows that face and Sam sure as shit ain't sad. "I think we're going to make it to thirty-one," Sam says.

He says it with this voice that—Sam's said a few things to him, like that, and just like always Dean feels like his heart might just burst with it. Dean catches Sam's hand, kisses the pad of his thumb. "Yeah," he says, and doesn't mind how damn sappy it sounds back. Sam's a bad influence. "Yeah, I think we will, too."

[legolaslovely]

Summer Rain

A/N: Happy Fili Friday! Today, Iolaus is also getting some love! BECAUSE HE DESERVES IT OKAY. Sorry, I’m a little emotional. Hope you guys enjoy this one! I certainly loved writing it. Get ready for some ROMANTIC FLUFF.

Pairing: Iolaus x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,186

Warnings: fluff, makeout sesh

Summary: BF&GF Playing hooky< all you need to know. But also (lemme geek out for a sec) I like to think (Y/N) is the top cadet academically and she HATES Iolaus for his cocky and lazy demeanor UNTIL Fiducious asks her to tutor him. Then she falls head over sandals in love with this golden boy’s true heart because wouldn’t we all

A Note About the Poetry/References: The poem (please just read it for me and my romantic little heart, okay?) is called A Lover’s Sigh, written by Anacreon who lived in Ancient Greece (in Teos AKA across the Aegean Sea from Corinth) around 500 BC. ISN’T THAT COOL. Also, some of The Odyssey (translated to English, of course) is quoted here. 

LOOK AT HIM LOVE OF MY LIFE 

(Y/N) loved falling asleep to the symphony that came with the falling rain. Whether it be a downpour slapping against the soft grass or a sprinkling of misty drops landing on a roof of thatch, the lullaby was always welcomed. However, it was especially cherished after a day of endless drills and exams that left her with an exhausted mind and aching muscles to match. When she climbed into bed, her woes were forgotten and replaced with nature’s soft tune raining down and the scent of fresh earth sneaking through the cracked windows in the academy. (Y/N) loved every part of the rain.

Except training in it.

She woke the next morning with a start at the rumbling thunder that snapped to a crack right above the academy. Some of her classmates were already awake, watching the storm from the doorway and planning their route across the wide grounds to the dining hall’s entrance. She had rebraided her hair for the day by the time those cadets had mustered up the courage to skitter out from under the doorway and across the fields. She snorted as she pulled on her boots.

“Don’t laugh, (Y/N),” Hercules said from his bed above. “That’ll be us next.”

“Can’t you ask your dad to chill out with the thunder already? He’s been at it all night.”

Hercules noisily mocked her. “Yeah, sure, I’ll send a request right up. Anything for your convenience, (Y/N).”

“I appreciate the diligence,” she said. She chased Hercules to the door and pushed him outside into the drip. Cold droplets fell down the back of his neck and he shivered and cringed, dancing back into the shelter. He grabbed her shoulders but she slipped out of his grasp, giggling. “Not fast enough, Herc,” she said.

Jason stepped between them, acting as (Y/N)’s shield as Hercules shook his dripping hair. “Listen, the quicker we run to the dining hall, the quicker we can eat, okay? By the time we go to morning drills, we’ll be dry.”

“Just in time to get soaked again,” Iolaus said. As usual, he’d been the last to wake up. He ran a hand through his messy curls and placed the other discreetly on (Y/N)’s back for no one to notice but her. “You know they’ll make us train in the storm today.”

“It builds character,” he and Hercules said at the same time, both mocking Chieron perfectly. 

“I’m not intending on training anywhere on an empty stomach so are you all coming to breakfast with me or not?” Jason said.

“You’re grumpy,” Hercules mumbled.

(Y/N) laid a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “All right, all right. Herc, take the starving king to breakfast, I’ll meet you guys there,” she said, having to gather her scrolls and bag for classes. Probably a few towels as well.

She turned and dug her things out from under her bed, sighing to herself. 

“I thought you liked the rain?”

She leapt from her place in fright. “Gods, Iolaus, you scared me. I thought you went with the guys.” She set down her scrolls and watched the wet sheets fall through the doorway again. “I do like the rain, but not when I have to go out in it.”

Iolaus hummed, following her gaze. He didn’t notice her sneak behind him until she rested her head on his shoulder. 

“I’d much rather spend a day like today in… the hay loft? The barn is empty until after dinner is served anyway. No one will be up there, especially on a day like today.”

“Are you, (Y/N), stealer of library scrolls, actually suggesting we play hooky?” Iolaus asked.

Her head snapped up. “I do not steal scrolls!”

“Only the ones Fiducious doesn’t let you borrow,” he said with a poking finger. “You aren’t supposed to know about that.”

“Oh, (Y/N), you are forgetting about the life I led before I came to this charming academy. I know a lot of things I’m not supposed to know.”

She scoffed, but grabbed his hand and her bag. “Fine, then, Master Burglar, how do we get to the barn without being seen?”

He led her to the opposite exit of the small building. “Considering the barn is on the other side of the grounds and we will have to pass the window of Chieron’s office and his horses don’t exactly like me-”

“What did you do to the horses, Iolaus?”

“Not important- we just have to RUN!” 

He dragged her out into the rain, shushing her surprised squeal with smiling lips. Their sandals squeaked in the wet and squished in the mud as they ran past the well, jumped over the short wall, and skittered along the side of the main building of the academy. 

“Wait!” he cried out in a harsh whisper. “Wait here. That’s Chieron’s window.” 

Before he could formulate a plan, (Y/N) slipped from his clammy grasp and bent forward, crawling underneath the window. She called him to follow. “We’re almost there!”

With no roofs to slither under, Iolaus tore off his vest and it quickly became their umbrella for the second half of the journey through the wide field. As they neared the barn, (Y/N) was just as relieved as Iolaus to see the horses already inside. That meant they truly would be alone in the hay loft until someone came to feed the animals at night. The barn was all theirs. 

“Do you think anyone saw us?” (Y/N) asked after they’d slithered inside and closed the barn door. Iolaus held the ladder for her as she climbed up to the hay loft.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Everyone is in the dining hall at this hour.” He followed her up, sending nervous glances to the horses below. A shiver ran up his spine. Whether it was from the dark eyes staring up at him or the icy beads of rain still trickling down his bare skin, he wasn’t quite sure. 

He threw his sopping vest over a bale. “Well, I won’t be putting that back on any time soon,” he said with a wide mouthed wink.

(Y/N) shook her head at his never ending antics, but smiled at him all the same. “Good thing I brought something dry and warm for you, then.” Out of her bag came one of his own tunics he didn’t realize had been stolen. 

“You sneaky little cadet,” he said, putting it on. “You planned this.”

“Maybe.” She had pulled her braid apart and was squeezing her hair dry with one of the towels she’d brought. 

“Lucky for you, I too came prepared.” He slid the tunic over his head and it didn’t take long for drenched, golden curls along with a dimpled grin to pop out of the neck. Then he reached for his bag, rummaging around the small rips in the lining until he uncovered two loaves of fresh bread. He gave one to (Y/N) with a flourish and a bow, savoring her laugh. But as she leaned forward to take the treat from him, a stiff, crinkling chattered that was just loud enough to hear over the rain outside. He watched her sit quickly upright and hide her twitching lips behind the crust of bread. “What was that?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“No. You-you didn’t.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said around the hunk of bread in her mouth.

“You brought a scroll? We are playing hooky and you brought homework! I knew this was too good to be true.”

She stood, pulling the small scroll out from under her shirt. She’d managed to pack everything else for the day when Iolaus wasn’t looking, but this was a last minute addition that didn’t quite make it into her bag. 

“It’s not homework,” she said. “It’s for pleasure.”

“That is no pleasure I’d like to be a part of!”

She laughed out loud at that and Iolaus only half enjoyed it. She skipped to his side, turned his stubborn face to her, and wrung out his curls into her towel. “Come on, Iolaus. With all our exams coming up, I never have time to read anymore. Especially not poetry because we haven’t covered any of it in our modern literature classes yet. Now I have the whole day free to-”

“To read poetry,” he grumbled.

Her soft touch through the towel traveled over his shoulders and down his chest, collecting the raindrops that still gathered in the hollows of his tanned skin. “I know you don’t like poetry much, but what if I promise to read you something I know you’ll enjoy?”

“Then you don’t know me very well.”

She took his chin in her fingers. “You are such a grump! Let me read for one hour and then we can do what you want.” She wriggled out of his grasp that consisted of roaming hands and squeezing fingers. “Within reason!” she said, snapping the towel at him.

A childish, roaring groan filled the barn as she sat on a bale of hay. She patted the spot next to her, beckoning him to sit. “Just trust me.” 

Heavy feet stomped across the loft until Iolaus sat on the floor beneath her, scooting around until he could lean back between her knees. He looked up at her, chin to the sky and blue eyes gleaming. “Tell me about this poem.”

“It comes from across the sea,” she said, unrolling the scroll by its pins. “Listen.”

“The Phyrgian rock that braves the storm Was once a weeping matron’s form; And Procne, hapless, frantic maid,  Is now a swallow in the shade. Oh that a mirror’s form were mine,  To sparkle with that smile divine; And like my heart I then should be, Reflecting thee, and only thee! Or could I be the robe which holds That graceful form within its folds; Or t-”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. This is a dirty poem?” He spun and took the scroll from her, turning so fast, his hair sprayed droplets over her and the parchment. He stared at the words, then turned to her. “You read dirty poetry?”

She laughed. “They’re not all like this.” She swiped his curls over his shoulder, running a fingertip around his ear and down his neck. “Read the rest of it.” Gentle hands turned his shoulders forward and she asked again. “Read to me, Iolaus.”

He coughed, unconsciously leaning toward her breath on his bare skin.

“Or could I be the robe which holds That graceful form with-”

She was kissing his neck. Warm, soft lips over his jaw, under his ear, down his neck to the bit of shoulder his tunic left open to her. The little clicking sound of her mouth against his skin sounded louder than any lightning crack Zues could send down to them. He curved into her hold.

“Keep reading,” she said.

“How am I supposed to concentrate with you… kissing me like that?”

“Does it feel good?” The tip of her nose traced over the sensitive skin that her lips left damp.

He could only hum his appreciation. Her hands rolled forward to the front of his tunic, wanting the deep rumble to sound again so she could feel it in her palms. 

“Keep reading or I will stop.”

He grumbled. “Her gifts were mixed with good and evil both.”

She breathed out a laugh, tightened her grip, and sunk her teeth into his skin. He lifted the scroll.

“...Within its folds; Or, turned into a fountain, lave Thy beauties in my circling wave; Or, better still, the zone that lies Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs! Or like those envious pearls that show So faintly round the neck of snow! Yes, I would be a happy gem,  Like them to hang, to fade like them. What more would thy Anacreon be? Oh, anything that touches thee, Nay, sandals for those airy feet-- Thus to be pressed by thee were sweet!”

Iolaus rolled up the scroll and set it aside, turning in her arms to kneel between her legs so they were face to face. Her damp hair fell around her as if to frame the portrait of a goddess. He kissed her lips.

“Did I not say you would enjoy the poem?” she asked.

He kissed her cheek and ran his fingers through her hair. The sight of untied tresses was rare, and he took this chance to feel their softness and marvel at the delicate waves. “I would enjoy anything as long as I am with you.”

When he drew away from her cheek, he saw her eyes had closed from his tender touch. Half of him wished she’d open them for they were the brightest light there was on this dreary day. However, the more selfish half of him wanted them to stay closed. She’d never permit his staring if she saw the way he was watching her, taking her in. His finger curled over her forehead down to her chin to hold her face still. Even as her curious eyes opened to him, he gazed on.

“Never have I set my eyes upon such a beauty, in either man or woman. I look at you and I am bedazzled,” he said.

All breath left her. “Where did you learn that?”

“I said I would enjoy anything as long as we were together. Do you really think I’d ignore your passion for poetry and stories? That I’d leave you alone in it?”

She shook her head, left speechless by his words. 

Just as a log split open by a heavy ax, so seemed Iolaus’ armor of deceptive reputation: cracked and gaping, revealing a true, tender heart underneath. From its center radiated unmatched compassion and care that shone brightly enough to play the part of the sun on this murky morning. Her own thoughts cowered from his brilliance.

“No, I-just-”

“I love you, (Y/N).”

She kissed his lips, arm circling his shoulders to pull him close. His dimples caved in under her thumbs as she cradled his face, pouring her appreciation, astonishment, admiration- all of it into her kiss. 

“I love you too,” she whispered against his lips.

He dove into her again- lips, tongues, hands, fingers- and she keened, falling into his lap on the floor. 

“Iolaus.”

Over her own sigh of his name, she barely heard someone else’s voice. She drew away to listen, but Iolaus’ lips only fell down her cheek to her neck, serving as a further distraction.

“Do you hear that?”

He hummed against her skin.

Thunderous footsteps banged outside, squishing and spurting in the puddles of mud while the looping chains of the hitching posts crashed together, sending a harsh, bright clanging sound up to the loft of the barn.

“What is that?” (Y/N) asked.

“You know exactly what that is,” Iolaus said, tugging her hips closer.

The slam against the barn door sent the large handle rattling and yanked Iolaus from his heated stupor. Surely the storm’s angry power couldn’t be the manifestation of a godly punishment for two students playing hooky, they thought. But that fear shifted as the warning voice outside eventually gave them a different, but no safer, solution. 

“I don’t think (Y/N) and Iolaus would be in here, sir, Fiducius, sir. I really don’t. But if you insist, I guess we’ll have to go inside the barn and see!”

The pair in the loft shared a look. Eyebrow waggles and waving hands gave silent orders of “Tuck in your tunic” and “Tie back your hair,” while soggy clothes and bread were thrown into their bags. A wicked bale of hale sent Iolaus hurdling to the floor. Then the barn door below slid open. The drumming of rain and Fiducius’ prattling of Iolaus corrupting his best student were deafening to ears that had grown used to accelerated breaths and soft whispers. 

“(Y/N), are you in here? With that Iolaus?” Fiducius called.

Her eyes blew wide, wordlessly begging Iolaus for advice. “Um, yes! Up in the loft?”

Iolaus holding his head in his hands told her she’d given the wrong answer. She slapped his shoulder. The rungs of the loft’s ladder squeaked and Fiducius’ head popped into view.

“What are you doing up here? You should be in class!” he said.

“Is it that time already?” Iolaus asked. He shut his mouth when (Y/N) pinched him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I lost track of time. We were only trying to get some studying in before breakfast.”

Their teacher’s nose wrinkled. “Studying?”

“Yes. I’ve been helping Iolaus with his classwork in the mornings and this is the best place to go. It’s… quiet.”

“And!” Hercules added from below the loft. “And with all the rain this morning, you had no idea what time it was because-”

“Because there was no sun,” Fiducius finished. “I see.” His eyes narrowed in on Iolaus’ strategically covered lap. “What is that scroll you have there?”

Iolaus shifted on the bale of hay, moving as far from (Y/N) as possible in the small space. He inspected the scroll, wondering if it could give him any answers for this type of exam. “Poetry, sir. (Y/N)’s been teaching me about… Anna-cree-on…”

“Anacreon,” she corrected.

“Yeah. His poetry. From across the sea.”

Fiducius was not impressed. “Odd thing to study since we’ve never covered modern works in class.”

A noise caught in Iolaus’ throat. He looked to (Y/N) for help. 

“Iolaus asked for it,” she said. “He enjoys poetry.”

Another suspicious hum traveled across the loft. “Come down here now, please. I will escort all of you to class this instant.” Then his head fell as he descended the ladder. 

Before (Y/N) could rise from her seat to follow, Iolaus pulled her into one last kiss. Though it was against her nature, she could have defied all orders to steal another, but Iolaus only smiled at her and stood, leading her to the edge of the loft.

He climbed down the ladder first, ignoring (Y/N)’s mumblings of “I don’t need help” and “I’ve fought off gods, I can handle a shaky ladder.” Before her foot could touch the ground, he grabbed her hips and pulled her out of the barn, clear from Fiducius’ view.

“You didn’t get your hour of reading,” he said.

She shrugged. “I think I got something just as good.”

They parted as Fiducius emerged from the barn and led the way to the main building of the academy, thanking the gods for stopping the rain and mumbling about students turning into muddy hogs to be slopped. He was easily ignored by the couple behind him twisting together like vines of ivy.

(Y/N) looked up to the sky as if watching the dark, rumbling clouds move on to the next village. Truthfully, she was leaning into the arm Iolaus was holding around her and looking into the summer sky of her love, all clear blue eyes and curls like golden rays of sun.

@emrfangirl​ @misslongcep​ @raindancer2004​ @ladybugg1235​ @xxbyimm​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @fire-flv​ @nerdbirdsworld​ @dashesofink​ @teagarages​ @dreams-of-wander​ @winchesterandpie​ @bluebellcotton @tumblinglringlring @fxngsfogxarty @specialagentsnark @afeistyfairy12 @queenofmankind @karlthecat15722 @sagabriar @marymegger 

[londonartandfood-blog]

Rollywood or To Myself with Love

Russian Film Week. (Closes today)

Or, the Farce with the Journalists.

Or, Always Keep in Mind Who You Are Dealing With.

This piece could have many titles. Let’s just stick with The Farce title for now; and the farce goes like this...

Imagine that you are a journalist and you apply and receive an accreditation for Russian Film Week; you go to the opening ceremony, you expect to meet the event’s committee, film directors and stars, other film professionals, other journalists; then you expect to have an insight into the week’s programme by the organisers - so you can make a more informed choice about which films to watch. You believe you’ll be at the world premiere of a Russian film produced in Hollywood. Rollywood.

Now, imagine that when you get there, you find yourself amidst a press conference running in Russian, with an interpreter so bad that you can’t follow a word. You can’t ask questions and you don’t understand what’s going on.

Then also imagine that you realise that you, and your fellow journalists, are supposed to see this world premiere in the press conference hall (aka a basement), projected on a wall (sans screen), through bad speakers (I had better 30 years ago), with white lights from the ceiling full on, and with all the sounds from the London Science Museum coming from above your head.

You also find out that, at the same time you’re enjoying this ‘Special Screening for Journalists’ as announced by the organisers, upstairs in the IMAX cinema other people are crossing the red carpet to sit in proper chairs, in proper darkness and watching the proper world premiere of this same film.

How would you feel? I felt like a naughty child who failed to grow up and is kept away from the Beautiful People in floor length evening gowns (which vividly reminded me of my mother going out with my father when I was seven, while I was left behind) along with white shirts, black jackets and bow ties. Also envision that you’re a journalist who thinks they are part of an event, just to find out that – actually, no - the event is taking place somewhere else.

Not too far, just two floors above. But still other-worldly.

Now, imagine you’re the organiser. You want to create an event, you want to make it big and bright to attract attention, but not just any attention.

If your event is big and bright enough, obviously journalists will come. But you don’t want them to come; and certainly not for the opening night, nor the gala at the end.

You’ll have many reasons for that… but what to do? Aha! Invite them hospitably, then isolate them. That’ll do. Stuff them in a basement and give them plenty of alcohol.

But how will you actually achieve this? Why would they just follow and be where you want them to be instead of making a riot? Well, let’s try some old techniques: First, break up the group, then bring them down bit by bit. Make them believe that they’ve made a mistake. For example, that they haven’t registered for the screening.

If they don’t get to the screening, then it’s their fault.  And, on arrival, give them all a press-pass; then only give wristbands to half of them. Then let’s give tickets to half of the group with the wristbands.

But then we’ll still have journalists in the IMAX hall, won’t we? Don’t be silly! We’ll mislead them with all these tokens, to break up the group; so that some of them think they are cleverer and did better than others; and vice versa; so that half of them think that they missed something and weren’t good enough.

Eventually, we won’t let any of them in anyway.

Soon, all the children-journalists-press-passers will start running around amidst the Grown-Up-Beautiful-People. Then they will learn that the press-passers don’t bypass anything, and certainly not the usherettes that guard the escalators towards the upper-floor-heaven-of-the-IMAX.

Then some of them will realise that the Grown-Up-Beautiful People have white wristbands; as they do, and will show them to the usherettes to pass through and get onto the escalators.

If those without wristbands start asking what to do, they’ll be told, “Oh, you should have registered for the screening, now there is nothing to do”. But to others, “No worries, now you have to go to the main reception, and ask for wristbands there.”

Once they reach the Upper-Heaven-IMAX floor, the naughty-children-press-passers will be asked for tickets. Those who have them will be let into the screening hall. Others won’t and will be sent to main reception (the main reception being miles away). Having finally got into the screening hall, the ‘lucky’ minority with the ultimate combo of press-pass, wristband and ticket, will realise that despite all the decoration, they still don’t have an allocated seat.

Thus, 45 minutes later, all children-press-passers-naughty- journalists will find themselves back in the basement.

None of them having done well enough. None of them grown-up. Understanding, disgusted, humiliated. All the journalists find themselves down, in the basement, drinking warm blue fizz. Yes, blue. Children like bright colours.

Luckily, I had only a press-pass, and didn’t lose time running up and down the escalator. Instead, I got mad. Especially when I saw the PR person, Mamasha (verbally called Masha), sneak up and disappear towards the IMAX-Upper-Floor-Heaven with the answers of all my unasked questions. I got mad and shouted at the RFW Director “Are you seriously keeping the journalists in the basement with no screen and bad sound?” To which he answered with a question “Do you know how much these people have paid for their tickets?” sweeping his gesture to the Beautiful-Grown-Ups surrounding him. To which I too answered with a question, “Was I given the choice?”. To which he says, “It was written as a Special Screening for Journalists”. To which I said, “Since when did special mean degradation in a basement?’’

Then I got so mad that I simply left and went down to where I was expected to be - in the basement with a glass of wine, and another glass of wine, and another glass of wine.

All the while asking journalists, one by one, if they had anything to comment. “Do you think this is representative of the Russian attitude towards journalists?’’, from a young woman running a blog (I can’t tell you her name, I was so pissed by the end of the event that I lost my notes). Another charming man writing for some sci-fi edition mentioned something about a ‘special tea’. But, unlike me, they are all calm. They all sit like good children to watch the film.

The screening starts. I can’t watch, anger and wine spoil my concentration, poison my brain. Loathing surfaces: Why have they done this? Self-doubt: Why am I here? Self-questioning: Do these children-naughty-journalists love cinema more than me? As I see, they all sit quietly watching their film…

I sneak towards the IMAX-Upper-Floor-Heaven led by the smell of popcorn. Where else food if not with the Grown-Ups? “Where are you going?” the usherette questions. “For popcorn”. They let me go. With hands full of packets of popcorn, I bump into RFW Director and the film Director with his girlfriend (model-tall but slightly stooped) while they sneak out of the salon. Next to this tall company and with hands full of popcorn I really feel ungrown. A naughty, sneaky, nosey child, diagnosed with a retard journalistic growth. I go down to eat my stolen popcorn when, a few minutes later, ushers arrive from the Upper-Heaven-Floor with serving cars full of popcorn and politely asking the naughty-children-journalists, “Sweet or salty?” as if it were “Red or white?”

A director’s call is always efficient I think through the mists of the warm Pinot Grigio. And, I also think, now all is in its place: the children have popcorn, and when the film finishes the Grown-Up-Beautiful-People will have Champagne.

About half an hour into the film, I leave. Apparently, I don’t love cinema enough to watch the last tech film in a basement, on a wall, with white lights in my eyes and the sounds of a whole museum in my ears. The other children-naughty-journalists must love cinema more than me.

That was the beginning and end of Russian Film Week for me. I don’t know about film selection, I don’t know about guests or anything. You should read somebody (good luck with that) else’s piece who got less mad about the opening trick performed on an otherwise nice Sunday afternoon in West London.

#londonartandfood #russianfilmweek #russianfilm #russialondon #filmlondon