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qqueenofhades · 3 years ago

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The Green Knight and Medieval Metatextuality: An Essay

Right, so. Finally watched it last night, and I’ve been thinking about it literally ever since, except for the part where I was asleep. As I said to fellow medievalist and admirer of Dev Patel @oldshrewsburyian, it’s possibly the most fascinating piece of medieval-inspired media that I’ve seen in ages, and how refreshing to have something in this genre that actually rewards critical thought and deep analysis, rather than me just fulminating fruitlessly about how popular media thinks that slapping blood, filth, and misogyny onto some swords and castles is “historically accurate.” I read a review of TGK somewhere that described it as the anti-Game of Thrones, and I’m inclined to think that’s accurate. I didn’t agree with all of the film’s tonal, thematic, or interpretative choices, but I found them consistently stylish, compelling, and subversive in ways both small and large, and I’m gonna have to write about it or I’ll go crazy. So. Brace yourselves.

(Note: My PhD is in medieval history, not medieval literature, and I haven’t worked on SGGK specifically, but I am familiar with it, its general cultural context, and the historical influences, images, and debates that both the poem and the film referenced and drew upon, so that’s where this meta is coming from.)

First, obviously, while the film is not a straight-up text-to-screen version of the poem (though it is by and large relatively faithful), it is a multi-layered meta-text that comments on the original Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the archetypes of chivalric literature as a whole, modern expectations for medieval films, the hero’s journey, the requirements of being an “honorable knight,” and the nature of death, fate, magic, and religion, just to name a few. Given that the Arthurian legendarium, otherwise known as the Matter of Britain, was written and rewritten over several centuries by countless authors, drawing on and changing and hybridizing interpretations that sometimes challenged or outright contradicted earlier versions, it makes sense for the film to chart its own path and make its own adaptational decisions as part of this multivalent, multivocal literary canon. Sir Gawain himself is a canonically and textually inconsistent figure; in the movie, the characters merrily pronounce his name in several different ways, most notably as Sean Harris/King Arthur’s somewhat inexplicable “Garr-win.” He might be a man without a consistent identity, but that’s pointed out within the film itself. What has he done to define himself, aside from being the king’s nephew? Is his quixotic quest for the Green Knight actually going to resolve the question of his identity and his honor – and if so, is it even going to matter, given that successful completion of the “game” seemingly equates with death?

Likewise, as the anti-Game of Thrones, the film is deliberately and sometimes maddeningly non-commercial. For an adaptation coming from a studio known primarily for horror, it almost completely eschews the cliché that gory bloodshed equals authentic medievalism; the only graphic scene is the Green Knight’s original beheading. The violence is only hinted at, subtextual, suspenseful; it is kept out of sight, around the corner, never entirely played out or resolved. In other words, if anyone came in thinking that they were going to watch Dev Patel luridly swashbuckle his way through some CGI monsters like bad Beowulf adaptations of yore, they were swiftly disappointed. In fact, he seems to spend most of his time being wet, sad, and failing to meet the moment at hand (with a few important exceptions).

The film unhurriedly evokes a medieval setting that is both surreal and defiantly non-historical. We travel (in roughly chronological order) from Anglo-Saxon huts to Romanesque halls to high-Gothic cathedrals to Tudor villages and half-timbered houses, culminating in the eerie neo-Renaissance splendor of the Lord and Lady’s hall, before returning to the ancient trees of the Green Chapel and its immortal occupant: everything that has come before has now returned to dust. We have been removed even from imagined time and place and into a moment where it ceases to function altogether. We move forward, backward, and sideways, as Gawain experiences past, present, and future in unison. He is dislocated from his own sense of himself, just as we, the viewers, are dislocated from our sense of what is the “true” reality or filmic narrative; what we think is real turns out not to be the case at all. If, of course, such a thing even exists at all.

This visual evocation of the entire medieval era also creates a setting that, unlike GOT, takes pride in rejecting absolutely all political context or Machiavellian maneuvering. The film acknowledges its own cultural ubiquity and the question of whether we really need yet another King Arthur adaptation: none of the characters aside from Gawain himself are credited by name. We all know it’s Arthur, but he’s listed only as “king.” We know the spooky druid-like old man with the white beard is Merlin, but it’s never required to spell it out. The film gestures at our pre-existing understanding; it relies on us to fill in the gaps, cuing us to collaboratively produce the story with it, positioning us as listeners as if we were gathered to hear the original poem. Just like fanfiction, it knows that it doesn’t need to waste time introducing every single character or filling in ultimately unnecessary background knowledge, when the audience can be relied upon to bring their own.

As for that, the film explicitly frames itself as a “filmed adaptation of the chivalric romance” in its opening credits, and continues to play with textual referents and cues throughout: telling us where we are, what’s happening, or what’s coming next, rather like the rubrics or headings within a medieval manuscript. As noted, its historical/architectural references span the entire medieval European world, as does its costume design. I was particularly struck by the fact that Arthur and Guinevere’s crowns resemble those from illuminated monastic manuscripts or Eastern Orthodox iconography: they are both crown and halo, they confer an air of both secular kingship and religious sanctity. The question in the film’s imagined epilogue thus becomes one familiar to Shakespeare’s Henry V: heavy is the head that wears the crown. Does Gawain want to earn his uncle’s crown, take over his place as king, bear the fate of Camelot, become a great ruler, a husband and father in ways that even Arthur never did, only to see it all brought to dust by his cowardice, his reliance on unscrupulous sorcery, and his unfulfilled promise to the Green Knight? Is it better to have that entire life and then lose it, or to make the right choice now, even if it means death?

Likewise, Arthur’s kingly mantle is Byzantine in inspiration, as is the icon of the Virgin Mary-as-Theotokos painted on Gawain’s shield (which we see broken apart during the attack by the scavengers). The film only glances at its religious themes rather than harping on them explicitly; we do have the cliché scene of the male churchmen praying for Gawain’s safety, opposite Gawain’s mother and her female attendants working witchcraft to protect him. (When oh when will I get my film that treats medieval magic and medieval religion as the complementary and co-existing epistemological systems that they were, rather than portraying them as diametrically binary and disparagingly gendered opposites?) But despite the interim setbacks borne from the failure of Christian icons, the overall resolution of the film could serve as the culmination of a medieval Christian morality tale: Gawain can buy himself a great future in the short term if he relies on the protection of the enchanted green belt to avoid the Green Knight’s killing stroke, but then he will have to watch it all crumble until he is sitting alone in his own hall, his children dead and his kingdom destroyed, as a headless corpse who only now has been brave enough to accept his proper fate. By removing the belt from his person in the film’s Inception-like final scene, he relinquishes the taint of black magic and regains his religious honor, even at the likely cost of death. That, the medieval Christian morality tale would agree, is the correct course of action.

Gawain’s encounter with St. Winifred likewise presents a more subtle vision of medieval Christianity. Winifred was an eighth-century Welsh saint known for being beheaded, after which (by the power of another saint) her head was miraculously restored to her body and she went on to live a long and holy life. It doesn’t quite work that way in TGK. (St Winifred’s Well is mentioned in the original SGGK, but as far as I recall, Gawain doesn’t meet the saint in person.) In the film, Gawain encounters Winifred’s lifelike apparition, who begs him to dive into the mere and retrieve her head (despite appearances, she warns him, it is not attached to her body). This fits into the pattern of medieval ghost stories, where the dead often return to entreat the living to help them finish their business; they must be heeded, but when they are encountered in places they shouldn’t be, they must be put back into their proper physical space and reminded of their real fate. Gawain doesn’t follow William of Newburgh’s practical recommendation to just fetch some brawny young men with shovels to beat the wandering corpse back into its grave. Instead, in one of his few moments of unqualified heroism, he dives into the dark water and retrieves Winifred’s skull from the bottom of the lake. Then when he returns to the house, he finds the rest of her skeleton lying in the bed where he was earlier sleeping, and carefully reunites the skull with its body, finally allowing it to rest in peace.

However, Gawain’s involvement with Winifred doesn’t end there. The fox that he sees on the bank after emerging with her skull, who then accompanies him for the rest of the film, is strongly implied to be her spirit, or at least a companion that she has sent for him. Gawain has handled a saint’s holy bones; her relics, which were well known to grant protection in the medieval world. He has done the saint a service, and in return, she extends her favor to him. At the end of the film, the fox finally speaks in a human voice, warning him not to proceed to the fateful final encounter with the Green Knight; it will mean his death. The symbolism of having a beheaded saint serve as Gawain’s guide and protector is obvious, since it is the fate that may or may not lie in store for him. As I said, the ending is Inception-like in that it steadfastly refuses to tell you if the hero is alive (or will live) or dead (or will die). In the original SGGK, of course, the Green Knight and the Lord turn out to be the same person, Gawain survives, it was all just a test of chivalric will and honor, and a trap put together by Morgan Le Fay in an attempt to frighten Guinevere. It’s essentially able to be laughed off: a game, an adventure, not real. TGK takes this paradigm and flips it (to speak…) on its head.

Gawain’s rescue of Winifred’s head also rewards him in more immediate terms: his/the Green Knight’s axe, stolen by the scavengers, is miraculously restored to him in her cottage, immediately and concretely demonstrating the virtue of his actions. This is one of the points where the film most stubbornly resists modern storytelling conventions: it simply refuses to add in any kind of “rational” or “empirical” explanation of how else it got there, aside from the grace and intercession of the saint. This is indeed how it works in medieval hagiography: things simply reappear, are returned, reattached, repaired, made whole again, and Gawain’s lost weapon is thus restored, symbolizing that he has passed the test and is worthy to continue with the quest. The film’s narrative is not modernizing its underlying medieval logic here, and it doesn’t particularly care if a modern audience finds it “convincing” or not. As noted, the film never makes any attempt to temporalize or localize itself; it exists in a determinedly surrealist and ahistorical landscape, where naked female giants who look suspiciously like Tilda Swinton roam across the wild with no necessary explanation. While this might be frustrating for some people, I actually found it a huge relief that a clearly fantastic and fictional literary adaptation was not acting like it was qualified to teach “real history” to its audience. Nobody would come out of TGK thinking that they had seen the “actual” medieval world, and since we have enough of a problem with that sort of thing thanks to GOT, I for one welcome the creation of a medieval imaginative space that embraces its eccentric and unrealistic elements, rather than trying to fit them into the Real Life box.

This plays into the fact that the film, like a reused medieval manuscript containing more than one text, is a palimpsest: for one, it audaciously rewrites the entire Arthurian canon in the wordless vision of Gawain’s life after escaping the Green Knight (I could write another meta on that dream-epilogue alone). It moves fluidly through time and creates alternate universes in at least two major points: one, the scene where Gawain is tied up and abandoned by the scavengers and that long circling shot reveals his skeletal corpse rotting on the sward, only to return to our original universe as Gawain decides that he doesn’t want that fate, and two, Gawain as King. In this alternate ending, Arthur doesn’t die in battle with Mordred, but peaceably in bed, having anointed his worthy nephew as his heir. Gawain becomes king, has children, gets married, governs Camelot, becomes a ruler surpassing even Arthur, but then watches his son get killed in battle, his subjects turn on him, and his family vanish into the dust of his broken hall before he himself, in despair, pulls the enchanted scarf out of his clothing and succumbs to his fate.

In this version, Gawain takes on the responsibility for the fall of Camelot, not Arthur. This is the hero’s burden, but he’s obtained it dishonorably, by cheating. It is a vivid but mimetic future which Gawain (to all appearances) ultimately rejects, returning the film to the realm of traditional Arthurian canon – but not quite. After all, if Gawain does get beheaded after that final fade to black, it would represent a significant alteration from the poem and the character’s usual arc. Are we back in traditional canon or aren’t we? Did Gawain reject that future or didn’t he? Do all these alterities still exist within the visual medium of the meta-text, and have any of them been definitely foreclosed?

Furthermore, the film interrogates itself and its own tropes in explicit and overt ways. In Gawain’s conversation with the Lord, the Lord poses the question that many members of the audience might have: is Gawain going to carry out this potentially pointless and suicidal quest and then be an honorable hero, just like that? What is he actually getting by staggering through assorted Irish bogs and seeming to reject, rather than embrace, the paradigms of a proper quest and that of an honorable knight? He lies about being a knight to the scavengers, clearly out of fear, and ends up cravenly bound and robbed rather than fighting back. He denies knowing anything about love to the Lady (played by Alicia Vikander, who also plays his lover at the start of the film with a decidedly ropey Yorkshire accent, sorry to say). He seems to shrink from the responsibility thrust on him, rather than rise to meet it (his only honorable act, retrieving Winifred’s head, is discussed above) and yet here he still is, plugging away. Why is he doing this? What does he really stand to gain, other than accepting a choice and its consequences (somewhat?) The film raises these questions, but it has no plans to answer them. It’s going to leave you to think about them for yourself, and it isn’t going to spoon-feed you any ultimate moral or neat resolution. In this interchange, it’s easy to see both the echoes of a formal dialogue between two speakers (a favored medieval didactic tactic) and the broader purpose of chivalric literature: to interrogate what it actually means to be a knight, how personal honor is generated, acquired, and increased, and whether engaging in these pointless and bloody “war games” is actually any kind of real path to lasting glory.

The film’s treatment of race, gender, and queerness obviously also merits comment. By casting Dev Patel, an Indian-born actor, as an Arthurian hero, the film is… actually being quite accurate to the original legends, doubtless much to the disappointment of assorted internet racists. The thirteenth-century Arthurian romance Parzival (Percival) by the German poet Wolfram von Eschenbach notably features the character of Percival’s mixed-race half-brother, Feirefiz, son of their father by his first marriage to a Muslim princess. Feirefiz is just as heroic as Percival (Gawaine, for the record, also plays a major role in the story) and assists in the quest for the Holy Grail, though it takes his conversion to Christianity for him to properly behold it.

By introducing Patel (and Sarita Chowdhury as Morgause) to the visual representation of Arthuriana, the film quietly does away with the “white Middle Ages” cliché that I have complained about ad nauseam; we see background Asian and black members of Camelot, who just exist there without having to conjure up some complicated rationale to explain their presence. The Lady also uses a camera obscura to make Gawain’s portrait. Contrary to those who might howl about anachronism, this technique was known in China as early as the fourth century BCE and the tenth/eleventh century Islamic scholar Ibn al-Haytham was probably the best-known medieval authority to write on it extensively; Latin translations of his work inspired European scientists from Roger Bacon to Leonardo da Vinci. Aside from the symbolism of an upside-down Gawain (and when he sees the portrait again during the ‘fall of Camelot’, it is right-side-up, representing that Gawain himself is in an upside-down world), this presents a subtle challenge to the prevailing Eurocentric imagination of the medieval world, and draws on other global influences.

As for gender, we have briefly touched on it above; in the original SGGK, Gawain’s entire journey is revealed to be just a cruel trick of Morgan Le Fay, simply trying to destabilize Arthur’s court and upset his queen. (Morgan is the old blindfolded woman who appears in the Lord and Lady’s castle and briefly approaches Gawain, but her identity is never explicitly spelled out.) This is, obviously, an implicitly misogynistic setup: an evil woman plays a trick on honorable men for the purpose of upsetting another woman, the honorable men overcome it, the hero survives, and everyone presumably lives happily ever after (at least until Mordred arrives).

Instead, by plunging the outcome into doubt and the hero into a much darker and more fallible moral universe, TGK shifts the blame for Gawain’s adventure and ultimate fate from Morgan to Gawain himself. Likewise, Guinevere is not the passive recipient of an evil deception but in a way, the catalyst for the whole thing. She breaks the seal on the Green Knight’s message with a weighty snap; she becomes the oracle who reads it out, she is alarming rather than alarmed, she disrupts the complacency of the court and silently shows up all the other knights who refuse to step forward and answer the Green Knight’s challenge. Gawain is not given the ontological reassurance that it’s just a practical joke and he’s going to be fine (and thanks to the unresolved ending, neither are we). The film instead takes the concept at face value in order to push the envelope and ask the simple question: if a man was going to be actually-for-real beheaded in a year, why would he set out on a suicidal quest? Would you, in Gawain’s place, make the same decision to cast aside the enchanted belt and accept your fate? Has he made his name, will he be remembered well? What is his legacy?

Indeed, if there is any hint of feminine connivance and manipulation, it arrives in the form of the implication that Gawain’s mother has deliberately summoned the Green Knight to test her son, prove his worth, and position him as his childless uncle’s heir; she gives him the protective belt to make sure he won’t actually die, and her intention all along was for the future shown in the epilogue to truly play out (minus the collapse of Camelot). Only Gawain loses the belt thanks to his cowardice in the encounter with the scavengers, regains it in a somewhat underhanded and morally questionable way when the Lady is attempting to seduce him, and by ultimately rejecting it altogether and submitting to his uncertain fate, totally mucks up his mother’s painstaking dynastic plans for his future. In this reading, Gawain could be king, and his mother’s efforts are meant to achieve that goal, rather than thwart it. He is thus required to shoulder his own responsibility for this outcome, rather than conveniently pawning it off on an “evil woman,” and by extension, the film asks the question: What would the world be like if men, especially those who make war on others as a way of life, were actually forced to face the consequences of their reckless and violent actions? Is it actually a “game” in any sense of the word, especially when chivalric literature is constantly preoccupied with the question of how much glorious violence is too much glorious violence? If you structure social prestige for the king and the noble male elite entirely around winning battles and existing in a state of perpetual war, when does that begin to backfire and devour the knightly class – and the rest of society – instead?

This leads into the central theme of Gawain’s relationships with the Lord and Lady, and how they’re treated in the film. The poem has been repeatedly studied in terms of its latent (and sometimes… less than latent) queer subtext: when the Lord asks Gawain to pay back to him whatever he should receive from his wife, does he already know what this involves; i.e. a physical and romantic encounter? When the Lady gives kisses to Gawain, which he is then obliged to return to the Lord as a condition of the agreement, is this all part of a dastardly plot to seduce him into a kinky green-themed threesome with a probably-not-human married couple looking to spice up their sex life? Why do we read the Lady’s kisses to Gawain as romantic but Gawain’s kisses to the Lord as filial, fraternal, or the standard “kiss of peace” exchanged between a liege lord and his vassal? Is Gawain simply being a dutiful guest by honoring the bargain with his host, actually just kissing the Lady again via the proxy of her husband, or somewhat more into this whole thing with the Lord than he (or the poet) would like to admit? Is the homosocial turning homoerotic, and how is Gawain going to navigate this tension and temptation?

If the question is never resolved: well, welcome to one of the central medieval anxieties about chivalry, knighthood, and male bonds! As I have written about before, medieval society needed to simultaneously exalt this as the most honored and noble form of love, and make sure it didn’t accidentally turn sexual (once again: how much male love is too much male love?). Does the poem raise the possibility of serious disruption to the dominant heteronormative paradigm, only to solve the problem by interpreting the Gawain/Lady male/female kisses as romantic and sexual and the Gawain/Lord male/male kisses as chaste and formal? In other words, acknowledging the underlying anxiety of possible homoeroticism but ultimately reasserting the heterosexual norm? The answer: Probably?!?! Maybe?!?! Hell if we know??! To say the least, this has been argued over to no end, and if you locked a lot of medieval history/literature scholars into a room and told them that they couldn’t come out until they decided on one clear answer, they would be in there for a very long time. The poem seemingly invokes the possibility of a queer reading only to reject it – but once again, as in the question of which canon we end up in at the film’s end, does it?

In some lights, the film’s treatment of this potential queer reading comes off like a cop-out: there is only one kiss between Gawain and the Lord, and it is something that the Lord has to initiate after Gawain has already fled the hall. Gawain himself appears to reject it; he tells the Lord to let go of him and runs off into the wilderness, rather than deal with or accept whatever has been suggested to him. However, this fits with film!Gawain’s pattern of rejecting that which fundamentally makes him who he is; like Peter in the Bible, he has now denied the truth three times. With the scavengers he denies being a knight; with the Lady he denies knowing about courtly love; with the Lord he denies the central bond of brotherhood with his fellows, whether homosocial or homoerotic in nature. I would go so far as to argue that if Gawain does die at the end of the film, it is this rejected kiss which truly seals his fate. In the poem, the Lord and the Green Knight are revealed to be the same person; in the film, it’s not clear if that’s the case, or they are separate characters, even if thematically interrelated. If we assume, however, that the Lord is in fact still the human form of the Green Knight, then Gawain has rejected both his kiss of peace (the standard gesture of protection offered from lord to vassal) and any deeper emotional bond that it can be read to signify. The Green Knight could decide to spare Gawain in recognition of the courage he has shown in relinquishing the enchanted belt – or he could just as easily decide to kill him, which he is legally free to do since Gawain has symbolically rejected the offer of brotherhood, vassalage, or knight-bonding by his unwise denial of the Lord’s freely given kiss. Once again, the film raises the overall thematic and moral question and then doesn’t give one straight (ahem) answer. As with the medieval anxieties and chivalric texts that it is based on, it invokes the specter of queerness and then doesn’t neatly resolve it. As a modern audience, we find this unsatisfying, but once again, the film is refusing to conform to our expectations.

As has been said before, there is so much kissing between men in medieval contexts, both ceremonial and otherwise, that we’re left to wonder: “is it gay or is it feudalism?” Is there an overtly erotic element in Gawain and the Green Knight’s mutual “beheading” of each other (especially since in the original version, this frees the Lord from his curse, functioning like a true love’s kiss in a fairytale). While it is certainly possible to argue that the film has “straightwashed” its subject material by removing the entire sequence of kisses between Gawain and the Lord and the unresolved motives for their existence, it is a fairly accurate, if condensed, representation of the anxieties around medieval knightly bonds and whether, as Carolyn Dinshaw put it, a (male/male) “kiss is just a kiss.” After all, the kiss between Gawain and the Lady is uncomplicatedly read as sexual/romantic, and that context doesn’t go away when Gawain is kissing the Lord instead. Just as with its multiple futurities, the film leaves the question open-ended. Is it that third and final denial that seals Gawain’s fate, and if so, is it asking us to reflect on why, specifically, he does so?

The film could play with both this question and its overall tone quite a bit more: it sometimes comes off as a grim, wooden, over-directed Shakespearean tragedy, rather than incorporating the lively and irreverent tone that the poem often takes. It’s almost totally devoid of humor, which is unfortunate, and the Grim Middle Ages aesthetic is in definite evidence. Nonetheless, because of the comprehensive de-historicizing and the obvious lack of effort to claim the film as any sort of authentic representation of the medieval past, it works. We are not meant to understand this as a historical document, and so we have to treat it on its terms, by its own logic, and by its own frames of reference. In some ways, its consistent opacity and its refusal to abide by modern rules and common narrative conventions is deliberately meant to challenge us: as before, when we recognize Arthur, Merlin, the Round Table, and the other stock characters because we know them already and not because the film tells us so, we have to fill in the gaps ourselves. We are watching the film not because it tells us a simple adventure story – there is, as noted, shockingly little action overall – but because we have to piece together the metatext independently and ponder the philosophical questions that it leaves us with. What conclusion do we reach? What canon do we settle in? What future or resolution is ultimately made real? That, the film says, it can’t decide for us. As ever, it is up to future generations to carry on the story, and decide how, if at all, it is going to survive.

(And to close, I desperately want them to make my much-coveted Bisclavret adaptation now in more or less the same style, albeit with some tweaks. Please.)

Further Reading

Ailes, Marianne J. ‘The Medieval Male Couple and the Language of Homosociality’, in Masculinity in Medieval Europe, ed. by Dawn M. Hadley (Harlow: Longman, 1999), pp. 214–37.

Ashton, Gail. ‘The Perverse Dynamics of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, Arthuriana 15 (2005), 51–74.

Boyd, David L. ‘Sodomy, Misogyny, and Displacement: Occluding Queer Desire in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, Arthuriana 8 (1998), 77–113.

Busse, Peter. ‘The Poet as Spouse of his Patron: Homoerotic Love in Medieval Welsh and Irish Poetry?’, Studi Celtici 2 (2003), 175–92.

Dinshaw, Carolyn. ‘A Kiss Is Just a Kiss: Heterosexuality and Its Consolations in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight’, Diacritics 24 (1994), 205–226.

Kocher, Suzanne. ‘Gay Knights in Medieval French Fiction: Constructs of Queerness and Non-Transgression’, Mediaevalia 29 (2008), 51–66.

Karras, Ruth Mazo. ‘Knighthood, Compulsory Heterosexuality, and Sodomy’ in The Boswell Thesis: Essays on Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality, ed. Matthew Kuefler (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), pp. 273–86.

Kuefler, Matthew. ‘Male Friendship and the Suspicion of Sodomy in Twelfth-Century France’, in The Boswell Thesis: Essays on Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality, ed. Matthew Kuefler (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), pp. 179–214.

McVitty, E. Amanda, ‘False Knights and True Men: Contesting Chivalric Masculinity in English Treason Trials, 1388–1415,’ Journal of Medieval History 40 (2014), 458–77.

Mieszkowski, Gretchen. ‘The Prose Lancelot's Galehot, Malory's Lavain, and the Queering of Late Medieval Literature’, Arthuriana 5 (1995), 21–51.

Moss, Rachel E. ‘ “And much more I am soryat for my good knyghts’ ”: Fainting, Homosociality, and Elite Male Culture in Middle English Romance’, Historical Reflections / Réflexions historiques 42 (2016), 101–13.

Zeikowitz, Richard E. ‘Befriending the Medieval Queer: A Pedagogy for Literature Classes’, College English 65 (2002), 67–80.

#the green knight #the green knight meta #sir gawain and the green knight #medieval literature #medieval history #this meta is goddamn 5.2k words #and has its own reading list #i uh #said i had a lot of thoughts?

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karlheinz-sama · 2 years ago

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👬

Muses childhood

tw// suicide, mentions of child abuse

Look after each other...

"All children must begin somewhere, after all, they are biologically wired to crave the love of their parents; so what a pity for those who strayed, some still hear the breaking hearts"

It's hostile, to say the least, Karl is no exception or outlier to the generational trauma that is instinctively bound within the Sakamaki family..

The environment he grows up in is also a lot different, it’s very censored and elitist on what information you are fed, his family house is this traditional design of roman architecture, that inspired the Romans to build the Domus Flavia.

During his childhood the more tame parts are spent in droning lessons, listening to his sisters talk about balls and people and male nature, and his mother and father fighting. His older sister would read poetry with him as they discussed the fragmented society they lived in before he called her stupid and she called him a moron and another one of their squabbles began till his other sister twisted both their ears, and he would sneak away from balls with his sisters to bring out his paint palettes to try and re-create the stunning exotic scenes smearing the colours over each other official clothes, and on the toughest of nights, they’d all fuddle in his oldest sisters room listening to the shrieks of his parents as his sister muttered it’ll be fine if we look after each other over and over and over… Till the sunrise.

Karl got bored easily as a child, it’s been a habit since young to pick up as many things as possible so he doesn’t feel the gut-wrenching knots that coil within him making him feel oh so empty.

He takes up classes upon classes feeling no fatigue as he absorbs information like a sponge, from medicinal herbs to the current cabaret fashion, the art of warfare to painting scenes that beauty encompasses far more than the eye, if there is one thing he truly and wholly enjoys is the pursuit of knowledge. He’s a massive nerd.

His father is far worse than he is but at the same time Karl did go mental along the line, he officially has 9 wives and countless concubines; not for any political or moral reasons like he plunged his country into war and sent off the young male heirs of several families whilst he stayed cooped up in the capital thus he decided to marry the widowed women with no protection, or perhaps the young ladies unable to keep their families afloat in the destitute war. No, he did start several battles, and animosities with the surrounding countries but he turned a blind eye to his responsibilities to chase skirts all over Makai. He even went further with his heavily misogynistic views to shun the women whose husbands, fathers, and brothers went off to war and unfortunately died as used and made it taboo to help them without being ridiculed. Moreover, he was the first person to put in statute laws that women would not be able to inherit their fortunes or family titles but rather they'd be donated to the crown for the war effort.

Karl was born in a stalemate between the countries, the actual troops on grounds had been retracted but now it was time for post-war diplomacy, he grew up amidst assassinations and plots from both outside and in, and he watched as hyperinflation took over the empires and ministers and warlords broke into squabbles like children, he watched refugees enter looking for any income possible, Karlheinz was raised amidst intense paranoia and a bleak future.

However, he was part of the royal family, so as chaos descended upon the people, he and his family were stuck in a competition for the throne. See with a father who had sired so many, tensions were due to be high especially due to the fact everyone hated the incompetent man and wanted him off the throne as fast as possible, especially before the frenzied public got their wits together and started attacking the government and organizing coups.

This was of course hidden under lavish balls, and mock fights between brothers to map out allies and enemies, with everyone but yourself against you the mind games started getting to everyone fairly quick, those who wanted no parted either willingly left the capital in fear or those who were not adaptable enough had the luckier fate of death or the unluckier one of ostracization and exile with humiliation attached to their family.

Everyone would attempt to display wealth, constantly rebuilding their manors, hunting houses, or sending out dinner invites of 16 courses with the unmentionable amount of money spent to show off and prove (bribe) to the nobility whose side they should take when it finally came for the showdown of who would take the crown.

His mother was no better, his mother was already a calculative and cutthroat figure before she entered the Sakamaki household, well she only got worse from there.

To her, Karl and his two older sisters were no more than extended parts of her; she would goad her magnificent children and practically glow as she received praise for birthing such talented prodigies.

His oldest sister was a talented dancer, music flowed through her limbs as she twirled in golden ballrooms, her bejewelled plum gown trailing behind her as the nobles looked on in awe and envy.

His other sister was a talented linguist, who had not only mastered the demon world’s languages with all its dialects but even learnt more than a dozen of human tongues.

Of course, Karlheinz being one of the obvious choices was pretty much perfect, but his talents in awakening his powers came especially young, everyone in a state of terrified wonder at his mind control and other magical enhancing abilities.

But behind closed doors, she would obsess manically trying to keep her children pure from the outside filth, telling them they were the best of the best and how all their other siblings should've been culled because with them here there was no need for them.

Sometimes she’d sob in her second daughter’s arms nearly every day telling her what her father did to her and how much she despised him ( crooning at the attention and comfort she was bestowed, clutching onto the child’s arms nails carving crescent-shaped scars as she wailed, and she was especially attentive to her eldest daughter, a perfect lookalike of herself, she would monitor precisely what clothes she would wear as she sent her out on meetings with eligible men ( sometimes thrice her age as she lived through her, marvelling at how much the men would’ve adored her if she hadn’t been the queen), marvelling over a younger version of herself that only became prettier as the days went by stroking her soft cheeks, and silver hair, she even apologised for the bruises that she left on her in fits of jealousy. It wasn't her fault that their father held her captive within this estate. If all her kids had freedom, why couldn't she? It just wasn't fair.

Oh and her precious baby boy Karl, he would never leave his mother’s side would he? She loved dolling him up, always spoiling him with whatever he wanted. All he had to do was listen to mommy right and if he didn't listen she would have to discipline him. He didn't want that right?

After all, the pale circular scars on his shoulders spoke for themselves, every time she thought her son might be getting too full of himself, she bought him back to earth like a good mother; pressing the sharp point of her heel into his back, his face held down on the floor as she made repeat what he had done wrong and apologise.

Karl considered himself rather lucky, some of his other stepmothers were far too adventurous in their methods of seeking entertainment through their children.

His most complicated relationships are actually with his siblings; as he’s part of the middle generation in between the 40-year-old mid-life crisis children his father had when he was still young and the 10-year-old children that still ran around the manor in innocent joy, he’s almost come to grow fond of them. Of course not as real people he has never had the emotional range for that but as storybook characters, whose lives he watches develop, he looks at their frivolous adventures, their strenuous turmoils, and mundane domestic life.

This is why when they die so easily even as great vampires it wounds him so, he hates it he does. It’s a tragic thing. It starts with his sister, some foolhardy man who let her rejection of his proposal become a matter of his pride and he accused her of treason with the other demon clans under the cover of seeking linguistic enrichment, his father already senile and paranoid didn’t even look twice at the blotchy evidence before sentencing her to death.

That's where it starts for Karl he always knew he was one among the three of his fathers who were most likely to be crowned whilst he frolicked around with his many occupations but now he supposes he had to finally step into power.

But it didn't stop no matter how hard he tried, he wasn't even the one killing them at this point. It was fate, how unfair was that?

His older brother who taught him to horse ride killed himself in the grief of watching his family get ripped apart. He was always too sensitive.

His other sister was assaulted by her womaniser husband, forced to give birth to two stillborn babies and hired a hunter to shoot her through the head. He found her body clutching onto the small baby shoes she ordered their old nurse to make.

Another sister one of the infamous lanky twins passed away in a political assassination that ended up a mistake. He sent the body to her family and received the letter saying her mother killed herself in grief orphaning one of his brothers.

One of the twins couldn’t bear his brother’s assasination and lay in front of the new flying machines, it ripped him into pieces that not even vampire regeneration could fix.

He watched one of his brothers poison his entire family to get revenge on his abusive mother. By the time Karl arrives with the knights he sees his brother on the floor after committing suicide holding hands with one of his sisters, his daughter his two older brothers slumped on the dining table as well as his wife.

A couple went insane, some became hollow shells of nothing but grief, some even more vindictive, the halls no longer filled with the laughter of mischievous children.

Karlheinz Sakamaki was formed in the bleakest of misfortunes.

So he brought the great purging disappearing for months till he came back down from the highest northern terrains in between the vampire and Adler border, an eerie sense of death surrounding him piercing gold eyes instead of his honey brown orbs, then he wiped out nearly his entire bloodline. Establishing himself as the tyrant king; he re-started the entire vampire clan, started wars with him on the front lines, and brought back diplomacy and riches. Not a single living citizen could deny their standard of living had skyrocketed.

Now the actual logistics of the purging is something I'll have to get into another day.

#jesus this is massive #my bad #clearing out the askbox #and my drafts actually #tw #diabolik lovers #diahell #karlheinz sakamaki #shu sakamaki #ayato sakamaki #reiji sakamaki #yui komori #dl headcanons #diabolik lovers headcanon #karlheinz lore #whoever reads all this yay ig

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awkwardtickleetoo · 3 years ago

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The Case of the Missing Hoodies

ollie-is-badass said: hi I have a prompt that I would like to share with you :] Ler!ranboo ler!tubbo and lee!tommy. tommy keeps stealing stuff from ranboo's and tubbo's mansion so they decide to tickle him until he admits he stole stuff

lee!tommy, ler!ranboo, ler!tubbo, 2.7k words

enjoy <33

"Tubbo?" Ranboo called through the mansion, hands on his hips and head tilted in confusion.

"Yeah?" He heard Tubbo's distant response from the room a few away from where he was, followed by the sound of footsteps getting closer.

"Have you seen my crown?" He asked, turning around and seeing Tubbo walk through the open door. "I just had it the other day, I thought I left it here but now I can't find it."

"No, I haven't seen it, sorry. I'll keep an eye out for it, though," Tubbo responded, patting his platonic husband on the shoulder and squeezing gently. Ranboo looked down at him and offered him a gentle smile, returning the gesture by patting Tubbo's head and ruffling his hair a bit. Tubbo giggled up at him, letting Ranboo finish his playful actions before pulling away and leaving the room to return to his previous activities. Ranboo checked the time, sighing as he realized he had to get going if he wanted to finish his other plans for the day. He supposed he could survive one day without his crown.

The next day, however, he noticed his hoodie— the black and white one Niki had given him to match Tubbo's green one and Michael's much smaller pink one for more casual days spent around the cold environment of Snowchester— had also gone missing. This time he was sure it was Tubbo, seeing as he had stolen his clothes multiple times in the past. He claimed they were better because of how much larger they were rhan his own, and "the extra fabric means extra warmth, duh!", but all it meant for Ranboo was he had to go on a wild goose chase for his own clothes almost weekly. He assumed today was no different, until he walked into Michael's bedroom to ask Tubbo about it.

"Hey, Tubbo, I-"

"Ranboo!" Tubbo cut him off. whipping around to face him. "My bandana's missing, and Michael's toy sword! Did you, like, maybe put them somewhere or something?" Tubbo rambled, rustling through the toys in Michael's toy box to see if it had just been pushed to the bottom.

"No, I haven't touched either of them! I was actually coming in here to ask you if you'd seen my hoodie that Niki gave me, that's missing now too!"

"What, really? That's, like, 4 things that have gone missing in the past 48 hours, what the hell?" The pair looked at each other in confusion for a moment, unsure of where to go next.

"We must just be misplacing things, we've been moving a lot of things from place to place, I'm sure there's some logical explanation, right?" Ranboo explained, nodding his head as if to convince himself he was right. Tubbo nodded with him.

"Right! Right, yeah, that makes sense. We'll find them."

"We'll find them."

And days later, they did. But… not in the way they thought they were going to.

Tommy was on his way over to the mansion for a movie night with his best friends.

Ranboo was standing upstairs with Michael sitting on top of his shoulders looking through one of the large windows in the front of the building. Michael had run to him faster than Ranboo thought his little legs could carry him, tugging on the bottom of his suit jacket and rambling about how he saw a bunny hopping across the ground in front of the mansion. Ranboo immediately followed, excited to indulge the small piglin even if the bunny was long gone, or never there in the first place, thus getting them to the spot they were in now.

It was there that he watched Tommy make towards the entrance of the mansion.

Tommy, walking towards the mansion, wearing Ranboo's missing hoodie. His hoodie that he had been missing for about a week.

Ranboo's eyes widened at the sight, letting out a small gasp that was barely picked up by the piglin boy on his shoulders (not that he would've cared anyway, his little fingers too busy messing with the two toned strands of hair on his father's head). He watched as Tommy paused and looked down, seemingly realizing what clothing item he was wearing, and he took it off and placed it in his backpack before continuing forward.

He softly lifted Michael off his shoulders, encouraging him to "go look for the bunny downstairs, I'm sure he'll be much easier to see on the first floor, right?" and sending him on his way with a soft pat to his head and a shared smile. He quickly went down the stairs, acting as nonchalant as possible as he watched Tommy walk through the doorway.

"Hello?" Tommy called out, slightly louder than his normal speaking voice, waiting for a response from either of the mansion's residents.

"Hey, Tommy!" Ranboo responded, almost too quickly to not sound like he wasn't anticipating his arrival, but Tommy didn't seem to notice.

"What's up, big man?" Tommy asked, reaching up to pat Ranboo on the shoulder once he got close enough. Ranboo smiled at his friend, keeping his calm demeanor for the moment.

"Not too much, honestly, pretty much just hangin' with Michael and trying to settle stuff between houses." Ranboo paused, suddenly getting a devious idea of how to bring up the stolen items to his friend, and an even more devious idea of how to go about putting his plan into action. "Actually, since you're here, Tubbo and I were actually planning to have a movie night tonight, you're more than welcome to join us if you want?"

"Oh, fuck yeah, man, that sounds awesome, thanks!" Tommy responded genuinely, a wide smile on his face, and Ranboo smiled back before leading him to the room Tubbo was setting up with blankets, snacks, soft lighting, and a massive selection of movies for then to choose from.

Ranboo knew his plan would go along smoothly.

Several hours and almost 2 movies later, the three boys were as relaxed and content as they could be. Ranboo was laying with his legs crossed and his ankles resting on the coffee table in front of him, his arm resting on the top of the couch and his hand gently scratching at Tubbo's hair where his head rested on his shoulder. The boy in question sat cross-legged on the couch with his cheek against Ranboo's shoulder, practically falling asleep due to the fingers in his hair, holding one of Tommy's hands in his and messing with his fingers absent-mindedly. Tommy, on the other hand, was laying horizontally on top of Ranboo and Tubbo's laps, his legs on Ranboo's and his torso on Tubbo's, multiple soft pillows supporting his head where it wasn't near either of his friends.

The credits of the second movie began to roll, and Tommy sighed as he rubbed at his heavy eyelids with his free hand that wasn't still being held by Tubbo. They stayed in content silence as the credits song played, until Ranboo spoke up.

"Hey, Tommy, wanna hear a weird thing that Tubbo and I have been dealing with the past couple days?" Tommy hummed in response, nodding his head as he made eye contact with his tall friend across the couch, making it clear he was listening to him. "So, a few days ago I noticed my crown was missing, which was super weird because I always make sure to keep good track of it so I don't lose it," He began, noticing as Tommy's eyebrows raised and he tensed slightly at the mention of the missing item. "But I didn't think much of it, I mean, people misplace stuff all the time, y'know? I figured it would just turn up eventually when I least expected it. But then, the next day, Tubbo even noticed some stuff missing, like his bandana, and Michael's toy diamond sword," Tubbo nodded against Ranboo's shoulder in confirmation, glancing up at him before snuggling back into his shoulder. "But that's not all. I also noticed one of my hoodies was missing as well, the nice one that Niki made me, you know that one, the one that matches you and Tubbo?" Tommy nodded again, no longer making eye contact with Ranboo and instead staring intently at Tubbo's fingers as they fidgeted with his own, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. "Yeah, so, that's been pretty weird. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that… would you?" Ranboo asked, smiling mischievously as Tommy glanced up to meet his eyes for a split second before looking away again.

"Who, me? No, no, of course not, why- why would I know about that?" Tubbo seemed to perk up at Tommy's stuttering, looking back and forth between his two friends in confusion.

"No?" Ranboo asked, earning a head shake from Tommy. As he continued talking, he pushed himself to sit up straighter and look down at his friend, who pulled his hands away from Tubbo and held onto the couch on either side of him, looking ready to push himself off it if he needed. Ranboo rested his hands on Tommy's knees as a warning, trying to hint at what was coming, and smiling even more deviously as he felt his friend tense and knock his knees together on instinct. "Well… that's actually really interesting because earlier today I was looking out the window upstairs and I saw you walking towards the mansion, but I think I saw you put something in your bag that looked an awful lot like my missing hoodie. Still don't know anything about that?"

"I- uh… well, I…" Tommy stammered before quickly jumping up off the couch and going to make a run for it. He didn't get too far, however, before Tubbo leapt up after him and grabbed him around the waist, pulling him back to the couch again. He yelped in shock, already laughing as he suddenly had his back against Tubbo's chest, Tubbo's arms hooked underneath his and pinned out to the sides as a result. His legs curled up towards his chest in response, but Ranboo didn't seem to pay them any mind as he leaned right up against them, sitting criss-cross in front of his now practically helpless friend. "Uh, guys- haha- guys, you don't… I-I can explain."

"Explain what?" Tubbo interjected, smiling when Tommy tilted his head completely upwards to look at him. "I thought you didn't know anything about that." Tommy seemed to steel himself at that, squeezing his hands into fists and furrowed his eyebrows.

"I don't!"

"Hm," Ranboo hummed out loud, resting his hands on Tommy's sides right above his hips. "Guess we'll just have to tickle it out of you, then."

"Wait, wait, no nonono Ra-HAHANBOHOO! NOHOHO!" Tommy practically screamed at the sudden squeezing at his sides, shaking his head and trying to kick his legs out, but he was blocked by Ranboo's body and only ended up kicking him. There was a gasp above him, and it was hard for him to listen to the words that followed through his own squirming and laughter.

"He just kicked you, Boo!" Tubbo shouted, gripping Tommy's arms tighter to attempt to stop his squirming.

"I know, Bo, I noticed! He's gotta be more careful or we're gonna tickle him even more!"

"Ihihi didn't mehehehe- mean tohoho Ihihi- I'm sohorry-" Tommy sounded genuine, even through his laughter, and Ranboo slowed the tickling to show he wasn't actually upset.

"Are you ready to confess yet?" Ranboo asked, fingers kneading into Tommy's boney ribs and receiving high, breathy giggles in response.

"Nohoho! Fuhuck yohohou, bihitch!" Tommy said defensively, his squirming calming down a bit but still attempting to curl his arms in to block Ranboo's tickly fingers.

"Alright, suit yourself," he offered before he shot his hands up to poke and prod at Tommy's underarms, him and Tubbo both giggling at the screech their friend let out at the motion.

"RAHAHANBOO!" Tommy yelled through his laughter, his squirming returning tenfold. "STOHOP LAHAUGHIHIHING! BOHOTH OF YOHOHOU!"

"We're sorry, your reactions are just too funny!" Tubbo explained, earning a laugh from Ranboo and a very annoyed look from Tommy— well, as annoyed as someone could look while getting the snot tickled out of them.

"OHOHO FUHUCK YOHOU!"

"Hey!" Tubbo responded, reaching around his captive's arms and wiggling his fingers over either side of his neck. Tommy's head shook dramatically at that before falling back against Tubbo's chest, pushed as far back as possible, his laughter raising in both pitch and volume when combined with the still-present tickles under his arms. It certainly didn't help that he couldn't press his arms down or use his own hands to stop any of the sensations. "That was rude!"

"Yeah, you'd think it would be common sense to have manners during interrogation sequences," He and Tubbo laughed at that before turning their attention back to the squirming boy between them. Tubbo pulled his hands away, going back to simply holding his arms back, and Ranboo moved from his armpits to swirling his fingers lightly in circles over his upper ribs. "Any updates? Feel like sharing anything there, Giggles?"

"Shuhuhut the fuck uhuhuhup," Tommy giggled, blushing a bit at the nickname. It was a well known fact that Tommy hated tickly nicknames, he said they always made him so flustered and everything tickled more. Ranboo couldn't think of a better time to exploit that fact than in that moment. "Plehehehease-"

"Don't even try that!" Tubbo interrupted him again, dropping his hands down to quickly taser his bottom ribs before grabbing his arms again. Tommy let out a strangled squeal, squeezing his eyes shut and arching his back. "You know exactly what you have to do to get us to stop."

"Exactly! Which is why I think it's time to pull out the big guns."

"Noho, Ihi-I don't want yohou toho pull out anythihing around me- hehehe- especiallyhy nohohot yohohour fucking guns." Tommy stuttered out, somehow still able to joke around like his normal, dumb, lovable self despite his current situation. Ranboo and Tubbo couldn't help but laugh.

"Thahat- that's not what I meant and you know it," Ranboo said with a smile, looking up at Tubbo when he spoke next.

"No, fuck you, dude, big guns are out right this second, just for that," Tommy went to protest but before he could even think, Ranboo's hands were under his shirt, one thumb digging into the sweet spot right above his hip bone and the other hand using its nails to claw at his tummy and ribs. Tommy immediately burst into loud and bright laughter, pulling harder at his arms in an attempt to wrench them from Tubbo's grip, but despite Tubbo's small stature, he was so, so much stronger than he looked, so that was almost impossible.

"NAHAHA SHIHIHIT- FUHUHUCK!" Tommy swore, relentless wriggling doing almost nothing to dull the ticklish sparks that were shooting through his veins. "OHOKAHAHAY! OKAY I GIHIHIVE! STOHOP!" Ranboo immediately pulled his hands back and simply rested his hands on Tommy's sides (he couldn't let the threat of tickles be completely gone, just in case Tommy decided to pull something, he's not stupid) as he let Tommy catch his breath. Tubbo dropped his arms completely, letting the younger pull them close to his chest and wrap around his torso in protection. "Ihihi- I do have all that stuff, it's in my bag. I was gonna put it back! I didn't think you'd both be here and notice I was here before I could do that. I'm sorry I took stuff," Tommy said and looked away almost like a hurt puppy, glancing between his friends after a few moments of silence.

"It's alright, Toms," Ranboo said softly, carding his fingers through blonde hair. "No hard feelings. But, honestly if you ever wanna borrow anything, all you have to do is ask. Especially if it's something dumb like clothes you can wear out clothes whenever you want."

"Yeah!" Tubbo agreed happily, patting Tommy's upper arm where it lays limp on his leg from where he dropped them. "Especially Ranboo's. It's kinda sweet when you wear stuff that's oversized, it's adorable." Tommy couldn't stop the heat from rising to his cheeks again.

"It is not 'adorable', Tubs, nothing I do it adorable, I'm a big man, fuck off."

Ranboo and Tubbo shared a knowing look, and soon the mansion was once again filled with the bouncy laughter of their friend. They fell asleep a while later, their third movie started and forgotten half way through as they sat wrapped in blankets and in each other's arms— and, maybe, someone's oversized hoodies.

#this ask hit me right in the benchtrio section of my heart #benchtrio my beloveds <33 #ler!ranboo #ler!tubbo #lee!tommy #cals writing

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bloody-wonder · 3 years ago

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rating all the things lymond calls will scott by how gay and sassy they sound

let me take you on a journey of one relationship development reflected in manifold creative nicknames :D

(this got very long and the one to blame is lymond. it’s definitely him who can’t shut up, not me. bc succinctness is my middle name🙈)

classic. both gay and sassy AND refers to will’s red hair. sounds even gayer in “are you willing to be wooed, sweet marigold?” 10/10, will must have hated it except he never told us he did, did he?😏

lymond basically calling will a Baby - very sassy and hilarious given their actual age difference! i suppose one of the best ways to infantilize someone is to call them an infant. 4/10, not very gay tho

among the redhead-themed ones this one’s my least favorite. 2/10 just bc the sentence it appears in is nice

now we’re getting somewhere! his red-haired greek goddess he calls will and follows it up with a quote addressed to someone referred to as “lover”. idk sounds pretty gay to me. 6/10, could be sassier but you can pry my “lymond has a red hair fetish” hc from my cold dead hands

it’s not entirely fair to include nicknames that are parts of quotes but my game my rules. if lymond didn’t want his lines to have suggestive undertones, he should’ve quoted stuff that sounds less gay, except i’m sure this is exactly what he wanted. 7/10, will is indeed pretty but there’s conclusive evidence that he’s in fact taller than lymond - which makes this line pretty sassy as well😁

okay so this scene is extremely hot. they share a moment in the midst of their enemies and will, his lips bloody from lymond’s punch, is able to come up with a perfect riposte to his dig - in which he incidentally refers to himself as lymond’s servant. h o t. 8/10, everything said in a romance language is gay by definition or else why would it be called “romance language”

here it is! the pinnacle of all redhead-themed nicknames! lymond calls will barbarossa exactly twice - before the hume castle shebacle and right after it. the sassy vibe is immaculate bc of the irony: frederick barbarossa was ofc an accomplished military commander and that night will has shown himself as the very opposite of that - just as lymond knew he would. 8/10, while not gay per se i’m partial to this one bc it’s my absolute favorite line in gok and possibly even in the entire series

wally gowdy is a scots term of endearment meaning lovely jewel. 4/10, definitely gay but unremarkable in comparison

this is from a poem that satirizes the process of courtship, among other things, by using exaggerated terms of endearment which border on nonsense. hinnysops is supposed to mean bread soaked in honey. 7/10, very flirty and, given the context, also sassy

nice touch to bring up will’s innocence after bringing him to an inn that doubles as a bawdy house. well the things he’d imagined they were about to engage in prove that this infant is not so innocent after all. 9/10 bc lymond’s about to play the gayest of pranks on will and be very sassy about it the entire time

have you noticed how at some point lymond started adding “my” to each of the nicknames? anyways this one’s pretty meh on both scales, ig i’ll give it a 3/10 just bc will must have looked cute with a sullen pout

catharism was a religious movement whose followers believed the material world was evil and only the spiritual was good. laura caine ramsey thinks lymond is accusing will of pretending to more purity than others and i would add that, since catharism was a heretical sect, lymond is also calling will a would-be renegade, thus foreshadowing his many betrayals. 1/10, not really gay, only somewhat sassy

okay so this is interesting, bear with me. this is a line from a scottish ballad about a guy named gil morrice who, as ramsey points out, resembles lymond in appearance and who, having fallen in love with a married noblewoman, wants to have his servant bring her a note inviting her to a secret rendezvous, but the servant doesn’t want to go bc he’s afraid of the lady’s husband (and also bc he thinks it’s immoral). the line lymond quotes is said by gil morrice in response to the servant, after which he also threatens to hurt him if he doesn’t do his bidding. the servant complies but makes a vow that “it shall be done for ill”. in the end, the husband captures and beheads gil morrice only to find out that he wasn’t his wife’s lover but... spoilers for the subsequent lymond books🤐 anywho, as for will, given that this quote comes at the end of their fight about christian i think it’s clearly meant to reference will’s view of the situation - bc this is when he starts seeing himself as this honest guy working for a wicked seducer who forces him to assist him in his “dealings with women” which serves as motivation to contribute to his comeuppance. interestingly, it’s not will but lymond (who knows all of this isn’t true) who quotes it which gives it an ironic, but also - since the scene is written in such a peculiar way and the reader is still supposed to be on the fence about lymond’s morals - an ominous undertone. 6/10 for metatextual richness and for the fact that will must be the only member of the gang who, when he gets grumpy and dissatisfied with his boss for one reason or another, can get a lullaby and a tucking in instead of a beating and a dismissal

the biblical cherubim mean something different but i think there’s no doubt lymond is referring to the kind of angel represented as a cute chubby child also known as cupid who as we know symbolizes romantic love. (pointing out will’s “cherubic adolescence” was one of the first comments he made about him). 5/10, once again lymond calls will a sweet looking innocent baby but this time it’s slightly gayer than “infant”

it’s common knowledge that “my dear (sarcastic)” is one of the classic things to call your rival who you may or may not have a crush on. it’s the backbone of all the tension in hate to love stories. 9/10, gay, sassy and can be easily turned into “my dear (affectionate)”

this one’s confusing. at first i thought lymond’s referring to will punching his dad but then i found out father-lasher is a type of fish? “so called from the fact that the male guards the eggs and that it defends itself by lashing out with its tail and spines”. what’s going on here? is it gay? idk but it’s definitely sarcastic and so i’m gonna give it a 2/10 mostly bc this conversation is happening over a sword which renders it homoerotic by definition

is it just me or does this indeed sound suggestive? “wanna fight me? nah i’m so much better than you i wouldn’t even bother. besides i’m your master and you will do whatever i say, sweetheart” anyone?? well i think the power imbalance is hot, sue me. 10/10, i am once again asking where is a fic that makes this scene end in angry sex

we’re roughly 60% into the book and lymond calls will by his real name for the first time - naturally in the sassiest way possible but the development is apparent. 5/10, it is what it is

oof just the last name! lymond is Pissed. he’s very serious and not flirty or sassy at all. i’ll give it a 1/10 just for the evoked poetic imagery of them perishing together in the explosion of will’s confused feelings

the girls are fighting! the infant is about to be Spanked! fun fact: the earliest recorded use of the word “nincompoop” dates back to the 1670s so either this is one of dunnett’s little anachronisms or people had been living for centuries thinking nincompoop is a normal, ordinary word, not worth writing down at all. anyways, 3/10 bc creative insults are sassy

this one isn’t as creative bc lymond is getting progressively more pissed BUT he calls our husky boy little again and there’s a derogatory “my dear” thrown in there. 3/10, does anyone else want lymond to “uncoil like a whip” at them or is it just me

lmao so basically a disaster gay. the fight is over and lymond’s sassy again. can’t be mad at will for too long, understandable. 4/10 bc this one sounds resigned and even affectionate by comparison

(btw imo lymond never calling will something like “half-baked, clueless judas” is a gross omission. think of all the kiss jokes i could’ve made)

so in this post i decided to limit myself exclusively to things lymond calls will to his face bc there are already too damn many of those but i just had to make an exception for this one. funny how lymond’s line of defense for christian is “there was nothing but friendship between us” but for will it’s “your honor this boy is not an angsty gay. if anyone knows it’s me bc i’ve been flirting with him like all the time and have nothing to show for my efforts”. very thought-provoking indeed. 5/10 bc claiming someone’s not gay in such defensive a manner always ends up implying the opposite. it’s queer subtext 101

well well well how the turntables. in their last scene together they finally see eye to eye and speak as equals, the power imbalance and the distance are gone and lymond finally calling will by his first name, like a friend, is a cherry on top. plus, this time the subject of the irony in this line is lymond himself. 100/10, by jove their last scene together is the cutest wholsomest shit i’ve ever seen😭

#the lymond chronicles #francis crawford of lymond #will scott #the game of kings #francis crawford #tlc mine #behold the fruits of my gok re-read!#tell me which one is your favorite bc i need to talk about this #i'm also writing a meta about the queer subtext in gok so stay tuned for that

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handsmotif · 4 years ago

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The Queercoding of Pinky and the Brain

This originally was just me infodumping to my friends on discord, but I decided it might be interesting to some people on here, so I polished it up and made it an actual essay lmao

To start, we’re going to break this into 2 sections -- the relationship between the mice, and Pinky’s relationship with gender, because queercoding doesn’t just mean gay!

For a 90′s show, Pinky and the Brain (and its mother show, Animaniacs) was very progressive for its time! But there were still lots of things that they couldn’t slip by censors, and thus, that’s where we have to read between the lines. And that is something I wanted to clarify here before we dive in, the actual meaning of queercoding. It’s NOT the same as queerbaiting. Queerbaiting is when the people producing certain media purposefully dangle the possibility of queer representation to lure in audiences (most prominent examples are BBC Sherlock, Riverdale, and Supernatural I GUESS? who knows abt that last one anymore), but never follow through, purely for profit. Queercoding is when media producers WANT to write in queer representation, but can’t, usually because the censors won’t let them. So, they must resort to subtext. (example: the policemen from Gravity Falls) It could also be unintentional, simply assigning certain characteristics associated with the LGBT community to characters. (example: Bugs Bunny, many Disney villains) Either way, it heavily relies on the audience picking up subtext, but whether it’s malicious or not varies, depending on the media. Bugs Bunny is an example of positive accidental queercoding, while a lot of Disney villains are negative examples.

Now, to actually discuss the gay little mice! Pinky and the Brain, whether it be intentional or not (based off comments from Maurice LaMarche, Rob Paulsen, and Tom Ruegger, signs strongly point to intentional, but it’s never been explicitly confirmed), is an example of positive queercoding.

There are many moments that I could pick out to discuss here, but we’ll start with some VERY on the nose gay metaphors.

Remember Romy? If you don’t, that’s their actual biological son! Romy came about due to a cloning accident, where their DNA got combined and spat him out.

There’s SO many things I could say about Romy. Every appearance he makes has an overarching gay metaphor as the plot. His first appearance in the episode Brinky (yeah it’s literally titled their ship name), it deals with his dads (WHICH I ALSO WANT TO POINT OUT, he DOES call them both dad, and they do both call him their son) disapproving of the fact that he wants to leave home and not follow in their footsteps of taking over the world. Brain even goes as far as disowning him whenever he tells him, which is certainly something a lot of queer people can unfortunately relate to. Also seen a lot in this episode is Pinky and Brain arguing even more than a married couple than usual, which pushes Romy away even further. Later, when Romy eventually does leave, and Brain starts to regret chasing him away, he tries desperately to reach out to him, but Romy doesn’t want anything to do with him. They end up tracking him down to an apartment building, where Romy is now living with his human girlfriend. When questioned about their relationship, the girlfriend, named Bunny, goes off on a tangent about how people shouldn’t judge others based on labels or relationships (hello?), and that Brain needs to be more tolerant. Brain apologizes and Romy forgives him. Happy ending.

Romy’s only other appearance is in the comics. Essentially, the plot of this one is that Brain wants to become the president of the local high school’s PTA, but he needs Romy’s help to make it look like he has a normal home life. He also enlists the help of Billie, the obligatory Woman introduced to make sure Brain doesn’t look as gay as he actually is, that he has a crush on. She pretends to be his girlfriend, and Pinky pretends to be Romy’s uncle, while they make up the story that Romy’s actual mother was lost at sea. Because if the organization found out that Brain has a son with a MAN??? THINK of the controversy! Anyway, the plan works, and Brain actually manages to get elected as president. Throughout this though, Pinky gets WEIRDLY jealous that Brain keeps brushing him aside for Billie. To the point where during Brain’s inauguration, Pinky actually dresses up as the wife/mother lost at sea and storms into the room.

[ID: Comic panels of Pinky, Brain, and Romy on stage at the inauguration ceremony. Pinky busts into room wearing drag, saying, “Yoo hoo! I’m back from years lost at sea to be with my son and ungrateful husband! Narf!” He then hugs Romy, while glaring at Brain. He goes on to say, “I’ll stand by your side, even though you left me behind!” The people in the audience begin to question this, saying, “Oh great fuzzy bangs!”, “What’d she say?!”, “He deserted her to be with that other woman!”, “What kind of monster is he?!”. Brain then rips off Pinky’s wig and says, “This isn’t my wife! This isn’t even a woman! It’s my roommate, Pinky.” Pinky replies, “Well, yes... But Romy really is my son! Poit!” And Brain responds, “N-Nonsense! He’s my son!” More people in the audience angrily speak up, saying, “What’s that?”, “He lives with a guy who likes to dress up in women’s clothing and the both claim to be that kid’s father!”, “Grumble! Mutter!” /END ID]

Needless to say, this doesn’t end well for them. What we can conclude from this is that homophobia exists in the Pinky and the Brain universe, and our characters are directly affected by it.

Moving on, And-There-Was-Only-One-Bed is a pretty common occurrence with these two. Their cage is big, they have plenty of room for two beds, but? They choose to sleep together? Even in some times where this has been inconsistent and they DO have separate beds, they’re always RIGHT next to each other. (what if we put our minecraft beds together ❤😳)

I would like to mention the episode, You’ll Never Eat Food Pellets In This Town Again! This episode is interesting to say the least. Deals with a lot of the meta of the show. Anyway. In this episode, Brain has a nightmare that he’s in a loveless marriage with Billie. You know, the woman he’s supposed to have a crush on. In the end, he wakes up from the nightmare in the same bed as Pinky.

Speaking of female love interests, Pinky is seen having multiple relationships with characters of different species. Any time this is brought up by Brain, Pinky counters with Brain being too intolerant. An honorable mention with this is in Wakko’s Wish, when Pinky is with Pharfignewton, and Brain’s constant pestering about their relationship could be read as jealousy. Pinky needs a mousy date, after all!

Something else I would like to mention is in one episode (I forget what it’s called, I’ll try to look it up later and edit this), Brain is applying for a job. The employer asks Brain if he’s married, and Brain hesitates before saying he “has a roommate,” but that he’s occupied with his own things, which then cuts to a shot of Pinky applying lipstick.

Leading into part two of this essay, Pinky’s relationship with gender! Pinky has always been very gender nonconforming, and loves to wear dresses, do his makeup, and make himself look pretty. For the most part, this is played pretty straight, and not as a gag, like a lot of shows tend to do! It’s just a casual fact about him that he likes to present femininely sometimes.

This does play into their taking over the world plans pretty often, where Pinky wears drag, usually either to sneak into somewhere. Like in one of their earliest appearances on Animaniacs, Noah’s Lark, where they pose as a couple to board Noah’s, and I quote, “love boat.” After boarding, Noah says to himself, “Who am I to judge?” Okay. Yeah. Alright. Anyway.

I actually had less to say on this than I thought I did, but I wanted to make sure to emphasize that Pinky at the very least is coded as being Not Quite Cis, and that he’s played a key part in helping a lot of people watching the show figure out that they’re also Not Quite Cis.

Wrapping this up because I’m hungry, but I want to throw in some more honorable mentions that I really do not see any type of cishet explanations for:

They literally go on a romantic date at a very fancy restaurant in Brain’s Night Off. This is played extremely casually, and the only remark from anyone that they receive is that they are “much smaller than the usual clients.”

Pinky, on at least one occasion, daydreams about him and Brain being a married couple, and wanting to be a housewife (the original malewife ❤)

There’s an issue in the comics where Pinky has a crush on another male mouse, and when Brain gets annoyed, Pinky reassures him that he thinks Brain is cute and quite the catch too

Brain attempting to kiss Pinky in the reboot??????

Brain actually did conquer the world once in the Halloween special, because Pinky made a deal with the devil for it, and thus Pinky got sent to hell! Brain actually went to hell and gave up the world to bring him back

Brain was extremely close to conquering the world once more in the Christmas special, but after reading what Pinky’s feelings for him were (nothing romantic, just Pinky basically just praising Brain for being so hardworking and an amazing mouse, and lamenting that he never gets anything for it), he gets so emotional that he sabotages himself and wishes everyone a Merry Christmas instead

TLDR; these mice are very queer and need therapy, and are probably the most heavily queercoded characters that I can think of in children’s media.

#animaniacs #pinky and the brain #patb #brinky #FLOPS ON THE FLOOR this took a long time to write

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contemplativepancakes · 4 years ago

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enough to drive a man mad

~7k geraskier fake dating, because that is what this fandom needs. read on ao3 here!

Jaskier smells anxious. He reeked of apprehension all of yesterday, not to mention the fact that he hasn’t been able to sit still or stop tapping his foot on the wooden floorboards this morning.

It’s grating on Geralt’s last nerve.

“What, Jaskier?” he finally growls.

Jaskier jumps, almost falling out of his chair from where he sits tapping his quill idly in his notebook.

“What?”

“What has you so worked up?”

Jaskier looks Geralt in the eyes before glancing away again. He clears his throat. “Nothing.”

Geralt grunts.

“Oh, don’t sound so unconvinced,” Jaskier complains.

Geralt rolls his eyes, turning his back to Jaskier to finish settling all of his things into his pack. He wraps the glass jars carefully and tucks them between Jaskier’s shirts, so they don’t break. “If nothing is wrong, you’re ready to go then, right?”

Jaskier grumbles, but he tucks his notebook away and gets to his feet.

They make it about three hours before Jaskier finally broaches the subject.

“So, Geralt,” he starts. “Dear friend of mine.”

Geralt doesn’t even bother to look back at him. Nothing good can come with this as a conversation starter.

“Have I ever told you about my parents?”

“No.”

Jaskier sighs. “I suppose not. Well, they’ve written to me. They want me to visit.”

Geralt thinks back to the letter an innkeeper had handed to Jaskier a few weeks ago, the one that made him eerily quiet the rest of the night and that he had clammed up about when Geralt questioned him. Jaskier was perky and practically completely back to normal the next morning, so Geralt had almost forgotten about it. Apparently, Jaskier had not done the same.

“Hmm.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Dreadfully inconvenient for you. What will you do without your loyal companion?”

Geralt frowns. He hadn’t even thought about that, just registered the smell of unhappiness coming off of Jaskier at the thought of his parents. Jaskier is rather helpful, though. He’s never afraid to step in the middle of pay negotiations, inevitably getting Geralt more coin, and he’s certain Jaskier has stopped them from getting kicked out of at least three towns after Geralt had stumbled back to the inn covered in viscera.

“Do you want to visit them?”

Jaskier trips over his feet, and Geralt dutifully looks away, pretending not to have noticed. “Not particularly. But I have to.”

Geralt won’t pretend to understand how a typical human family works, so he just accepts Jaskier’s words at face value. He’s never felt obliged to return to Kaer Morhen every winter; it’s something he looks forward to—to seeing his patchwork family. But Jaskier deliberately never speaks of his family, and gets twitchy every time anyone brings them up, so Geralt had accepted it as one of Jaskier’s many quirks and moved on.

“Hmm. Well, I can travel with you there, at least. I’m sure there will be contracts in the area somewhere.”

Jaskier flushes red. “I was...I was actually hoping you would come with me.”

“What? I’m sure that’s not what your parents had in mind when they wanted you to visit. They wouldn’t want to meet me .”

“Well, they said it’s unbecoming for someone of my age to be a bachelor. And, so I. I, um.” Jaskier scratches the back of his neck. “I told them I wasn’t. And I maybe sort of perhaps insinuated we were together.”

Geralt can feel a stress headache brewing.

Marilla looks down at the letter in shock.

Dear Mother,

I fear I am not quite as much of a bachelor as you suppose. Have you heard any of my songs? I have gone and fallen head first into my muse. Typical, foolish me, but I’ve never been happier. We’ll visit soon.

Julian

She doesn’t like to think about Julian’s songs, about how he couldn’t even keep the name she had given him. She thrusts the letter to her husband. “He’s coming to visit,” she says in disbelief. “When’s the last time we saw him?”

Ethbert considers this as he reads the letter. “At least five years.”

“And I can’t believe he hasn’t spoken of this ‘muse’ any sooner. I’m not sure I believe him.”

Ethbert gave Marilla a placating smile. “He’s probably just ashamed he hasn’t found himself a wife yet. We’ll find out when he comes, doubtless with an excuse about where his beloved is.”

Marilla sniffs. “You’re right.”

Nell looks down at the scene in the kitchen with wide eyes from her spot crouched down between the banisters at the top of the stairs. Her brother? With a wife? She could scarcely imagine it. She thinks back to the last time Julian was here, the way he had boasted to her about his conquests for hours, away from the prying ears of their parents.

Well, surely if he had someone, he’d have talked about her in his songs. She resolves to get her hands on some of his music. She’ll solve this mystery before Julian even gets here.

“The first thing to know is that they’re awful,” Jaskier says, ticking down one of his fingers as he walks along beside Roach, seemingly uncaring of the dust that’s drifting up from her hooves and onto his doublet. “Well, except for my sister. Be nice to my sister, please, Geralt.”

“I’m nice to everyone.”

Jaskier stifles a laugh. “Mm. Be extra nice to her, then.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You need to loosen up, too. They’re never going to think we’re together when you look all...constipated like that.”

Geralt huffs.

“You’re lucky opposites attract,” Jaskier says, before dragging a hand down his face. “This is never going to work, is it?”

Nell squints at the lyrics spread out before her. This doesn’t sound very romantic to her at all. Maybe a breakup song? She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss , Nell hums. She can’t help but notice there’s three different people the song is talking about, though. Odd. She shakes her head and moves onto the next song.

This one is just a ditty, so Nell turns the page to see a song about the witcher Jaskier travels with. And then another, and another. Is he all Julian writes about? She expected to see love songs, not this nonsense. She goes through more of his catalogue, briefly regretting spending her allowance on the songbook, but she supposes it supports her brother, after all.

She’ll just have to see what she can wheedle out of him while he’s here.

Finally, after flipping through no less than four more songs about the witcher, she lands on one titled “The Eternal Flame.”

Interesting.

Around your house, now white from frost

Sparkles ice on pond and marsh

Your longing eyes grieve what is lost

But naught can change this parting harsh

Spring will return, on the road the rain will fall

Hearts will be warmed by the heat of the sun

It must be thus, for fire still smolders in us all

An eternal fire, hope for each one

There, Nell can read some romance in. She rubs the ends of her hair together in thought. This one song certainly isn’t enough proof that Julian has actually found a wife. More like he’s still pining over some old flame. It doesn’t seem like he’s written very many good love songs at all.

Nell rolls her eyes, thinking back to all the raunchy songs in his catalogue. Typical.

There’s the squeak of the door opening downstairs, and Nell hastily slams the book shut and hides it under her mattress. She doesn’t want Julian seeing and getting a bigger head, after all.

She straightens her dress and runs down the steps, eager to see if Julian’s by himself, which is her guess. She comes to a skidding halt when she sees who is with him.

Oh.

She supposes he does write love songs, after all.

Geralt shifts uncomfortably from the scrutiny Jaskier’s family is giving him. He wraps an arm around Jaskier’s shoulder, hoping he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. He looks over to Jaskier for help, and Jaskier shrugs off his arm and takes Geralt by the hand, leading him forward to meet them.

“Mother, Father, this is Geralt. Nell, this is a very large, scary witcher who will eat you up if you don’t behave.”

Geralt frowns. He thought Jaskier told him to be extra nice to his sister?

Nell laughs, a delightful, tinkling thing that reminds him of Jaskier’s. “He’s going to like me better than you by the time he leaves.”

Geralt looks back to Jaskier, only to see him sticking his tongue out at her. Right. Their relationship is definitely more antagonistic than Jaskier had prepared him for, so Geralt is glad he had Lambert to prepare him for these things.

He’s not sure his interactions with Lambert would be appropriate to apply to Jaskier’s sister, though, so Geralt will let Jaskier handle the ribbing.

“Nice to meet you,” Geralt finally says. “Jaskier’s told me a lot about you.”

Which, of course, is a lie, but Geralt knows that’s the polite thing to say.

“He’s never even mentioned me, has he?”

When Geralt waffles, Nell sniffs dramatically and casts Jaskier a betrayed look.

Jaskier shoots that look right back to Geralt, and Geralt is so impossibly out of his depth right now. “Hmm.”

“Now look what you’ve done, you’ve made him regret agreeing to meet you in the first place!” Jaskier cries.

“That’s quite enough, Julian,” Jaskier’s mother cuts in, and—Julian?

He shoots Jaskier a puzzled look. Obviously, there was a little more he should have told Geralt before they came here.

“Well, I’m afraid we are absolutely knackered; we’ve been riding all day. I’m going to head upstairs…”

Geralt shoots him a look.

“I mean, we are going to head out to the stables and make sure that Geralt’s very polite mare is taken care of.”

“We have someone—”

“No, no, Geralt is very picky about who cares for his horse.”

With that, Jaskier drags Geralt out of the house and to the barn. “I thought the goal was for them to like me?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier snorts. “Gods, no. The goal is to have them believe that we’re in a relationship, and they would never believe I would choose anyone they actually liked .”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Geralt. It’ll be fine. Just stop acting like you’re terrified of me every time I touch you. Maybe we should practice.”

Jaskier gets a gleam in his eye as he darts a glance back to the house, and then his very warm mouth is on Geralt’s. Geralt’s surprised for a second before he relaxes and kisses Jaskier back. He’ll show Jaskier he’s not terrified of him. Geralt would scoff if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied.

Geralt brings one hand up to rest on Jaskier’s jaw and one to wind through his soft hair. Geralt strokes his thumb over Jaskier’s cheekbone, and Jaskier melts against him, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist and tugging him closer.

“What was that for?” Geralt says, trying to keep his breathing even after they pull away.

Jaskier peers around him and looks back up at the house. “Well, they were watching through the window. Figured we’d give them a show. Alas.”

Jaskier turns and heads to the stables. Geralt trails behind him, surreptitiously bringing a hand up to his medallion to make sure it’s not vibrating.

He is in way over his head.

Nell stares at them with wide eyes from her bedroom window. She had...not exactly doubted them when Julian showed up with his witcher in tow, but she hadn’t exactly believed them, either. Who could let Julian trail around after them for years and not get sick of him?

If she hadn’t witnessed them kissing with her own two eyes, she never would have believed it. She pulls the book out from under the mattress and looks at the songs again, this time with a more critical eye. She can’t believe she didn’t see it before. Especially “Her Sweet Kiss.” She’d never admit it to Julian, but she’s glad he won over whoever this her is. He looks happy, in a way that he never did while he was here.

Her mother calls for her, so Nell sighs and puts away the book. She runs down the stairs. “Yes?”

“I need help with supper.”

Nell sets the table, noting they’re using the fancy silverware, which is a surprise, because her mother has never taken a particular interest of what Julian thinks of her before this, so this is an interesting time to start. She’s sure their meal is going to be a very uncomfortable affair. Well, not for her, unless it starts to become painful to hold her laughter in.

She can’t wait.

She’s just finishing arranging the cutlery when her mother turns back to her. “Can you believe Julian? I knew witchers were for hire, but I didn’t think their services extended to...this.”

Nell barely holds back a snort.

Jaskier looks over to Geralt and suppresses a sigh. He had just planted a hand on Geralt’s thigh, and he’s sure his parents think that he just stabbed Geralt, from his reaction. He scoots his chair closer over to Geralt and drapes an arm over his shoulders. “Relax,” he whispers into Geralt’s ear.

Geralt does, marginally, but Jaskier can still see the doubt on his parent’s faces.

Jaskier’s father clears his throat. “So, Geralt, um. I suppose we know what you do, but, um. Um.”

“Honestly, haven’t you heard any of my songs? They are all the very true accounts of what Geralt gets up to,” Jaskier butts in.

Geralt takes a gulp of wine from his goblet to avoid commenting.

Jaskier notices, and elbows him in the ribs. “Geralt loves my songs, right?”

Jaskier’s parents are staring right at him, and it’s more than a little unnerving. “Right. They’re...very romantic.”

Jaskier’s grip around Geralt’s shoulders tightens. “Thank you, darling.”

Geralt is sure Vesemir once told him witchers can’t blush, but his face feels hot all of a sudden, and everyone is looking at him expectantly.

Geralt takes another drink.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Geralt’s been so nervous about meeting all of you. The poor dear is overwhelmed.”

Geralt shoots him a glare, before softening the look into something more akin to convincing Jaskier’s parents that they’re very happily together. Jaskier hastily bolts down the rest of his dinner before he drags Geralt up the stairs and to his room.

He shuts the door behind them, leaning against and tugging at his hair. “There’s no way they’re buying this,” he moans.

“I thought I was being rather convincing.”

The corner of Geralt’s lips twitch, so Jaskier hits him with a pillow. “You did not, you brute! Geralt if you’re doing this on purpose—”

“Hey, hey,” Geralt soothes. “I’m not. It’s just. Acting is not exactly on my list of talents.”

Jaskier crosses his arms and huffs. Geralt tugs him over to the bed and makes him sit down, plopping beside him. “What can I do?”

Jaskier throws his arm over his eyes and lays back, rather over dramatically, if you ask Geralt. “Nothi—Well, actually.”

Geralt does not like the sound of that. He was offering more to be nice than anything.

“We have to have sex.”

Geralt’s mouth goes dry. “What?”

Jaskier scoffs. “This is no time to act the blushing virgin, Geralt,” he says, before his hands are on Geralt’s clothes, tugging them and unbuttoning.

Geralt jerks back, but Jaskier is already done. “There. Nice and dishevelled.”

Geralt gapes at him for a moment, giving Jaskier the opportunity to muss his hair. Geralt growls.

“I know, I know. That took you hours to accomplish.”

Geralt catches his wrist. “Just, hold on a second. What are we doing?”

“We have to consummate my childhood bed, Geralt,” Jaskier says, completely seriously. “Or at least make my parents think we did.”

Jaskier starts moving his hips on the bed, making the headboard brush up against the wall with every gyration. “Mmm, fuck, Geralt, right there!” he cries.

“ Jaskier!” Geralt hisses, but Jaskier pays him no mind.

“You feel so good, darling!” He throws Geralt a wink, and Geralt tries not to combust.

Jaskier undoes three of the buttons of his doublet, revealing a thicket of chest hair. Geralt casts his eyes to the ceiling. Gods help him. “You know, you don’t have to be so stoic all the time, dear heart. You can let me hear you,” Jaskier says, pointedly prodding at Geralt.

Geralt shakes his head furiously. This is not what he agreed to.

Jaskier gives Geralt a put on sigh before clearing his throat quietly. “Oh, Jaskier,” he says in a deep voice.

“That doesn’t even sound like me,” Geralt whispers furiously.

Jaskier just arches an eyebrow, and Geralt knows that’s a challenge. He swings his leg over Jaskier, straddling him and trying to ignore both of their pounding hearts. It’s the heat of carrying out their plan, Geralt is sure, and not at all Jaskier’s proximity.

Geralt rocks the bed back and forth, making the headboard slam against the wall now.

Gearlt gives a half hearted moan, and Jaskier gives him a glare. “You’re making me sound like a terrible lover who’s left you horribly unfulfilled!” he hisses.

Geralt rolls his eyes and gives a more enthusiastic moan this time. Geralt begrudgingly keeps this up for a few more minutes before he grunts and clambers off of Jaskier. “A little quick to the finish line?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt shoots him a rude hand gesture.

Jaskier gasps in mock offense. “Why don’t you go get me a wash rag?” he suggests.

Geralt glares at him; this is taking the charade much too far, if you ask Geralt, but he follows Jaskier’s direction to the bathroom—where Jaskier’s mother is standing. Geralt suddenly becomes conscious of what a mess he must look like right now, thanks to Jaskier. “Hello again,” Marilla says.

Geralt grunts and nods to her, before remembering he should probably say something, anything. “Hi.”

Geralt grabs a washcloth and flees.

When he gets back to Jaskier, Jaskier is sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest, scribbling away in his notebook, the inkwell balancing precariously on the mattress. He still has his buttons undone, and Geralt curses himself for even noticing.

“Did you run into anyone?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt’s disgruntled expression must be answer enough, because Jaskier rubs his hands together in delight. “Excellent.”

Marilla scurries back to her room, completely scandalized. She can’t believe they would...defile her home like this. It’s bad enough that Julian couldn’t choose anyone they suggested for himself, and now he brings home a witcher ? He’s trying to make her gray even faster.

She shuts the bedroom door behind her and looks to Ethbert. Her expression must linger on her face, because he asks her, “What?”

“They—” She makes a floppy hand gesture.

“Are you sure? What would a witcher want with Julian? There’s something not right about this.”

Marilla fans herself. “I know. They’re not even wed. It’s impropriety, is what it is.”

Ethbert squints doubtfully.

Geralt is not a morning person. When Jaskier first discovered this, he was puzzled. Geralt is the only person who dictates his schedule, so no one would yell at him if he chose to sleep until midday.

The more Jaskier thinks about it, though, the more it makes sense. Of course Geralt would wake up at the asscrack of dawn; he probably thinks of it as a punishment or some other such self loathing nonsense.

It’s certainly more of a punishment for Jaskier, because he’s the one that has to put up with Geralt’s bearish attitude every morning.

Geralt blinks awake and squints at the rising sun like it’s personally offended him, and Jaskier closes his eyes, not wanting to be caught staring.

��Morning,” Geralt grates out.

Jaskier’s lips twist into a wry smile. “Good morning.”

“I know you weren’t asleep,” Geralt says, sounding annoyed. “You could have woken me up.”

“Mm. And deal with a grumpy witcher first thing in the morning? I don’t think so.”

Geralt scoffs. “I’m not grumpy.”

“Right.”

Geralt swings his legs out of the bed and begins getting dressed. Jaskier stretches into the warmth Geralt left behind, tugging the blankets up over him.

What? He never said he was a morning person, either. “Where are you going?”

“Into town.”

“For what? Do you need things for potions? I’ll go with you.”

“No, no, I’m just going to see if there’s any contracts; you stay here.”

Jaskier gives a sly grin. “Does my family make you nervous?”

“ No .”

“Hmm,” Jaskier says.

“Shut up.”

“Well, don’t go gallivanting off without telling me where. You know I worry.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “No need.”

Jaskier adopts a high pitched voice. “Why, thank you, Jaskier, my dearest friend. I’m so touched to know someone is looking out for me.”

“It’s pretty sad if you have to imagine someone to be your friend.”

Jaskier splutters as Geralt walks out of the room, a smile tugging at his lips.

Jaskier sighs as the door shuts behind him, wanting to bundle himself back in the blankets and Geralt’s scent, but he resists the urge and stumbles out of bed to pull on his clothes.

He makes it down the stairs and to the kitchen, picking up a bowl of eggs and whisking them, the need to be helpful overriding his desire to collapse in a chair and go back to sleep.

“Good morning, Julian,” his mother says stiffly. “Where’s your beau?”

Jaskier lets himself smile at the image of Geralt’s reaction to being heard of himself referred to as Jaskier’s beau .

“He’s out looking for a contract. He’ll be back for lunch, I’m sure.”

He gives his mother a bright grin. He thinks he should have made Geralt suck a hickey on his neck, but, to be honest, he’s not sure if he could have beared that. Geralt had already been so unbearably close to Jaskier when he straddled him. Jaskier’s not sure what had possessed Geralt to do that, all the while expecting Jaskier to keep his hands to himself.

He’s not sure Geralt’s looked in a mirror anytime in the past fifty years because of the whole monster-staring-back-at-him thing (complete horse shit, in Jaskier’s humble opinion, not that Geralt cares to listen to it), but Jaskier is forced to look at him every day, and he suffers.

He suffers every time he trails behind Geralt atop Roach, watching the subtle shift of his back muscles as he rides, and he’s devastated when Geralt deems Roach too tired to carry him and leads her in his tight leather pants. If Geralt hadn’t been wearing just such a thing when Jaskier met him, Jaskier would be convinced Geralt does it just to personally spite Jaskier.

To doom him to look but not touch for the rest of his life. As such, he had never expected Geralt to actually agree to this whole charade. But, he did, and now here they are. Here they are, with Jaskier knowing exactly what Geralt tastes like (less onion than one would expect), but still having to not just kiss the blank looks Geralt likes to give him right off his face.

It’s enough to drive a man mad.

Geralt looks at the pitiful notice board and sighs. He tugs down the one prospect to examine it more closely. Something is stealing a farmer’s sheep. There’s a few possibilities for what it could be, ranging from minor nuisances to things that he shouldn’t even mention to Jaskier because he’ll nag at Geralt until he lets him tag along, and those are always the kind of jobs that Jaskier should be nowhere near.

Geralt’s not sure how someone with the survival instinct of a fly larva is still alive, especially when he insists on following Geralt around, but Geralt’s not going to let Jaskier get hurt on his watch.

Geralt pockets the notice and goes to talk to the farmer who set the contract, but he has very little useful information to tell Geralt. All he offers is that the sheep have been disappearing without a trace. Geralt walks the edges of the property and a bit into the woods, doing a cursory inspection for the carcasses, but he doesn’t find them, either.

Hmm.

Geralt turns and heads back to Jaskier.

Geralt’s acting out of sorts when he returns from town, so Jaskier tugs him aside. “What’s wrong?”

Geralt just grunts and shakes his head.

Jaskier sighs. Typical. “Weren’t there any contracts?”

“There were, just—I don’t know what it is. But I’m sure it will be fine.”

Geralt even tries to give him a bracing smile, and even though it looks more like a grimace, Jaskier knows it’s not good if Geralt has stooped to trying to comfort him.

Jaskier hums at him and leads him to the table where his family are waiting on them for lunch. Jaskier keeps a hand on Geralt’s knee, because he’s allowed to, at the moment.

He delights in watching Geralt make awkward conversation with Nell, but it seems like they’re quickly warming up to each other. Jaskier’s mouth goes dry at the thought of them teaming up on him. They would truly be a menace.

Jaskier’s mood is quickly soured when they finish eating and Geralt insists on heading back out.

“Shouldn’t you wait until the morning? You know, be well rested?”

Geralt shrugs. “It’s been taking the animals at night. Better chance of finding it if I go now.”

“Geralt, we’re not exactly short on coin right now. Why even go?”

“If I don’t take care of this, who will?” Geralt huffs. “This farmer’s livelihood is at risk.”

Jaskier grins. “Geralt, you unbearable softie. You make me look callous.”

Jaskier darts a glance over to his family, who are pretending not to watch them. He takes that as license to tug Geralt in for a chaste kiss. Geralt stiffens against him, and Jaskier is just about ready to pull away, before Geralt starts kissing him back. He makes it decidedly less chaste, and Jaskier puts a hand on his chest. He lets himself savor it for one, two, three seconds before he takes a step back.

“Geralt, there are children present!” he says in a scandalized tone, grinning at Nell.

She glares, and he shoots her a wink.

Geralt clears his throat, and Jaskier jerks his attention back to him. “Right. Well, if I’m not going to talk you out of it, be safe.”

“I always am.”

Ethbert watches as Julian paces back and forth as he waits for the witcher to return. “Sit down,” he says gruffly.

Julian looks at the clock, then out the window, completely ignoring him. Ethbert snorts. Good to know nothing’s changed, then.

“Surely it can’t take this long to murder one measly little thing,” Julian mutters.

“He’s fine,” Ethbert says. “It’d take a lot to overpower a witcher, right?”

Jaskier sits down in a huff, and Ethbert starts to wonder if maybe their relationship is less of a farce than he thought. It’s certainly an odd one, and he’s still clueless as to what they could possibly have in common, but Julian is painting a convincing picture right now, especially as he tugs his cloak off the hook and settles it around his shoulders.

“Where are you going?”

“To find him!”

Ethbert jerks out of his seat with a splutter. “You can’t be serious. You think you’re going to be able to handle whatever a witcher couldn’t?”

Julian pauses. “Well, no. He’s probably lying in a ditch somewhere, slowly bleeding to death. Oh gods, what if he’s out there bleeding to death?”

Julian becomes even more frantic and rushes out the door and to the stables.

Ethbert resigns himself to a long night.

Jaskier clambers onto one of the smaller mares. He doesn’t have the patience to go through the whole process of putting all the tack on, so he clings to the horse’s neck and prays he doesn’t fall off. He digs into her with his knees, and away they go.

Jaskier has no idea which way Geralt went, but there’s some fairly fresh hoof tracks in the wet dirt of the road, so he follows them and hopes they’re Roach’s. Eventually, they go off the road, and Jaskier is left to squint at trampled grass. He wonders if Geralt would be proud of his tracking abilities, and he smiles thinking about the inevitable jab. Jaskier would respond with something about how Geralt was no better than a dog sniffing the air, and all would be well.

But first, he has to find him. Jaskier slows the horse to a walk as the trail becomes fainter, squinting as he looks at the ground. He comes to an outcrop of rocks with an opening just big enough to go inside, and he dismounts his horse cautiously. He certainly doesn’t want to deal with whatever calls this place its home.

Jaskier notices blood, and his heart kicks up a notch. It’s a rust red color, so it’s not very recent. Jaskier follows the splatters, and as he goes, they get brighter and brighter, until Jaskier’s heart threatens to burst out of his chest with the panicked tap dance it’s doing.

It certainly doesn’t help matters when he finds Roach wandering through the woods by herself. “Where’s Geralt?” he asks, and she snorts at him helpfully.

Jaskier casts a look at the blood glistening under the leaves underfoot and knows Geralt has to be close. Roach gives an agitated whinny before she turns and trots off, and Jaskier rushes after her.

In the end, Geralt’s not all that far away. Jaskier sees his hair before he sees anything else, and then he’s sprinting over to him with little thought for anything else. Jaskier drops to his knees beside Geralt. He looks paler than normal, even though Jaskier hadn’t known that was possible

There’s so much blood, and he’s not moving. Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Geralt? Geralt?” he asks, his voice getting louder and more panicked. “Geralt?”

Jaskier resists the urge to shake him and jostle whatever injuries he has, but there’s bile rising in his throat, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do—

His eyes latch on to the infinitesimal rise of Geralt’s chest, and the pressure on his own suddenly lifts. He shuts his eyes for a moment. Geralt isn’t dead, and he can work with that.

Jaskier takes a closer look at Geralt and finds there’s a chunk missing from his side. It’s still bleeding freely, and Jaskier tries to resist the urge to be sick. He works Geralt free of his armor with shaky hands, so he can take a closer look.

Geralt moans and starts to stir, and Jaskier plants his hands on Geralt’s chest. “Just stay still; you’re going to be fine.”

“Jask?” Geralt slurs.

“Yes, yes, it’s me, and you know I’m far too stubborn to let you die.”

“My pack—”

Jaskier could slap himself for not thinking of that. “Right. Um, your potions.”

He whistles for Roach, and she approaches skittishly. Jaskier glances back down at Geralt, and his eyes are slipping shut. Jaskier tightens his grip on Geralt’s shoulder. “Geralt! You have to stay awake. Do you hear me?”

Geralt murmurs something Jaskier doesn’t quite catch, but his eyes open wider. Geralt’s pupils are so dilated, there’s barely a ring of yellow left around the outsides. Jaskier clambers up to look through Roach’s saddlebags, and his heart clenches when Geralt’s hand comes up to clutch at him as he moves away. “I’m not going anywhere,” he soothes.

He rustles through the saddlebag. “Fuck, Geralt, do you really need so many tiny bottles?”

Geralt gives him a weak chuckle before he hisses in pain.

“Which one do you need?” Jaskier asks, hoping Geralt is coherent enough that he’s not about to poison himself.

Jaskier pulls the pouch out of the saddle bag to show him the options. Geralt points to a few, and Jaskier eyes them doubtfully. He uncorks them anyway, sitting back down and settling Geralt’s head into his lap, helping him get the elixirs down, even when Geralt tries to bat his hands away.

“Save your energy for something useful, would you?” Jaskier tuts.

Jaskier prods at the wound in Geralt’s side, jerking his hand back when Geralt winces. “I forgot just how delicate you were, my apologies.”

Geralt barely manages a huff at that, and Jaskier furrows his brows in worry. He pulls Geralt’s shirt away from the wound, biting his lip as it pulls skin away. The wound looks a sickly green underneath all the blood, and Jaskier gasps a little. This is much worse than he thought.

“Geralt, it’s—Geralt?”

Geralt’s eyes have slipped shut, and Jaskier scrabbles at him, trying to make him wake up again, but he stays stubbornly still. The only thing giving Jaskier even a tiny glimmer of peace is that his chest is still rising and falling.

Tears are threatening to burst to Jaskier’s eyes, but he pushes them down and takes a deep breath. Somehow, he manages to heave Geralt across Roach. Roach snorts, disgruntled, and Jaskier runs a hand over her flank, trying to soothe her.

He looks around, but he has no idea where the mare he rode out here went. Oops. Hopefully it will wander back to his parent’s estate, but if not, well, will they even miss it?

Jaskier gathers Roach’s reins in his hand and leads her back towards town at a steady trot.

When Geralt comes to, he’s sweltering. He seems to be in a tomb of blankets, and the fire is roaring in the corner of the room. The room? He’s not quite sure how he got here; he would have expected to be lying on the cold ground instead of a soft and yielding bed. There’s even less lumps than he’s accustomed to.

He groans when he tries to move, and there’s a rustling from beside him. Geralt looks over to see Jaskier jerking from his chair to fuss over him. Jaskier’s eyes are red when he finally looks up.

“You promised me you were going to be safe, you terror,” Jaskier sniffs.

Geralt doesn’t have his wits about him enough yet to be dealing with crying bards. “Hmm.”

“Geralt, you—What was it?”

“A cockatrice. It got me with its tail; spit a little poison at me just for fun.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “You wouldn’t know fun if it bit you in the ass.”

This makes Geralt look even grumpier, if possible. Jaskier’s glad; he much prefers that to the slack expression Geralt had had while he was sleeping, and Jaskier was terrified he wouldn’t wake up.

Jaskier looks back at him, and Geralt can’t help himself when he reaches out to swipe away Jaskier’s tears with his thumb. “I’m fine,” he murmurs.

Geralt tosses the covers off himself so he can see his wound. It’s wrapped rather nicely, and when Geralt pokes at it, it feels like there’s some kind of poultice under the bandages. He raises his eyebrows at Jaskier, waiting for an explanation.

“A healer.”

Geralt’s surprised Jaskier found someone who would treat him; most people aren’t too keen on helping witchers.

“I yelled at him until he helped you,” Jaskier admits.

Geralt huffs a laugh. “I’m sure he was terrified.”

Jaskier finally cracks a grin. “Hey, you’re not the only scary one around here.”

Jaskier’s eyes drop to his hand, the one that was just on his face, and fuck, what was Geralt even thinking, but Jaskier reaches out and puts his hand over Geralt’s.

“I was worried,” he says softly. And then, sharper, “Don’t you dare say hmm .”

“Hmm.”

Geralt laughs, and there’s a warmth that settles in his chest when Jaskier does the same.

“You’re incorrigible,” Jaskier finally says.

There’s a lengthy silence, and when Geralt looks up, Jaskier is staring back at him.

“You got the trophy, right?”

“Geralt, my ears must be deceiving me. You cannot possibly be worried about that right now.”

“How else am I going to get paid? Last time I checked, you liked to eat. It needs done before something else drags the carcass away.”

Jaskier sighs and huffs and does everything short of stomping his feet before he gathers his cloak from the back of his chair. He glares at Geralt before he slams the door shut behind him.

Geralt rubs a shaky hand down his face.

He’s an idiot.

Jaskier grumbles to himself as he makes his way back out into the chilly night. His advances are obviously unwelcome, if this is the kind of punishment Geralt is doling out to him. Well, that’s fine. Jaskier will just let him bleed out next time.

Okay, he won’t, but that doesn’t mean he won’t consider it for a few seconds.

Stupid emotionally repressed witchers. He can’t say he wasn’t hoping something would happen with Geralt while they were here, but he should have known better.

Jaskier trudges all the way back to near where he found Geralt, pointedly not looking at the blood stain on the grass. He’s fine , he reminds himself. Jaskier pokes around for a little bit until he remembers the cave he had seen earlier and some vague knowledge that cockatrices prefer them.

He’s half expecting another to show up as he plucks some feathers and cuts off the head, for good measure. He almost gags as his knife goes roughly through the bone and sinew, but he manages to keep his supper. He looks around for any last creatures that are just waiting to murder him, but none appear.

He sighs and makes the trek back.

When he arrives, Geralt is sitting at the table, talking to his family, and Jaskier wonders for a moment if he should be concerned about a doppler. Nell is eating up every word Geralt says, and Jaskier hopes she has pried some good stories out of him that Jaskier can repurpose as songs later.

For now, he swings the cockatrice head up onto the table, and silence falls. “There you go, love,” he says cheerfully.

Geralt is looking back at him with a peculiar expression, and he rises from his chair stiffly. Jaskier rushes over to him to help, and Geralt reluctantly drapes an arm over his shoulder. Geralt leads him to the bathroom, and Jaskier makes sure to say loudly enough for the rest of his family to hear, “Well, if you needed help holding it you only had to ask.”

Geralt huffs in exasperation and shuts the door behind him. Jaskier raises his eyebrows in question. “Did you actually need help, or…” Jaskier trails off, and then Geralt’s lips are on his, warm and hungry, and anymore of Jaskier’s thoughts fly out of his brain.

His arms automatically come up to wrap around Geralt’s waist, until he registers that this is Geralt , and he puts a hand on his chest. “Um. Do you need your head checked out, as well? I thought it was your side, but I can go get the healer again.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier’s not convinced Geralt hasn’t sustained a lasting brain injury, but then Geralt is saying, “I should have done this a long time ago,” and kissing him again.

What is Jaskier to do but kiss him back? It’d be terribly impolite not to, after all. When Geralt finally pulls away, Jaskier asks breathlessly, “What was that for?”

Geralt shrugs, considering. “You looked kind of hot carrying that cockatrice head. The trachea hanging down really got me going.”

Jaskier stares at him in disbelief for a beat before they both dissolve into laughter.

“You’re an idiot,” Jaskier says. “You’re my idiot.”

Ethbert looks across the table, where what his son is doing can only be called terrorizing his witcher, and harrumphs to himself. This is not exactly who he pictured Julian ending up with, to say the least.

He wonders the etiquette for having a son in law older than he is. He supposes he’s going to have to find out.

#the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #fanfiction #contemplative writing

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theflyingfeeling · 3 years ago

Note

I can't have your queue empty... I love your writing too much! How about a spy AU? I'm curious who you choose for the hero and who for the villan :)

Thank you!! 🥰

I think this needs to be tackled by first deciding which one of the guys would make the least shitty spy 😆 The more or less obvious answer here is Aleksi, because Tommi's tall figure would attract too much attention, and the other four are just too chaotic for a job like this. Furthermore, I'm afraid the question of the "hero" and the "villain" is not quite as simple.. 😇

First of all, instead of a spy, Tommi is spy!Aleksi's chauffeur, because of course he is 👨‍✈️

And I hope y'all appreciate how hard I'm trying NOT to make Tommi a very unprofessional chauffeur, the kinda who's secretly in love with the spy he drives around, always fearing each time Aleksi leaves the car would be the last.. 😥

Aleksi's target? The rich-as-fuck inheritor of the infamous Porko dynasty, who is believed to be leading a world-wide money-laundering business

Aleksi reports to NI6, the head of the Secret BC Service, who is not in love with anyone except for his cat maybe, but he may hold a personal grudge against Porko from that one time they hooked up years ago and Porko gave him the wrong phone number 😒

Mind you, Joonas gave the wrong number purely by accident, and despite being a married man nowadays, he sometimes still wonders what happened to that green-eyed guy with amazing handiwork..

Speaking of marriage, Joonas is happy to be able to provide luxury for his trophy husband Olli and their little poodle called Princess 🐩

Olli is not interested in the business Joonas' family gets their money from as much as he is in interior design, holding yoga classes at his own studio and taking long walks with Princess. It is on one of those walks when Olli runs into a very nice man with a very cute dachshund 😍

Olli can't help but notice how the nice man keeps minding his back whenever he crouches to pick up the dachshund's droppings or to fix the leash and recommends him a class on his yoga studio 🧘‍♂️

"Why, I just might!" Aleksi says. Getting into Porko's inner circle seems to be easier than Aleksi thought...

NI6 to Aleksi after his first yoga class: "You are my best agent and I adore you, but please, for the love of god, mute the microphone the next time you're getting busy in the bedroom with someone"

..When really Olli had just been helping Aleksi into a Prasarita Padottanasana 🤭

One of the many sources of income for Joonas that Olli certainly knows nothing about is the penthouse apartment Joonas is renting to a certain someone. Joonas actually has numerous investment homes around the city, but he doesn't buy pretty lacy things to all of his tenants 🖤

And Joel for one doesn't mind being a wealthy businessman's secret lover if he gets to live in a gorgeous studio apartment practically for half its price. The blowjobs are only another perk of the arrangement, and he really does care about Joonas as much as he believes Joonas cares about him

After two weeks of yoga classes and dog dates, Aleksi realises that Olli really doesn't have a clue about Joonas' shady businesses. Thus, he has to take matters in his own hands 🧐

"Is you husband often away for work?"

(No, he's often away to sleep with his lover, and on some level Olli has guessed this by now, but he hates conflicts so he lets Joonas do what he needs to do if it keeps him happy)

"Yes, quite 🥺" Olli confesses. "Days, sometimes weeks at a time! 🤧"

"Nawwww," Aleksi says, reaching his hand to touch Olli's over the table (they have started to have glasses of wine at the Porko mansion after the yoga). "You must be lonely, all alone in a big house like this.."

And, well, I'm not going into detail, but that particular night Olli wasn't lonely and all alone in that big house of his.. 😏

One night, Olli wakes up and hears noises coming from somewhere in the house. Aleksi is nowhere to be seen, and why is there a light in Joonas' private study? 🤨

Caught in the act, Aleksi figures he has no choice but to tell Olli the truth, hoping Olli would have his own reasons to bring his husband down. Aleksi is taking a gamble for sure, but tonight he seems to be in luck, and not only in the bedroom 🤝

"Aleksi," NI6 says pinching the bridge of his nose, "we simply can't just hire any pretty boy as an agent, they need to be trained."

"I promise I'll train him myself, Niko, please! I know what I'm doing!" Aleksi pleads, like a child asking a parent if he can keep the stray dog he found

Tommi, having witnessed the whole affair from the sidelines, is not at all sure Aleksi knows what he's doing 😑

Meanwhile in the penthouse apartment, Joonas and Joel are planning to run away to some far-out (tax) paradise.. 🌅

Plotlines from hence forth include 1) Aleksi teaching Olli to use all the cool spy gadgets (and they even take great joy dressing up their dogs as secret agents; they look super dashing in their tuxes! 😍), 2) Tommi being unhappy about the amount of dog hair in his car, 3) Joonas' businesses backfire and one night he appears at Joel's door with packed suitcases and two one-way plane tickets, 4) Aleksi and Olli following J&J to an exotic holiday resort to finally get them both, 5) NI6 having to kept reminding his two agents they are not on a honeymoon and finally getting up on the plane himself to get the job done

But is Joel "just" a mistress? Is his role in all of this bigger than everyone (even Joonas) originally assumed? Could he be the codename Dark Lord the Secret BC Service has been after for years? And what's up with all those mysterious engine troubles Aleksi and Olli have been experiencing with their Jeep ever since they arrived? 🤔 It's a shame the chauffeur had to stay behind, he for sure would have known what's wrong with the engine...

#blind channel #blind channel rpf #be assured i was humming the james bond theme tune the whole time i was writing this lol

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kiame-sama · 5 years ago

Text

Hello again lovies~ We have some more story with our favorite yandere DILF!

This is how our aggressive Yandere behaved during the third pregnancy and seeing what Killua looks like for the first time. Starting with initial conception to a bit of domestic time after birth.

As we begin with 'the making of' that indicates a good moment of +18 viewers.

WARNINGS ⚠: dub-con Lemon, cute mothering moments, hormone fluctuation, SUPER CUTE (sickeningly cute) MOMENTS, intense descriptions during birth, birthing complications, domestic moments.

~~~~~~~~

It was a cold November evening, and for once you really wished your husband was present. You curled your lip at the thought of being married to the man who held you captive, but after fifteen years it became less of a concern. If anything, you were more concerned for your two sons and how little you got to see them. You were able to spend so little time with either of them and often fretted about their well-being.

The only thing that kept you going were the far and few between visits you were able to have with them. You loved your sons and would do anything for them.

But for now, you had to figure out the best way to stay warm at night since Silva had been oddly absent for a couple of days. He had done so in the past but this time he seemed to be taking longer than usual. He refused to leave you alone at any given time, so his absence was rather unsettling.

Silva actually always kept your 'cell' cold in the evenings as it encouraged you to be more accepting of his advances. He was basically a space-heater and- though it pains you to admit- he was extremely comfortable to curl up with. But when he was absent it was punishingly cold, and it wouldn't take long for you to break out the extra blankets.

On some occasions, you would even drag your blankets to your corner since it tended to be a little bit warmer than the reset of your cell. But for now, the blankets were warming and shielded you from the cold that flowed through your room.

You were in the mental state of somewhere between awake and asleep when you heard him. The door to your cell had made an awful noise as it closed, giving the usually stealthy assassin away. You couldn't help but feel too tired to rouse yourself in response to his presence as he entered the room.

You made a small and sleepy noise when the bed dipped down as he joined you, easily sliding beneath the blankets and reaching out to you. The moment his warm hand came in contact with your cold skin, you were pressing against him. The heat that rolled off of his body was a tempting trap that you happily snuggled into, letting the warmth seep in.

He was so damn warm and comfortable pressed against you. You wanted nothing more than to just bask in that warmth and drift off into nothing when you felt his hands slowly pushing up your shirt.

Why is it always like this? Why does he always feel the need to be inside of you every time he returns?

You should be used to it by now, given the fact it has been near 15 years since you had first been taken. Still you couldn't seem to find a routine. Regardless of that fact, he was fairly consistent with what he wanted from you.

You whined when his warm hand came up to cup your breast, the feeling oddly pleasurable to your sleep fogged mind. You barely registered the feeling of your clothes being tugged off and the cold that nipped at your skin from beyond the blanket.

"No..."

Your sleepy rejection went unheard or unnoticed by the man above you, his lips descending to your neck. You felt the faint pressure of his hips against your own paired with the bites and licks on your neck. It didn't take long for his fingers to find their way to your throbbing sex, teasing and rubbing at your entrance.

You mewled and moved your hips with his strokes, tired eyes closing. It seemed he had no patience for foreplay or much else beyond stuffing himself into your heat as you felt him lift your leg over his hip. He let out low noises of pleasure as he let his hot cock slide through your folds. Your toes curled and you let out faint moans, pushing against his chest weakly.

"Don't... I don't want.."

"Shh... Just keep your eyes closed and go to sleep."

You felt surprisingly soft lips press against your own as he slowly slid into you, the faint shot of pain rousing your mind just a bit as he bottomed out and settled. You could barely force your eyes to open as he began languidly thrusting into you, the sleepy haze in your mind heightening the feeling. You tried to force yourself to wake, but you couldn't help but let yourself get dragged deeper into sleep.

The rhythmic thrusting pulling you deeper into your haze, the low noises of moans in your ears having a near musical tone. His deep voice having such a husky hitch to it, hearing his growls and huffs as he pumped himself into you.

"My sweet wife... Just rest and let me take care of you. Be vulnerable and relax for me."

The comfortable warmth coming from his heated body against yours soothed your tense muscles, letting his firm body massage yours. The soft melody of sounds and rhythms soothing you and putting you to sleep.

~~~~~~~~

It seemed over the last month that Silva had grown rather fond of taking you in your sleep. Often you would wake just enough to feel your pleasure break over you or to feel him thrusting away into you. You were getting sick of his callous disregard for your opinion or want by fucking you while you were asleep.

Or perhaps you were just sick.

You lay on the tile floor, blanket wrapped around your exhausted figure. Somewhere in your mind you couldn't help but hope you just had the flu or something similar, but you knew that wasn't the case. You felt similar to how you did when you were pregnant with your two sons, and somewhere in your mind, you knew you were pregnant once again.

At least now Silva would leave you alone, right?

You figured you could test that theory later and get in a quick nap, but the tell-tale sound of the door opening dashed those thoughts.

"... Unwell again?"

He kneeled next to you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and examined your pale face. It was as if you were experiencing a gentle touch far more willingly than you usually would, as you pressed your cheek into his hand. There was a quiet moment before he recoiled in shock.

You could barely hear his voice and only manged to pick up on a few words.

"Impossible. How could it already have unique nen so early?"

You were half tempted to question what he was talking about before you were picked up. You cried and whimpered at the loss of comfort, but Silva ignored your complaints and carried you to the large couch. You started to feel uncomfortable and warm as you lay on the plush surface, listening for Silva.

As you began to wonder if he had left without you knowing, a cool breeze began to steadily skate over your skin. The soft hum of a quiet motor reached your ears and you realized what it was. Silva must have set up a fan for you to keep your temperature down but still allow you to lay in comfort on the couch instead of the floor.

You don't know how long you lay in blissed out silence before an old and familiar voice reached your ears.

"Again? You two just breed like rabbits, don't you?"

"There's something different about this one."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at her nen."

"... How does it already have nen? It barely even has a heart-beat, it shouldn't have nen so early."

"It is different from the other two."

"This one should be monitored closely throughout the pregnancy as it grows-"

"I don't want it."

"Silva-"

"I have two sons already. I don't need another heir. I want it out of her now."

"Have you spoken with her about it?"

"I don't need to-"

It was then you decided to speak up, irritated with the back and forth jabbering. Your body, your baby, your rules.

"I'm keeping my baby. Just try and take it from me."

"(Y/n). You've already almost lost your life during delivery twice now. Do you want to chance it-"

"Just. Try. And. Take. It."

"(Y/n), stop being stubborn about this. Clearly this one is different from the other two. I don't want to risk your life again just for-"

"My womb. My baby. My decision. Not your's. Don't like it? Wear a condom for once or stop fucking me every day."

A sharp and familiar laugh split through the tension in the room, Zeno practically grinning ear-to-ear.

"Certainly have more bite to you than you did when you first got here. Figured out he won't kill you even if you snap at him? Silva, It seems your wife has spoken."

You could tell Silva was irritated with you by his clenched jaw and deep frown, but you also knew that he wouldn't punish you due to you being pregnant. It was not only a reprieve from sex, but a reprieve from his irritation.

Certainly you were going to be pleased with the months of rest from his insatiable sex-drive.

~~~~3 months in~~~~

As he had during your past pregnancies, Silva took to obsessively holding you on his lap and having you checked with every twitch or grimace.

Oddly enough, it seemed you were reacting very differently to this pregnancy than you had your other two. You couldn't help but cuddle and snuggle up with Silva any chance you got, much to his satisfaction. You became almost manic when left alone for more than ten minutes, entering into a constant state of worry. You felt the obsessive need to stockpile food as if you were worried you wouldn't be fed, even though Silva was dutifully getting your meals.

It seemed to be that you were only able to calm down from this state when he held you in his arms. Thus you rarely let him leave. When he would go to get up, you would just cling tighter to him and even shake in panic at the idea of him leaving.

It was a good thing that he refused to take contracts while you were pregnant, because leaving you alone was not an option. Not one he was willing to consider, anyway.

You still felt the usual exhaustion and unease as you did with your other pregnancies, but this was a different kind of unease. You were less concerned about how Silva would react to his new child, and more concerned about the child themselves. Something made you obsessively worry about losing your child during the pregnancy.

You knew it was likely nothing, but something just made you upset about it all. You had no concern of Silva taking your baby away- due to learning his lesson the first time- but that didn't alleviate your mind. All you could do was try to stay calm and just wait.

Somehow it soothed you that even though Silva did not want the child, he still took the time to listen to your fears and worries. He usually would assure you and tell you things will be fine and nothing bad is going to happen.

He is quite gentle with you while you're pregnant given your fragile condition. He also would not be able to withstand or tolerate your mourning should you lose the child. He would make sure the child lived just to keep you from falling into that kind of sorrow again.

His concern for your wellbeing is why he wanted to get rid of the child before you knew of its existence. He had done so in the past and managed to convince you that you were just sick when the signs began to appear. You never even knew what he had done and never realized why you had only been pregnant twice in 15 years even though he ensured to have sex with you every day.

He wanted to growl when he heard your tired voice say you wanted to keep it while he talked with his father. Well, he knew it was going to happen eventually. He could only get away with it for so long before you learned of it and desired to keep the child.

Now that you were aware of it, he would go through Hell just to keep you comfortable. He still had a bad feeling about this one though.

~~~~6 Months~~~~

You hummed softly as you ran your fingers through Silva's hair, still sniffling lightly and slowly getting your breathing under control.

You had begun having terrible nightmares and would wake up just screaming and wailing in agony. You were unusually difficult to console after waking. You never really did remember your nightmares, but you knew well enough that it was better you forgot them, given your sheer panic upon waking.

You knew Silva was still displeased with the pregnancy, but he said anything you wanted to hear to help soothe you. The first night you woke him with your thrashing and wailing, he was in a frazzled and panicked state. He couldn't figure out why you were screaming or what was wrong and being so powerless was infuriating to him.

Now he had taken to sleeping rarely and only resting for a few hours each night so he could keep an eye on you. But even with him at the ready to wake you the moment you seemed uncomfortable, there were still nights like this. Painful sobs and gasps wracking through your body as you clung to him.

Gone were the days of trying to shield your stomach from him in fear. Now you held tightly to him and pressed as close as your body would allow, stomach directly between the two of you. It was unreasonably soothing to you to hold onto him and just listen to him speak.

Weren't you supposed to hate him?

Regardless of how you felt in the past and how it felt like a betrayal now, you were not about to try to distance yourself from him. Not when his presence alone was so soothing to you in your distressed state.

His warm hands massaged your tense muscles. His soft hair was soothing between your fingers. His deep voice settling your frantic heartbeat. His firm body making you feel protected. Everything about him was what you desperately needed, and he couldn't be more thrilled.

He disliked seeing you upset, but he adored how cuddly you had become and how aggressively you clung to him. His only wish is that you continue your cuddling behavior even after the pregnancy is over.

~~~~8 months~~~~ (extra warning)

Something's not right. Something's wrong. Something's wrong. Something's wrong.

You knew it the moment you woke up, panicked and holding your stomach in agony. It was the middle of the day and Silva had stepped out not too long before you woke from your nap.

You knew something was wrong and you just screamed. Your body was filled with agony as you held your stomach, somewhere in your mind realizing that you were likely going to have to do this alone. You could barely move and the blood that coated your legs sent you into a frenzy of terror.

Pain was something you had experienced, this was something else all together. Somewhere in your mind you knew the child wouldn't be able to be born in a normal delivery. So, you did what you had to in order to save your baby.

Silva didn't keep knives around the room in order to ensure you couldn't hurt yourself, but he recently left a simple small knife on the counter before you fell asleep. It wasn't ideal, but it would damn-well have to do.

Thankfully, you had a vague idea of what to do, given the different medical books you had read over the years. You didn't feel much pain, adrenaline fueling your actions and steadying your hand. You were going to save your baby no matter what.

What felt like hours passed as you worked, propped up slightly against the couch. You knew you had done it when you heard that nasally snorting cry only newborns could make. The few things you remembered before finally passing out was a shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes cuddled up to your chest.

~~~~~~~~

Silva's brain still refused to process the events that followed when he returned to his wife's side.

He was unprepared for the snorting cries of his newborn infant and the horrific amount of blood that had no doubt come from his wife. She had been so pale with no color on her lips or face. The skin around her eyes were dark like pits and her chest barely moved.

He sat motionless with that image burned in his mind as doctors worked to save his only love. Why? Why had she done something so drastic? She should have just waited for him instead of going off the deep end.

He felt hate burning in his chest, not only for the infant but hate towards himself. He should have been there. How could he leave for so long like that? Just assuming she would still be sleeping by the time he got back. He shouldn't have left. If he had been there, none of this would have happened.

His father- as per usual- was the one who held and comforted the snorting and crying creature in his arms, refusing to allow Silva anywhere near. He knew what Silva would do to the infant if he was let near, and he wasn't about to let that happen. Not with how much potential and familial traits the infant already had.

The familial white hair and blue eyes of the Zoldyck family made the child's potential quite clear. Not to mention the overwhelming amount of nen the infant had despite being just born. The child had the nen of an adult and was likely only going to become stronger from there.

This child was the ideal Zoldyck. Zeno knew it, and Maha knew it. Silva didn't care. If he had his way that disgusting parasite would be dead by now.

He immediately stood the moment the door opened, the doctor's next words would dictate his actions from there.

"She's stable."

Almost as if his heart had been released from a vice, relief flooded his body at the news.

"It... Is a miracle she survived."

"How soon will she recover? That infant isn't worth her life to me."

"Well, there's something to that actually. Had she not done what she did, she would have died. We found that there was a complication with her dilation and that the infant was actually stuck inside of her. Had it remained that way, even for such a short amount of time, both would have died."

Now that was interesting. Silva knew that she had been worried from the very beginning even though countless checks said she would be fine. Had she known from the start of the pregnancy that something like this was going to happen? Had she been right to be concerned from the start?

Maha spoke up, now interested in the odd events that took place.

"So she was right to do what she had done to herself? She was correct in her actions?"

"Yes. Had she not done it, there would have been no saving her by the time we got to her. She is very fortunate, self performed c-sections always end in the mother passing away. This is likely a once in a million years kind of event."

Silva didn't care about their jabbering, he wanted to see his wife. He didn't stay to listen to them talk and instead immediately entered the room where she was being held.

It pained him more than words could describe to see her with so many marks and machines attached to her. But she was alive. He could work with that. Had she died, he would have... Well, no need to talk in hypotheticals.

~~~~~~~~

It had taken Illumi a moment to come to terms with the wiggling, snorting thing in his arms. This was what his mother almost died for? This pink squishy thing?

It was fascinating to him that this was why he almost lost his sweet mother. He had agreed long ago to keep an eye on any younger siblings he may have, but he would make note to watch this one closely. There had to be a reason his mom had gone through such lengths to keep this infant. He would be damned before all of her pain and suffering went to waste.

"What do you think of your little brother, Illumi?"

His mother's soft voice brought him back to the present. She was still bed-bound, but she wanted to be there when Illumi first met little Killua. He was pleased just to be able to be with her even if it meant he had to take care of the small infant in his arms.

His father stood, leaning against one of the walls and watching closely should anything happen. The similarities between them did not go unnoticed though.

"He looks like father."

"Yes... He does look a lot like your father."

Illumi knew he would never let anything happen to his little brother. He wouldn't let his mother down like that. Not with the amount of trust she's put in him.

He would ensure this child would never take on an opponent he was uncertain of defeating. He would make his mother proud of him and just how well he is taking care of his siblings.

He just hoped she wouldn't die over something like another kid. She was his mom and he didn't want her to ever be sad or to have her die any time soon.

If it meant he had to control and micro-manage his little siblings, he would.

#x reader #lemon #yandere #female reader #yandere x reader #hxh #fem reader #reader insert #silva #dub con #dubcon #non con #yandere silva x reader #yandere silva

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jaceyneedsabetterusername · 4 years ago

Text

Broken Down (p.2)

Pairings: Arvin Russell x F!Reader (I just realized that though there’s a few little flirty parts or thoughts, it’s actually pretty platonic and open ended)

Summary: (Part 2 of Broken Down) After escaping from Carl and Sandy, you and Arvin find yourselves in Knockemstiff. Little did either of you know, there was somebody else following you there.

Warnings: Murder, Mention of Suicide, Canonical gore and violence, Reference to sexual assault but no depictions

Word Count: 6.6k

Find Part 1 here!

_________

Meade was the last big town until you hit Knockemstiff and you had decided to pull off at a gas station to fuel up to avoid accidentally running out of gas in the middle of nowhere. When the car’s tires rolled to a crunching halt, Arvin jumped out to pump the gas for you. You stepped out of the car and stood beside him while the tank filled with fuel. “What do you wanna do when we get to Knockemstiff? It seems like why ever you’re here is pretty personal so I understand if you wanna do this alone.”

“Where ‘re you gonna go?” He dodged the question, the pump clicking to a stop in the background. He moved to shake the last few drops from the nozzle before replacing it at the pump.

You and Arvin had talked a bit on your long overnight trip about your lives and your plans. He had told you that he was from Coal Creek and admitted to murdering a preacher named Preston Teagarden that impregnated his adopted sister, Lenora, which led her to committing suicide. He had told you all about this monster of a human and why he felt he had to do what he did and, though it felt twisted to genuinely support the murder of somebody, you couldn’t help but support Arvin’s actions. When you asked what was so special about Knockemstiff, he confessed that it was where he used to live, where his parents had died.

Arvin had never found himself the overly talkative or trusting type. Coal Creek residents only seemed to judge him and his family, from bullies to the richer folk who looked down on his family simply for not having much money. There was something special about you though, and perhaps it was some unspoken bond that came about from nearly being murdered and then murdering said murderers, but it made him feel like he could open up to you more than he’d ever felt with anyone.

You told him about your life and family thus far. You told him about your hometown of Barren Springs, not that there was really much to tell. It was just some small town full of cows and churchgoers. When he asked you what you were gonna do after today, you really weren’t sure. Hell, you were barely sure what you were doing now.

You looked around at the surprisingly clean gas station before picking at your nails, “I don’t really know. Figured I’ll drive around for a few days. Maybe head back to Meade after I drop you off and stay here for a few until the story comes out in the newspaper. Just gotta make sure they don’t have any leads, y’know?”

Arvin adjusted his baseball cap, “You ain’t gotta just disappear. I mean, you been mighty kind givin’ me a ride all the way out here but I don’t wanna just use you for a ride ‘n send you on your way. Not after everythin’.” He paused to think for a moment. His story wasn’t a pleasant one and his entire point in coming all the way out here was to try and find some peace with all ghosts in his closet. It was a personal journey, one that he didn’t really want anyone else to join in on, but he really did feel terrible just using you for a ride so far away and leaving you alone. “‘M gonna go visit my old home from back when I was a boy. There’s some things I gotta do there. It’s, uh, it’s somethin’ I gotta do alone. You’re more than welcome to leave me here if you wanna go somewhere else but I don’t want to make you feel like I just used you for a ride.”

You chewed your lip to hide the small way the corner of your mouth turned upwards at his ever-courteous manner. “Well what’re you gonna do after all this? You gonna be able to make it wherever you need to go?”

“I ain’t got anywhere to go but I’ll figure it out. Don’t you worry ‘bout me,” he admitted, leaning against the car beside you.

You looked up at him with your arms crossed, “How ‘bout I wait in town till you’re done doin’ what you need to do and then you can come stay with me in Barren Springs until you get a plan. It’s better for you to know where you wanna go and what you wanna do before running off.”

Arvin’s eyes narrowed skeptically, “You sure you’re alright with that? I don’t wanna put you out anymore than you’ve already done for me.” He was never one for charity and didn’t want to take anything he felt like he couldn’t reciprocate.

You nodded, pressing yourself off the side of the car and swinging towards the driver's side of the car, “It’s no problem, really. Now how much further to Knockemstiff?”

The drive to Knockemstiff wasn’t long at all and within the hour you and Arvin found yourselves driving along the road that he found hauntingly familiar. Even so, everything looked so different. Arvin couldn’t imagine the town changing much over the last eight or so years so he figured that the place just must have felt darker and grimmer with the ghosts of the tragedies that took place there.

“Where’s your house?” You leaned forward over the steering wheel to peer further ahead up the road, trying to see through the thin layer of condensation that had built up on the inside of your window from the contrast of the heated interior with the dreary drizzly outside.

Arvin gestured up the road you were headed down, “Should be just up there but it’s been a while.” You could see the way the road split off into a fork just up ahead and you could tell by Arvin’s face that he wasn’t quite sure which road was the right one.

“Should we ask someone?” You pointed towards a small building up ahead, pulling over when Arvin nodded.

The pair of you got out of the car to see an older man sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. “Howdy,” he greeted with a thick accent, “You pair look like you been travellin’. Where you headed?”

Arvin shoved his hands in his pockets as he answered, hiding beneath the brim of his hat from the rain. You shielded your face with your hand from the mist, tiny droplets accumulating on your eyelashes. “There used to be a house and a barn up on that hill over there. Some lawyer owned it. You know it?”

“Sure I do. Up in the Mitchell Flats.” The man answered sure as could be.

“Still there?”

The man leaned back, eyeing Arvin, “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re that Russell boy ain’t you?”

You felt the way Arvin tensed up a little beside you, clearly not comfortable with the legacy he seemed to have in this town, but stepped forward nonetheless. You followed him under the shelter of the porch awning, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I just thought, seeing as I was this way, I’d stop by and see the old place again.”

The man sighed heavily and stood, “Son, I hate to tell you this but that place burned some years ago. They think some kids did it. Wasn’t nobody livin’ there since you and your folks.”

“Well, heck, we came all this way. May as well walk up there anyways.” Arvin insisted.

The man’s eyes flicked over to you and back to Arvin, “Sure, just cut across Clarence’s pasture. Don’t know if you remember but there’s some pretty flowers growin’ up there this time of year for your girl there, too. He won’t mind if you take a few.” He glanced at you with implying eyes and you tensed up.

“Oh, uh, we’re not- it ain’t like that.” You stammered over your words, hands waving slightly with a flustered chuckle.

The man put his hands up, “My bad, ma’am. Just figured since you two were…” he paused and cleared his throat, “well, anyways. It’s nice to know you’re doing alright, son.”

Arvin nodded in a brief farewell before turning to head back to the car and you followed, only stopping when he turned back to the man on the porch, “I never did thank you for the night my dad died. You were awful kind to me and I just want you to know that I ain’t never forgot it.”

Even though you didn’t know the extent to which Arvin had suffered that night, the fact that he was thanking this old man that barely recognized him for the good deeds of nearly a decade ago spoke miles in your opinion. You stood back silently, knowing that this was his path to healing and resolution and that, at least for now, you were merely a spectator.

“You had that pie smeared all across your face,” the man reminisced almost as if it were a happy memory, “Damn Bodecker thought it was blood. Remember that?”

You looked at the ground with a silent chuckle at the thought of Arvin as a young boy with pie smeared across his face but that faded when you heard the way he said, “Yeah, I remember everything about that night,” with such heaviness.

“He ain’t the lawman that I expected,” he continued, “Shame about his sister though.”

“Why? What happened?”

“His sister and her husband were found dead. Not far from Meade.”

Your heart stopped beating and you glanced over at Arvin to find him already casting a nearly imperceptible but highly aware glance at you. “That’s awful. They know what happened?” You questioned, trying to force as much sincerity into your tone as possible. There was no telling with certainty that Bodecker’s sister and her husband were Sandy and Carl but that would be a huge coincidence for two different couples to wind up dead not far from Meade on the same day.

The man nodded, “Last I heard, they don’t know for sure. I got a friend who’s son works in the sheriff’s department, though. Said they thought it was a murder-suicide at first but found bullets from a gun that they couldn’t find at the crime scene so they ain’t so sure no more. Looks like they’re investigating it as a murder.”

Your mouth fell open, trying to find the words that would secure your innocence, as if this man had any reason to believe you were guilty anyways, but it took a moment for you to find your voice, “That’s terrible. I hope they figure out what happened,” you lied, less convincingly than you hoped but this man had no reason to not believe you.

He nodded in agreement, “Yeah, real unfortunate to hear. But, uh, I won’t keep you any longer. You two stay safe out there.” He waved the pair of you off and you and Arvin returned to the car.

The second both doors were securely shut, you let out a breath of air you weren’t aware you’d been holding, “We’re fucked, ain’t we?”

“They ain’t got no reason to suspect us.” Arvin tried to reassure but the way he gripped onto his thighs tightly made you nervous.

“He said they found bullets that didn’t match the guns at the scene. Did you pick up the bullets at the church? Can they trace the gun back to you?” Your questions flew frantically, pulling out onto the road and following the fork that the man had pointed down earlier.

Arvin nodded, fingers rolling over the lumps in his pocket where the empty cases had been residing since yesterday. “Yeah, I picked ‘em up. ‘M pretty sure I got ‘em all.”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling sick to your stomach, “Good,” You lied, feeling anything but, “good.”

***

You sat at the tiny diner in town at a booth all to yourself, sipping at a soda and picking at a basket of fries. At first, you had thought that you could possibly read the book you’d packed into your bag for the trip but it sat on the table beside the napkin dispenser, untouched since you set it down after giving up at trying to read after your third time rereading the same paragraph and retaining no information.

How could you read at a time like this? No matter how much you thought you had processed what had happened over the last twenty-four hours, it felt like the reality never truly weighed in. They knew that there was an additional gun so they knew someone else was involved. Carl and Sandy were murdered and the police knew it.

And of course Sandy would turn out to be the fucking sheriff’s sister! Just your luck, right? Carl probably could have disappeared and nobody would have noticed but the sheriff’s sister was going to be a hard one to hide from, especially now knowing that they suspected foul play. There’s no reason for anyone to suspect us, you breathed deeply, trying to calm yourself.

The picked at basket of fries hadn’t been nearly as much comfort as you had hoped and your soda was none too great a therapist either. You didn’t realize you’d actually miss Arvin, the man you’d only known less than twenty-four hours, when you’d only dropped him off at the site of his old home thirty minutes ago but there was a loneliness now that made you uneasy. When Arvin was around, the last day’s events felt bearable but now that you were alone, the paranoia gnawed at you.

Reaching for the ice cold Coca-Cola brand glass full of soda, you dragged it towards you, the sparkling liquid fizzing against your tongue as you took a long sip. Focus on the bubbles. Focus on the bubbles. Arvin will be done soon and you can get the hell out of Knockemstiff and as far from the crime scene as possible.

There was a light chime from the small bell that hung over the door that drew your attention and you watched a tall dark haired man walk in, looking around like he owned the place. One of the waitresses walked right up to him with a warm smile, “Heya Sheriff! What can I get you?”

Your blood ran cold at the realization of who this was and your fears were only confirmed when he turned and you could see the heavy expression in his eyes, “‘M not here for food, Sally. You seen a boy and girl come through here? They’re both young and pretty good looking. He’s kinda average height, brown hair?,” he went on to describe you briefly as well before continuing, “Might have been hitchhiking.”

As casually as you could, you picked up the book and buried your face in it, letting your hair drape over the sides of your face to conceal yourself as much as possible. Sally thought for a moment, “Hm, we get the usual hitchhikers through here. The boy got a name?”

“Arvin Russell.” Bodecker’s voice was flat and serious and the waitress could tell that he was in no mood for stretching this out.

She shook her head apologetically, “‘M sorry, Bodecker. I ain’t seen nobody come through here with that name or a new couple at all. I saw Henry talkin’ to a pair who might’ve matched that description though. Saw ‘em on my way into work. Couldn’t see ‘em too well but sounds like they might have had the same hair color. I don’t know… they didn’t look familiar though. Maybe check with him?”

It was amazing how your breath could reverberate so loudly off the thick walls of paper that shrouded your face from view. Your heart pounded in your chest as you continued to eavesdrop in silence. “Yeah, I’ll go do that. Thanks, Sal.”

You peeked over your book to see her nod and perch up on her toes while she gestured to the kitchen, “Can I get you somethin’ for the road? Coffee maybe? You know it’s on the house.”

Bodecker just shook his head, a solemn look on his face, the look of a man on a mission, “Nah, I better just head out.” With that he walked out the door and you watched him carefully as he climbed into his police car and drove off down towards the old man’s house that you and Arvin had been at not more than an hour ago.

This was bad.

As quickly as you could, you paid for your meal and hustled out to your car, practically throwing yourself into the driver’s seat and speeding down the road after the officer. If he was stopping at the old man’s - Henry, as you just learned - house, that could possibly give you enough time to find Arvin at his house and drive off before Bodecker could even find the pair of you.

Your knuckles turned white on the steering wheel as you sped down the road, grateful that the roads were mostly empty at this time of day. The only sound was the wheels spinning against the asphalt and you talking aloud to yourself, trying to devise a plan. “Just get there before Bodecker, pick up Arvin, get the hell outta dodge.” You repeated it over and over again as if it were that simple.

Soon, you passed Henry’s humble abode and, sure enough, the sheriff’s car was parked just outside and you saw his large figure questioning the old man. Neither of them paid your passing car any mind, which you were grateful for as you peeled off down the left fork of the road, the one that led up to the Mitchell Flats.

You pulled up to the flat area that only had remnants of a house’s foundation now. Slabs of cement were the only signs that a house ever was here, mostly broken from years of abuse from the elements and teenagers. When you pulled up, you noticed that Arvin was nowhere to be seen. “Shit!” You hissed, jumping out of the car and jogging down towards his backyard, the direction he had headed when you dropped him off earlier. He couldn’t have made it far.

“Arvin!” You called out, arms reaching out in a desperate attempt to keep your balance as your feet skidded every few steps along the leaves and moss that slicked the hill you hustled down. “Arvin!”

“I really need you to fucking respond…” You groaned the words meant for Arvin aloud to yourself as you nearly tripped over logs on your trek through the woods. The trees all looked the same and you kept glancing behind you to ensure that you weren’t going in circles, often choosing little landmarks, like that one log that had mushrooms growing on it, to make sure you could find your way back.

Finally, you saw Arvin’s form kneeling before an eerie wooden cross, his white t-shirt dirty from several days of less than ideal situations. You ran towards Arvin, tripping slightly over a few rocks here and there along the way. He turned, ears perked up at the sound of your footsteps. “Arvin! Thank God I found you. We gotta go. Bodecker’s onto us. He came into the diner looking for us and is at Henry’s now.”

Arvin stood up hastily, “Where’s the car?”

“Up by where your house used to be.” You pointed over your shoulder in the direction you came from, “C’mon! If we leave now we might be able to get outta here before-” There was the distinct rustle of footsteps coming from uphill that made you freeze. Your voice lowered to nearly a whisper, “Did you hear that?”

Arvin froze as well, the only sound being your breathing, as you both waited for the sound again. Sure enough, there was a rustle of footsteps again. “Arvin Russell! I know you’re down there somewhere!” Bodecker’s voice rang through the forest clear as day, “You ‘n that girl you’re with. I know y’all are out there.”

Arvin literally tackled you to the ground and hugged your body close to his as he rolled the both of you into a small crevice between a fallen tree and a hole beneath it. He pressed you close into the tree, hiding you as far into the small space as he could while he fumbled around in his pocket for his gun.

“It’s Sheriff Bodecker, kids! I just got some questions to ask you!”

Arvin perched up on his elbows to try and peer over the log. You reached up and fisted his shirt, trying to drag him back down. “What the hell are you-”

A gunshot blasted through the empty forest and both you and Arvin flinched aggressively. His body dropped against yours and you held his chest tightly, burying yourself in his body and pulling him as close to you as possible, concealed in the shelter of the log. You let out a tiny shriek of surprise that you muffled by biting your thumb. His arms wrapped around your body in both an attempt to shield you but also as a knee jerk reaction looking for safety himself in you.

“Sorry ‘bout that! Goddamn bird scared me!” Bodecker breathed heavily somewhere to the west of where you were, his footsteps getting closer and closer. “I ain’t here to hurt you! And I know that y’all don’t wanna hurt me. Come on out so we can have us a talk!”

While Bodecker spoke his lies, Arvin laid back on his back and fumbled around with his gun yet again, this time gripping it and loading the clip with shaky clumsy hands. Finally, he got the clip loaded and he cocked the gun, holding it with both hands like an inexperienced marksman.

You looked around frantically for something to use as a weapon, anything to not feel helpless. Rocks and sticks seemed to be your best choices but you knew damn well that wouldn’t do jack shit against a gun. Arvin glanced over at you with fear in his eyes, the fact that you both found yourselves facing death yet again for the second time in two days. Tragedy seemed to loom over Arvin like a storm cloud but, looking in your wide beautiful eyes, he’d be damned if he let you become another ghost in his past.

“I had a feeling you’d be here. Remember that night you brought me up here? That was an awful thing your daddy did.” His footsteps were terrifyingly close now and you did the only thing you could think of to help. You tossed a stone as far away as you could. According to plan, Bodecker jumped and shot at the sudden movement. “God damnit, don’t fuck with me!”

Arvin may have had the gun but if you could make Bodecker waste his ammo, that was less chances he had of shooting you and Arvin. It was the best solution you could come up with in the heat of the moment. Bodecker sounded furious now and when you peeked over the log, you saw him hiding behind a tree.

You threw another rock in his direction and he wasted yet another shot. “Fuck! I swear to God-” He cursed angrily, knowing he was wasting his shots on nothing.

“Put the gun down, Sheriff. I got one pointed right at you!” Arvin yelled back and your eyes blew wide in panic. You smacked him on the arm and the question in your eyes was clear: What the hell are you thinking?

“Can’t do that son!”

“Just set it on the ground and step away.” Arvin’s voice shook despite his attempt at sounding firm.

“What?” Bodecker asked with a notable change in his tone. Footsteps started approaching again.

Poor Arvin fell right into the trap. “Just set it on the ground and step away!” He repeated even louder. You smacked his arm again and held a finger to your lips.

“So you can kill me like you did my sister and that preacher in West Virginia?” Bodecker hollered back. “You and that girl murdered my sister, didn’t you?”

For the first time since the incident, you felt actual guilt for what you’d done. Hearing the way Bodecker’s voice cracked with grief made you realize that Sandy’s death did actually have an effect on other people, even if she wasn’t a good person. Arvin swallowed hard too, “We ain’t bad people, Sheriff. That preacher weren’t no good. He hurt my sister so bad she killed herself, Sheriff. I had no choice!”

You shook your head and waved your hands at him, desperately pleading him to stop talking. Bodecker’s footsteps were only getting closer and you knew he was getting Arvin to talk so he could locate the two of you. Arvin just had to explain himself, though, and before you could move, Bodecker was right on top of you. From your new position, awkwardly creeping up a nearby tree, using its trunk for cover, you could see Bodecker’s shotgun peek out from around a tree.

“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Sheriff, but your sister and her husband… they weren’t no good neither.” Arvin continued to explain yourselves to the sheriff. By then, your upper back was pressed up awkwardly against a standing tree but you were still lying down, hiding mostly against the fallen log still. Arvin stayed laying on his back, gun up against his chest. “I got a snapshot in my pocket of her huggin’ on some dead guy. And Y/N… you shoulda seen what they was doin’ to her,” Arvin’s eyes met yours and you could see a well of unshed tears as this poor boy was on the verge of breaking at the thought of watching you relive that horror. It was a brief moment that he wanted only you to see before he continued, “What they wanted to do to us. We had no choice! Let loose that gun and I’ll show it to you!”

Suddenly, Bodecker jumped out from behind the tree and Arvin pulled the trigger as soon as he saw him coming but not before the sheriff got a shot off right at the two of you as well. You shrieked out in pain as a few pellets from the shotgun grazed your arm, tearing holes in your jacket. They weren’t deep wounds but they tore long thin gashes across your flesh that began bleeding immediately.

“Agh!” You yelled out, clutching your bicep that was already wet with crimson liquid. Arvin rolled over next to you, having flinched away from the bullets in the opposite direction. You wanted to ask if he was alright but he rolled back over to look up at Bodecker, confirming that he was thankfully at least alive.

Your attention went to the sheriff as well who stood there looking dumbfounded at the red spot blossoming on his shirt. His jaw went slack and his knees buckled before he finally dropped to the ground. You and Arvin shot each other glances of disbelief. You both pressed yourselves off the ground and hopped over the log towards the sheriff.

Bodecker was on the ground, gasping and trying to hang onto what was left of his life. The first thing you did before even looking at him long was kneel down and take his gun from his hand. Now that you were sure he couldn’t hurt you, you looked down at him sadly. Killing Sandy and Carl had been disturbingly easy because they were genuinely terrible people who were trying to murder you. They also died quickly. Bodecker lied helpless on the ground at the mercy of two young adults, gasping and gripping desperately to this world. This time, the murder made your heart feel heavy. Yes, he had been trying to murder you and Arvin but it was for his sister’s sake. There was a twisted nobility in the action that you could empathize for.

Bodecker looked up at Arvin and then up at you. “So it was you in that picture,” he attempted to say, his voice a hoarse whisper.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, “What do you mean?”

He laid his head back, too tired to continue straining himself, “In… in my pocket… Found some pictures in Carl’s camera of… of a girl crying with her shirt.. With her shirt…” Bodecker attempted to explain but his voice failed him as much as his the rest of his body was beginning to shut down.

You gasped at the mention of the photographs. In the heat of everything, you had completely forgotten that Carl had taken a few pictures of you. You patted down the sheriff’s pocket until you found a developed picture of you with your shirt torn wide open, bra out for the world to see, and tears streaming down your face despite the defiantly angry look on your face. Sandy was topless behind you, her lips pressing against your neck and her hands gripping your breasts, pressing them up and inwards to amplify their suppleness. Her direct eye contact with the camera was chilling.

You shuttered at the picture, shoving it in your own pocket instead of giving it back to Bodecker. You weren’t sure what you’d do with it but you couldn’t risk anyone else seeing it.

Arvin had caught a glimpse of the picture and noticed the way it shook in your hands. He noticed the way your eyes glazed over looking at it like you couldn’t believe it was actually you. When you shoved it in your pocket, he sighed and pulled out his own photograph to show the sheriff, the one of Sandy posing nude behind a man’s corpse.

“We had no choice.” He told Bodecker. There was such sincerity in his voice and almost an apology in his eyes for the harm that he had caused to Bodecker and his family. It was never meant to be like this for either you or him. Neither of you were supposed to have become killers. Your hands were never meant to be stained red but life or death situations called for extreme measures and it had been you or them every time. “They was gonna kill us. I swear.”

“We didn’t wanna do it but they had a gun to our heads and tried to force us to... We didn’t have a choice. They were gonna kill us.” You reiterated, voice just as shaky as Arvin’s as you had to sit and come to terms with the events of the last twenty-four hours.

“I’m so sorry.” You and Arvin apologized in uncoordinated unison, hanging your heads low to genuinely show how sorry you were for causing him pain and that it had all had to boil down to this.

Bodecker’s eyes left the pair of you and stared upwards at the trees. You glanced up to see what he was looking at and saw a beautiful clearing in the branches that framed the perfectly clear late afternoon sky. It was a beautiful view to have to be your last, you thought morbidly but truthfully.

You and Arvin sat by Bodecker’s side, listening to his ragged strained breaths until they finally stopped and you knew he was gone. It felt like the least you could do after everything, staying with him so he didn’t die alone. You hoped that maybe it counted as some shred of redemption for the sins committed over the last two days.

When Bodecker’s body finally went limp and his eyes glazed over, you reached up and brushed your hand over his face, closing his eyes. You couldn’t stand to see the empty blue orbs stare off into nothingness and know there was nobody behind those eyes anymore. Arvin stood up and walked over to where you had been hiding, not giving Bodecker’s body much attention at all after he finally slipped away.

With a heavy sigh, you pressed yourself to your feet and walked over to where Arvin stood, looking down at a hole full of animal bones that you hadn’t noticed earlier. You visibly cringed, wondering what in the hell you walked into, “What’s that?”

Sadness overtook Arvin’s features as he stared at the pile of bones, “My best friend from when I was a boy. I had to come back and give him a proper burial.” His vague answer clearly had a story attached to it but you didn’t have the heart to press him further on it right now. Arvin turned his attention to the pistol in his hand, the one he had used to shoot Teagarden, Carl, and Bodecker, and saw nothing but the bloodshed it had caused.

You wished you could know what was going on in Arvin’s brain as he twisted that Luger in his hand. His eyes were deep with remorse, grief, and heartache and you could tell that this boy had seen too many tragedies for one lifetime and somehow, they were all related to the gun he held in his hand.

After almost a minute of silence, he placed the gun gingerly on top of the bones in the makeshift grave and piled it full of dirt until it was indistinguishable from the rest of the forest floor. The only landmarks to signify its location were the three crosses that humbly stood above it. “Why’d you do that?” You asked with gentle curiosity.

He stood up but kept his eyes trained on where the hole once was, “My daddy always told me to wait for the right time to do anything.,” He nodded his head, as if agreeing with his own decision, “I think it’s the right time.” His answer was cryptic and, yet again, you could tell there was a story behind it that you would have to wait to discover.

There was a cool breeze that sent goose bumps rising across your arms and you glanced around the forest to see the leaves rustle and fall to the ground. That was when the black and white clothing of Sheriff Bodecker stood out against the gold and brown foliage and reality settled back in.

“We should probably get outta here soon, Arv.” You urged with a gentle tone, a hand coming to rest softly on Arvin’s bicep.

Arvin’s jumped slightly, eyes darting down to where your skin gently grazed his own. The softness of your touch and the sincerity in your eyes was one that he wasn’t sure he’d experienced since his mother. Even Lenora hadn’t filled that gap that he was secretly desperate for to be filled. She was kind and gentle but had a childlike naivety that you lacked. Arvin’s mother had never looked at him the way you did either. His mother had been tender and compassionate but there was a different kind of understanding in the way that you looked at him. One look into your eyes validated all of his sins over the last few days, for better or worse.

His opposite hand reached across his body and rested over yours, revelling silently in the way your hand fit against his. “Yeah… you’re right.” Arvin took one last look at the three crosses that had haunted his dreams for years and it was almost as if he could feel himself kneeling before them with his father. These weren’t memories he ever thought he’d want to hold onto but now that he was faced with the possibility of never coming back, a part of him felt reluctant to leave. “Rest easy now, Jack.” He let his hand fall from yours with his last good bye and while you weren’t entirely sure who Jack was, you were fairly certain it was the name of whoever those bones in that grave belonged to.

“‘M sorry,” Arvin said out of the blue from the driver’s seat of your car, shaking you from the silent daze that both of you had been sitting in for the last thirty minutes.

You tore your eyes from the dashboard where they had long since zoned out on, emotionally overwhelmed, to look over at him. “For what?” You asked, brows furrowed.

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have gotten caught up in all this.”

You shook your head, “That ain’t true, Arvin. We both ended up in Carl and Sandy’s car yesterday and we both pulled those triggers. Bodecker was shooting at us because he couldn’t settle with the fact that his sister was a monster. It’s like you said, us or them. I probably would’ve died with Sandy and Carl if it weren’t for you being there so if anything, I should be thanking you. You saved my life.”

Arvin looked over at you, his eyes red from holding back tears for so long but he still shed none. He wasn’t sure what to say to that. The way you had been sitting so quietly had him convinced that you hated him for dragging you into a life ruining situation. “Well I wouldn’t have made it this far without you either so thank you.”

You nodded with a small appreciative smile but there was an exhausted sadness behind your features that Arvin shared. Silence settled back over the car aside from the faint ever present sound of the wind outside the car as you and Arvin drove on down the highway headed for Pennsylvania. Neither of you knew what your next steps were but since killing Bodecker, you’d both decided that heading back to Barren Springs was not a wise decision. The two of you needed to get as far away from this area as you could, at least until everything blew over - that was, if it ever would. If Bodecker could track Arvin, that must have meant the other police officers knew that he had killed Teagarden as well. You weren’t sure if the police knew that you and Arvin were responsible for Carl and Sandy but you could assume as much since Bodecker came after the two of you. Even if they didn’t, there were pictures of you on Carl’s camera but your body wasn’t at the crime scene. Finally, when Bodecker didn’t return, wouldn’t that just put you and Arvin at the top of the suspect list?

So with all the uncertainty in the world, you sat in the passenger seat of your own car with a stranger who you felt like you understood more than you’d ever understood anyone, driving across state lines with no clue as to what you future held. You didn’t know where you were going, when you’d get to come back home, when you could safely see anyone you cared about again, or what was going to happen to all your life goals now. Everything that had been planned and comfortable had been stolen away by a twisted couple picking up a poor girl with a broken down car.

You didn’t know what was waiting for you in Pennsylvania, or anywhere for that matter, but even with all the uncertainty, one thing felt beyond doubt. Maybe it was the exhaustion from going two days with no sleep but you just knew Arvin Russell was going to be in your life from this day forward. There was something you couldn’t explain between the two of you. A spark felt like an inappropriate way to put it under the circumstances of your relationship thus far but it was an understanding, an empathy, a trust, a sense of protection of one another. When you tore your eyes off the road ahead long enough to look over at the man sitting beside you, his hair parted messily down the middle and his face and shirt smudged with dirt, you could have sworn you saw your future. Whether it was a future in prison together, as partners in crime, friends, or lovers, you weren’t quite sure, but a content smile crept up on your face at the inexplicably comforting knowledge that Arvin Russell would be there with you for whatever ups and downs were to come.

#Arvin Russell #arvin russel imagine #tom holland imagine #tom holland #arvin russel #arvin russell x reader #arvin russel x y/n #arvin russel imagines #arvin russell x you #tom holland one shot #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tdalt #tdatt #tdatt imagine #tdatt fics #The Devil All The Time

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t-o-m-hollands · 4 years ago

Text

T H E

P A R I S

C H R O N I C L E S

Warnings: Smoking, drinking and smut in the other chapters. This is set in Nice in the 1950’s, I have never been to the French riviera and I wasn’t alive in the 50’s, so probably a very inaccurate description of the place (also at times simply just made up).

Summary: Newly divorced you decide to travel to the Riviera and spend the summer in the house you and Timothée have inherited. After a very successful art exhibition he comes down to join you. Things should be easy, but they aren't.

Themes: Artist!Timmy, period piece (1950's).

R E A D

P A R T

O N E

A N D

T W O

H E R E

***

Menton - July, 1953

Menton, the most easterly town of the Côte d'Azur, belonging to the Arrondissement of Nice. It is located practically on the French-Italian border, the influences of both countries clear in multi-coloured houses, the decorated windows and in the sixteenth century bell tower.

The beaches are rocky but wide, and in the summer season packed with vacationists looking for an escape from the city; to lay their bodies down and soak up some sun, breath in some fresh air and occasionally to dip their bodies into the ocean in an attempt to escape the heat and cool down.

There’s a village square, in the middle of which a fountain; made in a century in which people still believed in dragons. From Bentwood chairs you can sit back and enjoy a meal, or a simple cappuccino, al fresco; as you watch the occasional hopeful tourist throw a coin into the fountain, making wishes with sanguine smiles. Or perhaps play a game of chess with a stranger.

On a cobbled-stone street nearby a market is set up each morning in a belle-epoque building, inside of which cheese, fish and meat are sold, and outside vendors are selling fruits and vegetables on wooden tables covered by green cloths.

Away from the pastell-coloured village and the expensive resorts and hotels by the beach there are steep hills, where most of the Menton locals reside. Some houses small and quaint; others almost obscene in their obvious wealth.

One of these houses is called Villa Marguerite

***

From the villa you can see the ocean spread out in front of you, almost recklessly big and bold and blue. Behind the house; acres upon acres of lemon trees, the bright yellow and green hues creating sharp contrasts to all the surrounding blue. There’s a garden too, emerald green grass and cedar trees that with rain will spread its heady scent all over the property; some mornings it is the first thing you smell.

The morning sun shines upon the terrace and you lean back in your wicker chair and sip on your morning coffee. Music is coming from the kitchen radio, only a few meters away.

The day lay planned and untraveled in front of you with all its horrifying possibilities. In a few hours Timothée’s train will arrive at the station and the upcoming reunion fills you with equal parts anticipation and terror. You had offered to meet him there, as his train arrives. You can picture it in front of you, standing on the dusty station under the scorching sun, eyes on the railroad track before you, awaiting the first sign of the train. You’d wear something nice for him, a white sundress perhaps; to show him that you are still the young sweet girl he fell for in Paris – that the colossal weight of a wedding ring on your left ring finger has not left you changed. You can picture what he’ll show up in, paint-stained jeans and white t-shirt. It will be awkward at first, it must be after all these months apart. But you’d conquer your fear and you’d hug him, pull him tight against you and breath him in; the familiar scent of him, the irresistible and unplaceable mixture of turpentine and smokey whiskey and of Paris.

There have been nights you’ve woken up gasping for air, where your hands have searched in vain around you in bed, panic-stricken, looking for the familiar frame of a lost lover. Every time, upon realizing that he’s not there, you would fall back against the mattress, and with deep breaths force your lungs to accept air. You’d close your eyes tightly shut and perhaps it was a trick your brain played on you, some devilish scheme – but in those moments, when you needed him the most you could almost concoct his scent out of thin air, could almost smell him, almost feel him lay beside you. There were times you would have sworn on anything holy you could feel the warmth of his body beside yours.

You had suggested to meet him at the station, but he had turned your offer down so firmly it had bordered on rudeness.

In the passing months since his department from London you had shared two brief, silence-filled phone calls.

One of them early one morning in May, just as the lilac bush burst out in bloom outside your window, the scent of them heady and intoxicating, and the missing weight of a diamond ring on your left hand still a strange sensation. Still you lift the phone; asking the operator for a number in France. You had called up his studio to inform him that you had moved out of your soon-to-be former husband’s house and were now taking house in Mayfair, in case he needed to reach you. Timothée´s voice had been tense and hoarse, as if he had just woken up and was not happy about it. In the background a woman had laughed.

The second time he had called you, in the late hours of the evening mid-June, just as the magnolias had set in bloom. You had informed him that you were planning to go down to Menton the following week, to start with the process of going through your aunt’s possessions. He in turn had informed you that his exhibition was to finish up on the 15th of July, after which he planned to travel to Nice by train and thus arrive the following morning. You had then offered to meet him at the station, to show him the way to the house at his arrival, which he had turned down. The tone of had been curt and the conversation short.

And that had been your only contact since that day in London. Before coming to Menton you had gone to Paris, to sign some papers and go through a few objects in your aunts’ apartment. You had not informed Timothée of this nor had you visited him.

Now here you are, weeks later, awaiting his arrival; foot tapping nervously against the floor, eyes fixed without seeing, mind recklessly wandering. Soon he’ll arrive at the station and you try not to connect that fact with the terrible sense of doom that’s been growing stronger in your stomach these last few days. But it seems undeniably connected.

Doom, like things have already been set in motion, the faiths decided; beyond your control or demand.

You feel ungrounded, restless and unbound; like the light morning breeze can sweep you away at sea. Trying to get a hold of yourself you focus your eyes only to see the endless blue sky above you or endless blue sea in front.

The sense of temporariness, of insignificance, of irrelevance in the grand scale of things washes over you and nausea settles in the pit of your stomach. Sitting up straight in your chair, force your foot to stop stomping the ground, you close your eyes and inhale slowly.

From the open window kitchen, you can still hear Louise, your aunt's maid, playing the radio. The French pop tune playing is unknown to you plays but she signs along over the sound of cluttering plates and running water. Upon your aunt’s death had ended up unemployed and in search of a job. She had written to you in London, asking for a position, and you had taken her on.

A sea gull screams somewhere above and from your neighbour’s house you hear children playing.

The sun is warm on your skin; the stone floor warm beneath your feet.

Feeling calmer, you open your eyes.

but still all you see is blue.

***

Timothée travels to Nice by train with a third-class ticket.

The compartment is unbearably hot. He tries to lay as still as possible on the hard bunk bed, afraid that any movement will make him warmer. Trying to ignore the sweat forming on his brow he focuses on the rhythmic pace of the train moving underneath him, wishing it would lull him to sleep but all it does is leave him with a vague feeling of nausea. His fellow passenger in the bunk bed below is in the bathroom next door, violently vomiting and the retching sound is coming through the thin walls . The light above his bed keeps flicking, every other second leaving the already dim room, with its dark oak panels, in complete darkness.

And dying for a cigarette.

He’s hot and sweaty and he thanks his lucky star he turned down your offer to meet him at the station. The thought of seeing you again after all these months, no doubt radiant in the sunlight, like an angel in waiting for him; and then him, wearing sweat-soaked rags that’ll no doubt smell of bile and dust and liquor.

He’s glad he turned your offer down; wants to make a good impression on you, to show you that he has changed, that he’s no longer the penniless painter; that he has made a success out of himself. The exhibition had been an incomparable success, Le Monde had put him on the front page and Le Journal du Dimanche had written an entire feature on his use of the colour blue – which they had been dubbed “as revolutionary as Picasso’s blue period, making the viewer see the colour in a new light, almost as if for the first time. Never before have I’ve seen blue look so isolated and lonely”.

He wondered if you had seen it. He wants you to have seen it, to be proud of it; of him. To know, because you had to know, that it was all for you.

But lately fear had crept up on him. Like mold it had grown from a single thought; slowly and steadily until it covered everything, until it was a certainty he knew as well as his own name; a fact poisoning his every breath.

What if you didn’t love him anymore? What if, after all this time and suffering you found out that, actually, without all the hinders standing in your way you didn’t actually find him all that interesting.

He would be forced to go on his way, certain in the knowledge that you no longer loved him; instead of the current status quo of endless possibilities of the untraveled road, where anything can still happen. Where there is still hope. It had crossed his mind, the thought of just not going. To stay in Paris and paint and dream; safe in the knowledge that at one point the most beautiful woman in the world had loved him. Never having the possibility of that changing.

But it would be a cowardly thing to do, and whatever else he was he was no coward. But he also knew that there was no use pretending, he was not the same as he was when he met you. How could he be? He had been a planet, knocked out of its orbit, forced to find a gravity anew. And he had, it had taken time and pain and more self-discipline than he knew he had in him. He had dusted himself of and gone on with life. But when you left Paris the first time had felt safe in the knowledge that you loved him.

If you were to reject him now, it would only be because you found him lacking; disappointing.

The stranger retches in the bathroom again and behind closed eyelids Timothée can still see the flicking light. He pretends it’s a blinking star.

Lately he’s been reading less Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Dostoevsky; switched them for Nietzsche, Sartre and Aristotle. This new world of science and philosophy opening up a whole new world for him. It had set his mind to ponder about love and religion and of the whole galaxy too; about his place and role in all of these things.

Every day, several times over, he had wanted to call you. To tell you about his discoveries, read you abstracts from his books and ask your thoughts on it. He wanted to know what you made out of all these subjects, to hear where your opinions differed from his. He wanted to argue with you about them.

Yet every time he picked up the phone to call you, he had put it down again. He had felt silly, calling you about such mundane things. Didn’t want to bother you in your grief. He knew, had bought each new glossy copy of the Tatler with a shameful face, that you were going through a difficult divorce.

He didn’t want to complicate your life any further.

The stranger comes into the compartment again, groans loudly and shuts the door with a bang behind him before throwing himself down on the lower bunkbed.

“Fucking hate trains” he states.

“You don’t say” Timothée answers dryly. It’s stifling hot in the compartment and the other man has brought in the strong scent of bile back with him to mix with the stench of sweat.

The train takes a sudden turn and the man below groans loudly again. Timothée hears how he fiddles with something and then the click of a lighter. He asks the man for a cigarette and the he kind-heartedly hands him his entire package of Lucky Strikes. Perhaps as an apology for the smell.

The rest of journey is spent chain-smoking cigarettes until the late hour, the compartment a fog of smoke, until he finally falls into slumber somewhere after Lyon.

The next morning his travel companion, looking rather worse for wear but relieved that the train has stopped at last, helps him with his luggage as they depart the train.

A strange feeling of having been reborn settles over him as he blinks up at the sun, his eyes adjusted from the previous dark dimness of his coupé. The station is dusty and oven-hot but he strives forward through it, bag with his belongings slung over his shoulder. Just as he expected he’s arrived sweaty, with ruffled dirty clothes and a stench of bile and sweat lingers on him. It had most definitely been the right decision to turn down your offer to meet him at the station. And so, instead of looking for a taxi to take him to the great big house on the hills he makes his way down the cobbled streets in quite the other direction.

There’s nothing like the ocean to wash away the sense of filth. With a gasp he breaks through the water surface and forces large gulps of fresh air down his throat. The water is cyan in shade and the surface glitter under the sun. He wades his way through the water and back to the beach, sending a silent prayer that the posh hotel he’s snuck into won’t notice that he is in fact not a guest paying hundreds of Francs a night for the luxury of a private beach, complete with white sunbeds and linen-clad waiters ready to service your every whim, but in fact just a common free-loader.

The small rocks are scalding hot and under his bare feet but he makes his way through the white parasols and sunbeds, careful as to not disturb the suntanning guests, his shabby bag slung over his shoulder.

“I’ll be damned!” An American voice roars out and Timothée stops dead in his tracks, heart beating painfully in his chest; as if he was an animal, knowing he was about to be caught in the hunt. “If it isn’t my favorite painter!”

Slowly he turns around.

Underneath a white parasol, sprawled out on a sunchair; broad-shouldered, blond and suntanned, lay William.

Fuck.

William stands up and moves closer to him. “It is you! Man, what a surprise!” he bursts out in his thick American accent and claps him on his shoulder. Timothée just stands there, still with the feeling of being caught; trapped. William just smiles at him. “I was just going to grab an early lunch, care to join me?”

The hotel restaurant is situated on a terrace, making the most of the ocean view, azure blue sea glittering under the sun. The beach is full to the brim with suntanned bodies, sipping drinks under big white parasols. They’ve both changed out of their swimming trunks, William into a nice white day suit, freshly pressed of course. Walking behind him onto the terrace Timothée feels especially shabby in his worn linen trousers, albeit he’s currently wearing his only items of clothing not covered in paint splatters.

They are seated by the railings, a small white clothed table. They order margarita pizzas and beers. They small talk, filling up the blanks since they last saw each other.

Timothée tells him of his work, the successful exhibition, his newfound love of Nietzsche. About his reason for coming to Nice. William in turn tells him of how he changed his mind about returning to America, how he’s fallen in love with the Mediterranean, how life here has inspired him so much he’s taken up writing. In fact, he has already written most of his first book, and it is set to publish at the end of summer. He is now looking for a house, some permanency for the first time in his life. He will settle down here, he tells Timothée in a solemn tone.

Timothée well recognizes the signs of a man trying to escape from himself. He doubts very much if William is the type to ever settle, has no doubts in fact that next time they’ll speak William will have taken up an instrument set to join a band, or learn a new language ready to move country yet again. Timothée knows a drifter when he sees one.

But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to warn the other man about the uselessness of attempting to outrun oneself, doesn’t advise him to instead make peace with the past and himself; knows that there is no use, that he'll find this out for himself soon enough. So instead he smiles, lights the last of his Lucky Strike´s and orders them some more beers.

They drink and talk, dream really, far into the afternoon as the sky changes from bright blue to nuances of powder pink and lavender. They dream up scenarios for William’s future; a summer spent in sunny Nice soaking up the sun, before setting to Capri in the autumn to work on a new book. They decide he should take a break in the winter to go skiing in Saint Moritz before returning to Nice in the spring, to finish up his book.

More beers are ordered, and subjects discussed, but when a longer silence takes place William leans back in his chair, a shy look on his face that makes him look more boy than man.

“So” he begins, and Timothée’s interests are piqued. The terrace is full of people by now, taking a late lunch or simply enjoying an afternoon drink, waiting for the sun to set and the real party to begin.

“So?” he offers, pressing the other man to continue.

William clears his throat, cheeks flushed, and not purely from the day spent in the sun. “So, you’re going to see her now?”

Timothée is not surprised by his question, had expected it since he told him why he was here, had expected the subject of you to arise. It felt inevitable. The subject of you too big to ignore.

“Yes” he says, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray. They’d bought new ones from the waiter many beers ago, the crystal cut ashtray between them filled to the brim with stumped out cigarettes.

“Yeah should get going soon really, she was expecting me this morning.”

Silence for a heartbeat, as the sky turns red, the sun almost setting.

“And it is true, what they’ve written in the society pages? She’s getting divorced?”

Timothée, not knowing what to do with his hands, lights yet another cigarette; even though his throat feels too dry; too tight. “Yeah” he manages to get out.

Silence again. William is keeping his eyes on the setting sun, seemingly lost in thought.

“Mind if I tag back with you to the house?” he says eventually. The words come out almost superiorly. Yet Timothée senses the fragile vulnerability under the arrogance. “I’d just like to say hi to her” he then adds in a softer tone. “Our last goodbye…” he trails off for a second and something like regret flashes in his clear blue eyes, “Look, I treated her abhorrently and I’d like to put things right, it’s the least I can do”.

And who is Timothée to deny either one of you that?

The ground is slightly unsteady under his feet as they stand outside the hotel, waiting for the taxi the porter had ordered. He had, perhaps, had one too many to drink. He sways from one foot to the other. It is just past midnight and he should have gone home hours ago.

And maybe he shouldn’t arrive at your first meeting in months, the first meeting post-divorce, absolutely wasted. A knot ties somewhere in his stomach.

And, he thinks as he slides into the backseat of the taxi, maybe he oughtn't to bring your ex-fiancé with him to said meeting. An ex-fiancé who had broken up your engagement days before the wedding, left you pretty much at the altar to marry someone else instead. Your first love.

The knot tightens harder.

He watches the city, now dark and full of people, pass by outside the window. As the taxi goes up the hills he tries to focus on the ocean outside; now the darkest shade of blue. The moon is yet to make an appearance to light up the evening. They drive up a final curve and finally Timothée can see it. The white house atop the hill is large and neo-classical in style, with painted mint-green shutters, currently open wide to let in some evening air, and up the white walls magenta colored bougainvillea climbs.

The lights are on and Timothée feels light-headed. He blames it on the drinks. He blames it on the day spent under the beaming sun. He blames it on the long journey there and the fact he slept so badly on the train.

He blames it on anything other than the fact that he’s starting to wonder if maybe he shouldn’t have come here tonight. If perhaps he should have stayed at the hotel, sobered up and after a good night sleep come here; bunches of casa blanca lilies in hand and a forged reason for his lateness on his lips.

And he definitely shouldn’t bring William with him.

Something twists painfully inside him and he feels a bit sick. Because he knows William is your first love; but what if he’s your greatest one as well. What if the two of you after reuniting again, found that there were still love there. You both had divorces in your past now, you both had money, and freedom. What if William wasn’t just your first love, but your greatest one?

He definitely shouldn’t have brought him here.

He watches with regret settled deep in his bones as the taxi drives away, and William is walking up the pebbled path to the front door. So Timothée takes a deep breath, throws his duffel bag over his shoulder, and forces his feet forward.

They ring the door and surprise hits him for the second time that day, when the door opens and Aunt Marguerite’s maid Louise stands there, wearing the usual look of disapproval as she takes in the state of him.

She sniffs with disgust. “You are late” she tells him with a stern tone, before stepping aside to let him enter. “Madam is on the terrace”. He drops his bag on the floor as she leads the way through the house, William at his heel. His feet feel like cement, but he keeps forcing them forward.

The first thing he sees as he steps out onto the terrace is the moon, now high in the sky, casting its reflection on the water below. Then, on a sunbed with your face towards the ancient blue spreading out in front of you; not directed to him. He sees you in the moonlight, curled up underneath a blanket, a glass of red wine beside you. The only light on the terrace the moon and candles, lit up around you.

Without turning to look at him you say, in a voice painfully familiar, “was beginning to give up on you. Thought you’d missed the train”.

“Sorry” he says, and it surprises him how calm he sounds; because he’s pretty sure something is exploding inside his chest. “Got a bit distracted.”

You turn to him then, a half-smile on your face that freezes immediately upon seeing who is standing behind him. Painful silence falls between you, heavy like a wet blanket, while the ocean roars beneath, its waves crashing against the rocks.

“Wills?” Your voice sounds so vulnerable it makes him want to weep, to go hide; to ask something holy for forgiveness.

“Hi baby” William answers and Timothée nearly whimpers, wants to look away but can’t seem to turn his eyes from the scene in front of him.

Your eyes are big and glossy in the moonlight as William moves closer. Nausea rises in Timothée’s stomach as he watches William sit down on the sunbed beside you; hands clasped before him like a schoolboy in church.

“I’m sorry” he begins, “this must come as a surprise to you but…”

“Excuse me” you interrupt him, voice cold but your vulnerability clear as it. “I think I will retire to bed. You can stay over if you wish, Louise will prepare you a room. We’ll lunch tomorrow.”

And all either Timothée can do is watch as you stand up, spine all straight and head held high as you walk past him, not casting him a single look as he hangs his head in shame.

Timothée blinks slowly into the bright light; confused as to where he is for a moment. He blinks a few more times, his lasting impression; white. White sheets, white walls, white lilies on his bedside table, white wooden floors and white curtains moving in the breeze from the open balcony door; outside of which azure blue sky. Then,

Menton.

You.

He groans, burying his face in the pillow. The pain in your eyes as you walked past him the night before; eyes brimming with carefully held back tears. Why, why, why on earth had he brought William with him? Why hadn’t he just told him no? Surely it wouldn’t have been unreasonable to turn down his request to force his way back into his ex-fiancé’s life?

But he wanted you back. And Timothée had handed you to him.

“Fuck” he groans.

Despite his protesting, heavy limbs and sore head he stands up and moves through the room, to the gilded mirror by the antique dresser. Slowly he blinks back to his miserable reflection. A skinny man, with unruly, dark curls and anxious, wide eyes, dark circles like bruises underneath them. He thinks of William; tall and golden and broad shouldered enough to carry the weight of the world on them. And rich enough to own it.

He wants to hurl.

Instead, with the determination of the already damned, he moves through the room, knowing there is nothing left to do but face the day; and the consequences of last night. Finding a pair of clean linen trousers and white shirt he pulls them on with fumbling hands. Rooming through the pockets of the trousers he wore last night, carelessly thrown over a wicker chair, he finds the package of Gauloises he bought at the hotel the previous night. He puts them in his pocket, he is going to need them. Feeling like a man walking up to the gallows he steps out of his room.

Louise, who’s in the kitchen preparing breakfast, huffs in displeasure when she sees him.

“Yeah, yeah” he mutters, “I know”.

She pulls up her blonde hair and ties it in a knot in her back, seemingly doing her utmost to ignore him, but he’s pretty sure she’s just doing it for the opportunity to sneakily give him the finger.

Out on the terrace you sit by the table, reading. Wearing a white silky thing, your hair wet from a bath, pearls of water falling to the ground as you move to flip a page in your book. You are bathing in the morning light, covered by it; and maybe it’s just to Timothée’s eyes but everything else seems to fall into shadow.

Walking more assuredly than he feels, somewhat comforted in the fact that William is not yet up, he takes a seat beside you at the table. You flip a page in your book, and you don’t look at him. A seagull screeches in the sky, but otherwise the world remains quiet.

“What are you reading?” he asks, though feeling it is a trivial question in the midst of everything. He feels foolish, trying to ease into conversation with you, when all he really want to do is apologise; to take your hands and tell you that he’s sorry.

“The Odyssey”

“You like it?”

Your eyes don’t move over the page, but you don’t look at him either; instead fixated on the page in front of you.

“Yes” you say eventually. “But I find the prose hard to get used to”.

“Well” he says fishing in his pockets for his Gauloises, “personally I prefer The Iliad. There’s a feeling of doom in it that stays with you, like their fates are already set out for them and they can’t escape it. They’re left to just live their stories out”. He brings a cigarette to his lips but soon discovers he’s forgotten a lighter. He swears under his breath, the cigarette hanging from his mouth. Then something silver reflects in the sun, right before his eyes. You’re reaching out your hand to him, and in the palm of your hand lay a cigarette lighter. Gratefully he takes it and lights up.

“Thanks” he says, trying to hand it back to you, but you shake your head.

“No, it’s yours. Apparently, my aunt had it ordered for you before she passed. I was going to give it to you yesterday.”

Timothée feels as if he’s been punched in the stomach. He lays down the cigarette and looks down at the silver lighter. It’s beautifully crafted, old fashioned in a good way and thoroughly stylish. Marguerite through and through. He turns it in his hand and sunlight reflects from its perfect surface. Only then does he notice the engraved text, in cursive writing; “Fuck Picasso”.

He breaks out in laughter but feels a simultaneous need to cry. To lay down on the floor and weep. He misses her, would do anything to hear her scold him for his behavior again. To have her tell him that he is being defeatist and to keep trying; keep fighting for what he wants.

He looks at you, and he can see the same conflicting feelings reflected in your glossy eyes.

“Le petit dejeuner, madam” Louise says, putting down the tray with coffee, bread, brie and fresh fruit on the table between you. She sends Timothée a scorching look as she does so.

Once you’re both sipping on cups of coffee you clear your throat. “She did leave you the Picasso painting as well, you know”.

Timothée nearly drops his cup of scorching hot coffee in his lap. “Sorry?”

Reluctantly the corners of your mouth twist into a smile. “You never read the full version of the will, did you? She gave the Picasso to you. Said you were the only one who could possibly appreciate it”.

He snorts with laughter again, and again it comes with a sting of grief.

“You sure you don’t want it?” he asks, because a Picasso is no ordinary gift and he feels as if he’s stealing it from you; you who actually were related to the woman.

But you just shake your head, a small but sincere smile on your lips. “I got the Monet”.

“Bloody landscape artist” Timothée teases and you laugh. This is an old joke, an inside joke, one that has made you laugh before. Your laughter feels familiar and warm and he wants to pull you closer to him, feel your skin; warm from the sun, against his.

“You are just jealous” you tease back, and your eyes; the same colour as your aunts, sparkle in the sunshine. “You have never been able to paint a landscape”.

“No” he says, reaching for a stem or green grapes, “I’ve never found a landscape more interesting than a face” he adds, pulling the sweet fruit from its stem and placing it between his teeth; slowly biting down, relishing the taste.

He wants to say, ‘there’s nothing I’d rather paint than your face’, but swallows the words along with the fruit. He watches your face as you look at the sea; hair still wet against your now slightly rosy cheeks.

“Good morning” says a cheerful, though somewhat raspy, American accent.

Timothée turns and sees William walking towards you. He’s all tousled blonde hair, white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top; showing seamlessly endless amounts of suntanned golden skin. Styled with a Rolex watch and bare feet he’s all Hamptons; all American.

Timothée looks at him and thinks Paul Newman would be proud.

He picks up and finally lights his cigarette, using his new treasure.

William sits down by the table, leans back and sighs. “Gonna be a beautiful day” he announces to them, as if the weather was his to rule. Timothée watches him in the morning light, all golden and decisive. He thinks of Zeus, of power and of glory.

You gesture for Timothée’s cigarette package and he picks one out and hands it to you. Leaning closer, closer and closer still; your face so near that he can count each of your eyelashes if he so wishes, your arms nearly touching his. He lights you up. All the time he can feel William’s watchful eyes as he observes the two of you.

Louise comes out with another cup of coffee and places it in front of William before heading back to the kitchen. In the silence between them they can hear how she puts on the record player, the tunes of Chopin floating out on the terrace. Timothée meets your eyes and you both smile.

Flashes of memories from another life, you and him in Paris in his old studio. Dancing in the evening, hips pressed together as you’d swayed gently from side to side, your chest pressed to his, feeling so close it was as if you were sharing breaths. Or you posing on the carpet, naked in the afternoon light as he attempts the impossible; trying to recreate the loveliness and complexities of you. A Herculean task. All the while Chopin played in the background.

“So what are we all doing today?” inquires William and Timothée breaks eye contact with you. Maybe he is imagining it, but he thinks there’s a harshness behind Williams' forceful cheerfulness.

You enter into conversation with William, all small talk and politeness, as Timothée smokes his cigarette and looks the other way.

“Can I talk with you?” William asks, his hand around your wrist, holding you in place. “Alone, I mean.”

Your plates have been cleared, the coffee cups stand empty and William has reached over the table to take a hold of you. Timothée, who’d spent most of the breakfast in silence, his face towards the sea, playing with silver lighter in his lap, now stands up. “I’m off to explore the village” he says with a tone of indifference. But there is something strained about the way he’s holding himself, a tenseness in his shoulder, a frozen look on his face. It is in the way he refuses to look at either you or William as he walks away.

You watch him leave before gently pulling your hand away from William’s. “I must say, it is a surprise to see you here, Wills”.

William doesn’t hang his head in shame or embarrassment but keeps his clear blue eyes on yours.

“I didn’t know that you were here in Menton, that’s not why I came here. But I did go looking for you, in Paris”. His voice never shakes, neither does his hands. He is as steadfast as you remember him from school. Ha had been taller than everybody else, towering over them all. He could easily have been awkward, already standing out with his American accent. But he wasn’t. William had been born with a sense of self-assurance most could only dream of. Dubbed arrogant by some you had felt admiration.

Your school had been set up in two buildings, one for the boys and one for the girls, and separated by a field. Most classes were taken separately, the only times the genders had mixed was during meals and announcements, or on special sports days.

You can still remember it so clearly, when you fourteenth year old set your eyes on sixteen year old William for the first time. It had been on the football pitch during a friendly start of the term game. He was new to the school, a head taller than the other boys and no one seemed to be able to take their eyes off him. It was clear that he was unused to the game, having grown up mostly playing American football, but he soon got his head around the rules. You see it so clearly in front of you, how he had made his way through the defence, his long legs carrying him through in quick strides, before scoring his first goal; the whole crowd going wild. He was a natural talent, as soon you would learn, he was in most things. He took on the world with a natural ease, assured in his belief that everything would go his way.

At the end of the match he had stood there, arm slung around the shoulders of his fellow comrades, all grinning from ear to ear. They were the victors of the game; the heroes of the school. William in the middle, head slung back in laughter, almost radiant in the late September sun. He was and always had been golden, had always seemed more than human to you, almost godlike in being. The other boys had certainly found him so, the only exception being Freddie Fairfax and his friends, who never had a kind word to say about their fellow student. However the rest of the boys had soon made William their unelected leader. The king of god on mount Olympus. His eyes had met yours in the crowd of admirers and just like that - you were done for.

When he had asked you to the school dance, mouthed crooked in a smile and hands unstirred; so unlike the nervously trembling boys, you had said yes. The other girls had envied you and when you walked into the great hall with him he had taken your arm in his and kissed you on your forehead; told you he thought you were the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. You had felt chosen; blessed even.

And when he had asked you to marry him, down on one knee like a gentleman and with a hand that didn’t shake with nerves, you had said yes. Had thought that had settled everything. That you would marry the man you loved in front of all your friends and family, securing a financially stable future for your parents. You’d go on a honeymoon, a world tour perhaps, and later; children. After having found the perfect family home in Kensington, among all your friends.

Alas, that was not to be. No wedding, nor children or home had come along. Instead, heartbreak.

And you had fled, humiliated, to Paris.

“Yes” you say, feeling unable to look away from his blue gaze. “Yes, Timothée mentioned that. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to meet you, I had already left for London by then”.

“Yeah” he says, corners of his lips turned up in a smile, but his eyes filled with something more like pity. “To marry Freddie Farifax”. And then he’s on his feet, moving around the table and before you know it, in Timothée’s chair. He leans forward and grasps your hands in his. They feel warm and steady, whereas yours are cold and shaking.

“Babe” his voice is like a gentle breeze. “Babe, look at me”.

You look up from your clasped hands and back into his blue eyes, at the moment more serious than you’ve ever seen them.

“I should never have left you” he continues, voice sweet and tender and barely louder than the breeze. “I was bewitched. I know, I know it sounds stupid but I just lost my head about Linda. I was a fool, a goddamn fool. I realized as soon as we left for New York that who I really wanted was you. It was like waking up from a dream. She was just such a lovely thing, so carefree and - no please, listen” You had tried to remove your hands from his but he kept a firm grip around them. Slowly he moves one of his hands from yours, up to your face to cup your cheek. It’s tender, and it feels like it had always felt when Wiliam touched you - the same feeling you got when you lay sunbathing; kissed by the sun. A mild breeze through the trees and the scent of him, citrus and cedar, hits you like an embrace from the past.

At fifteen, a few months after you first set eyes on him, he kissed you. Calmly, with a hand cupping your face; just like now, he had kissed you until you felt tender and starry eyed. It had been in the library, in the row furthest down, a copy of Anna Karenina sticking into your back as he pressed you against the bookcase.

He had smelled the same then, as you stood on your tip-toes to reach him his arms surrounded you.

He had smelled the same in baronessa Digby’s guestroom during her annual ball. After hours spent dancing, pressed up against one another he had snuck you both in there and on the bed showed all there was to know about love in its physical form. Flashes of memories come back to you of his body above yours, muscles defined and body almost golden in the candlelight, pressing you down onto crisp white sheets. The scent of lemon and cedar everywhere.

He had been gentle and patient, moving in and out of you with steady, slow thrusts at first, deliberate and calm in all his movements. His hands were steady the whole way through but you were shaking all over.

“I should never have left you” he repeats, and you can feel the shame coming off him in waves, see the regret in his eyes and in the furrow of his brow. “You never should have had to marry fucking Freddie, the piece of shit”. Something thunders in his blue eyes.

“I’m not angry with you William. I felt hurt and humiliated when you left but it’s all in the past now, so if it is my forgiveness you’ve come here for you can have it”.

“It’s not,” William says, almost before you’ve finished speaking. “I mean, I’ll gladly take it but what I want is you.” All you can do in response is stare at him and he laughs, almost bitterly, before continuing “to think, that had I not made such a massive ass of myself we would have been married now. We would be happy. I can still make you happy, baby”. He makes the last word sound like a prayer. He strokes your cheek.

“Make me carefree?” you ask, and you swear, you can feel the ocean move in protest in your lungs.

“Yes, just give me a chance and I’ll make you the happiest being on earth”.

You look into his pleading eyes. Part of you wants to say yes, because part of you still loves him. Part of you is still that fourteen year old girl, enamoured by the school hero. But you know now, have come to realize with time, that William never has, and never will understand you. Not you as you as you really are How could he understand someone so different from himself? A godlike creature whose hands never tremble, who has thunder in his eyes and whose love burns bright; but also quick. Would you choose a life with him there would be other Linda’s. Other infatuations, there was bound to be, even if he would always make his way back to you.

But though Wiliiam’s hands never tremble they know nothing of steady.

“William” you say, finally untangling your hands from his, “Will I’m sorry but it’s too late. I have already moved on”.

William leans back in his chair, a deep sigh escaping him. “Yes, yes I was afraid of that. The painter boy seems to have stolen your heart quite thoroughly, hasn’t he?” You don’t answer and William digs in his pockets for cigarettes.

“I see” he mouths out round a cigarette, brows furrowed in concentration. He brings his own silver lighter to his mouth to light up and it reflects in the sun, like bolts of lightning. “Still” he adds with a voice smooth as honey, leaned back in his chair; breathing out smoke between you, “well, he might get to keep the real you but I won the painting. Quite the consultation prize”.

***

When Timothée steps back into the house, several hours later the clouds are dark and heavy with unshed rain. The world feels charged with energy, as is the way right before thunder. Louise greets him with her usual disapproval at the door before simply nodding upward, uttering the single instruction, “upstairs”.

He makes his way through the house, dark and quiet in the late hour, up the stairs and drawing room. It is a large room, with wallpapers of navy dyed silk on which several paintings in the modern style are set up. Heavy oak furniture outlines the room, decanters of whiskey and cognac and any other liquor that could be wished for on one of the tables and in the middle of the room two elegant white sofas facing each other.

On one of them you sit, a martini at the table in front of you, next to an enormous vase of casa blanca lilies. The whole room smells of them.

Not knowing what to say, where to start he walks past you, across the room, to make himself a drink. Pouring himself a generous measure of Laphroaig, which he drowns immediately, before pouring himself a new one. Dutch courage.

“William gone then?” he asks, staring down at the amber liquid in his glas, hating how casual he sounds.

“Yes, he went back to his hotel”

So the supposed love of your life was only temporarily missing then. Timothée squeezes his eyes shut, clutching his hands around the table, as if to stop himself from whimpering. He feels pathetic and weak. Opening his eyes again, the room dark around him he walks to the sofa and sits down opposite of you.

Outside he hears the first few drops of rain.

“So you two patched things up then?” There’s a forged cheeriness to his voice and he hates how disingenuous he sounds.

For a few long seconds he is met by a silence so intense it makes the hair on his arms stand up. Then it really starts to fall outside, the sky opening up with rain, the clapping sound of it as it hits the roof like thunderous applause.

“I’ve decided to let the past be the past”. You’re so calm and collected; so cool and unfaced. Yet he can sense that you are holding onto yourself with an iron grip, not letting go an inch of your own feelings or reactions. It reminds him of the way children clutch their hands around objects they know they shouldn’t possess, determined not to show what they are hiding.

He takes a sip from the whiskey, the smokey smell of it mixing with the heady scent of lilies. So this was it then. He had ruined his own chance of happiness by bringing William back to you. Timothée had not been to compete with Freddie Fairfax and his money and title, but he had always known that you had not married that man out of love, and that had made the blow on his feelings less hard than if you had simply preferred Freddie; chosen him. But with William it was a different matter. You did not need to be with him out of any necessity. If you had chosen him; then it was because you loved him.

“Well, good on you” he says, drowning the rest of his glas. “Sweet of you to forgive him, you know, after basically leaving you at the altar and humiliating you infront of everyone you know. Really, it’s big of you”.

“Yes, me and William had a lovely chat this morning” your voice is cold as ice. You’re on the sofa, spine straight and shoulders tense, taking a large sip from your martini. “He told me about a poker game the two of you had in Paris. How you paid your debts with a nude portrait of me".

Lightning strikes outside and for a brief second the whole world goes white, like the flash of a camera, before once again leaving you both in shadow.

Timothée is dumbstruck; can’t get out a single word. He wants to protest, to deny it, but there’s no use. He’s never been a liar.

“How fucking could you?” The venom in your voice feels lethal, as if he’s injected it like poison and it’s making its way through his system.

And here comes the thunder.

“I trusted you with that painting and you let him fucking have it! My ex-fiance has a naked portrait of me because of you. I knew I couldn’t trust you, I knew it! It was all too good to be true. You just wanted me because you knew you couldn’t have me, because you knew it wouldn’t last. I was just a conquest you would get a few nice paintings out of!” You’re shouting now; unbound and full of rage. Unable to stand still you’ve gotten up, pacing the room.

“You knew it wouldn’t last?” he answers with a sarcastic laugh, anger shouting through him as well now. “You made sure it you mean? You used me as some sort of escape fantasy because you felt lost and trapped! The princess and the penniless painter. Those were just roles we played. You just wanted to feel desired again and no one has ever desired you as much as i have, but as soon as Freddie fucking Fairfax came along you dropped me, and guess what? I could have lived with that. I understood it even. But you made your way back into me, gave me hope, and now you’re fucking leaving again with fucking William!" He’s on his feet as well now, standing just feet from you. "So yeah, I’m sorry I gambled away the painting, that was wrong of me but don’t make out as if I’m the reason this can’t last when you have always been the first to leave. You have always been the first to leave!”

Lightning like a flash, capturing the hurt look on your face, burning it onto his retinas forever.

“You can say that all you want but you've had one foot out the door for a while, haven’t you? You never called or wrote after you left London. And when I called you early that morning there was some girl fucking giggling in the background! I had to go back to Paris this spring to sort out some of aunt's things and I didn’t go to visit you because I knew there was gonna be someone else there!”

And here comes the thunder again, louder than before.

“Oh that’s it sweetheart, jealous are we?” his tone is low and mocking and your eyes are burning into his. They seem to sparkle in the dark and though adrenaline is shooting through his body he can’t help but he can’t help thinking; that this is the most beautiful he’s ever seen you; unbound and unleashed. Despite his anger he’d like nothing more than to lean in and kiss you.

But he is angry, and so he continues in the same, low tone, “and you accuse me of having one foot out the door? Ye get jealous of some model coming in to have a painting done - who I’ve never even touched - but I have to watch your husband parade you on his arm at the opera? And be a spectator as you and fucking Wills reunite?”

“You’re the one who brought him here!”

“I know!” he shouts. Both your chests are heaving with anger, the air loaded with thunder. He takes a step back from you, runs a hand through his hair in frustration and sighs. “I know” he repeats, defeated now. Walking away from you he crosses the room and throws himself down on the sofa, his head in his hands.

Outside it keeps raining.

You sit down on your old spot on the sofa again, hands in your lap, cool and collected once more. “I have not gotten back together with William. I’m sorry I made you believe that. I’ve simply decided to forgive him and let the past be the past. That’s all”.

Timothée lifts his head up, something like hope blooming in his chest among all the despair. “Yeah? Well I’m sorry about the painting, I really am. In my defence, I didn’t know he was your William until after”.

“I guess it doesn’t matter now. I asked him to get rid of it”.

“Nevertheless, I am sorry” he looks you straight in the eye as he says this, wanting you to know the sincerity in his apology. “Do you want me to leave? I can go back to Paris tomorrow”.

Silence, then thunder once again, though this time further away.

“No” you say in the end, still in that cold voice, but you sound genuine when you continue, “no please stay. It is your house just as much as mine. Stay as long as you want”.

“Please, let me paint you again?”

Rain in July is a rare thing in Menton. Nevertheless, a storm had raged the night before. You had often heard the expression the calm before the storm, however you had always found the aftermath of storms all the more fascinating.

“No” you answer him, flipping the page in your book; Anna Karenina this morning.

Timothée is standing by the barristrade under the golden mimosa tree, trying to capture the landscape beneath him. He wears a frustrated, nearly pained look on his face as he stares at the canvas. You can hear his groans of ill contempt.

“Fucking hate landscapes”.

“That is your vanity speaking. You know you aren’t very good at it and so you hate it. Like all men you hate the things that make you look less than average". On the page in front of you Vronsky has decided to pursue Anna, despite knowing that she is a married woman.

“I’m not vain” Timothée mutters, like a petulant child. “I don’t like landscapes because they are ever-changing, just when you’ve managed to get the precise shade of the sky it has already changed into something else entirely.”

“But faces change all the time too. I’d say there’s as much variety in a face as it is in a landscape” you argue. Looking up from your book you observe Timothée. The mimosa branches hanging down, it’s golden flowers framing his head like a halo, the impression strengthened by the morning sun shining through.

The sweet, succulent scent from the tree, reinforced a thousand times with last night's heavy rain, hangs around them like an invisible cloud.

“You’re just defending landscapes because your precious Monet couldn’t have enough of them”.

“He painted people too”.

“Yeah, but he wasn't as good at is. Maybe he too was vain”.

”Monet never used black, did you know that?” You say, apropo of nothing. “And for a while Picasso only used blue. Do you think this is how they’ll define you one day? In a textbook, a picture of a portrait of me - and underneath it written in black on white: Portrait of a girl unknown. For this period in the artist's life he refused yellow. Is that how they will define you?”

“I don’t refuse yellow anymore.” He’s stopped painting now, but faces away from you, looking out at the ocean. You see his fingers twitch for a cigarette.

“Maybe not, but you don’t see blue in the same way. Neither does anyone else if Le Journal du Dimanche, I saw what they wrote about your exhibition, congratulations by the way.” His back is very still and you keep going. “What was it they wrote? ‘As revolutionary as Picasso’s blue period, making the viewer see the colour in a new light, almost as if for the first time. Never before have I’ve seen blue look so isolated and lonely’?”

You can’t explain even to yourself why you are doing it, why you are antagonising him. It is petty and it should be beneath you but like a child you try to goad a reaction out of him.

“You made me look at all colours in a different light.” It is a quiet confession, sincere in its simplicity. His hands are clasped around the brim of his chair, like he’s trying to hold himself very still. “You made me listen differently as well, I could never hear the beauty of Chopin until you played it for me. And the scent of lilies will always remind me of you. You made me feel different too, different from anybody else. Like I had been reborn into a new body, with new feelings. A new purpose. Even the air in my lungs felt different; cleaner somehow.”

You don’t know how to respond to that; feeling as though all malice has been sucked out of you like poison from a snake. Perhaps there’s nothing to say.

“Let me paint you one more time”

“No. Why don’t you just hire a model instead?”

“I don’t want another model, I just want to paint you”

“Well William’s still at the hotel if you’re planning to gamble it away after”.

Maybe all bitterness hasn’t escaped her yet. Timothée takes up his brush and goes back to his canvas. For a few long moments everything is silent.

Then, in a quiet voice he speaks. “Why didn’t you go back to William? I saw how much you loved him, when you first came to Paris. I remember. But if you’ve decided to forgive him, and if there’s still feelings there, then why not?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I want you to be happy”.

You throw the book on the table, close your eyes and lean back in your chair. “I’ve always figured that the world can be split into two; that people are either like birds, or like trees.”

You can hear Timothée dropping his paintbrush again and had you had your eyes open you would see his curious eyes as he watches you with open adoration.

“You see,” you continue “some people are drifters, and other settlers. Some people grow roots where they stand, trying to reach as far down into the earth as possible in order to feel secure. They are steady and they grow but they never change and they never change their outlook on things. And when they have to move, they have to be ripped out by the roots and it hurts. Others, well others are like birds. They fly from branch to branch and sure, sometimes they build nests but they never stay for long. They need air beneath their wings, they need freedom.”

“And William is a bird?”

“Yes, William is a bird. A drifter. He will always move from branch to branch. In his lifetime he will have a thousand infatuations and sure, if we were to marry I think he would always come back to me but I cannot live like that. I would be a tree, trying to force my roots through concrete”.

“And that is the reason you don’t choose him?” His voice breaks slightly at the end and you can’t help but love his fragility, his vulnerability in this moment.

“That yes” you say, opening your eyes and feeling blinded by the sun. “That and the fact that I’m not actually in love with him anymore”.

Silence again, because maybe there is nothing more to say now. Timothée picks up his brush and you take up your book and continue to read your book; ‘There can be no peace for us, only misery, and the greatest happiness.’

An hour or so later Timothée swears under his breath and abandons the landscape by walking out. Further away you hear the heavy front door close and you know he’s left for the village. You stand up and walk over to the painting, inspecting his work. He has painted the scenery in front of him, but despite the golden mimosa tree there is no yellow to be seen on the canvas; only various nuances of blue.

****

August, 1953

A routine settles at Villa Marguerite.

Each morning Timothée wakes before you and makes enough coffee for two. He takes his cup and his brushes out to the terrace and he tries to paint the ocean. Some time later the radio in the kitchen is turned on as Louise begins to prepare breakfast. Later still he hears your footsteps as you come out to join him on the terrace, wearing the same white dressing-gown each morning.

“There’s coffee if you want some”.

These words are his timid confession, his quiet ‘I think of you each morning as I wake’. A kind of ceasefire has settled between you. You don’t argue with each other but then again, you hardly speak.

When you come back out on the terrace, coffee cup in hand, you sit down under the golden mimosa tree and Timothée wants to sigh but he doesn’t. He wants to sigh, because you are beautiful. Because in the morning light, dressed in a white dressing-gown, you look more angel than person; the golden mimosa flowers like a halo atop your head.

Each morning he wants to capture the moment, just like you this, on his canvas. Not because of the etherealness of the setting; but the domesticity of it. You, morning hair and a cup of coffee that he has brewed for you; bare feet and nightgown.

You’re both silent as you drink. It is peaceful. In the village church bells ring. He feels no need for church. Heaven, he thinks, are mornings with you. Anything else can wait.

The rest of his days are spent painting, trying to catch the colours and moods of the ever-changing ocean and sky in front of him. By lunchtime he’s grown tired of trying, and so he walks down to the village where he strikes up a conversation with whomever is available. Nice is in high season and the streets are full of tourists. During midday however, when the sun is high in the sky, most people are hiding in whatever cool space they can find or lay their bodies on the beach. But Timothée finds he doesn’t mind the heat,

He’s made some friends during his time in Nice, foremost a fellow Parisian his age named Nathaniel, and an elderly French-speaking Italian named Marco. If Marco, who owns a bistro in the square, is available they play chess and argue about politics. Marco always wins. When Nathaniel, who works down by the docks, goes on his lunch break he comes to join them, and they eat together, whatever Marco’s bistro has to offer for the day. They share glasses of wine and discuss jazz, the two younger men unsuccessfully trying to convince Marco to arrange a jazz night at his bistro.

When the other men go back to their work Timothée strolls. Sometimes he walks down to the beach, where sometimes he runs into William. They chat, and it’s not exactly comfortable but neither is it awkward. They both get through it.

Some days he spends strolling the village, watching the pastel-coloured houses, dreaming about the inhabitants' lives. Other days he goes to the ancient little library in town, where he spends his afternoon strolling through the book shelves. He picks up books, reads a few chapters of them; though never starting at the beginning, before putting them down. Like this he goes from book to book, never being able to commit to a single story.

In the end he re-reads The Odyssey - the first page to the last. He doesn’t know what to think about it; except maybe that if The Iliad left him with a distinct feeling of doom, the feeling that sticks with him after The Odyssey is a distinct sense of homesickness. Of nostalgia.

He returns the book at the desk, asking the librarian for more books on Greek mythology. She hands him one and with the book safely pressed against his side he strolls down to the docks and there, on a bench overlooking the ocean, he reads. He reads until the heat fades and seagulls stop screeching and the sky turns pink and until all the fishing boats return to the docks.

He walks back to the village, pays for a box of pralines and a bottle of fine red wine to share with you on the terrace after dinner, and moves his feet towards home. All the time he thinks of Helen of Troy, of Persephone, of Aphrodite.

You eat dinner together and talk. You discuss The Odyssey at length. Debate about what is worse, to feel homesickness to a place you cannot return, or doom for the future. You tell him of a new play you’ve gotten your hands on, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. You talk about the play in a way that has him enamored. He asks to borrow it from you and you lend it to him.

You share the wine and the pralines as the sky grows darker and the sounds of the waves crashing against the rocks louder. You drink and eat and talk until your eyelids grow heavy and it’s time for bed and Timothée thinks to himself that even if you are not his to kiss good night he can still have this. He counts it as a blessing.

Your bedrooms are located right next to each other and as he lay in bed reading your copy of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in the dim night lamp light he can’t help but feel close to you, knowing that just on the other side of the room you lay sleeping. Like in all your books the pages are full of underlined lines scribbles, the corners of the pages dog eared and the spine cracked.

He turns the page and sees that you have underlined a sentence. ‘I’m not living with you, we occupy the same cage’.

He continues reading until the sun starts to rise outside, then he goes back in the story and underlines a sentence of his own. ‘One thing I don’t have is the charm of the defeated’.

Notes:

The last part will up up sunday/monday

also, please, if you've managed to get through this beast of a story please leave some feedback. I've been working on this for a very long time and I'd love to hear your thoughts.

So this was like… a year in the making? Honestly never thought it would be this difficult but here we are. Also, I don’t hate Picasso as much as it seems I do. Also, is the quote “There can be no peace for us, only misery, and the greatest happiness” in the book? Or is it just in the Joe Wright movie? My ex kept my copy of Anna Karenina and I can’t remember

Inspirations: Jenny Slate’s tweet about wanting someone to love her on purpose, my own quite frankly disastrous relationships, Johnny Cash saying paradise is “this morning, with her, having coffee”, Anna Karenina (I will defend the Joe Wright adaptation until death even though I know it’s no good, alright?), Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (OBSESSED with https://www.ntathome.com/packages/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof/videos/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof-full-play version, highly recommend renting it), Greek mythology, The Blue Train adaptation by ITV Poirot (season 10 episode 1, watch it, every episode is individually based on one of her books so no need to see it chronologically) that has been playing on repeat and also the fact that for the last month I’ve been thinking of nothing else than traveling to Italy, France and Greece again.

#timothee chamalet #timothee x reader #timothee x y/n #timothée chalamet #timothee fanfic

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westallenfun · 4 years ago

Text

Two's Company (3/3)

Westallen secret santa gift

For: Lauren (@backtothestart02) (Happy holidays! I hope you like this fic!)

From: Lina (@cheryls-blossomed)

A/N: A special thank you to my beta, Caroline (@ginandweas).

Inspired by Jane Austen’s Emma and the blissfulness and hardship of tumbling into true love. On the eve of publication of the most important article of her professional career thus far, Iris West realizes that she is head over heels in love with her best friend Barry Allen, but she grapples with revealing her feelings, for fear of ruining their friendship. But a weekend trip to Metropolis sets in motion a series of events, romantic mishaps and conundrums abound, that may force Barry and Iris to face some long-awaited, romantic truths.

Rating: T (Warning: Mild Language)

The mezzanine just above the ballroom of the Time Metropolis is a well-furnished carpeted landing with at least seven chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and a wide, glass balcony supposedly for onlookers to look upon the dancing masses below. There are refreshment stalls, serving a variety of beverages, and waiters carrying platters of an assortment of appetizers, including chili lime shrimp cups, fried okra, and goat cheese bites.

When the elevator arrives at the floor of the mezzanine, Iris steps out alongside her father and Cecile and sees that most people are milling around, chatting with one another. It would seem that no one has yet headed down the stairs to the ballroom, which holds the promise of a night of dancing. Furthermore, nobody seems to have noticed Joe, Cecile, and Iris’s arrival yet, as they are several feet away from everyone, which comes as somewhat of a relief for Iris, as she scans the room quickly, her eyes searching for one person only. Sure enough, she finds him, seated at a table, head pressed into his palm, a glass of wine before him, and wearing a distinctly melancholy expression. He is seated beside Cisco and Cynthia, who are conversing with one another, but looking over at him every few seconds, worryingly. Iris swallows, twisting her fingers behind her back, as she feels her sadness and anger dissipate, upon seeing how utterly torn up he looks, and she knows she must speak with Barry. She feels a hand on her shoulder and looks up to see her father giving her a reassuring smile, which she returns. When she looks back, she sees that Barry has seen her, as have Cisco and Cynthia. Cynthia appears jovial, leaving the table to come greet them, followed by Cisco, just as other guests begin noticing the new arrivals and start walking over to congratulate Joe and Cecile.

But Iris cannot tear her gaze away from Barry.

Because he’s regarding her like he never has before, as if the wind has been knocked out of him, as if he’s been rendered utterly speechless by her mere presence, gazing at her utterly wide-eyed, and the sheer intensity of the number of emotions his look conveys is too much for Iris, so she looks down at the floor, breathing deeply.

“Hi, Iris,” someone says, and Iris glances to her left and smiles politely when she sees Patty approaching towards her. She appears to be alone, which strikes Iris as odd, but perhaps what is even stranger, now that she thinks about it, is that Eddie is nowhere to be found.

“Hey, Patty,” Iris replies. “How are you?”

“I’m alright. Are you doing okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, thank you. I think I just needed to get some rest. Between traveling and then going out last night, I think I was just over tired.”

“Yeah, of course. I’m glad you’re feeling better now.” An awkward silence descends upon them, and Iris is unsure how to progress the conversation, but she can sense that Patty wants to say something further.

“Are you here by yourself?” Iris queries, intuitively determining that perhaps Patty’s odd behavior might have to do with Eddie’s conspicuous absence.

“You noticed, huh,” Patty bites out sardonically. “I’m supposed to be here with Eddie. In fact, Eddie is literally supposed to be here, because he’s hosting the night. But I waited for him for like thirty minutes in the lobby, and he never showed up, so I came here, thinking perhaps he’d forgotten to meet me— wouldn’t be the first time he’s done that —but he’s not here either. I’ve been calling him and texting him, but he’s being absolutely unresponsive.”

“You’re not worried, are you? Because I’m sure he’ll turn up. As you said, he is hosting this.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Patty says. “I asked at the concierge if they’d seen him, and they said he had stepped out earlier today. And that Katie was with him.” Iris’s eyebrows raise, as she takes in this information. For she now realizes that Katie is also not present, and after she and Eddie had acted so bizarrely around each other yesterday, it is not particularly surprising that there is more to that story.

“So, they’re likely not coming here tonight,” Iris concludes, and Patty shrugs,

“So much for being a great host. Anyways, how am I supposed to tell Cecile that her god son might not be attending the gala he’s throwing in her and her husband’s honor?”

“Just tell her the truth, but don’t make it seem like Eddie abandoned her. I mean, we honestly don’t know where he is or why he is so delayed, but he could still make an appearance later tonight, after all.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Iris.” Iris nods, smiling reassuringly, as Patty heads over to Cecile who is standing a few feet away, chatting with one of the other guests. For a few moments, Iris is alone, as she mulls over Eddie and Katie’s absence, wondering what was so urgent that they had to leave right before Eddie was meant to begin hosting this gala for Joe and Cecile. Apart from his apparent inability to be a good host, it just seems so sudden, especially since Katie had been clearly trying to goad Eddie last night, by paying him no attention, and he had taken the bait with all his fuming and glowering.

A proffered glass of champagne enters her line of vision, and when Iris looks up, she sees Barry, handsome as ever in his tuxedo, holding the glass in front of her. His eyes are warm, conveying an abundance of emotions, and he’s smiling at her softly.

“Hi,” he says, almost a whisper.

“Hi,” she breathes, her voice also very quiet. They’re both gazing at each other, neither saying a word, before Barry lets out a small laugh, remembering himself.

“You look incredible,” he murmurs, as if in absolute awe, and the way he says it, with such reverence, makes her heart soar.

“Thank you, Barry. You look very handsome.”

He blushes, ducking his head, slightly, before continuing, “Uh, this is… this for you. I wanted to save a glass for you, because it’s elderflower and… you know, I realize now that there’s a bar, which I’m sure is probably stocked, now that I think about it… yeah, I’m sure it is, but at the time, I thought they might run out of glasses of champagne, because it didn’t seem like they had too many left being passed around. But I definitely wasn’t thinking about the bar. So, well, this is… for you, if you want it, of course. Do you want it? Because I can take it back and then…”

“Yes, I want it,” Iris chuckles, interrupting his rambling, which she finds utterly endearing, as Barry nervously runs a hand through his hair. “Thank you, Barry. I do love elderflower champagne.”

“Yeah, I know,” he answers softly. There’s something in his voice at that moment… an emotion that Iris cannot quite pinpoint, but it nonetheless ignites an intense warmth within her, and when she glances up at him, he’s regarding her almost sadly, like he wants so very much to tell her something, but he is unable to. She wants to tell him that it’s okay, that he can tell her anything and everything that he wants, but before she can, he whispers, “You’re wearing the necklace.” Her hand comes up to touch the wedding band, and she nods, smiling,

“Of course, I am. My best friend gave it to me.” He breathes out harshly, taking a step closer towards her, reaching his hand towards hers, almost as if by instinct.

“Iris, I need—,” he begins, but he is cut off by Cisco and Cynthia racing up to the both of them, having just congratulated Joe and Cecile and chattering about Eddie Thawne’s absence, of all things. Iris has half a mind to stare them both down for interrupting her moment with Barry, but decides against it, because she knows they didn’t exactly mean to tumble in on a private moment. Barry, on the other hand, does not seem to agree with this sentiment, for he is shooting Cisco a dark look, although Cisco, thankfully, seems oblivious.

“Can you believe Eddie isn’t even here?” Cisco asks immediately, shaking his head in apparent disbelief.

“I’m actually very surprised by him not turning up on time,” Cynthia replies. “I cannot imagine Eddie Thawne missing a gala that he, himself, is hosting. This is completely and utterly his element.”

“Katie isn’t here either. Apparently, she and Eddie went off somewhere earlier today and didn’t return. Patty told me,” Iris says, and Barry’s brow furrows at that, before he adds,

“I knew something was off between those two yesterday. It would maybe explain why the vibe was just completely off last night, like something just wasn’t adding up.” Iris catches Barry’s eye at that moment, and she feels her pulse race, upon the realization that Barry was apparently as completely befuddled and equally bemused about what was going on with Katie and Eddie as they all were. And that could only mean one thing, right?

“I think that much was obvious to all of us,” Cynthia replies, rolling her eyes. “Those two are a pair of absolute paragons of etiquette and normalcy when they’re around each other, aren’t they?” Everyone laughs at that, likely recalling the rather odd behavior both Katie and Eddie engaged in the previous night, which strengthens Iris’s resolve that perhaps she had been completely mistaken about what she had witnessed between Barry and Katie, although that betraying voice reminds her of the dinner at Marano’s, much to her chagrin. She is aware, though, that that is a question that needed answering. Eventually. Because at the moment she is certain that she wants to find that equilibrium again with Barry, before diving headlong into conversations that would likely change everything.

Quiet orchestral music begins to play, and a man steps up onto the mezzanine, gesturing with his hands towards Joe, Cecile, and the rest of the guests.

“I am the manager of the Time Metropolis. Mr. Thawne is unfortunately detained tonight, although he hopes to make an appearance later on. He asks that we host this night in his absence, and so if I could invite the guests of honor, Mr. West and Ms. Horton, and everyone else to please head to the ballroom, then we can officially commence the festivities.”

“Thank you,” Joe says, holding out his hand to Cecile. After she takes his hand, and the two of them begin to head down the double staircase to the rather ornate ballroom, apparently modeled after some Baroque-style palace, the rest of the guests follow. Iris can feel Barry’s eyes on her as they walk down the stairs, even though she is a few feet in front of him, and a feeling of great anticipation washes over her, as she ponders how the night might unfold.

As they reach the bottom of the staircase, Cynthia stumbles on the second to last step, and Iris lurches forward to steady her friend, but in doing so, she too loses her footing momentarily, and she thinks they might both end up tumbling down together, but just as she catches Cynthia’s arm, one hand comes around her waist, the other on the small of her back, preventing her from falling. Indeed, Cynthia is able to catch her balance, with Iris steadying her then, and she smiles gratefully up at Iris.

“Thanks,” she says, and Iris nods with a smile,

“Of course.” But her concentration is on the two hands holding her, for they’re Barry’s hands, and she is extremely aware of his touch against her bare back, his fingers gripping her gently, but firmly. She turns to look at him, just as he asks,

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, Bear. You saved both of us from tumbling down stairs in our gowns,” she replies, chuckling slightly, as Cynthia smirks, watching both of them closely,

“Yes, of course Barry did.” Noticing Cynthia’s knowing look, Barry and Iris smile sheepishly, seemingly embarrassed, but Barry does not step away from Iris, still holding her, the imprint of his hands hot against her.

The live orchestra is situated near the end of the large ballroom, and the conductor raises her baton, signaling that the musicians are about to begin performing a piece. Cynthia quickly says,

“I’m going to go see if Cisco wants to dance. Bye!” Before she walks away towards Cisco who is already near the center of the room. Iris shakes her head fondly, before Barry asks,

“Do you… would you like to dance, Iris?” His tone is soft and full of longing, and Iris recognizes the gravity of this moment.

“I would love to,” she replies, her face shining with a number of emotions, and she is uninterested in attempting to mask everything that she is feeling. She wants Barry to know. He smiles, releasing his grasp around her waist and back, and holding out his hand to her, which she takes in her own. As his fingers enclose around hers, she shivers for a moment, not of any cold air, but rather because of the intensity with which she knows that she loves him.

They make their way slowly into the ballroom, where the orchestra is playing a sultry musical piece, and Barry’s left arm comes around Iris, his hand settling at her waist, while he holds her left hand in his right. Her free arm goes around his neck and for a few moments they simply sway in each other’s arms, gazing at each other. Barry leads her around the other couples, but Iris barely realizes that they are in a ballroom full of other people, for she feels, within his arms, as if they are the only two people in the world. His eyes do not leave hers for even a moment, and it is hard not to mistake what he’s feeling in that moment, for his emotions are visibly ablaze upon his face. She wonders then how she possibly could have misread one night, when there had been so many signs telling her that he feels in their most intense moments all that she feels, but she supposes that the tricky thing about loving her best friend was the debilitating fear that he may not feel the same way. The fear that if she voiced her feelings, she could lose the safe harbor of their friendship forever. But change is sometimes not only good, but imperative. And perhaps that is the most integral part of what they shared; their need to trust each other in order to fully realize that their friendship was perhaps never simply platonic ever.

Iris moves closer to Barry in his arms, as they continue to dance, laying her head against his chest, feeling the comforting rhythm of his heartbeat against her ear. She closes her eyes, savoring his touch, while Barry’s arm tightens around her, his lips brushing against the crown of her head in a soft kiss. The music crescendos as they dance, coming to a natural end, and applause from the other couples erupt around them, but Barry and Iris, break apart only slightly, both of his hands now holding her waist, while his forehead comes to rest against her own. Iris’s hands slide up his chest, resting just below his bowtie, and they both breathe deeply, trying to mentally navigate what they are supposed to do next. It is apparent to Iris now that they cannot possibly put off the inevitable any further.

“We should talk,” she says, brushing her nose against his.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies, dazed. She smiles, feeling his breath fanning against her lips, and realizes then just how physically proximate they are to one another.

“Privately, Bear,” she urges softly. He nods, seemingly coming back to his senses and registering that they are currently in a room full of other people. They move apart, slowly, his hands caressing her as he backs away, and Iris immediately misses the warmth of his arms around her.

“Right. I’m sure we can find somewhere private away from all of this. It’s a hotel after all.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” she replies, raising her eyebrows. He grins lopsidedly at her, and without another word, he takes her hand and leads her out of the ballroom, and she wonders if anyone has noticed them, but finds herself not particularly caring if everyone is indeed watching their abrupt exit. Once they climb up the stairs and reach the mezzanine again, nodding politely towards a few members of the hotel staff milling about there, Barry looks around searchingly, and Iris is aware that he is trying to determine where they ought to go. She squeezes his hand, before saying, “Let’s just go to my room. Otherwise we’re going to be running around this whole hotel searching for a quiet place.” Barry lets out a breathy chuckle,

“Yeah, good idea, otherwise we’d be something like a pair of high school teenagers at prom, running around the venue for somewhere private.”

“We did miss out on prom, though. Together, I mean,” she replies wistfully. Perhaps there’s something distinctly poignant about her tone, because Barry pulls Iris closer to him, his hand settling gently at the base of her neck, and he’s regarding her, adoringly.

“But we did get our dance, even if it is thirteen years later.” She smiles, her eyes glistening with unshed tears,

“Yes, we did.” At that Barry drops his hand to hold hers once more, and he presses the call button for the elevator, and as they await the lift, all Iris can feel is both deep contentment and love.

When Iris enters her hotel room with Barry, it is with an internal sigh of relief, for the short journey from the mezzanine to the third floor of the Time Metropolis felt torturous, as they both were jittery with anticipation, but unable to truly voice anything until they were within the safety of a private room. Upon entering the room, Barry immediately begins pacing, while Iris busies herself by pouring them both glasses of water from a jug situated on the bedside table. She proffers one to Barry, and he stops fidgeting for a moment to take it.

“Thank you,” he says, gratefully, and they both sip from their glasses. Iris figures that she ought to convince Barry not to resume walking around the room, so she sits down on the edge of the bed and kicks off her heels. “You make it looks so graceful,” he sighs, coming to sit next to her, clutching his glass tightly.

“What do you mean?” she asks, and he turns, so that he’s facing her fully. Iris carefully places her hand over his, loosening his hold on his glass, hoping to help alleviate some of his nervous energy.

“Everything you do. It’s so graceful. So beautiful. I just…”

“Bear,” Iris starts, but Barry shakes his head quickly,

“You don’t have to say anything, Iris. I know that I messed up yesterday, but the truth is I’ve been messing things up for years now.”

“No, Barry, you haven’t,” Iris counters, while Barry puts his glass down on the floor beside his feet. Determining that they have now arrived at the point where all their cards are about to be laid out before them, Iris does the same with her own glass. When she places her now empty hands back on her lap, one of Barry’s hands encloses one of hers, gently prying her fingers open, so that her right palm is facing upwards, resting on her knee, before he interlocks her fingers with his. He brings their joined hands to his lips and kisses her knuckles, slowly, reverently. “Bear…” she whispers, but she is unsure what to say, recognizing that they are on a precipice of change.

“I owe you an explanation. I owe you so much more than that, but perhaps I can start with an explanation. But first, I am so sorry, Iris. About last night. I didn’t… I obviously was taken aback when I saw Katie again, and her over-friendliness was a source of confusion for me, but I guess I didn’t have the wherewithal to deal with everything she was saying, but I shouldn’t have even let her say anything. And if I’d been unable to stop her, I should have shut down all of the absurd insinuations she was clearly trying to make. I was put on the spot, not that that’s an excuse, but when I saw you… when I saw your face, I knew I’d screwed up really badly. Because to see you look so upset and to know that I was the reason for it, I don’t… god, Iris, it felt like a knife to my chest, and all I could think about was how much of an absolute idiot I am,” Barry begins, speaking rapidly, voice trailing off at the end, and he’s looking at her so earnestly, as if the worst thing in the world to him is being the cause of even an ounce of her sadness, and goodness she just wants to take his face in her hands and tell him that he is her happiness. But she stops herself, because she knows they have to get through this conversation.

“Bear, I’m not upset or angry with you now. But I was, especially right after Katie said what she said, when we had had that moment in my room just hours before, when you came to give me this.” And here she picks up the wedding band sitting between her collar bones to emphasize her point. “It just felt like everything we had shared had been rendered insignificant in that moment. Like it was nothing. And then I thought I had maybe read the moment wrong, but whenever I go over what happened in my head, I know that you were feeling what I was in that moment.”

“You weren’t reading that moment wrong, Iris. Not for a second,” Barry says, using his free hand to cup her cheek. She leans into his touch, closing her eyes for just a moment. “We almost kissed in your room, and I… there is nothing more that I wanted to do than kiss you. And then Cynthia interrupted, which wasn’t her fault, obviously, but I’m not going to pretend I wasn’t extremely frustrated, especially because we seem to have been interrupted throughout our lives a countless number of times.” He chuckles ruefully then, but Iris’s breath hitches, as she mulls over his words, particularly, there is nothing more that I wanted to do than kiss you. If only she could ask him then how he truly feels about her. If only she could tell him how she truly feels about him.

“But what about the dinner at Marano’s?” she queries, instead, for that betraying voice in her head refuses to let her move past that. Surely, Katie did not completely make that up, for even if she was simply saying all that she did to get a rise out of Eddie, telling complete falsities seemed a step too far. And there was the added anxiety that Barry had not corrected her then.

“Yeah, yeah, that was… Katie completely mischaracterized that dinner. I know it was dinner at Marano’s, but what she failed to mention is that Matt, who’s her cousin, as you know, was there as well, and the whole thing came about, because Katie showed up when I was tutoring Matt, and Old Mrs. Rogers was adamant that we all go out to dinner. But she was feeling unwell, and nonetheless insisted that we go, and it was impossible to say no, especially because Matt really wanted to go. I’m… I should have set the record straight last night, because I knew what Katie was trying to imply, and she was completely wrong on that account,” Barry replies, all in one breath, and he looks so pained that he’d let this fester, without correcting Katie’s white lie immediately, but Iris lets out a soft laugh, then,

“If you could have seen the scenarios I’d somehow managed to cook up in my head… Looking back, I realize they were probably irrational, and I should have just asked you, myself, but I was devastated and angry, and I think I just needed time to myself at that moment.”

“Iris, I am so, so sorry. Just the thought that you’d been in any kind of pain, because of me… god, I’m such an idiot,” he says, his fists clenched on his lap, and his tense form causes Iris worry. She frames his face with her hands, caressing his cheek with her thumb, hoping to soothe him. She leans in to rest her forehead against his, and for a few moments, all Iris can hear is their breathing, as she feels some of the tension in Barry’s muscles dissipate.

“It’s okay, Barry. This is not your fault. We just both stumbled into a series of romantic mishaps, because of someone else’s lies. But we’re here now,” Iris soothes. Barry grins at that, fully relaxing then.

“Romantic mishaps, huh?” he teases gently. She moves away from him just slightly to look at him properly, chuckling,

“Would you characterize it otherwise?”

“Not at all. Especially because Cisco said that you and I have been constantly tumbling into romantic mishaps throughout our entire adult lives. I was so mad at him, both last night and today, because he kept saying that I couldn’t call you or text you… and you should have seen me today. I was oscillating between walking around like a zombie and ranting at Cisco about how he could put me through this. He wouldn’t budge, though, repeatedly telling me that I needed to give you a day’s worth of space and that I’d see you at the gala. And I was going out of my mind the entire day. But now,” he says, bringing his hands to her waist, slowly, tentatively. “I think maybe he was right.” Iris silently agrees, because despite her initial frustrations over Barry having not reached out to her today, Cisco was probably right in refusing to allow him to call or text her. They both clearly needed the day to work through their emotions by themselves.

“Well, Cisco is quite wise,” she remarks in response.

“Drove me insane today, but yeah, he has his moments,” Barry jokes, and Iris laughs. “God, I love your laugh.” Iris raises an eyebrow at that, as she simultaneously runs her fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if relishing her touch.

“You love my laugh?” she asks in jest, but his expression becomes solemn, and he pulls her closer to him, his hands remaining on her waist.

“Always have. I remember,” he begins, slowly, carefully. “…When we first met. My mom had brought me to the playground when I was ten, and I’m pretty sure I was upset about the new move to Central City, so she probably took me there, so that I could blow off some steam. And I’d somehow managed to swing myself so aggressively that I’d tumbled headfirst into the dirt. I was so angry and annoyed, and I’m pretty sure about to start crying, but then there was this small hand…” At this, one of his hands release her waist, and he grasps her hand, intertwining their fingers. “…Reaching out to me. That was when I’d first met you, and you were smiling and asking if I was okay, and I’m sure I said something stupid, because I was kind of in awe. But you laughed and told me that I was funny, and I’m quite sure… no, I know that that was the moment that I fell absolutely in love with you, Iris. Or maybe it was a year later when my dad died, and you found me crying in a corner, hours after everyone had left, after they’d all come by to pay their condolences, and you stayed up all night with me, holding me. Looking back, I knew I loved you then. But when you’re a kid, you can’t truly fathom love, but I knew I had a total crush on you, and when I was about sixteen years old, I identified that what I felt for you was love. I was in love with my best friend, but I didn’t know how to tell you, because I was so afraid that I would completely ruin our friendship. And yet, the years that have past since our childhood and young adulthood just strengthened my feelings. I’m more in love with you today than I was when we were children.” As Barry speaks, he holds absolutely nothing back, wearing his heart on his sleeve, and Iris tells herself to steady her breathing. Because she is aware that if she is completely honest with herself, she has known that Barry reciprocates her feelings for a long time, but to have him tell her, to have him say that he’s in love with her… there is nothing that could prepare her for this moment.

“You’re incredible, Iris,” Barry continues. “I don’t think you even realize how amazing you are. You jump headlong into seeking the truth, with little care to your own safety, because you so innately believe in the importance of preserving justice and saving lives. You see the best in people, no matter what, but most of all you inspire people. I’ve told you time and again that you’re my hero, Iris West. But more than that, whenever I see you, it’s akin to coming home for me. I’ve struggled with the concept of home and where that might be for me, especially after my dad died when I was a kid, but I’ve realized that home is not a place. It never has been for me. Instead, it’s a person. It’s you. Whenever I need to get away from the rest of the world, my safety net is you. You’re whom I always run to. Because you’re my home, Iris, and you always have been. I love you deeply. And I promise that I’ll dedicate every day to loving you… if you’ll have me of course.” Tears spill from Iris’s eyes then, which Barry immediately catches with his thumbs, gently brushing them aside, as he cups her face. He’s smiling so widely at her, his own eyes glistening, and she finds herself contemplating how surreal this moment truly is.

“You really have quite a way with words, Barry Allen,” she says, her voice shaking, slightly.

“Only for you. You’re the storyteller, after all. I’m just the boy luck enough to love you,” he replies, and Iris’s heart soars, completely overwhelmed with love for the man sitting before her.

Then she begins,

“Well, I suppose I should tell you about the day that I am quite sure was a moment of exceptional clarity for me. We were in the eighth grade, and I was overworked as Editor of the Central City Junior High Gazette, because none of my fellow cub reporters were completing their articles on time. Unfortunately, not all fourteen-year-olds took their responsibilities as junior reporters in training as seriously as I did mine. It was nearing the end of the day, and I still was short two articles, and I was nearly in tears over the stress of the realization that I was going to need to cover two stories, myself, in a matter of twenty-four hours, because we needed to fill the page quota necessary for publication. The door of the classroom opened, and you enter, and I didn’t know what it was about seeing you then, but the moment I saw you, the dam broke, and I was sobbing. And you raced over and hugged me and asked me what was wrong, and when I told you, you simply said that we were going to find two stories to cover together and that you’d stay over at my place for the entire night, if you had to, helping me. And in that moment, I knew everything was going to be okay.

Because the truth is Barry, you are my rock. You’re always there for me no matter what, and I didn’t know then why I finally cried only when I saw you, but I know now. I felt safe to fully release my frustrations and anxieties, despite still being in school, because you were with me. Whether you’re entering Jitters to meet me or racing through the doors of the Citizen with Big Belly Burger take-out, I’m home the moment I see you. I love you, Barry. I love you so, so much, and I’m completely yours. I always have been, and I always will be.” At the end of her declaration, Barry is gazing at her both lovingly and ardently, and he says,

“And I am totally yours.” With his hands still cupping her face, he surges forward and captures her lips with his, kissing her hungrily and passionately. This kiss is years in the making, and there is no easing into it, as Iris gasps into Barry’s mouth, her hands climbing up his chest, until one hand settles at the nape of his neck, while the other remains near his heart. She presses herself even closer, wanting to be as physically proximate to him as she can, and he evidently wants the same, for he secures one arm around her back, pulling her smoothly into his lap, until she’s straddling him underneath her long gown. There are vague warning bells in her head, reminding her that she might tear her dress, but she is hardly concerned about that, figuring that her dress can certainly weather a night of her finally kissing the love of her life.

Meanwhile, Barry’s hands have bunched up the skirt of Iris’s dress to her hips and are roaming the smooth skin of her now bare legs, and his mouth leaves hers and moves to the skin below her earlobe, before slowly kissing the side of her jaw and then her neck.

“Have I told you how gorgeous you look?” he murmurs huskily, then.

“I think you might have,” she chuckles, breathlessly.

“Well you look absolutely beautiful,” he responds, before kissing her again, this time more languidly, taking his time to really explore her mouth. Iris responds, cupping his chin with one hand, equally enjoying his more relaxed kisses as she did his passionate kisses moments ago.

She then pulls away for a moment, and Barry groans, chasing her mouth, but instead she undoes his bowtie, with nimble fingers, and takes in his flushed lips, dilated pupils, and mussed up hair, and she’s sure she has never been more content than in this very moment.

“I love you,” she says, as he buries his head in her chest and mumbles something incoherent. “Bear?”

He turns his head to the side, so that she can hear him when he states, rather hoarsely,

“Iris, when I said I was yours, I meant it. Seriously, I’d literally do anything for you.” Iris smirks at that, maneuvering his head gently away from her chest, so that they were eye to eye, before replying,

“That could turn out to be a very dangerous statement, Barry Allen.” Barry grins, rising to the challenge.

“I’d be more than happy to indulge in a little danger where it involves Iris West,” he responds. Iris raises her eyebrows at that and brings her lips to Barry’s, coaxing his mouth open with hers. He wraps his arm tightly around her lower back, while his free hand dips under the hem of her gown, bunched up at her waist, brushing his fingers teasingly against the soft skin of her abdomen, while she runs one hand through his hair, as the other unbuttons his dress shirt. Her hips buck against his, as she caresses his bare chest with her thumb, soliciting a moan from him, which she quietens by deepening their kiss.

Barry lifts Iris, then, and in one movement lays her on the bed, as he hovers over her, before gently moving his lips from hers to trail soft kisses down the length of her neck. Just as he reaches her collarbone, there is a loud banging on their door, and Barry groans loudly, dropping his head to her chest. Iris sighs, running a hand through his hair, when a voice that most definitely belongs to Cisco yells out,

“Barry? Iris?”

“If we ignore him, do you think he’ll go away?” Barry mumbles, just as Cynthia says rather loudly,

“We know you two are in there, so don’t pretend you can’t hear us.” Barry audibly grumbles, while Iris chuckles,

“Baby, I admire you wanting to ignore those two, but I really don’t think they’re going to leave.” Barry lets out a puff of breath that fans against Iris’s skin, and he slowly rolls away from her, sitting up and placing a pillow in his lap, perhaps in an attempt to be discrete, although privately Iris knows that Cisco is absolutely going to comment gleefully on his friend’s state of disarray. Meanwhile, she gets up and adjusts her dress, so that it falls back over her legs and walks over to the vanity mirror, grabbing a make-up cloth to wipe off her now smudged lipstick. She’s quite sure that she’s already sporting love bites on her neck and shoulders, but she cannot seem to bring herself to care about concealing them.

Once she’s satisfied that she’s as presentable as she can possibly be, given the circumstances, she opens the door of her hotel room and sees Cisco and Cynthia standing by the threshold, both wearing similarly smug expressions.

“Iris!” Cisco says, clapping his hands together, dramatically, while Cynthia scrutinizes her, before asking,

“What’s that on your neck?” Although her tone suggests that this is no innocent question, and she’s simply trying to put Iris on the spot, Iris refuses to take the bait, instead querying,

“Are you two going to come in? I imagine you’re here to deliver urgent news.”

“Patience,” Cisco replies, jovially, as he enters the room and spots Barry, sitting on the edge of the bed. At this sight, Cisco seems positively gleeful. “Nice pillow, Barry.”

“You are an ass,” Barry mutters darkly, not bothering to greet his friend.

“Love you too, man. And by the way,” Cisco chuckles, throwing his arm around Iris. “It’s because of me that this happened.” He gestures between Barry and Iris. “Without me apparently putting Barry through absolute misery today, the two of you would have continued your decades long song and dance of refusing to acknowledge that you are madly in love with each other.” Iris shrugs off Cisco’s arm, rolling her eyes, fondly.

“Yeah, yeah, thank you, Cisco,” she says.

“Mmhmm, forget West-Allen Matchmakers. I think Ramon and Sons, Experts in Match-Making is the real success story.”

“Is that so? Because I’m pretty sure the two of you have been clearly enjoying each other’s company, and Barry and I can definitely take some credit there,” Iris replies, raising an eyebrow, and Cisco blushes at that, tucking his shoulder-length hair behind his ears.

“Well, for two people who apparently are champions at setting everyone else up, you sure took a ridiculously long time getting your respective acts together,” Cynthia retorts. At this, Iris saunters over to the edge of the bed, sitting next to Barry and leaning her chin on his shoulder, while he takes one of her hands in one of his.

“Maybe. But we’re here now,” Iris replies, as Barry kisses her forehead.

“Y’all are cute, I’ll admit,” Cisco says, and Cynthia smiles at the sight of them together.

“So why are you here?” Barry asks, stroking Iris’s knuckles with his thumb. In response, Cisco grabs a chair near the vanity and sits down, while Cynthia seats herself in a cushioned armchair by a round coffee table.

“So…,” Cisco begins, pausing for dramatic effect, although his anticipation is not reciprocated by either Barry and Iris, who do not prompt him. “Alright, so, guess who showed up just now, roughly halfway through the ball?” Cisco does not wait for an answer, however, the question apparently rhetorical. “That’s right. Eddie Thawne, accompanied by Katie Rogers. Their appearance so late in the game is not even the real crazy thing, because you’ll never guess what happened when they arrived. Okay, so the two of them show up, and they’re dressed for the occasion, and they head over to Cecile and Joe, where Eddie apologizes profusely, naturally, but then seems to reveal something to Cecile which makes her absolutely ecstatic. And she’s crying and hugging Eddie. Needless to say, we were all quite curious as to what could possibly be going on, but Eddie dispels the suspense quite quickly, when he and Katie head over towards the orchestra, and he abruptly stops the musicians and conductor, before taking a mic and claiming he has a big announcement.

He apologizes sincerely for being so late, but explains that he has a reason for being late, and this reason is that he has big news that will bring everyone at this ball great pleasure. And he proceeds to announce that he and Katie just eloped and got married.” At this, Barry and Iris exchange flabbergasted looks, before turning back to Cisco.

“Excuse me?” Iris says, as Barry’s brow furrows contemplatively.

“They got married,” Cisco repeats, shrugging his shoulders. “I know, I know. But that’s where they were today, apparently. Getting married. I’m ninety percent sure, though, that this was a decision made on the fly.”

“But they clearly were having some sort of argument yesterday that we all were not privy to.”

“Yep. I still don’t know what that’s all about, but I have a theory from talking to Katie afterwards. I obviously went up to congratulate them, because what the hell else are we supposed to do, and I was like, ‘Oh this is very nice and all, but this seems sudden.’ She was really cagey, but kind of let it slip that she was pissed that Eddie was keeping their romance a secret from his family, who wouldn’t approve of his involvement with her or some crap, so Katie had given him an ultimatum of her own that if he didn’t get serious with her, she was going to leave him. Guess that kicked his ass into gear.” Iris notices Barry watching Cisco closely, as he takes this in, nodding along. Cisco’s explanation appears to have given him some clarity on the situation.

“That makes sense,” Barry sighs, shaking his head. “I think I may have somehow ended up as the scapegoat, while Katie was trying to make a point to Eddie. But it’s just… god I’m such an idiot, because all the while, Iris was hurt by all this mess, and that is on me… I should have been clear about setting the record straight.”

“Hey, Bear, it’s okay,” Iris soothes. “It really doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Barry exclaims. “It does matter, because all of that hurt you, Iris. And it’s just… god, this is my fault, and…” But Iris has heard enough, and she grasps both his hands in her own.

“Barry,” she says firmly. “We’ve been over this. What happened last night was not your fault. None of this is your fault. You couldn’t possibly have known about Katie and Eddie’s romantic drama. It seems like nobody knew that they were secretly dating.”

“You’re right,” Barry replies. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gotten so angry, but just the mere thought of Katie’s callousness, by trying to insinuate what she did about me and her, all because she was trying to make Eddie jealous, having hurt you is so infuriating.”

“I love you,” Iris whispers, brushing her lips against Barry’s jaw, just as Cisco clears his throat loudly,

“Hey, I know y’all are in that insufferable, just got together officially phase and all, but we’re still here, and I haven’t even gotten to the best part of the story.”

“Yeah,” Cynthia interrupts, clearly fed up with Cisco’s prolonging. “Patty dumped a glass of wine over Eddie’s head.” Barry and Iris turn to each other, sharing a surprised look, as Iris observes,

“And here Barry and I were thinking that we’ve had our fair share of romantic mishaps. Seems as if we don’t really know what actual romantic mishaps encompass, after all.” Cisco, however, is clearly affronted that Cynthia had botched his story-telling,

“That’s not how you tell a story, Cyn. You have to ease into the best part to build up the anticipation.”

“Please, there’s no building up anticipation with Barry and Iris, other than them anticipating our departure.”

“True,” Barry says, chuckling. “And also, I know Eddie definitely didn’t deserve to get wine poured all over him, but that’s undoubtedly a sight that I’d have liked to witness.” Thus, Iris is reminded of one remaining mystery, namely the prickly nature of all of Barry and Eddie’s interactions that she has witnessed, so she inquires accordingly,

“By the way, Bear. Why do you dislike Eddie so much? I don’t recall you two having spent all that much time together to have developed animosity towards each other.” Barry’s eyes widen at that, and he resembles a deer caught in the headlights, which Iris, naturally, finds incredibly endearing.

“Oh my god, you never told her?” Cisco cuts in, looking positively maniacal at this discovery. Barry begins shaking his head frantically at Cisco, but his attempts at preventing his friend from talking are of no avail. “So, the first time Barry and Eddie crossed paths was at some garden party Cecile hosted, and you took Barry as your guest or something. I don’t know the details, because I only have secondhand information from Barry, but basically Eddie tried to insinuate that he might be interested in you to goad Barry, probably, because he, like everyone else except for you two, knew how you both felt about each other. Anyways, Barry had some really harsh words for Eddie, and since then the two of them can’t stand the sight of each other. Talk about the world’s fastest rivalry for no real, concrete reason.”

“I hate you,” Barry groans, burying his face in his hands, but Iris refuses to let Barry wallow in embarrassment, so she nudges him with her shoulder, leaning into him.

“I think you having… how did it Cisco put it?… Harsh words… is hot, Bear,” she says. He turns to her, with a small smile,

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He cups her cheek with one hand, his fingers burying into her hair, and kisses her soundly.

“Ugh, okay, okay,” Cynthia interrupts, getting up. “We’re leaving. Have fun, you two.”

“See ya!” Cisco yells, as Cynthia takes his arm and pulls him to the door. “And remember, this is because of me. I’m the real matchmaker around here.” Once they exit the room, Cisco still chattering away, Barry releases an audible sigh of relief and mumbles,

“Thank god.” Iris laughs, leaning her forehead against his, closing her eyes, before stating,

“You do know that I was never interested in anyone but you, right? I could never really make it work with anyone else, because I was so in love with you. I am so in love with you.”

“I know. And I never could be interested in any other person other than you, not when you have always had my heart,” Barry replies, before continuing, “Also, just to clarify, Eddie and I don’t despise each other or anything; we’re just never going to be friends.”

“Mm, well, I don’t think you two will be seeing each other very often outside of occasional social gatherings.”

“Yeah.” They stay like that, foreheads resting together, taking comfort in each other’s arms, before Iris says,

“I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than I am in this moment.” Barry smiles widely at that, adjusting so that he’s holding her face in both of his hands.

“Iris, you have no idea how deeply happy you make me,” he whispers against her lips, his tone reverent as he acknowledges the depth of his love for her. “I love you. I love you so, very much.” A tear escapes him then, which Iris wipes away gently with her thumb, before pressing her lips to his, as she delights in the knowledge that he is hers to love and she is his to love for the rest of their lives.

One and a half years later

Iris sighs contentedly, leaning back against Barry’s chest, his arm wrapped around her waist. She is seated in his lap, like a bride (which, in fact, she is), her white tulle skirt fanning around both of them. All around her there seems to be a flurry of activity, as she assesses the myriad of guests in attendance at her wedding reception.

Wally and Linda are attempting to feed their baby twins, and despite their bemoaning that they cannot quite get this parenting thing down, they seem to be doing a wonderful job at soothing their agitated twins and getting them to eat some mashed foods, which they had brought with them in portable Tupperware. Every time Linda manages to feed a twin, Wally gives her an exaggerated kiss on the cheek, which seems to highly amuse the babies, who giggle uncontrollably at this.

Her father, with whom she had recently danced the father-daughter dance, is regaling some folks with stories about when she was young and how he always knew she was going to grow into an absolute journalistic star. Usually, Iris would be embarrassed by her father’s bragging, but today she lets him sing her praises, for it is her big day after all. Cecile is chatting with friends at a table, and seated near her are Eddie and Katie Thawne, whom Cecile requested be invited, much to Barry’s chagrin, and who are also expecting a baby, as Katie is already sporting a baby bump. Patty is also in attendance, which Iris had initially worried might be awkward, given that there is a good chance that Patty would run into Eddie, but Patty recently reconnected with an old boyfriend, and she brought him as her date. Plus, Patty has managed to completely ignore the Thawnes, at least thus far. Cisco and Cynthia, who have been dating for over a year now, appear to be in their own little world together, heavily flirting with each other at their table. Caitlin and Ronnie are sitting next to Cisco and Cynthia, but they don’t seem particularly concerned with the other couple’s flirting, for they are preoccupied with entertaining their two-year-old daughter.

Allegra, Kamilla, and James are all laughing about something, and Iris is glad that they are enjoying themselves, for she knows that last week was a highly stressful time at the Citizen, because they had finally published a piece, on which all the Citizen’s reporters worked for weeks on end (now a team of nearly fifty reporters, for the amount of positive publicity that had resulted from the McCulloch Tech exposé had catapulted the Citizen into journalistic stardom, particularly after Iris had been awarded a Peabody Award and Kamilla a World Press Photo Award for their work on the article), exposing a massive eviction scam, which implicated three local politicians. So, Iris is grateful that the three reporters seem to be relaxed and happy, the stresses of last week hopefully dissipating. As for Kara, she appears to have discovered the scrumptious doughnut display near the dessert buffet and is evidently in heaven.

Iris’s Great-Aunt Esther sits at the head of the West family table, friendly, but reserved and still ever so beautiful. Barry and Iris are seated one table down from her, and when Great-Aunt Esther catches Iris’s eye, she winks at her favorite grand-niece, perhaps reinforcing the sentiment that she had voiced to Iris earlier that day that she is the happiest she could ever be to see her dearest grand-niece marry the love of her life.

“Your Mama, My Francine… she would be so proud of the woman you have become,” Great-Aunt Esther tells Iris right before Joe arrives to walk her down the aisle. Tears roll down Iris’s cheeks, as her Great-Aunt gathers her into her arms. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

“I miss her so, so much. Every single day,” Iris whispers.

“She is always, always with you.”

The memory from this morning is one Iris knows she will cherish deeply, but while she relives that moment, she notices that there now appears to be trouble, for Barry’s mother, Nora, joins Joe, and they both start telling the tale of how they knew Barry and Iris were always going to get married from the moment they witnessed the two interact as young children. Surely, the two of them would somehow manage to recount the numerous occasions on which Barry and Iris play-acted getting married as children, usually with a stuffed dinosaur presiding.

“When Barry came home from the playground that day after meeting Iris,” Nora says loudly, “He went running up to his dad and said, ‘Dad! I met the most beautiful girl in the world today. I think I want to marry her.’ And my late husband said, ‘Well, slugger, love is about reciprocity. Focus on getting to know her. And who knows, maybe one day, we’ll be attending yours and Iris’s wedding.’ And here we are.” Upon hearing his mother retell this particular story, Barry drops his forehead to Iris’s shoulder, groaning quietly, so that only she can here.

“It’s bad already, and they’re just getting started,” Barry mutters, kissing his wife’s shoulder. “I think we should make our great escape right about now.” Iris smiles, running a hand through Barry’s hair, as she feels Barry’s lips move upward, slowly beginning to trail kisses from her shoulder to her neck.

“Bear, if you’re trying to get me to agree to leave with you right now…” Iris whispers, attempting to maneuver herself discreetly so that the guests cannot see her husband kissing her neck.

“Is it working?” Barry asks, looking up at her and smiling.

“You know it is,” she sighs, and he appears supremely smug at that. “But we do have to stick around for a while longer, after all this is our wedding reception. We can’t just cut out early.” Barry mumbles his half-hearted assent, although he seems unconvinced, before caressing his fingers against Iris’s arm, gazing at her, suddenly contemplative. “What is it?” she queries, softly.

“I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe we’re here, finally, at our wedding reception. I think it really only hit me that I’m marrying you when I saw you walk down the aisle, and you are so, so beautiful and amazing and wonderful, and I realized that I’m truly lucky enough to marry the girl of my dreams,” Barry replies, and Iris frames his face with her hands, leaning forward gently, so her forehead rests against his.

“Those tears were real huh?” she teases, gently. Barry chuckles, and because they are so closely pressed together, she feels the reverberations of his laugh against her own chest.

“Completely real.”

“So were mine,” Iris says, her lips just a hair’s length away from his. “Because just as it was overwhelming for you to watch me walking down the aisle, I was incredibly overwhelmed with happiness and love seeing you standing at the end of the aisle, looking so dapper, and knowing that I finally get to marry the love of my life, who is the most amazing man that I know.” Barry’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, touched by her words, and he brushes his nose against Iris’s, murmuring against her lips,

“I love you, Mrs. West-Allen.” Iris responds by kissing him once gently, and they are silent for a few moments, foreheads still touching, and contemplating the depth of their love for one another. Then, Barry shakes his head fondly and remarks, jokingly,

“You and I are complete saps.”

“Eloquent saps,” Iris corrects, laughing. “But that’s why we’re perfect for each other.”

“Mm, true,” Barry says, taking her hand in his own and bringing their joined hands to his lips and kissing her fingers one by one. “I love you so much, Iris.”

“I love you,” Iris replies, before her expression becomes more mischievous. “It’s a shame we don’t have balloons at our reception.”

“Why? Were you planning on wrangling some into our car? Personally, I’d be game. I only got to witness you successfully fit those balloons into your car last time, an admirable feat, I might add.” Iris shakes her head fondly, feigning mild exasperation, while Barry laughs.

“Spoken like someone who has never had the view from his rear mirror constantly marred by inflated balloons,” Iris sighs. “And so no, I do not want to attempt to take any inflated balloons with us in a car, but I guess I was just feeling slightly nostalgic, because it was at my dad and Cecile’s wedding reception that I think I realized that I’ve always been in love with you.” Iris looks down at their intertwined hands, while Barry’s gaze becomes solemn, then, as he tucks an errant strand of hair that had come undone from her elaborate bun behind her ear.

“Well, that was also the night I first really told you how I felt,” Barry replies, and Iris glances up at him, surprised. “Yeah. Do you remember when I said that something incredible has always been in front of me, and I just really should throw caution to the wind?”

“I remember. You were talking about me. About us,” Iris whispers, and Barry nods, caressing her cheek gently, his touch warm and comforting against her skin.

“Yeah. I guess that was one of the many times I really came close to spilling my heart out to you, but Linda was also there, and I figured your dad’s wedding reception probably wasn’t a good place to tell you how I feel. Although I do think the spirit of weddings prompted that particular confession that night.”

“It’s silly now, looking back, but I remember thinking that you were talking about someone else at the time, and that’s when I truly realized that I am absolutely in love with you and have been for years.”

“I know that was all cleared up quite quickly, but I could never have been ever talking about anyone else,” Barry says, and Iris smiles, turning her face into his hand and placing a soft kiss on his palm.

“I know, Bear,” she replies, but from his expression, she can sense his adamancy about providing abundant clarity.

“It only has ever been you, Iris. It only has ever been you,” he whispers, and she lays her head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat underneath her palm, before murmuring,

“And you’re the only one. You’ve always been the only one. And you and I have the rest of our lives to tell each other every day.” Barry adjusts, so that she is completely encircled by his arms, while he presses his lips to the crown of her head, as she, in turn, wraps her arm snugly around his waist.

“The rest of our lives,” he echoes, as his arms tighten around her. Iris smiles, glancing up at Barry, and remarks,

“Sounds pretty amazing, doesn’t it?” And he grins widely, bending his head towards hers and whispering,

“Absolutely incredible,” against her lips, before kissing her soundly.

#westallen #westallen secret santa #submission

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