#to all my long time followers: thank you for remaining through my inconsistent breaks

[gembastarde]

oh, but won’t you look back and see

the sunlit days you’ve left behind

[vasiktomis]

Pomegranate, Chapter 18: Quiet Earth, Part II.

John Seed x Female Deputy

Rating: Explicit.

Read it on Ao3 here! Notes: Co-angels @honeysides, @shallow-gravy, and @lilwritingraven all provided immense support while I toiled over this chapter, which I am forever immensely thankful for. Never would've been able to give people second-hand embarrassment like this without y'all enabling me. As always, thank you for reading!

WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence. Sexually-explicit content. An angry cult leader with performance anxiety. You know the drill.

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The comparative tranquillity of Seed Ranch had a way of making Cora feel like time was moving slower than it should have. In all seriousness, the chain-reaction of their escape from Fall's End was still firing, but without the gunshots and the shouting, approaching the property felt more like being in stasis. It was too still. Too unassuming.

The Project members awaiting John on the steps of the property were vigilant about a thorough, yet strangely distant reception of the man, as if they’d been hard-wired to anticipate his moods; warmly welcoming him home, but giving the man such a wide berth that one might have assumed he was carrying a live grenade.

Cora supposed he was at least consistent in his inconsistency; just as volatile toward his allies as he was his enemies. She wondered if the serenity of the ranch was a natural element of John's sect; whether they simply cared enough about the man to know his boundaries to the inch - or whether such a light-hearted environment was manufactured deliberately and specifically around his temper.

The Deputy’s presence did well to break the façade, however. It brought with it a range of cautious exchanges from the followers that ushered them into the home; some in fear of re-living the bedlam of her bunker escape, and others casting stern looks between her bare midriff and their leader’s refusal to leave her side.

She noticed it, too - how he stuck to her like Velcro.

It was only after she was administered pain medication and had her wound dressed (they’d been gracious enough to re-dress the haphazard bandaging on her hand, too) that John abruptly took his leave, excusing himself to apparently more pressing matters. Cora was simply confined to the foyer, drifting in and out of snoozing consciousness on one of the couches in front of the fireplace.

All in all, the mental and physical exhaustion of conceding defeat to the Project proved in all honestly a little boring. The blonde had expected she might break down once she was left alone. It seemed about the right time for it, and yet, all she felt was tired. Was it the cult who had done this to her? Run her so ragged that only anger remained?

Ideas of escape waxed and waned with cultists moving in and out of the space periodically to check in on her, lessening in their hostility with each passing visit until their warnings not to cross them turned into beratements over her refusal to sit still, for the love of Joseph.

In her restlessness, she sorted through thoughts and memories, deciding on the conclusion that while yes, today had been devastating, she’d long since thrown away her capacity to recognise it. It had been so long since she’d spared herself any emotion beyond rage that everything else felt only vaguely different. She might’ve broken down, had she not forgotten how to do such a thing. Trying only gave her a stomach ache, and so she resigned herself to waiting it out, growing more and more impatient with how undramatic this aftermath had turned out to be. How her captor had left her so unceremoniously after being declared victor.

Maybe he was similarly nonchalant about all this.

...No. That was impossible. He'd probably just excused himself to go dance a celebratory little jig. Perhaps he'd stepped through a hornet's nest in doing so, or been ambushed by coyotes. Something beyond mere choice that warranted the excuse to disappear like that.

The skylights in the ceiling changed hues over the course of what felt like hours, however, and John did not return.

It felt weird, being in his home without him present. It felt weird being fussed over by house staff who muttered for her to stop picking at her bandages while she lay across his furniture, warmed by his fire. It felt weird that her exposure to Sharky and Jess had finally led her to identify that the strange smell she’d always detected in the Baptist’s home was unmistakably raw cannabis.

Eventually, the clatter of plates and bubbling conversation drew the Deputy away from the couch and around to the other end of the foyer. The gigantic table she’d only ever seen stacked high with bibles in the past now carried an assortment of food, picked at by passing cultists like a barbeque line while they chattered away.

Watching them almost felt like watching her family back in Brooklyn. Waiting out the messy crossed streams of conversation in hiding until the coast was clear and the kids could swarm the reward of food without the labour of having to hang out with the adults. It was strange, how they mimicked a family, when the only similarity Cora could gauge between them were the logos printed on their clothes.

The spying didn't last. One pair of eyes flickering to her quickly became ten, and Cora's heart rate skyrocketed. Instinct kicked in. Eyes combing over each Peggie around the table for weapons. Hands reaching for her own absent holster and emptied pockets.

The group did not respond in-kind. Apparently, they were too preoccupied with loading up their plates to deal with a leader of the Peggie-killing movement in their space.

Cora didn’t buy it. Not straight away. Not until her gaze darted around the rest of the room, weighing up which of the Baptist’s gaudy home decorations might be most effective at bone-crushing and-

“Look who’s got her colour back.”

…

What?

The same cultist who spoke up - a woman - one of the group who’d been at the church earlier, gestured at the table. “Hungry?”

What?

One Peggie with a particularly heavy beard slid a plate over the table toward Cora. Two younger girls over his shoulder giggled to each other.

“Do you think we should offer her a shirt?”

“I’m not that brave. Leave it to John.”

“Anything fresh is all from the garden.” The bearded Peggie spoke, pulling Cora’s scowl away from them with a smile.

She inspected the table. Undersized apples and strawberries. Home-grown, by their imperfections. Multi-coloured silver beet and slightly burned sweetcorn. Homemade bread piled an end of its own, surrounded by a selection of preserves in blank jars. All of it, against her will, served as a reminder that she’d only ingested coffee today. This was bizarre, but she was hungry. Not to mention the Resistance diet consisted mostly of canned spaghetti.

Gingerly, the Deputy picked at one of everything, and while the group of cultists continued chatting, she stood awkwardly by on the side-line, trying to figure out the most efficient means of eating corn while still maintaining a hostile air about her and lot letting slip that it was fucking delicious.

Apparently tearing into the thing wasn't adequately frightening. The same talkative man split from the party to approach her, ignoring the roll of her eyes. A spot of shine glided over his bald head while he moved around the table, and as he neared, he gave her a moment to squint at him.

There was something familiar about that overbearing air.

“We’ve... -”

“Met.” He confirmed. “Briefly.”

“When?”

“Months ago now. I, uh, almost baptised you.”

Cora chewed the inside of her cheek, considering that. Somewhere in the back of her mind the memory of wet rocks beneath her feet swelled with the lapping of shallow waters. Just tap my arm if you need to come up for air.

He shrugged at her silence. “You were pretty Blissed-”

“No, I remember you.” The Deputy mumbled, turning her attention back to her food, intent on keeping it there. It didn’t last long. A hand stretched out before her, and with a laboured, full-mouthed sigh, she shook it.

“Andrew. Glad to see you again.” He offered.

“Okay.”

The silence was as painful as she’d hoped to make it, but tragically, he was resilient.

"Andy works, too-"

"Andrew's syllabically identical and perfectly sufficient. Where's your boss?"

“Upstairs, working.”

“And he’s asked not to be disturbed.” One woman interjected. “So don’t get any ideas.”

Cora blinked at that. Then, plate still in-hand, she spun on her heel and made for the staircase.

Behind her, the group exchanged a collective look of panic.

"Ma'am?"

"Sister?"

"Hey!"

“We’re not allowed up there!”

“Perfect." Cora grumbled back, already ascending the steps. "Then you don’t have to worry about following me.”

The second storey of Seed ranch was dead still in comparison to downstairs. A hallway presented a quiet stretch of closed doors and branching hallways that led out to balconies, part way between residential space and tactical efficiency.

Back in the day, she’d assumed the Baptist just had a thing for doors. Looking around at the space now, it was clear that John was well-aware of how many enemies he’d generated thanks to his work.

The crackle of a radio up ahead drew the Deputy’s attention, and as she drew closer, a hushed curse.

“Pick up. Come on, pick up.” John murmured. Then, in a brand new tone: “Joseph. Brother. I need you to call me back. Please, it’s been - just...whenever you can. I’ll be here.”

She found him beyond a cracked doorway, hunched over a desk. His fingers smoothed through damp hair hair, tugging, jaw clenched and brow furrowed.

The door creaked as Cora pressed against it, and in the time it took for her to cringe at the noise, John had sat up straight, shifting out of whatever private mood she’d spied him in. He blinked up at her, inhaling deeply, reeking of uncertainty.

She felt it too. Of all the scenarios to catch him alone in, the blonde hadn’t expected that she’d be brandishing sourdough.

A moment passed. Both of them trying to feel out this new territory.

“Hey.” Cora eventually muttered.

John exhaled. “Hi.”

“Brought food.”

He looked away. “Deputy, pleased as I am that you’re making yourself at home, I asked for privacy.”

“Since when did you value privacy?” Cora asked, pushing into the room and seating herself on the desk. The tired irritation on John’s face when she set the plate in front of him was worth the day of boredom already. He glanced up at her, and she responded with a wolfish smile.

“You have corn in your teeth.” He mumbled, relenting, posture slackening. “And you’re getting blood flakes on my desk.”

The Deputy tried not to look so hurried about picking. “Isn’t that a garnish in Japan?”

“That’s fish. You’re thinking bonito.”

“I know what I’m thinking.”

Another pause.

“Is that what you thought you were filleting in the church? Bonito?”

Annoyed silence.

“It was Nick.”

Finally, John scoffed, glaring at her, offering a reluctant nod when she flashed her teeth to confirm she’d gotten rid of the food in her teeth. “You are so funny.”

“Thank you. Eat something.”

Cora watched the man regard the plate in front of him.

“How generous of you to take a bite out of everything first." His gaze landed on the shredded corn cob. "Except for that. That,  you demolished."

"Yeah, well." Cora plucked up the same piece of bread he'd been reaching for. "Why're you hiding up here? Thought maybe you would've starting laying on the torment by now. Not...brooding."

"Brooding."

"Yes."

"Pardon me for needing to adjust to having a murderer in my home."

Cora hummed at that, casting a look around the room. "Took you about 2 seconds to adjust to a murderer's tongue in your mouth-"

"Deputy." John spat, pushing the plate away from him in a final display of denial. "Please, leave. I'm busy."

“No, you’re not.” Cora bit back. “I want to know what your plan is. Now you’ve got me, what’s next? What’s the point in me sitting around on your couch all afternoon? You don’t leave me alone, ever, and now that I’m here you want me to make myself scarce?”

The Baptist's jaw rolled in annoyance, and when Cora shifted her legs to face him easier, he jerked away from her, avoiding contact. “You’ve grown too accustomed to being in the spotlight." He grumbled.

“Stop avoiding the question.”

“What question?”

“What’s your deal? What's the plan? What happens now?”

“The plan is to get back to work. My apologies if your assumption was that you were the main goal of this valley, but there are dozens of things that require my attention-“

“Like sitting by the phone for your brother for hours?”

John paused at that. Something old and familiar flashed over his expression, and he stood from his seat. “You’re jealous.” He accused.

Cora’s lip curled, ears running hot. “You’re wasting time, and I want to know why.”

“Is that why you're nosing through my business? If I gave you details - what I'm working on - what the next step is - is that a strategic win for you?" His palms slid against the desk, planted on either side of her legs. "Or is my lack of undivided attention so awful to you that anything to help rationalise it would do?"

Something in her celebrated that look on his face. The renewed confidence in his attitude. It enraged her, but it was scores better than his absence.

She scowled, but she didn’t pull away when John leaned down into her space. It didn’t work the way it used to. Now it didn’t feel close enough. Now she wanted to part her legs and pull his hips against her.

It was a discomfort she’d never known before, and now, even with her wounds dulled, it almost felt painful. She wanted to know what the plan was. She wanted to plan an escape. She wanted to have just this one little victory if this was the end of the line. If he was going to convert her, then she could at least undermine him by ruining his faithfulness. It might destabilise him enough that she could find some advantage to getting back to Fall’s End. That would make it okay, if it were all driven by strategy or revenge. Her curiosity would be sated.

But then, as if he could hear her thoughts from the sheer volume of their demands, John drew away from her.

“You should shower.” He muttered quickly, snatching the radio from the desk. “Across the hall, on the right.”

He didn’t look at her as he left the room. He didn’t look back when he disappeared down the hall and made for the stairs.

Cora glared ahead at the space he'd left emptied.

What a fucking coward.

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Despite her soured mood, Cora had done as she was ordered. She spent all of two minutes rinsing the old blood from her skin, and another ten reflecting in quiet judgement over the bottle of 3-in-1 sitting in the shower caddy with her. Maybe she should've allowed herself the opportunity to warrant having to bathe here earlier. Maybe she'd have developed more of a sense of disgust for the man if she had.

The clothes she’d arrived in were still stained, but it was an improvement. Less of a sensory distraction while she sorted through her thoughts, at least.

While the Deputy dried off and re-dressed, the haze of pain relief began to lighten, and she was able to focus on cobbling together some kind of a plan to get herself out of Seed Ranch. She might have conceded defeat, but the hideous tattoo marking her sternum didn't mean she was suddenly going to behave. Especially if her captor was refusing to even the playing field and let her know what the hell they were supposed to do now.

Whatever John was keeping from her, it was urgent enough that his entire demeanour had changed. What did he need from Joseph so desperately? If it had anything to do with the Resistance, or if had anything to do with Joseph coming here, the Deputy intended to put a stop to it.

If John Seed’s intention was to avoid her, he should’ve thought twice before locking her in his home. Ensuring that he’d keep his distance, however, was the easy part.

The real goal would be getting him away from that radio.

Descending the stairs, Cora found John in solitary silence in the foyer. There was no sign of the Peggies serving up supper anymore, and the dining table had been cleared.

John was alone, sitting on the couch by the fireplace with his head in his hands, no less agitated than when she’d first found him. The hand-held sat close by on his left. In front of him on the coffee table was a landline phone that hadn’t been there previously.

He didn’t notice her at first. To his credit, she didn’t announce herself until a creak of the stairs did it for her. Then, the snap of his gaze toward her was instant. Hyper-vigilant.

Cora reached the first floor. “Where’d everyone go?”

“Minding the perimeter.” John answered, making space for her to take a seat but keeping himself faced away. “You’ll be pleased to know that your troop is still yet to be captured. Little doubt they’re aware that you’ve been brought here. Even less that they’re on the hunt for you, given the state Fall’s End was in when we left. Boshaw seemed happy enough to blow up half the town to get to you. Shorty."

There was no mistaking his bitterness at the nickname.

When she approached, Cora found a folded Project sweater sitting where she intended to. John’s jaw rolled when she slowed to glare at the thing.

Still, he refused to look at her.

“Put it on. You’ll freeze.”

“I’d rather not look like one of you when the Resistance comes to rescue me.”

“You are one of us, now. Almost. Once you’ve pledged yourself to the Project, they needn’t consider it a rescue effort any longer.”

Cora huffed in response, pulling the sweater over her head and slumping into the couch. “You sound a lot less happy about that than I’d expect.”

“I’m fine.”

Stonewalling. Now she was beginning to understand how annoying it was when she did it.

“I’ve made enough of a career out of it to know what you look like when you’re not fine.” The Deputy remarked.

“I think I preferred it when I was asking all the questions.”

“I think you preferred me when I was tied up in a basement.”

That comment caught a glance. Amusement, unnoticed on her part.

“So, what - you’ve been sitting beside a radio all day and somehow weren’t inclined to terrorise me? Or were you just that busy arranging flowers for my Atonement?”

“Are you feeling stood up?” John asked. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were projecting, Deputy.”

Her ears flushed hot. Immediate rage flooded pitted in her stomach, but as much as the blonde would have liked to get up and stomp elsewhere, she had little other option without any better ideas.

Right now, this was all she had.

Channelling her inner Adelaide.

Cora inhaled, swallowing back a cursory retort. “Both work.”

In her periphery, John ceased all movement, staring straight ahead.

All she had to do was pressure him enough to move away. Then it was over. She’d been rejected by him before - anticipating it happening again shouldn’t have needed to feel as gross as it did.

“Maybe I think you got scared, not having me under your control.” She went on, finding the words already prepared on her tongue as she turned toward him. “You seemed like you were enjoying it when it was you-”

“-and then you punched me in the face.” John cut in stiffly.

“Didn’t deter you.”

“We shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it’s against the rules.” The clip in his tone signalled a warning. Then, an impatient sigh escaped his nostrils. “And you said it yourself: it was a mistake.”

He wasn’t going to look at her. There was no pulling at his attention while he could hide her in his periphery.

“Is that why you’re upset?” She made a quiet move to touch her fingers to his forearm, but he pulled away with a scoff.

“If you’re trying to buy time -”

“Are you frustrated?” Cora pressed on. His shifting had given her enough leeway to get herself between him and the phone, and she took her opportunity, sliding down to kneel between the couch and the coffee table. Directly in front of him. “Knowing what people say about you?”

John finally inclined his head to sneer down at her, but if he had anything he was intending to say, it was silence by the bob of his Adam's apple. A gulp. His breathing was the only audible sound in the room, barring herself; shallow and staggered.

Almost there.

Cora kept her eyes on his. She wouldn’t lie - despite sitting at his feet like this, she could still gauge the power that she held. That while, yes, there was a spark of disappointment that came with watching him ignore her advances, there was also some odd thrill in watching the man who’d made multiple attempts on her life struggle so much. Knowing that, even with her unarmed and kneeling - even with all his connections and soldiers, and everything he'd done to her - he was powerless.

He’d taken her freedom, but she could get that back. She’d compromised his loyalty to dogma. Nearly made the tallied notches on his arm into a lie. He'd have to start again from the ground-up. He'd be middle-aged before he found the same progress.

“Now that I’m atoned. Now that no one’s watching.” She sat up, drawing closer to his thigh, inwardly cursing at his refusal to move away this time. “All that work you put into catching me, and now what? Nothing?”

“Deputy.” John growled, low and dangerous.

“You want this.” Cora concluded, watching the flush of red bloom from beneath his collar and the flex of his jaw while he grit his teeth.

“There are bigger things at stake right now-”

“And even now that you have me, you’re too scared to do anything about it.”

John inhaled a swift breath, averting his gaze. “That’s beside the point.”

“You want this."

“Would you quit it? You’re wrong.”

Finally, the Baptist shoved himself out of the couch, back-stepping several paces until he was half-way across the room. Once he’d gotten himself to a safe distance, he regarded the Deputy once more, gaze cold and angry while she cycled through unknown victory and equally unknown disappointment.

He wasn’t going to be made to give in.

“You haven’t been atoned. Not yet.” John breathed, turning on his heel and marching into the kitchen.

Cora stared at the doorway he'd escaped through. Now was her chance.

One...two...three...

Okay. He wasn't coming back in a hurry. She'd successfully scared him off.

There was no time to waste.

While the faucet ran in the next room, Cora twisted around, snatching the phone upside down and hastily unclipping the cable from the device. The dial-tone cut to silence. Communication blocked, but cord hooked up to the damn thing was already conspicuous without  evidence of tampering. She couldn't just discard the cable.

There was no way John wouldn’t notice its absence when he returned, and so the Deputy did what any effective home invader would do.

She bit down on the cord, close as she could to the adapter, chewing hard until grinding wire snapped between her teeth. When she plugged the cable back in and set the phone straight again, the machine remained dead, but intact.

Good. That'd buy some time.

The radio was next. Rather than switch the device off, Cora tuned it a few notches, finding a dead station and placing it back right where John had left it.

Done.

Sabotage successful. If Joseph had any intention of making a call-back soon, he’d be going unheard. There was no telling how long it would last, but unless the Baptist was stocked on landlines, half of his communications were disabled entirely.

Cora exhaled, inviting in the momentary relief. Being kept here was one thing. Having to be in the same room as Joseph Seed was another dimension entirely.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” She called, rising to a stand and following the Baptist’s trail.

No response.

When Cora entered the kitchen, John was dabbing his neck with wet hands. The moment he sensed her, he grumbled a sharp curse, bracing his hands against the counter to keep from facing her.

“Is this the plan? We just sit and wait?”

His shoulders seized. “...Yes.”

Cora stalked past him, finding a counter of her own to lean against, finding her own patience dwindling. Coiling irritation at the very notion of Joseph having so much sway over the Baptist that he could seemingly halt time.

“So what’s the point in taking me? In bringing me here?” She spat.

“Disregarding our personal rapport, it’s no small matter, having you here.” John ground out. “My family will want to know-”

“Have you tried calling Jacob?”

Something twitched in John's expression. A button, pushed. Dispelled rage.

“The Father  will-”

There was no holding back the snarl that brewed in her throat. Hitting its boiling point. He did  have that much sway over the man. They were sitting here in stasis, all because of him.

“Are you that fucking sad? We’re stuck here just because you need to hear Joseph tell you how well you did? A whole fucking resistance effort just blew up half of Fall’s End. You caught  me. Dozens of people are dying, and all you can do is sit by the phone?” Cora demanded, scowling while his muscles trembled. “Are you serious?!”

“WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO, CORA?!”  John bellowed, head snapping around to fix her in place, eyes blazing. The sheer volume of him froze her to the spot. "Did you assume that you were somehow different from anyone else the Project takes in? That your place here; that you're even alive  had anything other to do than Joseph requesting it? Did you think that you'd somehow slipped through every possible crack in the system for any reason beyond this path being carved specifically by the Father? Because, frankly speaking, YOU HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!"

The Deputy didn't reply. She couldn't.

Not that it would've mattered.

John, it seemed, was far from finished.

“You're so selfish. One moment you insist on making your own salvation impossible. The next, you assume you can simply start calling shots." He bit, voice already hoarse from yelling, but with no less poison. "You think I enjoy waiting around for whatever order comes next? That I enjoy you waltzing around my home, eating my food, whining that I'm not doing enough  for you? After all the wrath you’ve wrought - after all the death and the destruction - you’re still so fucking entitled to assume that I’d throw aside my loyalty to the Father. All just because you’re here, and not even by fucking choice.”

Cora swallowed, calming the nerves that egged her on to snap back at him. "I didn't - I don't - "

After a moment, the hostility thinned. John's shoulders sagged.

"I know it's not optimal. It might not seem like it, but we're lucky. Things could be a lot worse for both of us, but on Joseph's order, they're not. It's his wisdom that made you being here even possible. So yes; the plan right now is that we sit and wait."

John turned toward her, then. He looked positively miserable.

“What happened last night…can’t happen again.” He explained. “It doesn’t matter that you’re here now. I’m the Baptist. Joseph is my brother. There’s nothing he doesn’t know, and there’s nothing he won’t find out. We need to do everything we can to stay on his good side.”

He did have a point. As much as she wanted John to be the last of her enemies, he was only one of three, and likely the lowest ranked of the Project's leaders. Pushing John to defy a higher power was unwise.

Her job was done, anyway. There was no more need to pursue him. Curiosity didn't matter. Want didn't matter. No meant no.

“Okay.” The Deputy croaked finally, nodding.

John raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She attempted a smile. "Water under the bridge."

He returned the expression. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Great.”

“Cool.”

They both stood still, watching each other for a long moment.

Then Cora’s heart sank, and she felt herself detach from the counter. John did the same, marching toward her while she advanced on him with equal urgency.

Her fingers found the front of his shirt just as his found her face, and his mouth was on hers in a heartbeat. For all her rationalisations, the blonde reciprocated immediately, clutching him closer, humming into his kiss with a pitch she’d normally find mortifying.

“I’m sorry.” John breathed, hardly breaking away long enough to put the words together before he was kissing her again. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean that."

Cora nodded, barely able to formulate a response against him. Every word she reached for melted on her tongue, completely enraptured by the heat of his mouth and his desperate hands not knowing whether they wanted to grip at her hips or keep cradling her jaw.

She didn’t even know she’d been walked backward until she felt the cold countertop hit the small of her back, and then - much more pleasantly - the warmth of John’s body pressing against her front. She gasped, winding a hand into his damp hair and slipping beneath his shirt with the other, pawing at whatever skin she could access and drawing another one of those pitiful sounds she’d pulled from him last night.

“Wasn’t - ah, fuck,” the Deputy choked, not anticipating the Baptist’s impatience when he dipped his head to kiss her neck, arms coiling tight around her waist, “Wasn’t a mistake.”

"Fuck no." John moaned against her throat, tongue barely darting out to taste her skin. “Won’t hit me this time?”

“Not this time.”

He pulled back then, leaving a half inch of aching dead space between them. Swallowing back a pant and looking at her directly. Like he was weighing up every possible pro and con about this scenario. Cora stilled, trading hesitation with the man, sobering for all but a few fearful seconds.

“If you don’t-”

“Don’t.” John breathed. “Just let me commit this to memory.”

“I mean it.”

“Deputy, you have no idea - how many times I’ve -...how much damage this could do."

Cora shifted under his gaze, searching impatiently to find which direction his resolve would fall. "I can keep a secret."

Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, breaking through apprehension.

“You want this.” She murmured.

“God, yes.”

He kissed her deeply, holding her steady through the shiver sent through her as his tongue slid across her bottom lip. Then, as soon as it felt like they were picking back up where they’d left off, he pulled back again. The grin he flashed at her frustration pulled a little noise of protest out of the blonde, and when she chased his mouth, he held her still.

“For the sake of being on the same page,” He began, “you do, too, right?.”

What a ridiculous assertion. What kind of answer was he hoping to gain from that? He already had her consent; did he really need the pride of knowing how badly she wanted this too? It wasn’t even something she’d actively considered, anyway. She’d have to think about-

“Yeah.” Cora breathed, ragged. “Yes.”

John settled into a more comfortable smile, and while the eye contact wasn’t something she could uphold for long, Cora mirrored the expression.

Then, a sigh rolled out of the Baptist. “Thank fucking Christ.”

She didn’t have time to chuckle at that.

His mouth was back on her in a instant.

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“What’d I tell you?” Jess hissed, looking Sharky up and down while she waded toward him through torn up asphalt and cement debris. “What’d I tell you about making a fucking idiot of yourself?”

Sharky traded a look with Hurk at that. The man was nearly unrecognizable from all the dust clinging to him.

“I thought we did pretty good.” The arsonist defended.

“The town’s half blown-up, dipshit.”

“We did real  good.” Hurk weighed in.

He wasn’t wrong. They didn’t even kill nobody they weren’t supposed to. There’d been bumps in the road, sure, but all in all, things hadn’t been a total disaster. Once you translated that into the kind of situation they were in, total disaster  was actually kind of...well, awesome. Especially once the Cougars had arrived.

Sharky hadn’t heard word from over East since they’d left, but things must’ve been mighty fucking boring up there at the County Jail for a whole fucking convoy to come charging through town.

He’d never seen so many baseball jerseys in one place, let alone jerseys toting assault rifles.

There wasn’t any chasing leftover Peggies out of town once they’d shown up. It was a purge so quick and so direct that the blonde understood a little better why Shorty had been so pissed about not getting the extra help earlier.

Everyone had found their way back to each other pretty quick once the chaos had died down. As luck would have it, Kim had been walking Boomer when Eden’s Gate had arrived. She’d managed to get a couple of the general store clerks to safety and found a cattle shed to wait out the fight about a mile up the road.

It might’ve been the adrenaline getting him going, but Sharky could’ve sworn her tits were even bigger than yesterday.

Grace and Mary May reunited quick, but disappointingly did not  start making out. Instead, they helped Kim cart Nick and Pastor Jerome off to Dr. Lindsey.

After they’d rounded up any remaining hostages, the team made their way back to Sharky as the stand-in replacement for the Deputy. That part didn’t surprise him. He was  best mate, after all...after the dog, at least. The part that did surprise him was that the Cougars seemed to do that same.

Tracey surveyed the wreckage on her way toward the group with Sheriff Whitehorse and that tight-lipped Marshal in-tow.

“Jerome says Stammos got carted out with John’s people.” The woman announced. “They took the road down to the airport.”

“Then unless they’re plannin’ on looping back around, they’re probably headed to the ranch.” Adelaide replied.

“Probably a smart move after last time.” Hurk added.

The Sheriff inclined his head, incredulous. “Last time?”

“Long story.”

Sharky watched the disappointment pass over Whitehorse’s face. Must’ve felt shitty; losing all of his employees to the cult.

“I tried chasin’ ‘em down, Sheriff.” He said.

“And given how you’re dressed, Boshaw, it’s no surprise they were so quick to leave.”

“Okay. Ouch.”

“So what’s the plan?” Jess asked.

Tracey was already turning back around, headed for the truck she’d arrived in. “We keep liberating.” She answered. “Stammos called us to take back the valley, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“John’s ranch is almost the Southernmost point before the border.” Whitehorse elaborated. “If we do everything right, he won’t have many friends left to help him cross it once he gets word of us coming.”

“Sounds like the same plan as last time.” Adelaide commented.

“No stone unturned.” He affirmed. “Same as last time. Take care of John the same way we took care of Faith and bring our girls home.”

The Marshal, however, didn’t look as happy about that option. Dude always hated taking the long way around. “And what if John’s taken care of your Deputy before we get there?”

Sharky exchanged a look with the others.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

John’s fingers tangled in Cora's hair, hurriedly tugging out the damp tie and wincing when a caught snag caused the Deputy to hiss. “Sorry. Sorry.” He muttered, breathless.

“You’re - you’re certain this is okay.” She huffed against him. If there was any acknowledgement of the apology on her part, it was only in how she clawed at his vest, dragging his mouth back to hers.

“Not at all.”

“What about your -” A gasp briefly did the trick of silencing her, but then: “What about your brothers-”

“Please don’t mention my brothers right now.” John whined.

Cora eyed him. “Door’s locked?”

John stifled a chuckle at that. “No, why would it be?”

Cora eyed him dangerously.

“I’m kidding." He defended. "What, you think I let people walk in and out of here unannounced?"

“Fucking prick.”

“Obviously, I’m kidding. You’re a-aaah…” His retort dwindled when the blonde’s hands slid down his front, stopping short of the hem of his vest and creeping back up to his collar again. He pulled back to glare. “A captive.”

“And you’re sensitive.” She replied, simply.

“7 years is a long time.” John’s own hands fell from her hair, slipping down her sides until she couldn’t feel them anymore. “Not sure how much I can...handle.” That last phrase came cautiously. Awkwardly.

The blonde’s fingers traced back down while she listened, more quizzical than apprehensive at the warning.

To her, that sounded more like a challenge.

"What."  John grunted at the smirk that played on her lips.

"Just the audacity of you asking for mercy."

A shiver worked its way out of him when she went lower, ghosting over his hips and then back up again. Deliberately avoiding the ever-insistent graze of an erection against her stomach, sporadically tensing against denim confinement whenever her hands got close. Every reminder of it sending a fresh wave of heat through her.

“Seriously-”

“Mr. Seed, either we carry on like this, or you fuck me. Right now.” The Deputy spoke low, watching the Baptist’s pupils dilate more with each word. “Either way, we’ll find out how much you can handle, but 3 years is also a long time. I’d hate for only one of us to break a streak.”

John stared, dumbfounded.

Then, his hands reappeared, tugging around her waist, wrenching her up and onto the countertop. Her wasted no time pushing her knees apart, drawing near enough between her legs that she could reach for his belt, but not close enough that she could find the friction she was looking for. His fingers pawed her thighs, then gripped hard when her fingertips ghosted over the bulge that impatiently jutted between them.

“Ah. Shit.” He shuddered, folding down to balance his forehead in the crook of her neck, holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping him standing. Cora found that she liked the idea of that. Ten times the amount of experience she had, and yet here he was, barely functional.

She pressed her palm against him, content with the hitch in his breath and the little jerk of his hips. A responding, dulled twitch pressed back. Through the obstruction of clothing, it was impossible to get a sense of him, but biology didn’t discriminate. She wanted him in her.

“Doing good.” Cora murmured against John’s temple, running her fingers through his hair in reassurance while his dug into her thighs in a vice grip.

“So good.” He choked when she slowly began to move back and forth. “So - so good. Feels - ah, fuck - let me -“

Maybe a little too quickly, Cora pulled herself closer to the edge of the counter, tugging John’s unbandaged hand further up her thigh and hoping he’d get the message while she busied herself with his belt.

She knew his smirk too well to mistake it for anything else when she felt him hum against her throat.

John straightened, pulling Cora’s attention back up to him. Lo and behold, he was looking as arrogant as ever; as if he hadn’t just been whining at her mercy. “Deputy, have a little patience.”

“After all that ranting about giving, you sure are selfish.”

“Oh, so you were listening.” He grinned, tracing a thumb back and forth over the junction of her hip. “Tell me, what happened to my little ranger who loved to play by the rules?”

“Hypocrite.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Hurry up.”

John flinched when Cora’s hand shoved beneath his still-fastened pants, palming him through his underwear. He managed to hold strong, though, even if his voice near-cracked. “Or what?”

“Or John Seed’s gonna come in his pants.”

Again, he twitched in her grasp, but his movement remained torturously slow.

Realisation hit the Deputy at his resistance.

He was getting a kick out of this.

He was testing her.

“How crazy does it drive you, not having total, complete control?" He asked. His thumb reached the seam of her pants, almost too light to feel. She still throbbed all the same.

"You're an asshole." Cora growled.

“You know, I always suspected you got off on that.”

“Evidence suggests it might be the other way around.”

“Answer me, Deputy.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’ll do just that if you don’t cooperate.” John tutted at her frustrated ineptitude at deciphering his belt buckle. “Are you really in a position to be calling the shots?”

Cora stopped to consider that, locking to his gaze with a scowl. Why did every interaction with him have to feel like a chess game?

Fine.

Not breaking eye contact, Cora simply pulled her sweater over her head in response.

John’s gaze broke immediately. He tried to recover, but the damage was done. There was no picking his composure back up after the attitude slid from his face and left him with nothing but prying eyes and a slackened jaw.

“Well,” He croaked, “when you put it that way…”

“Help me with this.” Cora urged, still tugging at his belt. He acquiesced immediately, although with the two of them hastily fumbling with the same mechanism, the extra help wasn’t much better. John swore under his breath, pulling out of Cora’s reach while she clicked her tongue. “Does that thing double as a chastity belt?”

“It’s not my fault we have a single functional hand between us.”

“You stabbed me first.”

“For God’s sake - fuck - got it.”  John sighed, finally unbuckling the monstrosity, rushing back to the blonde’s reach. She dealt with her own belt while he hurried with his jeans, tattooed fingers shaking. The moment he’d succeeded, his hands flew to her waist, revering bare skin and savouring her impatience for him to touch her where she wanted to be touched.

She would have cussed him out, had his teeth not grazed her lip, refreshing the taste of him with his tongue slipping into her mouth - right as his left hand wriggled it way into her pants and pressed.

Cora saw white for a second. Untouched nerves awakening in a frenzy that had her gasping into that bastard’s mouth. Jesus, she could feel  the grin on his face.

“Hm. Hypocrite.” Came the reminder, followed by a strangled noise when her fingers enclosed around his cock; separated still by underwear, but gripping him all the same. His body shoved against her, crushing their arms between them in the attempt to find his way closer - to find more. “Ah - shit. Careful-”

A knock from beyond the kitchen sent a collective jolt through both of them, and John’s head whipped around in a panic.

“W-...what is it?!” He called, voice cracking.

“John, have you got a minute?” A deeper voice Cora didn’t recognise responded from outside.

“Doubt I’ve got more than ten seconds.” The Baptist hissed to himself. “I recall saying emergencies only! Ask yourself - is this something I need to find John for, or can I find my own way?”

Christ. He spoke to his followers the same way she spoke to hers.

“O-okay. Sorry.”

John didn’t reply. He simply turned his attention straight back to Cora, stroking up and down along the material of her underwear. His cock twitched impatiently in her hand, at odds with his leisurely pace. “You’re soaked through.” He taunted, but the tremor in his voice delivered it as a revelation.

Cora’s brow furrowed. She stroked once, sweeping her thumb over the head of him. “Speak for yourself, Baptist.”

A grunt sounded from the man. His hands moved quickly, yanking her to the edge of the counter and gripping at her pants. Tugging the material down and off her legs while he dropped to his knees on the floorboards. The Deputy’s initial instinct to draw herself together and hide from scrutiny was jarred by the way the Baptist gaped between her legs. Like closing them would be some cruel disservice to him. So, she let him stare. Held still while he drew close, dotting a kiss to her knee and shivering when his beard skimmed her inner thigh.

“Thank you for wearing white.” John murmured, stroking a careful thumb over the cotton, leaving only aching want in his wake.

“That a religious thing?” She tried not to croak, raising an eyebrow.

“Not in this circumstance. Just...thought about it.”

“Oh. You just - casually speculated on the colour of my underwear.”

“Something like that.” He continued the action. Back and forth. Up and down. Trying to find the same spot as earlier. For all his enthusiasm, however, he was still out of practice and just as impatient as she was. He’d draw close, but any hitch in her breath pulled his gaze up to her face, searching for praise and losing his place in the process.

When his mouth suddenly descended upon her, though, fingers giving up their place to yank the material to the side and grant him direct access, the Deputy found herself uncomfortably on the complete other end of the spectrum. From not enough, to way, way too much. A squeak shot out of Cora, and her legs clamped shut on John’s skull just as her fingers gripped his hair in an attempt to pry him away from her. Both actions earned a separate “Ow,” from the man.

John pouted up at her. “What?”

“Stand up.” “I like where I am right now.” He protested. “You’re not shy,  are you? I want  to-”

Cora tugged at him anyway. “I don’t want you to practice on me. I want you to fuck me.”

John blinked. “Okay - not shy.” He pulled himself back to a stand, averting his gaze while she guided his hips back between her legs. “I’m - er - it’s just…-”

He bit back a resigned curse when her fingers circled his erection once again, passing over the noticeable slick of precum on strained cotton.

“Just what?”

“I'd like you to - enjoy it." The admission came. "And I’m not going to last.”

“Good. I'll enjoy that just fine.” Cora replied, earning a questioning look. “Won’t look so smug anymore when you’re coming in record time.”

John's expression darkened at the challenge, but his hands shook as they swatted her away, struggling to manoeuvre the fly of his underwear into just  the right position.

Anger was still the quickest way to get through to him.

“Just you wait." He warned. "I’ll-“

She cut him off with a kiss, pulling his hips against her, and his threats evaporated. They were pressed too close for her to see, but his cock grazed the hem of her underwear, finally pulled free. Then, John’s fingers hooked around the material, pulling it to one side.

The Baptist held her gaze, brow upturned like he was worried.

Was he nervous?

“Ready?” He asked.

He looked...kind of pretty like this. Pupils blown. Lips a little swollen. Hair all messed up. Eye-contact wasn't so uncomfortable when he looked this wrecked.

She nodded. "Yeah." The pitch of his gasp matched hers when the head of him slid with dangerous ease along the wetness of her cunt. All she could focus on was the heat of him. The blunt press, drawing closer and closer to her entrance until he was finally lined up. The ache of resisting muscles and relieved nerve-endings when he pushed forward, torturously slow, concentration and bliss fighting for equal real estate on his face, and okay,  he was exceptionally pretty like this.

A tiny little 'fuck'  crept out of John when Cora sighed at the feeling, insistently encouraging, tugging. She needed more. It wasn't fair. Didn't fucking matter how long for; she just needed to feel him. All of him.

Then, when he was barely two inches in, another knock at the door pulled her out of her stupor.

“John? I spoke to Andy. He says it’s an emergency.”

John froze. Then, his eyes scrunched shut in a long-suffering grimace, and once again, his forehead dropped to Cora’s shoulder. Frustration radiated from him, infecting her within moments.

"Has he been out there the whole time?" She grunted.

"Christ." The Baptist sounded almost amused at that. He pulled back to offer a half-smile.

He had to investigate.

Cora, meanwhile, had no patience for his imminent departure. Her legs locked against his hips, but he was gently prying himself away already, muttering repeated, gasped apologies at her protests.

“I’ll be right there!” He called back, already resetting his belt. “Give me a minute.”

“Are you kidding?” Cora hissed, sliding down from the counter.

“I’ll be 30 seconds. I swear. Then we can - we can go upstairs, and we can stay  there. Emergency or not.” John assured her, punctuating his words with kisses wherever he could land them while she struggled to multitask between receiving and yanking her pants back on. Then, he pulled away completely, stumbling out of the kitchen on visibly shaky legs.

Cora took a moment to silently lament before heading back out into the foyer, buckling her belt while she surveyed the space in an attempt to distract herself from impotent fucking rage.

John murmured away with someone outside, half-visible through the gap he’d left in the door. His arms had crossed, but with his back to her, she couldn’t discern his mood any further.

Nonetheless, her concern grew, and when the man said his goodbyes with a nod and entered the building once more, the Deputy found it had good reason to.

John passed through the room, not sparing her a glance. He snatched the radio he’d abandoned on the coffee table, but to her fleeting relief, simply clipped it onto his belt and moved on.

He’d turned pale.

“Hey.” Cora frowned, following him to the trophy cabinet where he began rifling through memorabilia. “What’s going on?”

“We have to leave.” He muttered, unboxing a small case. It rattled as he shook the content into his hand. 38 Specials, most making it to his back pocket, some clinking to the floor, forgotten when he moved on to withdraw his revolver and tucked it into the back of his pants. “Now.”

John continued hurrying about with Cora hot on his heels, unable to really do anything but watch him build a collection of valuables on the dining table. His coat. His keys. A particularly raggedy old bible. He made some effort to conceal the zip-lock bag he pulled from behind the décor on the mantle; definitely the source of the odour that permeated the foyer.

They traded a look - critical on Cora’s part, and John rolled his jaw while he shoved it out of sight, irritated. Perhaps embarrassed.

“Did you know?” He huffed.

“Mr. Seed, I studied in Colorado. I know what a half-bag looks like.”

“Did you know about the Cougars?” John’s voice hardened. “According to the Chosen, there’s one hell of a convoy inbound from the North. Did you know?”

Oh.

Fuck.

“Oh. Fuck.” Cora noted, still too dazed to even bother lying. “I called them in.”

They actually came?

“Wonderful.” John had stopped to run a hand through his hair. “Truly. Thank you.”

“Well sure, but I don’t see what good they’re gonna do you. They’re probably here to-”

“Sarcasm, Cora.”

“That makes more sense."

John started to pace, then, relenting. Dispersing his temper. He tugged the radio from his belt, holding it to his chin. “Joseph, for God’s sake, come in.”

Half a minute passed by. The little curses under John’s breath became more punctuated until his patience thinned. He angled the dial, and then stopped. Examining the station he’d been using, incredulous.

His gaze flickered to her for a split-second, eyes narrowing, and Cora’s stomach coiled.

Shit.

He knew.

She winced while the Baptist strode past her, anticipating his approach to the phone, investigating an absent dial tone and her now-obvious tampering. He turned the machine over, holding up the ruined cord for her to see.

"Your handiwork, Deputy?" The smile that spread over his face was sharp as ever. The mask was back on.

Perhaps this hadn't been her best plan.

She should've let him go down on her when she had the chance.

[wildernessuntothemselves]

I Hate Me Now

Word Count: 6k 

Genre: Angst, smut 

Summary: You and Wonpil used to be lovers, soulmates even, before your priorities in life got in the way. You wanted to do anything to help your family, no matter how morally ambiguous it is, while Wonpil thought that doing the right thing was of the utmost importance, no exceptions. Now, facing off in court years later, all the old wounds gets torn open again and things finally come to a head.

A/N: *long fart noise* this fic had the potential to be something good but I fucked it up and I’m beyond even caring.

Warnings: inconsistent writing if you’ve ever seen one, kinda femdom, unhealthy as per usual, sad little story.

The neutral, slightly intimidating mask you put on everyday was the one most people were familiar with by now. You rarely showed your real emotions anymore, not since you had lost him. His departure brought on a profound change in your life. There had already been a rift growing between who you wanted to be and who you had to be in order to survive, but when he left he took any remaining idealism left in you with him. It’s funny that the reason he left you was because he couldn’t handle your diverging moral standings, yet it was precisely his departure that cemented the turn you had taken.

Now, with him standing opposite you in the courtroom, fighting for the opposing team, you feel your mask slipping. It was hard seeing him like this. Even though it’s been years already, not having him break into that breathtaking smile of his that was like an ingrained reflex as soon as his eyes would meet yours was disquieting. Now he just frowns and looks away; his big, beautiful eyes that used to be filled to the brim with a sort of dreamy goodness were now empty and tired.

Needless to say, you weren’t on your best game. You could hardly concentrate at all during the trial, and you can bet your ass that your boss knew about your abysmal performance before it even ended. As soon as you were out of the courtroom, he was calling to give you crap about it and condescendingly remarking that if you couldn’t handle such a big case then you should’ve left it to someone who actually knew what he was doing, emphasis on the ‘He’. You assured him that everything was under control and that this wouldn’t happen again. You were just caught off guard, not that you dared tell him that last part. This was a huge case and it could either make or break your career. You couldn’t afford to get distracted by the man you had once thought to be the love of your life, and might still do…

You had to do this for your family. But it seems the man in question intends to put your resolve to the test.

You don’t know how he found you. Perhaps he had followed you out of the courthouse. Did he hear you talking on the phone to your boss? You sure hope not, not when his mere presence was forcing you to face the fact that you never got over him after all, and you didn’t need him to see that. You had hoped that the time and distance would harden your heart and heal the wounds he had inflicted upon it but all it took was one look in his eyes for them to get ripped wide open again.

If nothing else, you wanted to keep your pride. He doesn’t get to break your heart and see you still broken up about it all these years later. So you put on your mask again and smirk at him, “Good work today, Pili.”

His frown deepens at the term of endearment you used to call him when you were together. You suppose you aren’t allowed to use it anymore, which is precisely why you do. “Too bad it won’t do you any good. You always did have a soft spot for the hopeless cases.”

Wonpil puffs his chest out, subconsciously trying to look bigger under your mocking gaze. “Our case isn’t hopeless.”

“Yeah sure, whatever you say, Pili.” You roll your eyes. You should end it there, tell him you have no time for him and leave to go work harder on your case to take him and the people he represents down. But you haven’t made a levelheaded decision since the moment he came back into your life and you just can’t resist adding, “You shouldn’t be wasting your skill on these people. They’re never gonna win. Join my company. I’m sure I can find you a place.”

Wonpil’s face contorts in disgust, “You think I would ever be a part of a company like yours? You kill people!”

“My company doesn’t kill people.” You reply half-heartedly, not really up to defending your employers out of the courtroom.

“Maybe not directly but the chemicals they pollute the environment with has led to the illness and death of countless people. That’s on your hands.”

You’re not surprised that he insists on making you complicit in the actions of the company you’re representing. Wonpil always did have an absolute sense of justice, from the CEO to the janitor, everyone was equally responsible in his eyes.

 “Be careful what you accuse people of, Pili. This could get you in real trouble once my company wins the lawsuit. And they will win.” You smile sadly, “They always win.”

You walk closer to him and reach out for his hand tentatively. You’re surprised when he lets you, and you take a moment to just hold it, feeling the familiar, yet almost-forgotten, weight of it in your own hands. When you lace your fingers together, they fit as perfectly as they did years ago, the heat of him permeating through yours like blood through a corpse revived. 

You know you couldn’t let yourself get carried away for long. You needed to say what you had to say and then withdraw back into yourself when he inevitably rejects you. Rubbing your thumb over the web of skin between his thumb and index, you take a few moments to steady your breath as you willfully shed years worth of mental defenses to allow him to gaze onto the real you, naked from any pretenses and completely vulnerable against the bottomless darkness you see in his own eyes. 

“I’ve missed you so much, you can’t even know. I… I still want you.” You weren’t sure if it was just your voice that was trembling or your entire body—you were holding too tightly onto his hand to be able to tell. “It’s not too late for us. We can still be together. What you’re doing right now is admirable, fighting for those who can’t fight for themselves. You’ve got the most beautiful soul I’ve ever seen… but it’s a losing battle. There is no hope for them, but there is for us. We can have a good life together.”

His lips press together into a thin line and he yanks his hand back, almost throwing you forward when you don’t react fast enough to untangle your fingers as he steps away from you, looking disgusted at the mere thought of what you’re suggesting. “If you really think that I’d not only abandon these people but actually work against them then you don’t know me at all.”

“Oh, I know you.” You look down at your now empty hands, muttering tiredly, “I just hoped that you might’ve changed.”

“And I wish you didn’t. I don’t even know who you are anymore. You’re nothing like the girl I once fell in love with. You’re a monster.”

You let out a bark of laughter to hide the stabbing pain his words delivered right into the center of your chest, cutting up your tattered heart all over again. “And did you follow me all this way just to say that? Aw, Pili, you shouldn’t have.”

He glares at you, utter contempt displayed on his face.

“I hate you.” He curses out before he leaves, not sparing you a second glance, and for that you were thankful. You could barely stomach the fact that the broken woman who was openly sobbing in the middle of the street in broad daylight was you—you didn’t need him to see that.

___________________________

Just like you hadn’t expected to ever face off with him in a courtroom, you also never expected him to show up at your place only days after your less-than-sweet reunion.

“What are you doing here?” You stand with your arms folded over your chest, feeling resentful that he’s forcing you to deal with the heartache he brought with him into your own residence. “How did you even know where my apartment is?”

“You’ve messed with my damn head.” He accuses, looking deeply agitated as he paces back and forth in your living room.

The audacity of this man! He sought you out first, then he rejected you, and now he barges into your home and claims you are messing with him?

You plant your body in his path to stop his pacing, and ask, putting emphasis on each word, “Why. are. you. here?”

He stares at you for a second, exasperated and contemplating what to say, but each time a sentence starts forming, he bites it back abruptly. Huffing, he runs his hand through his hair haphazardly and tries to get past you to start pacing again.

But you jump into action, your hands shooting out to grab him and hold him in place. You won’t let him play games with you. You won’t be able to handle it.

In the process of holding on to him to try to keep him in place, you had gotten much closer to him in proximity. With your arms almost enveloping him, your heart starts beating erratically. This was the closest you’d been to him in years, and by the looks of it, Wonpil wasn’t completely unfazed by it either.

“What do you want from me, Wonpil?” You ask, suddenly feeling weary as if all the fight has seeped out of your body. 

His eyes flit down to your lips as you talk, and they linger there even after you’re done, giving you your answer. Wonpil was never particularly good at hiding his feelings, something he would readily admit to if asked, and you take advantage of it.

You raise your hand to his face carefully as if he’s a frightened animal you don’t want to scare off. When he feels your hand on his cheek, he finally looks you in the eyes again, and you feel a twinge of pity at the helplessness you see in his gaze.

Taking in a deep breath, you ask slowly, “Do you want to kiss me, Wonpil?”

You knew you shouldn’t be doing this; it will only open up your wounds further, but you’ve never gotten to say goodbye to him, and you knew that if you miss this-- probably last-- chance to be with him, you will live to regret it even more.

You’re so lost in your own head that you miss the subtle nod Wonpil gives you and, antsy by your lack of response, he makes the first move, pressing his lips to your own.

It’s an awkward kiss, tight-lipped and uncoordinated as Wonpil is unsure of what he is allowed to do, but feeling the urgency to touch you anyway. His hands are all over you, but not in a good way. They would barely touch a part of you before they moved on to the next, leaving you feeling unsatisfied.

Deciding to take the reins—which was par for the course back during your relationship anyway—you grab his hands and hold them behind his back, making him whine when you break the kiss. “Don’t whine. You don’t have the right to.”

He bites his lip, stifling anymore protests from coming out. Pulling on his arm, you lead him to your bedroom and push him on the bed. He tries to pull you down with him but you shake him off. Again, he starts whining but with a sharp raise of your eyebrow, he pipes down immediately.

Grabbing the hem of your oversized shirt, you cock your head at him. “Do you want me to take this off?”

“Yes, please.” He breathes out before you’re even done talking.

You slide the shirt up your body slowly, teasingly, making sure to give Wonpil a show. With the shirt off, your breasts are entirely exposed for you to play with them and tease Wonpil some more. Pushing them together, messaging them, twisting the nipples lightly, you do everything you know will drive him crazy until he’s biting down hard on his lip so he wouldn’t piss you off, but you could see from the obvious bulge in his pants and the way his right leg was bouncing up and down impatiently that he was getting needy.

You give your breasts one last squeeze before you slide your hands down your abdomen and towards the waistline of your shorts, pushing it down on one side only to pull it back up and do the same thing with the other side.

“Please.”

“Please, what? You want me to take this off too?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought I was a disgusting monster and you can’t even look at me. You have no problem with it now that you want to get your dick wet, huh?”

He averts his eyes, having the audacity to look ashamed and it pisses you the fuck off. 

You grab his jaw, making him face you, and hiss down at him. “Either you grow some fucking balls and face the implications of your own desire or you get the fuck out of my sight.” 

You needed him to voice out his desire so he’d admit that he’s equally responsible for what is happening. You’re not going to let him paint you as a monster seducing poor, helpless him. He wants this too, and he needs to be held accountable for that.

“What do you want me to say?” He asks, entirely too chagrined than he had any right to be. 

“That you’re a fucking hypocrite.” You spit, astonished at how disgusted you were with him, while still wanting to be one with him. Your whole relationship is a mess, and you’re convinced that either it was never meant to be, or that the gods themselves are jealous of your love and are trying to hurt you.

“I’m… I’m a hypocrite. There, are you happy?” He challenges, but you just let out a tired sigh, almost having expected him to deny it and put an end to this—to tell you that this is insane and you’re insane, but he validates your insanity and now you can’t back down.

No. None of this makes you happy. You haven’t been happy ever since he left you.

You take your shorts and panties off unceremoniously and straddle him, staying still for a moment to see if he’ll try something, but his hands stay balled to his sides as he awaits your permission to touch you, so you give it to him. “Go ahead. You can touch.”

His hands immediately go to your breasts, touching you in the exact same way you were just touching yourself, and you laugh. “Aw, Pili, you wanted it that bad?”

He frowns in that adorably pouty way he unconsciously does sometimes, and it makes your smile falter, the memory of something you used to have but is just out of your reach now is all too painful.

He forcefully takes you out of your thoughts when his mouth latches onto one of your breasts, placing kisses all over it and sucking on your nipple. You moan out, a hand reaching for his hair and automatically tugging on it the way you know he likes, which only makes him needier, one of his hands eagerly moving down to your pussy, and the moan that leaves him lets you know just how excited he is to find you dripping. Too impatient to wait, his fingers move down to your hole right away. When a finger enters you, he’s the one pulling back with a throaty moan.

You chuckle breathlessly, feeling yourself quivering around his finger. “Does my pussy feel that good, Pili?”

He nods, pumping his finger in and out of you, making you gasp as you start unbuttoning his shirt. “Tell me what it feels like.” 

“Tight. Wet. Soft.”

“Hmm, and did you miss it?” You slip his shirt off his shoulders, forcing him to remove his hands from you, but as soon as the shirt is off, his hands are back on you again, one grabbing a handful of your breast and the other two fingers deep in you.“Do you miss how it feels around your cock?”

“Yeah.” He closes his eyes and you know that he’s imagining it. 

“Do you want to feel it again?”

“Yes.” His eyes snap open again, full of silent pleas.

You push him backwards until he’s lying down in the middle of the bed with you straddling him, his cock snug between your wet folds as you slowly rub up and down against it. With your hands holding his arms over his head, he looks up at you, gaze brimming with need as he holds his breath and waits, but you don’t give it to him yet.

“Look at you. You were acting all high and mighty earlier but now you’re willing to do anything to get inside this pussy, huh?” You taunt, rubbing yourself with the tip of his dick.

When he doesn’t say anything, you lean down to bite his collarbone, making him yelp. “Answer me, Pili.”

“Yes, please, give it to me.” He nods emphatically, throwing his head back and crying out as you sink down on him. 

As soon as you have him all the way inside of you, you know you are in trouble. God, he fills you up so good. Everywhere his cock touched inside of you burns with pleasure and you can’t even help yourself; you ride him hard and fast, desperate to feel the kind of pleasure you haven’t felt in years. Everything is just different with him, the way he fits inside of you, the needy, almost reverent look on his face, his choked off moans, they all work you up to a frenzy. 

“Does it feel good, Pili?”

“Yes. So, so good.”

“I bet you’ve been fantasizing about this for years... just lying in bed, fucking your own spit-covered hand and imagining it was me taking you.” 

“Yeah, y-yeah…” He sniffles, lower lip trembling as he readily admits to it.

“You’re gonna cry?” You spit out, suddenly enraged, and come to a stop. “Fuck, you’re so pathetic.” 

“No! I’m sorry. I’ll stop. Please keep going.” 

“No. I won’t let you twist this narrative into you being the victim.” You fall back onto the bed and pull him up over you. “If you want me, take me.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps as he considers his options for a second, and you lay completely still under him, waiting for him to make the decision on his own, half-wishing he’d stop this madness. But he doesn’t.

Grunting, his hands grab your hips as he pushes his length back inside you. It only takes a few unexpectedly sharp thrusts for you to cooperate and wrap your arms and legs around him. Goosebumps erupt all over his skin when you pull at the hair at the nape of his neck, the shaky moan your action elicits causing heat to start gathering in your belly once again. You stare up at him in hunger, admiring how sexy he looks as the pleasure overtakes his features.

“Shit…shit, you feel so good.” Wonpil rasps out, his eyes squeezing shut as his thrusts turn sloppy. “ I can’t hold on much longer.”

“Don’t you dare.” You snap at him, your nails digging red trails down his back, making his hips stutter. 

“Please, I can’t hold it.” He shakes his head, desperate to get you to let him cum.

“No.” You hiss, silencing him with a kiss. You swallow his whines as your hands grab his ass and force him to keep fucking you. The more he squirms, the more his hips grind against you, rubbing coarsely against your clit and bringing you oh-so-close to your orgasm. 

But—seemingly just a second away from release—Wonpil goes rigid under you, his body freezing up too hard to allow you to move him anymore. His mouth tears away from your own in a loud moan as his dick twitches inside you and fills you up with his hot cum.

You can’t believe it. You were so, so close. Frustration and disappointment fill up the spaces the receding pleasure leaves behind.

“I told you to stop.” You hear him say meekly, and you sigh as you’re left tense and unfulfilled, just like always. 

“It’s fine.” You mutter darkly, pushing him off you, and Wonpil’s face falls, shame spreading all over it.

You know your reaction is hurting him. Wonpil hated not pleasing you. He took it as a personal failure if you were even the slightest bit unhappy with his performance. His desire to please and your desire to be pleased are what brought you together in the first place many years ago. But honestly, all you can think about right now is that mind-blowing orgasm you were just robbed of because he couldn’t hold back just a little bit more.   

But before the last bit of pleasure inside you recedes from your body, it is forced back in when Wonpil, still half-hard and sheathed inside you, starts moving again, fucking his cum into your sensitive pussy.

“What are you doing?” Your mouth hangs open in shock and pleasure, and you watch him grit his teeth and set a frantic pace. As his cock starts hardening inside of you again, he’s able to fuck you harder and harder, the determined look on his face the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen.

His moans are loud, and you can’t tell if they’re from pleasure or pain as Wonpil never once lets up his assault, hitting just the right spot that has you seeing white. When his thumb flicks your clit, it is over for you, your hands flying out to grab his face and pull him down into a searing kiss as you cum. 

When you pull back from the kiss, signalling the end of your orgasm, Wonpil collapses into a sweaty mess next to you, still clinging to your body by wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck as you both catch your breath.

“What’s so funny?” He perks his head up, asking as you start shaking with laughter in his arms. But the more you look at him, the harder you laugh. This is just all so absurd.

Wonpil watches you uneasily. He needs assurance, something that he had always relied on you to provide for him, but you can’t do that this time. 

You come down from your laughter fit with a deep sigh. “Get out.”

He’s taken aback at your sudden coldness. This isn’t what he expected, not what he was used to from you, and you almost start laughing again. Is he really that clueless? Did he expect things to be just like they were before after what he’s done?

His eyes flit between yours, searching for a comfort he won’t find in them. “But—but… aren’t we going to talk about this?"

“Talk about what, Wonpil?” You ask in exasperation, “Have you changed your mind about my work?”

“No, but—”

“But you want me to make the sacrifice for you.” You finish his sentence for him. “This is why you’re here, isn’t it? You refuse to give up your job but you expect me to give up mine for you.”

“It’s the right thing to do.” He bristles, sitting up.

“I don’t care about the right thing. All I care about is my family.”

His face hardens at that, and through gritted teeth, he says, “Your family isn’t going to starve if you work at another firm.”

“Quality of life isn’t measured by whether you starve or not. I want them to have a good life.” You don’t know why you even bother anymore, he’s never going to listen. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He tears himself away from you and gets up, angrily putting on his clothes. “Yes because I’m just a poor orphan boy who will never understand what family means. Isn’t that right?”

“Pili… you know I didn’t mean it like that.” You unconsciously reach out for him but he jumps away.

“Yes, you did. You always pitied me for not having a family.” Pain twists Wonpil’s pretty features. “You know, for a while, I actually thought you could be my family.”

“No, Pili. I couldn’t have.” You sigh sadly, the deepening look of hurt on his face cutting you up. “Because you left me. And family never leaves.”

His mouth opens and closes like he wants to say something but doesn't even know what. Collecting himself, Wonpil scoffs and turns towards the door.

“Yeah, like that.” You mutter, collapsing back on the bed as you hear the sound of your front door opening and slamming shut. 

___________________________________

You know it is wrong but you can’t stay away from each other. Now that you have had a taste of the forbidden after years of having sworn off each other, you couldn’t find it in you to stop.

You find yourself in each other’s beds again and again, hurling accusations at each other and fucking your emotions out until you’re too tired to do anything but sleep, each time getting more and more exhausted until you stop trying all together, just blocking out everything and focusing on the here and now as if nothing else existed outside of your respective bedrooms. 

Your nights have been sleepless ever since he's gotten back into your life, and not just for the obvious reason that he’s the person you thought was the love of all your lives, past or present. No, many nights were spent just staring at each other, no words uttered for fear of disturbing this fragile improbability that brought you back together, or holding each other so gingerly as if you were made of matter and antimatter and your meeting could annihilate not only yourselves but the entire world you’ve built around you. 

It’s a bubble and you know it, the translucent shell that surrounds you gleaming all rainbow-like when the light of forgotten dreams hits it just right. It sways and wobbles, signaling its impending explosion any moment now. And yet, you stay curled up around each other as if you can’t see the surface tension on the verge of breaking.

Every once in a while, one of you would lean forward and press their lips against the other’s, and you’d close your eyes and pretend like these past years have been nothing but a bad dream and you’re still college students, young and lost and unsure of everything in the world except for the notion that love is eternal and that you have already found it in each other.

You wonder what you’d look like now to your past selves, having gained all the conviction and knowledge you would’ve never thought you would possess, but having lost the one thing that made any of it worth a damn. You bet your past selves would hold each other and cry at the sight of the broken you holding onto the jagged pieces of your once-sweet notion with bleeding hearts and crushed souls.

Tears trickle down your face, and Wonpil reaches up to wipe them with the backs of his fingers, pressing his lips to yours again when the branching stream reaches even your lips.

Pulling back ever so slightly, he whispers to you and to the dying universe around you, the vibrations of his voice reaching your lips through the tiny distance between you, sounding choked up like he had begun crying too, “I wish we could stay here forever, just forget about everyone and be forgotten by them.”

You sigh and wrap yourself around him, his starry eyes shuttering closed and a soft pout forming on his lips as he drifts off to sleep, just like old times. And you're left alone to wonder... if you could do it all over again, would you have chosen differently?

______________________________

You knew something was off. Despite the time and distance that have whittled down your sense of him, you still knew that something was off. Your body had picked up on so many little things—the way his eyes glossed over when he would force himself to face you, his excessively soft touches that resembled those of a volatile lover silently apologizing for his latest outburst, the lingering looks he gave you as if he was memorizing every little detail of you before you went away—it just took your brain too long to make sense of it all.

Or maybe you just didn't want to believe it. You got too greedy and wanted to live in your fantasy world just a little bit longer, and it cost you everything. 

Looking at him now, you think he’s saying something to you but every word is muffled as if you were submerged in water. He gets agitated, shouting something again and again that gets just a little clearer every time as he forces you back to the surface and you register that it’s your own name.

When you blink, your gaze finally focusing on him, he breathes a sigh of relief. “You’re scaring me.”

“I wish I had never met you.” Your sentence is slow and raspy like the ghostly murmur of someone fished out of water.

“Don’t say that.” He whimpers, "I had to do it." He says it like he means it, like he really couldn’t stop himself from betraying you, using you, ruining your life. "You said it yourself, we never would've won. It was the only way. These people depended on me."

"And what about me?" You rasp, tears stinging your eyes. "I loved you."

"And I love you." He tries to hold you but you push him away.

"They fired me.” You inform him monotonously, “They had me blacklisted to make sure I would never find a job in this field again."

Of course they did. What company will want you now that you've shown yourself not to be reliable? You slept with your rival and allowed him to steal crucial documents that could jeopardize the entire case from right under your nose. Your stupid amateur mistake could cost the company millions.

"How am I going to provide for my family now?" You moan, not really asking him.

"You could join us. It's not a big pay but—”

Your hand goes to pull at your hair in frustration, “God, do you ever shut the fuck up?”

"I'm sorry.” He holds his head down, sobbing.

"No, you don’t get to cry about ruining my life! You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself! You don’t—” You stop abruptly, unable to breathe. Cradling your head now, you lament, "Oh god, what am I gonna do now?"

"I don't know."

"No, you never know." You say bitterly. "I don’t want to ever see your face again."

His head whips up, "Don't say that..."

“Go.”

"I didn't mean for all of this to happen--"

"Go." You shriek and he flinches back. His lower lips tremble as he tries to hold his tears back to no avail. In a shaky voice, he says, "I'll give you some time to calm down but I'll be back. I'll fix this."

"God, Wonpil," You suck in a shaky breath, "for once in your life, I wish you'd leave it alone."

He jerks his head away, wiping at his tears furiously, "I'll see you later."

_____________________________

You struggle to hold back tears as you wait inside your cramped studio apartment. You don’t know how much longer you can stand to do this— lie to your parents about getting fired and blacklisted, telling them that you quit for moral differences, accepting money from the man who ruined your life just so they wouldn’t find out for a little while longer.

But you couldn’t do anything to help yourself, let alone support your family without Wonpil’s charity. The only jobs you are able to get now are in the service industry and those barely pay your rent and living expenses. You couldn’t even go back to your hometown and your family for fear that they’d figure out the truth, and you just couldn’t let that happen.

You knew your father would insist on getting back to work in order to help support the family. You barely even had him convinced that his condition doesn’t allow him to work and that he needs to rest. If he finds out you not only lost your job but also any hope for a future one in that field, he’d go back to work right away, and that could very possibly kill him.

Your siblings’ future now lies unknown. The eldest of your siblings after you is a senior now, and soon you’ll have to tell her that she isn’t going to college like you promised her she would. She has to abandon her dreams in order to get a job to help provide for the family, and as your other siblings grow older, they too would follow in her footsteps; a family that came from dirt and will die in it, that’s what Wonpil’s ideals have cost you.

After everything you’ve done, after all you’ve gone through, you’re still nothing. It’s funny that Wonpil is fighting for the poor and innocent when he’s the one who has proven to you once and for all that the rich will stay rich and the poor will stay poor and under the feet of the rich.

The case he betrayed you for was a loss in the end. After a long, tedious trial, his clients were forced to settle because they couldn’t afford to pay for a trial that kept getting prolonged, a strategy the rich and powerful employed in order not to lose doomed cases, in the end making the poor people poorer and worse off than they were before. That’s what Wonpil does. He makes people hope and believe that maybe, just maybe the world isn’t as shitty as it seems, only to shatter them completely when he can’t follow through on his beautiful promises. He breaks them because he made them hope.

Hearing the doorbell ring, you get up to answer it, moving mechanically. After you swing the door open, you stand in the way so Wonpil wouldn’t be able to barge in like he tries to sometimes.

He hands you an envelope which you take with a heavy heart. Every envelope you accept is a debt piled on you that you’ll live the rest of your life paying back.

“I’m working three jobs right now but I hope to find something with a better pay soon so I can start paying you back.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.” He rushes to say, but you cut him off. “Yes, I do.”

He sighs and stares at the floor, fiddling with his finger. It annoyed the hell out of you. “Is there something you want?”

His head shoots up, eyes wide at having been caught.

“I—“ He clears his throat after he chokes on the word. “I miss you.”

You hate yourself because of how his words still affect you, how you wish you could fall into his arms and let him comfort you until there are no more tears left in your eyes.

But you won’t cry. You won’t let yourself be vulnerable in front of him. Never again. 

“Goodnight, Wonpil.” You say coldly, closing the door in his face before he can say anything else.

______________________________

[fallenfurther]

Homecoming - Earthbound

Chapter 2 of Homecoming. John and Jeff.

Thank you for the response to my first chapter and Josie will return later on as the story develops.. The next few chapters are set  within the last episode of the series  , between Jeff returning to the island and stepping out Thunderbird Two and him sitting down to take the rescue call. There is no way Jeff is fit and health after eight years alone in space, so these chapters fill in that recovery and continues as he finds his place within the family and organisation again. 

This chapter is an emotional one, so trigger warnings for trauma, death, last wishes. 

*********

Jeff placed his cutlery down on the empty plate, before leaning back into the cushioned back of the chair. The food was excellent, though anything was better than what he'd survived on for the past eight years. It helped that he knew there was no expense spared for his stay. It felt so strange but comfortable to feel full again and his body was feeling better for it. The nurse popped her head around the door and smiled.

"Want me to take the tray from you?"

"Yes please."

Lauren swished her way over to him, picked up the tray and left him alone. Jeff had various therapy sessions and doctors checking in on him and he welcomed the breaks from them. He just had to keep looking forward, knowing that the light at the other end was to spend the rest of his life with his sons. How he'd missed them. Each one imprinted in his mind, clear as day, spurring him on. They visited him when they could, though it depended entirely upon the number of callouts and if someone was fit enough to fly. International Rescue seemed much busier now than eight years ago. Eight years away from everything. So much had stayed the same and yet the important stuff had grown and changed. Particularly his little Alan. He was the smallest, just, but he'd matured, become more confident and was an amazing astronaut. Normally he would have been angry at Scott and the boys for letting someone so young fly Thunderbird Three. He'd always known the dangers of space. A teenager doesn't. But having seen Alan pilot Thunderbird Three, making her dance elegantly between asteroids, he understood. Alan had flown the Zero-XL to save him. The talent that boy had was incredible. How could Jeff deny the boy who followed so much in his own footsteps, who shared his passion for space? It pained him to know he hadn't been around to help nurture it.

Jeff forced himself out of his chair, joints complaining from his physiotherapy session that morning. The gravity in the Oort cloud had been variable but being back on Earth it had an intensity he could get no reprieve from. John had suggested a skint on Thunderbird 5, but the doctors insisted he have no Zero-G exposure until he was medically fit, insisting his body needed to adjust to gravity first. They also ruled out a trip in Thunderbird Three as the forces that would be applied to his still healing body would be too intense. Jeff was itching to witness Alan fly the Thunderbird first hand. Jeff opened the patio door and stepped out into the warm breeze and sunshine. He still had moments of panic when he realised he didn't have a helmet on, or when he realised it wasn't close by, but the fresh air transported him back to the time before he was stranded. Even now it didn't always feel real, being on Earth. Almost two months and he still had to pinch himself sometimes, still shed tears at the sight of his boys visiting. The small private garden attached to his room was a small haven where he could get used to the world again. He followed the path to the plant-laced wooden gazebo beneath which a table and chairs stood waiting. He took a stroll down the small path circling it, not quite ready to sit yet, the wind chimes tickling above him as he brushed his hand through the purple flowers, sending a wave of lavender in the air.

Eventually he had to sit down. His tablet was on the table where he'd left it that morning. Flicking it on, he pressed his thumb to the corner, activating International Rescue's secure network. John had willingly let him have access, walking him through the new filing system before letting him loose on it. Jeff was sure John or that little AI of his was monitoring every document he saw. He opened up yet another mission report, he'd started making a timeline of rescues, only for it to be completed by EOS, listing the main statistics such as time, craft used, and which sons were involved. The timeline was worrying. International Rescue had started off slow, only going to major rescues, however nowadays barely two days went by without a need to be called out. International Rescue had response times and equipment that outmatched local agencies, but it meant his boys were often being pushed to the limits. There were meant to be fail-safes in place and compulsory downtime to stop back to back working, but all that had been side-lined so lives could be saved. He'd started with the older reports and with each one his sons got better and more efficient at writing them, but he was starting to see their exhaustion. International Rescue hadn't been designed for the workload it was taking on and something was going to snap. Jeff feared it would be his boys. He'd just got them back and now he feared he'd lose one of them.

It was never meant to be this way. Jeff had expected a little increase in workload, but nothing like this. The GDF had tried to help, as he'd found out from the last report about their robots, but that had proved unsuccessful. He didn't want to raise it with them, not yet at least. Jeff planned to finish catching up with the reports, machine specifications and chat with Brains to see what had happened and what could be done. An idea was already forming, but he knew he had to be careful, and knew he couldn't step on anyone's toes. He could see his place in International Rescue wasn't where it used to be, though it had been suggested that he take over the comms so John could rest or do other work. However, this wouldn't solve the problem. They all loved him, were so happy he was back and yet it was exhausted men that visited him. They came often in ones or twos, often with bags under their eyes, sometimes even straight from a rescue in Virgil and Gordon's case, showering on Thunderbird Two which would be parked on the green behind the facility. They would come in trying to hide how tired they were to see him, sometimes a guilty look if they hadn't come sooner. Jeff understood now, he would complain if he didn't want to see them so badly. He should send them home with a clip around the ear and set his mother on them. Instead he opened his arms and embraced them, forever thankful that he still could.

He turned back to the reports, chimes filling the air with each light gust. He only looked up when some light footsteps came along the path, and a smile crossed his face. John, still in his uniform, settled into the chair before him.

"Afternoon Dad."

The smile on his son's face reached his tired eyes. John's inconsistent sleep was something Scott had mentioned. Getting John to sleep properly or to get him out of orbit was a challenge. Though he would often find time to pop down using the space elevator and would get Mum to help EOS with monitoring the world.

"Afternoon John, I'm guessing everything is going well? Will your brothers be joining us?"

"It is and no, they won't," John yawned, "it was a nineteen hour rescue so they are all catching up on sleep."

"Like you should be."

John rolled his eyes bringing a smile to Jeff's face. How many times had the boy done that as a teenager? Memories flooded back of John curled up with a book, Gordon, Alan or both on the living room floor, only for him to roll his eyes at something one of them had said. It was mainly Gordon, informing Alan of things that weren't quite true.

"I couldn't sleep."

"How about we go sit on the bench in the corner, the cushions make it extremely comfortable."

John nodded. Jeff brought the tablet with him and got up, his pace slower than his son's. John already had the cushions out the base and was on the seat when Jeff got to him. They sat down side-by-side, Jeff placing his arm over John's shoulder and pulling him close. His son didn't resist, laying his head against Jeff’s chest. This was the contact Jeff craved. Devoid of it for so many years, he still needed to be reminded that this was real.

"People died."

Jeff sat still, not saying the many things he could, knowing John needed time. John needed to work himself through it, needed to speak and be heard. So Jeff waited.

"It was a mudslide following an earthquake. Collapsed buildings and mud. That's what they had to deal with this time."

"Mud is like snow, it takes and rarely gives back. Hundreds of people are still missing, many bodies that may never be recovered, or will have to be DNA matched to be identified. We can do earthquakes and mudslides, we're efficient, but it takes its toll."

"They are all exhausted, physically and mentally. Grandma's enforced downtime but I don't know how long it'll last. Another rescue and they'll all be up and away before she can stop them. I would ground the craft for her but that would only cause suppressed anger to rise."

John's gaze was aimed at the ground, his whole body was unearthly still except for the rise and fall of his ribcage. Jeff knew John was thinking, debating what to say next. As the minutes passed and John remained silent Jeff knew it was time to coax it out.

"What about you? What weight are you carrying?"

John's fingers flexed, a hesitation, debating whether to share what was weighing him down more than gravity. It was the reason John was here, Jeff knew John saw and heard things the others didn't think about. Or if they did, they were helpless to do anything about it. John needed someone he could trust. He needed his father. Jeff's thumb started to rub the man's shoulder, offering more comfort.

"I…there were just so many people. They all had phones, all calling in. Some were petrified, others screamed, children and adults all with the same fear in their voices. All asking for help, to be rescued. Some were fine but it was a friend or family member in trouble. I talked to one young man through first aid, he had to tourniquet his younger brother's leg. His brother had already lost a lot of blood and was unconscious. I got Gordon to go there but when he found them it turns out the young man was in shock. He hadn't wanted to believe his brother was dead and he had done the first aid on the body. He had refused to leave his brother. It took Gordon five minutes to drag him away."

"I went straight from that to a child who was hurt and her mother wasn't responding. She cried; cried so much. She screamed when Virgil unpinned her arm and again when she realised he was leaving her mother behind."

A tear skipped down John's cheek. Jeff kept quiet, knowing too well what the screams of a child for a dead parent were like; how much they pierce your heart and tear into your soul. No matter whose child it was always painful.

"I heard so many last words. I've a document of names and last requests. Things they wanted to say. They are mainly 'I love you' to various family members and spouses. So many people wish they had said it more. I heard so many phone lines go quiet."

Another tear.

"I was working flat out, Grandma was taking calls from the island, but I still want to have done more. I wanted to save more. Maybe if I had directed Scott here and Virgil there or if I could have kept her calmer her rescue wouldn't have taken so long. So many lives were lost. So many we couldn't save. It's our job to save people. We should have saved them."

Jeff reached his right arm up and hugged John, tears silently falling. He knew there would always be rescues like this, where no matter what they did, many people would still die. There was nothing that could be said or done to fix it. The pain would always be felt. Holding his son, he let John cry it out in a safe place. It was his job, as a father, to be there when his sons needed him. He knew from the reports that he wouldn't be going out on rescues, his body too old and damaged to keep up with his boys. But just as his mother had, Jeff knew he would find his place again. He was still needed, even if it was just to answer the odd call, to help as Mum had all this time, to shoulder that burden and still be there at the end of the day, to help them process it all.

His eyes fell onto the mop of ginger hair, messed up by the position they'd been in, and smiled. It was the result of a hidden gene that had popped up and Lucille had adored it. It shone in direct sunlight and would give John an angelic glow. He’d been their quiet angel. Hardworking, often out of sight, but always there. The man's eyes were closed and he had become a dead weight against Jeff. It'd been more than eight years since a son had fallen asleep in his arms. There would be no complaint from Jeff. He would sit here for as long as John needed. Jeff peered down at his boy, heart full of love and pride for the quiet reserved man.

"I love you son."

[haddocknumber3]

Why the Supernatural Finale was Bad and Misguided

(This is the script I wrote for a video essay I uploaded to Youtube so that’s why there are lines across the page at points because it was broken up into sections that I could record individually)

The Finale of Supernatural was bad.

There, I said it. Now I know the finale was pretty divisive and there’s a lot of people who really loved it and that’s absolutely okay. I do understand most of the viewpoints that have been made to defend the finale. First though, I want to give a brief history of me and the show.

I started watching Supernatural in Feb 2019 when a friend recommended it to me. Like so many other people who have fallen in love with the show, once I started watching I couldn’t stop. I absolutely loved it and luckily I started watching at the perfect time because I was able to watch the final season live with everyone else which is an experience I will always cherish, regardless of my opinions towards the finale.

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When 15x19 was released, I was on holiday and while I thought of waiting till I got home to watch it along with the finale, I decided to jump into it. Sadly, I was a little underwhelmed going into it because I saw a minor spoiler on Rob Benedict’s Instagram with him posing with Jared, Jensen and Alex saying “That’s it for me. What a ride. Thank you again to this amazing cast, crew, and group of writers past and present. And to the best fans in the world. My life is forever changed.”

Regardless of that though, I still really enjoyed the episode. It felt rushed but I was still really satisfied with it and I was pumped to see where the final episode would take things…

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In the week leading up to the final episode, I deleted all social media and stayed away from anything that could possibly provide spoilers for the finale. I was so damn excited. I was just as excited about the finale of SPN as I was about Endgame the year prior, which I’ll also be doing a video on soon. So when I finally got home from holiday I jumped straight on the CW website and watched the finale.

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Guess what? I absolutely loved it. I couldn’t have asked for a better finale. I cried my eyes out and I had never felt that level of heartache towards any piece of media ever, besides maybe Schindler's List and Life is Beautiful. But as the final scene played, I sat back with incredible satisfaction. I was so sad but so happy at the same time. However when I started reading the reviews I was taken aback by the negativity towards the finale. I genuinely didn’t understand and took the stance of ‘Oh these people just don’t understand the show they're watching and they just didn’t get it.”

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Yeah…I was one of those people. I read into a few reasons why people didn’t like the finale and I sort of understood their stance, but I still remained firm with my opinion. However, over the last few months my opinion had begun to change.

It’s now May 2021 as I’m writing this and I can firmly say that the finale of Supernatural is bad. Actually, it’s really bad. 

Not only have I now changed my opinion on 15x19 which I now consider to be a good, but not that great penultimate episode, but I genuinely believe that this finale, 15x20, destroyed the progress of 15 seasons worth of character development and story for a simple and misguided finale. In this video I’ll be breaking down why that is, and an ending of my own that would hopefully satisfy all fans. Here’s how to flush 15 years and 15 seasons of television down the drain:

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 Title card: ‘Thematic Inconsistencies’

A REALLY great video by Media Buzzkill called ‘The Fiction of Free Will: A Supernatural Video Essay’ breaks down the final episode along with the final season exceptionally well and I’ll link that video in the description because they go really in depth with the concept of meta and how it fits into the show’s narrative and man, I keep re-watching it because it’s brilliant and an almost perfect summary of my feelings towards the finale.

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The thematic inconsistencies present in the finale are quite astounding to be frank because the penultimate episode was the perfect way to set up the final episode, simply with the thematic question of: What do Sam and Dean do once the story is over? What do they really want out of life now that they have finally escaped the hamster wheel.

By the end of 15x19, there are a few thematic through lines that are present that should have been followed through on in the finale in order to make a satisfying conclusion to the story:

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-        The concept of freedom for the Winchesters and what that means for both of them as individuals. (I’ll talk more about this during the character section of the video as I’ve got a lot to say about it and I want to talk about other things first.)

-        Family don’t end in blood (this is made clear by the extensive and frankly amazing montage at the end.)

-        Meta narrative

Thematically, it’s clear from the Season 14 finale that the final season was going to be focusing on the brilliant meta narrative that the show had already been toying with for over a decade, ever since Chuck was originally introduced.

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In my opinion, this was the only direction for the show to go in during its final season as they would have been able to tie up all the loose ends the show had whilst making the season feel grand and conclusive. By doing this, it makes the entire show feel much tighter as a result. Why? Because, in retrospect it’s made very clear where the show is heading, and it also bolsters the concept of the meta narrative which then only really allows for one type of ending that would feel satisfying. That is; Sam and Dean defeating Chuck and gaining their freedom from the story.

Thematically this is pure genius, and it seemed like we were going to get that ending after all��  *sigh*

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Sadly, in the finale, everything that had been set up beforehand was utterly destroyed in one single episode. Instead of leaning into the thematic question of; what do Sam and Dean want now that they’re out of the story, the finale goes the opposite route and has them continue hunting. The exact same thing that they have been doing all their lives. It also strays away from that thematic question by doing exactly what shouldn’t have happened. Thematically, the finale stated that even though Sam and Dean had defeated Chuck and overcome his story, they still ended up meeting the same fates that they had previously wanted or desired. However, that’s another thing entirely that I’ll go into a little later. 

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Again though, the finale states that no matter what conflict you may overcome, no matter how hard you push to gain the freedom you never thought you could have, you will never achieve it because you're destined to the fate you previously desired/thought you deserved at the start of the story. This is genuinely the worst possible ending as it directly conflicts with the concept of the meta narrative that they had been building throughout the entire final season. 

A common defence of the finale that many people have given is that the show began with two brothers, so therefore the fact that it ended with the two brothers is narratively and thematically perfect. In some ways that is true and I’ll get into why that is later, but the way that was executed in the finale and how that concept was used, was terrible. 

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The show did start with the two brothers, alone on the road hunting the evil supernatural beings of the world. In the beginning, the themes were pretty clear. Family and love will triumph over any evil, and nothing is stronger than family, hence the phrase “Family don’t end in blood”. These themes were presented narratively through the brother’s relationship and how far they would go for one another to protect each other, even sacrificing themselves. However, this ISN’T how the show should have ended. Yes, those themes are still relevant and should’ve remained consistent even until the final episode, but to say that it’s perfect for the brothers to start the show alone and end the show alone with the same mindset and thematic outlook as the beginning is ridiculous. 

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To have the finale only centre around the brothers is a good idea, but the thematic choices along with the character’s fates was incredibly contradictory and awful to everything that had been set up before, but again I’m going to delve into this aspect a little bit later.

For the writers to revert the narrative of the final season back to the first season in the final episode is monumentally wrong and misguided. As a result of this, the final episode feels like a strange nostalgia trip, until you realise that it is an episode that literally belongs right in the middle of season 1. If Supernatural was only ever a 1 season show, then this finale would have been practically perfect. But it’s not. It’s a 15 year long show with characters that undergo incredibly difficult character struggles that allow them to change for the better. So for the ending to chuck them right back to where they started is frankly stupid and kind of insulting.

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Title card: ‘Characters’

Before I dissect the characters of Sam and Dean and their role in the finale, I’m going to lay out a brief thought process that I’m going to use when analysing them. You may have heard this in other formats but if you haven’t then I’ll reiterate it here.

Most characters must have two things in order for a story to be strong, compelling, and satisfying. Those two things are WANTS and NEEDS. When a character wants something, that’s what drives their motivation throughout the story and what guides their decisions. It also affects how they relate and interact with other characters. 

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A need is the thing the character must face and come to terms with, in order to complete their character arc and satisfy the requirements of the story.  By learning that what they want is either not achievable or goes against what’s truly important to them, they must satisfy that need for the benefit of themselves and the people around them. This makes for a satisfying and logical ending to the story as the character is no longer driven by something they want, but is driven by their need, depending on what it is.

Now, let’s go back to Supernatural shall we?

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In the beginning of the show, Sam and Dean started off wanting separate things since they were individuals who had their own goals, aspirations, and motivations.

Sam wanted to live a normal life; go to college, meet a girl, get a job in law, and hopefully start a family of his own. This changed however at the end of the Pilot to Sam wanting revenge against the demon that killed Jess.

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Dean wanted Sam back in the life of hunting with him as he didn’t want to go off to try and find their Dad alone. Dean also wanted to keep hunting as he felt like it was all he was good for and his only purpose in life. Also, its made quite clear during the first season that Dean has incredibly low self-worth. As pointed out in Castiel’s confession scene during 15x18, Dean thinks of himself as “destructive, angry, broken, “Daddy’s blunt instrument.” As a result of this, he’s made it clear that he wants to die. How does he WANT this to happen? Blaze of glory, going out on a hunt, dying bloody, the way he’s always thought he deserved, and due to his low self-worth, he has accepted that and come to terms with that fate, hence his macho manly man facade he puts on in front of people. That is what he wants at the beginning of the show. Even though he has died over and over again in gruesome ways, his permanent death was supposedly destined to be going out on a regular hunt, blaze of glory, saving people, hunting things, the family business. At least that’s what he thought he deserved…

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However by the end of the series, he’s gained enough self-worth to realize that’s not what he wants anymore. *play the clip from season 1 where Dean talks about retiring on a beach* also *play the clip in 15x19 where Chuck calls Dean the ultimate killer and Dean responds with that’s not who I am”.

This is a really good penultimate stepping stone in terms of Dean’s character arc and how it wraps up because he has finally gained a proper sense of self-worth, not by defeating Chuck, but by realizing that who he truly is, and who he really wants to be isn’t dictated by the story that Chuck had written. 

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Media Buzzkill mentions it in their video but something the final season really dropped the ball on was the parallel between John and Chuck; both abusive and neglectful fathers who tried to control their children’s lives. For Dean to finally overthrow Chuck and gain his freedom, thematically he could have gained his freedom from the path his father set him on ever since he was a young kid. But since the season didn’t lean into that parallel, this wasn’t officially a thing that was going on. However I still like to think of it that way. Back to the point though.

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As a result of Dean gaining his freedom from Chuck and finally claiming his own autonomy, he is now able to complete his character arc as he has put aside his WANTS that he had at the beginning of the show (dying young on a hunt, always having to protect Sam no matter what the personal toll it takes on him) and fulfilled his NEED to achieve a status of self-worth and self-actualization in order to benefit himself and the people around him. Another point to affirm this is the fact that this couldn’t have happened without the meta story being involved. In my opinion this makes it all feel like a very logical, consistent and satisfying story for Dean. 

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The reason why I mentioned this as the perfect penultimate stepping stone for Dean’s character arc is that the question raised at the end of 15x19 still hadn’t been answered yet: “What do Sam and Dean want now that the story is over and they’re free?” I also know what you're going to say. “But isn’t it all about wants and needs? If they’re free from the story then shouldn’t they need to learn something instead of just getting what they want?” You may have a point, however due to the fact that the show has surrounded itself in the concept of meta narratives, then this is where the wants and needs don’t necessarily apply. The reason is that the finale should have followed through on what Sam and Dean needed, which was, by the time the finale started, to figure out a life that was beyond the confines of the story.

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Dean

I’m going to focus on Dean first because that’s the main thing I have an issue with in the finale, but I will talk about Sam afterwards.

By the time the finale started, Dean had finally fulfilled what he needed, which was a stable life that was beyond the story. He wasn’t dictated by some grand plan anymore and he finally had the freedom he deserved. Yes, he wanted this, but he also NEEDED to realize that in order for him to truly break the cycle and get off the hamster wheel, he needed to achieve a proper sense of self-actualization. If he wasn’t able to do this, then he truly would always have felt like he didn’t belong, even if he had gotten what he wanted (getting freedom from the story.) The reason why, is that after learning everything he had about Chuck, his manipulations, how Chuck had been controlling them their entire lives, for him to defeat Chuck, but remain in the status quo of what he’s always known, it would naturally cause him to feel unsatisfied with life and therefore would make us feel unsatisfied at the way the series ends… 

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Yes, I know that his identity is tied to being a hunter. I’m all for that because yeah even though Chuck had been controlling them their entire lives Dean still loved hunting even towards the end. But for Dean to not even consider any other kind of life outside of “the life” is strange because it seemed like that was the only direction for the story to take…But no, he stays with the life and decides to continue hunting and serving the role that he had been placed in from the time he was born; saving people, hunting things, the family business. The role he had been forced into his whole life, destined for nothing more...

Back to the events of the finale…

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Dean has continued hunting and he continues to live alone with Sam in the bunker. Yes, the pie scene was perfect. Well, not perfect, Sam bringing up Cas and Dean barely reacting and just sort of hand waving it was...a big yikes. But this video isn’t about Dean and Cas’ relationship (p.s I do support and like Destiel but I’m not going to delve into that in this video as people like Media Buzzkill have already done that really well in their own separate videos, which I’ll link in the description.)

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When Dean and Sam go on that final hunt and Dean gets impaled on the rusty piece of rebar, it was random, out of nowhere and confusing. Some say that this was perfect because they weren’t being dictated by the story anymore and accidents can happen to anyone for any reason. That’s just a part of being human. Right. Okay. Well, yes that may be true that they aren’t invincible now, but my god does that spit in the face of everything the characters had fought for. To say that even after defeating Chuck, even after escaping the story that had been written for them, after 15 years of defying their destinies, A CORE THEME OF THE SHOW FROM THE BEGINNING OF SEASON 1, to say that Dean just ends up dying on a random hunt, alone, with only his brother by his side and no one else from the family that he and Sam had built over the years, and that despite his current needs, he is still ultimately rendered to be the self-destructive, suicidal-idealist, “daddy’s blunt instrument” that he was at the beginning of the show is incredibly disrespectful and in some cases quite dangerous to the viewers of the show who have suffered from mental health issues. Why? Because the finale, along with Dean’s death, states unintentionally that you will never break out of your cycle, you will never escape your original fate, you will never achieve freedom, you will never achieve happiness in life, and possibly the worst sentiment of the entire ordeal is that you can only find peace in death. 

What a fucking waste. What a disgusting travesty of a finale. My god. 

*sigh*

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I understand the nostalgia behind it all. I get the nostalgic feelings of a classic Monster of the Week. When I originally saw the finale, I loved it, as I’ve previously stated in this video. I’m pretty much a nostalgia junkie, trust me, I can see it. I got all the references and little nods to the rest of the series like John’s journal, that random Jenny vampire chick, Dean’s love of pie, “I can’t do this alone, yes you can, well I don’t want to,” when Dean tells Sam that he stood outside his dorm for hours before the Pilot, Carry on My Wayward Son playing as Dean drives in heaven, Harvelles Roadhouse, OG Bobby, 

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WAIT. HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE. Record stops (say that quieter)

When Sam brings up Cas and how he misses him at the Pie festival, Dean addresses it by saying “That pain is not gonna go away, right? But if we don’t keep living, then all that sacrifice is gonna be for nothing.”

I actually don’t know what the fuck happened, but the writers are not dumb...They knew Dean would be dying in this episode right? SO WHY HAVE HIM SAY THAT IF THEY DONT KEEP LIVING THEN ALL THAT SACRIFICE IS GONNA BE FOR NOTHING UNLESS THE WRITERS WANTED IT TO MEAN NOTHING. 

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I...I have no words. This fucking ending man. OKay, sorry, let’s carry on with the video because I’m legitimately mad now and just want to get through this. 

To finish my point about Dean’s ending, he needed to leave the hunting life in one way or another. If he didn’t, and stayed in the life just like in the actual finale, then I have no doubt that he would begin to feel unsatisfied with life and eventually quit hunting at some point down the road. What I’m trying to say is the only logical ending for Dean Winchester, the man who’s entire identity is centered around hunting, needed to leave that life for something better. This wouldn’t have worked in a regular story where there wasn’t the concept of the meta narrative because if Dean just randomly decided to leave the life, even though he was already firmly a part of it then it would indeed be out of character for him. But since this is a meta story, Dean needed to achieve a sense of self-actualization that was beyond the story that had been written for him since he was born. Few, sorry, okay, onto Sam now. 

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Sam

So I don’t have as much to say about Sam than I did with Dean but I still think that this was the wrong ending for him. It isn’t actually too bad if I’m being honest, but it is still regressive and quite similar to Dean’s ending in many ways sadly. But there’s a core idea at the centre of Sam’s ending that I do think was a good idea, but it’s buried under so much crap and nonsense that it was deformed into something misguided, even if the idea itself isn’t bad at all. I’ll start with that first. 

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Sam being forced to witness his brother’s death is nothing new. But now that he is experiencing his supposedly final death, this causes him to leave the life entirely and go live an apple-pie life. It’s clear from this that he has finally learned to let go of his co-dependency issue with his brother. He has moved on. 

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The idea of Sam letting go of his co-dependency with Dean is great and it’s something I’m going to use in my own ending that I’ll detail later in this video. However, this issue is that the decision to let go is forced upon him through Dean’s death. It’s not a choice Sam makes to move away from Dean and let each other live separate lives, therefore bringing forth their individuality which is something Dean desperately needed this whole time. By omitting Sam’s choice to let Dean go and live a separate life, he is robbed of his agency and therefore makes his ending feel unearned and forced upon him. You may say that this would be out of character and strange for the brothers to do. They love each other so therefore they have no reason to not be in each other’s lives. That is correct, but I didn’t mean that they aren’t in each other’s lives in some form, just that they are separated and living different lives than each other. I’ll go more into detail when I give my pitch for an ending. 

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The next point I want to make about Sam’s ending is that he also regresses to what he previously wanted back in the early days of the show. Yes, I remember that he already lived a normal life back in Season 8 which could be evidence to support the idea that he still wanted that in Season 15. But no, that was almost half the entire length of the show ago. Sam has moved on from the idea of an apple pie life; living with a wife and kid, owning a home, having backyard barbecues, you get the picture.

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How interesting would it have been if he actually decided to stay in the life in some way. Maybe not actually hunting, but working from the bunker and helping other hunters with lore or other aspects like that. Maybe Eileen is there too? Maybe they're working together as a couple, not hunting, but being a safe haven for hunters where they can access all the lore they could dream of and find safety there. Almost like an upgraded version of Harvelle’s Roadhouse. Just an idea, but that would’ve been much better than what we actually got. 

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Title card: Stray thoughts

When you look at Season 15 alone, there's quite a lot of things the finale failed to conclude, address or clear up. 

Cas’ grace was failing

This could’ve been a really great plot point to play throughout the season because it would cause Cas to contemplate his uses and worth whilst stressing about the whole situation with Chuck as well as the Empty deal looming over him. But they didn’t address it at all. It just kinda...faded away and wasn’t brought up again. It wasn’t a massive thing but it would’ve been cool to see how that could’ve played out. 

Ruby asked Castiel to save her from the Empty (15x13)

The demons rising up against Rowena (15x13)

Dean doesn’t ask Jack to bring back Cas from the Empty (15x19)

Sam forgets about Eileen in 15x20

No closure for Dean and Castiel

We never see any of the side characters again who got Thanos snapped in 15x18

Jack’s explosion in the Empty made the Empty loud

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Those are the main points that the final season and the finale failed to address and even though they are minor points in the grand pantheon of issues with the finale, they still add up for me and are quite frustrating to think about. 

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Title card: My Ideal Finale

So, after all that I think I’ve made it pretty clear how I feel about the finale. There’s a few other points I wanted to make about the narrative of the final season as a whole in conjunction with the finale but I feel as if I’ve already said what I need to say. 

I’ve seen so many other people give their take on how the finale should’ve played out so now I want to give my version of events that would’ve given the show the proper send off it deserved, and the send off it was seemingly setting up.

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My finale would start with the same hunt that happened in the real finale. However, the opening scene is them fighting the vampires. As they’re fighting, Sam is wounded and needs to be taken to hospital. After he’s treated there, they return to the bunker. Sam wakes up from a nap and talks with Dean. They talk about how that was a pretty close call. Dean mentions that it should probably be their last case. Sam looks confused, and doesn’t say anything. Dean seems hesitant to discuss the prospect of that being their last case but he begins anyway. He mentions that he feels as if he’s been given a chance at a new life now that they’ve defeated Chuck. He states that if he keeps doing the same old, same old, then he’s afraid that he’ll waste his chance at freedom. Sam understands but points out that if they don’t do this, then who does. Dean ponders this for a second, as he’s done so many times over his life. Should he continue to sacrifice his chance at happiness and freedom so other people can live safely? 

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Obviously this question has popped up a lot throughout the show, and they’ve always chosen to stay with the life. Maybe hunting was a part of who they were, but they now had a chance to try something new. With Chuck not writing their story anymore, they get to write their own. Going wherever the story takes them. Finally free. 

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After this scene, the pie scene from the actual finale happens pretty much exactly how it originally happened, except for a few changes of dialogue and the scene would be extended to incorporate a visit from Bobby and Eileen. When Sam brings up Cas, instead of Dean saying what he said in the actual finale, he would say something along the lines of this:

“Yeah, I miss him too.”

Sam notices Dean is looking quite sad and asks him what’s wrong. 

“He sacrificed himself for me.”

“It came out of nowhere. We were trapped and Billy was banging on the door trynna get in when he…he said that he made a deal.” 

A tear rolls down Dean’s face. Sam notices, and moves closer to Dean and looks at him with a classic empathetic look from Sam. 

Dean blinks a few times and wipes the tear away. 

“Ah, I’ll tell you later” said Dean, as he began to tuck into a pie from the box on his lap. 

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Bobby then pulls up with Eileen. Sam and Dean go and greet them. They talk about Sam’s wound, Jack defeating Chuck and how he’s the new god, Sam and Eileen, who steps out of the car and Sam and her kiss. Bobby also asks what they’re going to do now that they’re free from Chuck. This leads into the question of whether or not they’re still going to continue hunting. Eileen looks inquisitive at the brothers too as she also wants to know what Sam wants now that Chuck has been defeated and he’s free. Sam says he wants to stay in the life and that he’s open to see what happens. Dean says that he’s not sure. Sam glances over at Dean, who notices but doesn’t look back. It’s clear to both Bobby and Eileen that this is a conversation that both brothers need to have in private before they could properly reveal anything to them. 

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Bobby tells them that everyone is going to have a big get together in the town of Kansas at a pub the following afternoon. Sam and Dean agree that they’ll be there. While Bobby waves to them goodbye and gets in the car, Eileen gives Dean a look, indicating that she wants to talk to Sam alone. Dean obliges with a little smile. Eileen asks Sam if he’s feeling okay after the wound from the previous hunt (they would’ve already texted about it.) During this conversation, Eileen asks if he and Dean are okay but Sam says he’s not sure. She questions him a bit more and Sam reveals to her that Dean wants to quit the hunting life for good. She can tell by the look on Sam’s face that he’s bothered by this, but she can also see a slight hint of understanding too. She smiles at him warmly and places a hand on his cheek. They lock eyes. Sam begins to smile.

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Dean is back in the driver’s seat of the Impala and is watching Sam and Eileen with a sad smile. He looks down at the drivers wheel and the smile fades. He closes his eyes and after a few seconds, he whispers “Jack? Hey man, hope the new job is treating you well” Dean smirks, but it fades quickly and his face resorts back to the grim look of...despair. “I know you said you wouldn’t be hands on, I get that, and I thank you. Another Chuck isn’t what we need right now. But...Cas, he didn’t deserve what he got. I didn’t ask you this before you left because everything was so crazy and we had just defeated Chuck you know, and I know it's only been a few weeks but, please, please can you bring him back. He didn’t deserve to die for…

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Dean stops praying. He looks back to Sam and Eileen, who are still talking. Suddenly Jack appears next to Dean, just as a tear rolls down his face. 

Jack greets Dean in usual fashion. Dean looks surprised and shocked, but glad to see him. Jack tries to explain to Dean that he can’t meddle in the Empty’s affairs as they’ve already poked and prodded it enough. Dean refutes this point by reminding Jack of what Cas would do, what any of them would do if one of them was in the same position. They continue to discuss Cas and the Empty and how it could work, but by the end Jack doesn’t speak. Both of them sit in silence. 

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After a while Jack turns to Dean and says “I’ll do what I can, but if it’s not possible then I’m sorry.” Dean nods his head but before Jack disappears, Jack says “Dean, I know it might be hard to understand right now but there is so much to be done in the universe. Things that have to be put right, Chuck messed up and now me and Amara have to balance things out. I know that sounds like I’m interfering but we aren’t. We are ensuring that things are allowed to be as they are, instead of them becoming something else. That’s why I have to leave this world very soon, I only have till tomorrow afternoon for me to try and get Cas back. After that, it will be a while before I can return, and even then I don’t know when exactly I’ll be back. I also can’t stay too long in the Empty either after what happened before. I still have to respect it’s power and the fact that I don’t have any real control over it. I’m sorry, Dean.” Jack disappears before Dean can say anything else. Just then, Dean notices Sam walking towards the Impala and wipes away the tears. As Sam sits down, he asks Dean if he’s okay, and Dean responds “Yeah, all good here.” They drive off. 

The next scene is Dean sitting in his room on his laptop, a few beers by the side of the bed. He looks toward his table on the other side of the room. A paper lies on top. Dean appears conflicted, but decides to go over and pick up the paper. We see it’s a job form. 

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Sam is sitting down at the table in the library. He’s also on his laptop and seems very focused on something on screen. Suddenly he grabs his laptop and stands up. He walks through the bunker to the door of Dean’s room. He goes to knock but pauses. He looks back to the laptop, where we can see a news posting saying that three people have turned up dead with their throats ripped out. Sam and Dean both sigh at the same time (Sam would be seen sighing and then quickly cut to Dean sighing too.)

Dean grabs a pen and goes to write on the job form, just as Sam knocks on the door. They greet each other, and both are a little startled. Sam asks Dean what he’s doing and Dean briefly looks at the form, but ends up saying it's nothing. Sam tells him about the case he’s found and Dean’s face tenses, which Sam notices. 

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“Or not, if you didn’t feel like it.” said Sam.

“No. No, it's fine” says Dean, who sighs, stands up and then asks where it is again. Once Sam finishes telling him, Dean looks back at the job form. 

“Sammy, I don’t think I’ll be going” says Dean

“Oh, okay, no worries, I’ll just call one of the other hunters” says Sam

“I don’t think I’ll be going on any more hunts.” Dean finally says. 

Sam doesn’t respond and is taken aback. Neither of them talk for a moment. (There would be a wide shot from inside the room, showing them standing still and silent.) 

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Dean takes the job form from the table and hands it to Sam, who looks at it. He doesn’t take his eyes off it. 

“I applied a few days ago, and I’ve got an interview the day after tomorrow. But, it’s in Denver Colorado. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t know how you’d react” said Dean. 

“Dean, I...I mean, I’m happy for you. I am. It’s just...I don’t know, it’s a big thing you know. But I thought we were done keeping secrets from each other, I thought we were over that crap” said Sam. 

_____________________________________________________

“This was different,”  said Dean plainly.

“How?” asks Sam. 

“Me, the guy who was destined to hunt till the day he dropped. You know this, that was who I was. Going out in a blaze of glory, bloody on a hunt” said Dean, “But now, everythings different. I realize now that...that isn’t who I am, and I can’t be destined for just that. If I was, then Chuck should’ve won. Because I’ll be damned if I let that be my ending. I’ve gotta write my own, and now with Chuck gone I finally have that chance. I can’t waste it Sammy.” As he says those last words, a few tears have fallen down his face. 

_______________________________________________________

Sam ponders Dean’s words for a few seconds then asks. 

“What about me? What am I supposed to do?”

Dean doesn’t respond. 

*a soft rendition of the piano solo in Americana plays, similar to the one played in 15x18, but softer and less solumn*

Dean looks sad, but also confident in his decision. Sam looks uncertain. 

Sam says:

“I can’t do this alone”

Dean responds with a sad smile: 

“Yes you can”

Sam says: 

“Well i don’t want to”

_______________________________________________

Slowly, through facial expressions, Sam recognizes those words, and remembers that fateful night when Dean came to pick him up from college; when Dad was on a hunting trip, and he hadn’t been home in a few days. His face turns into a sad smile. A tear rolls down his face. Dean now has a tear underneath his eye too as he looks at Sam. 

Sam slowly hands back the job form to Dean (This would be a close up on the hand over process to emphasize the choice Sam is making through the motion of handing back Dean the job form) He puts his laptop down, and the two brothers hug. The two of them stand there together. The two have tears rolling down their cheeks. 

_________________________________________________________

*piano solo ends*

*fade to black*

*fade in on the Impala outside the bunker*

Sam is leaning against it and is texting on his phone.

Text appears at the bottom of the screen saying its the next day

Dean exits the bunker and asks if Sam has got the address of the place where everyone is getting together and Dean confirms he does and that it's on the edge of town. He mentions that Bobby had been working on it for a while before the whole Chuck thing and he said that it was a surprise. Whatever that means.

__________________________________________________________

As the brothers are driving into town, Sam asks what time the interview is and Dean says that it's at 9am the next day so he will have to leave that night if he’s going to get a good sleep and be up early the next day. The time at that point would be around 3pm. Dean then asks how he and Eileen are, and Sam says that they’re going good, but mentions that she was a bit shaken from being Thanos snapped (he wouldn’t actually say Thanos snapped but something like it.) 

The two sit in silence for a while, until Dean puts on the radio. ‘Back in Black’ starts playing. The two smile and look at each other, before turning back to the road. They continue driving. 

They finally reach the pub and get out of the Impala. As they stare at the exterior, a gentle rendition of the first section of Americana plays (the opening minute) but this time it’s slower and almost sounds distant, and wistful. The two brothers look at each other before approaching the door. Dean checks the time, and looks concerned. Before they can open the bar door themselves, Charlie opens it and looks gleefully at the two before embracing them both in a group hug. 

____________________________________________________________

“I’ve been waiting for you guys!” says Charlie.

“Hey Charlie, how’s it hanging?” asks Dean

“Come have a look” she says with a smirk, before leading them inside. The bar is revealed to be one that resembles the old Harvelle’s Roadhouse. There is already a crowd of people, friendly faces and some unknown people. Sam and Dean reunite with a lot of fan favorite characters, however, Dean still looks slightly pensive. Sam takes notice of this and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. They look at each other just as the lights in the bar begin to dim and a piano solo starts playing. The song being played is the exact same version of Carry on My Wayward Son that was played in Season 10 Episode 5 titled Fan Fiction. This time, there isn’t any vocals, it’s just the piano solo. It continues until the part in the song where it would say “...don’t you cry no more”, then suddenly the doors open and Jack slowly walks through. The outside light shines through and is almost blinding to Sam and Dean who are covering their eyes with their hands. The music stops, and Jack steps aside to reveal someone. Dean lowers his arm and sees a friend standing before him. Someone who had been there for Dean through thick and thin. Someone who loved him no matter what Dean had though of himself. 

__________________________________________________________

“Cas?” he murmurs, before running to him and embracing him with a tight hug. Jack closes the door and the light adjusts. Suddenly a male voice starts singing from the stage. Everyone but Dean and Cas look. The voice is the lead singer of Kansas, who begins singing the classic version of Carry On My Wayward Son. 

_________________________________________________________

Dean and Cas lock eyes, and as the words “lay your weary head to rest, don’t you cry no more” are said, Dean and Cas place their foreheads together and smile while holding each other. Sam looks at them with a smile, just as Dean turns to him. The song kicks in at that moment with the instrumentals. Everyone is dancing now just as Sam, Dean, Cas and Jack all reunite together in one shot. They all sing along to the song with everyone else. It then cuts to different shots of them standing and laughing as well as interacting with other characters like Jody and Bobby or Eileen. In one of the shots, Sam and Eileen kiss and Dean looks at them with pride. The next shot is his hand, and someone else’s hand interlocks with his. It cuts back to Dean’s face smiling, as he turns to Cas, who is also smiling. 

__________________________________________________________

When the song finally comes to a close, Sam and Dean are both standing out front. They are leaning against the Impala. 

“I guess that was one hell of a curtain call” says Dean.

“I wouldn’t call it that” says Sam with a chuckle.

“Even if this is the end for now, at least it’s our ending. Not Chuck’s, not anyone else’s” 

“Damn straight” 

Dean smiles, and checks his phone. From here, the exact same scene on the bridge at the end of the real finale would play out. But in this version, instead of walking up to the railing and looking out over a valley, Dean would hug Sam, then get in the Impala and begin driving off. The music would also be identical too. 

________________________________________________________

As the guitar riff is playing the main theme (like in the original scene, its when it cuts to a wide shot and pans out) It cuts to a close up of Dean and it slowly zooms into his face smiling with a tear in his eye, then it cuts to a medium shot of Sam standing tall and proud. Bobby, Cas, Jack, Eileen, Jody, Charlie, Donna, Garth, walk up next to him as the music rises. Then it cuts to an extremely wide shot from up above, showing the Impala driving away down the long road with the sunset in the distance as well as Sam and the rest of their family standing outside the bar watching Dean drive off. The End.

________________________________________________________

So that was my ideal finale. It’s not perfect by any means and there’s no massive final confrontation, and the emotional arcs could be more fleshed out and explored. Also, the explanation for how Jack convinced the Empty to give back Cas would also need to be explained but I didn’t want to give a massive exposition dump in this already long video. 

I hope you liked it and I hope that it was at least a bit more satisfying than the actual finale. 

________________________________________________________

To conclude, I genuinely believe that Supernatural had the opportunity to give it’s audience a revolutionary kind of conclusion. It had the chance to be one of the most satisfying endings to any TV show ever made. It had the chance to be something more...and yet, it utterly failed in everything it attempted and sadly destroyed 15 years of build up, progress, and intricate character development for a finale that squandered not only the limitless and amazing potential it had, but it also squandered many fan’s passion for the show itself. At least that’s how I feel. If the show had even ended on Episode 19, then it would’ve been an incredibly rushed and convoluted conclusion but it would’ve been satisfying and I’m sure in time the people who didn’t like the episode much would have eventually come around to it. 

But at the end of the day, if you liked or loved this finale then I am happy for you. Regardless of my feelings towards this finale, I know what it feels like to love a piece of media that most people hate. 

__________________________________________________________

That’s me with HTTYD 3. But that’s a topic for another day. What I want to say is that if you do love this finale then all the power to you. While I personally hate it, that should not take away from your love towards it. 

[thelegendofstella]

Sephiroth’s true eye color (among other things)

Ever since I got into FF7 stuff I’ve wondered about Sephiroth’s rather inconsistent eye color over the media he’s appeared in (which is a lot), and I think I finally have an answer for it, as well as answers for other slightly unexplained phenomena. Warning you now, this will be fairly long and full of spoilers for multiple games in the series, yet hopefully informative.

Sephiroth is best known for his green, cat-pupiled eyes, among other things, and that’s generally the accepted eye color for him in fan works and such. But his eyes are actually light blue, and not just mainly in spinoffs. There will be a TL;DR in about the middle of the post for one interesting point, and another at the end for the whole post in general.

Disclaimer: This isn't intended to be a "this is the right way to portray Sephiroth's eye color" gatekeeping thing, this is just an analysis of an element of character design that went way too deep and is breaking Tumblr as we speak hfsdgyfudgfsd

Evidence, theories and such under cut-- all 63 images (yes, you heard me, be warned) either come from various wikis as official art/screenshots/etc. or are my own screenshots:

In Final Fantasy 7, where this mess all started, his iconic official art has green eyes:

But in all other art, models, etc. for the game, even the Ultimania scan, his eyes are light blue (or some sort of blue in general):

Of course, you could argue that Sephiroth’s official art also has blue eyes if you stare at it hard enough, but at first glance it’s more green than blue, and with the amount of green-eyed art I’ve seen, I’m sure many people have just accepted that his eyes are green and nothing more.

Several other games in the main series also portray Sephiroth’s eyes as light blue, sometimes borderline colorless depending on the lighting:

I particularly curse Advent Children for it’s washed-out aesthetic because in the darker scenes it completely masks Sephiroth’s real eye color. Thank the gods for HD screenshots.

However, there is a very interesting phenomenon that only seems to happen in Last Order, the 25-minute animated retelling of the Nibelheim Incident and Zack and Cloud’s escape 5 years after. No one seems to have noticed this yet, to my knowledge, so I’ll go through this as clearly as I can.

When Zack confronts Sephiroth in the reactor, the latter’s eyes are light blue:

It isn’t very obvious due to the mako glow tint and his face being in shadow, but I’d think green eyes would look different here, so they are light blue. They stay light blue for a while after this, until Zack begins to fight him and parries him onto the ceiling (anime physics...), resulting in this peculiar scene:

Light blue into green. Literally, you can see it happening in the actual video. This happens a second time when Sephiroth has Cloud skewed on Masamune, just more subtly:

Again, light blue into green(er). Definitely something funky going on here. It goes back to light blue when Cloud tosses him away, though:

And speaking of Cloud... he, too, shows very obvious eye color change directly after this scene, as seen below:

In the video they are visibly, animatedly glowing, it’s not just me discerning between two different flat shades of color. Keep in mind this is before he gets mako poisoned and Jenova-celled and whatnot, so this isn’t due to SOLDIER enhancements. What gives?

Here’s my take: it’s the Lifestream. People are made of Lifestream like everything else in in the FF7 universe, and it’s common knowledge that Lifestream/mako can do some pretty weird shenanigans. SOLDIERs are literally pumped full of the stuff and have seemingly superhuman abilities, and that’s just the lower-ranking ones. But the series has also placed a lot of emphasis on willpower, which Cloud post-experimentation struggles with due to the J-cells and stuff. A lot of people with particularly bright or “glowing” eyes have expressed an incredible amount of willpower, some of which include Cloud, Sephiroth (unsurprising), and Aerith:

Aerith’s eyes have always been incredibly bright in the series, regardless of which game you reference. Remake especially makes this obvious, as it seems like every close-up shot of her makes her eyes the centerpiece regardless of lighting, setting, etc.:

Like, seriously, they almost seem to glow they’re so bright. But here’s the kicker: Aerith is a Cetra, and the Cetra, obviously, communicate with the Planet... or, in other words, have an incredibly strong willpower that influences things. It’s been stated before by various people and media that Sephiroth and Aerith are two sides of the same coin, but not quite like this, I think. Cloud shows a similar phenomenon in his close-up shots as well, though the artificial SOLDIER glow is most likely contributing to most of it:

Compare these to younger Cloud in the Nibelheim flashback, when he was more innocent and had no need for incredible willpower, artificial or not:

Going back to Cloud in Last Order, the point we can make about him in particular is that when he was stabbed, literally at death’s door, he drew on his inner Lifestream for the strength to toss Sephiroth away. People have wondered for years about how this moment was even possible besides Protagonist Syndrome, and this may be the answer.

If this is the case, then this could apply to anyone: Aerith, Sephiroth, Zack, hell even Tifa seems to have slightly glowing eyes in the Remake sometimes-- and sure, it may be just the game engine making sure we can actually see their eyes in key cutscenes... but it ties into canon lore and actually makes sense, so I’m sticking with that. It’s also not a coincidence that Aerith specifically has green eyes, too, since the Lifestream in general is green-colored and whatnot.

Midpoint TL;DR: people with lots of inner willpower can call on their own Lifestream to give them strength, resulting in “glowing” or even color-changing eyes depending on how much Lifestream/mako they have in them. SOLDIERs, for example, would fall in the latter category... the most extreme being Sephiroth.

Now that's we're back at Sephiroth, another interesting point is that his eye color in Remake is consistently light blue, or some blue variation depending on the lighting, with green centers, as seen below:

Cloud obviously shares the same eye color pattern by this point because it's implied that he has the same if not slightly more mako in him than Sephiroth, which very conveniently also equates to him having the same if not slightly more willpower than Sephiroth.

An honorable mention goes to the Remnants, since they, too, follow the light blue with green centers pattern, appearing to fluctuate between the two colors at certain times:

With all of that said and done, I’ll wrap this up by going through Sephiroth’s appearances in side games and other franchises as quickly as I can:

1) The Dissidia series (Dissidia, 012/Duodecim, NT, Opera Omnia) almost always portrays Sephiroth with light blue eyes in art, renders, and models, occasionally with a hint of green in them:

A very interesting exception is NT Sephiroth's Safer Sephiroth costume, which has completely white eyes in all three of its alts. Yes, it's basically just a cosmetic costume, but it's still worthy to note for comprehensive purposes:

2) World of Final Fantasy’s Sephiroth has light blue eyes:

3) Record Keeper Sephiroth’s sprites are very obviously based on the original FF7 official art where he has green eyes (yes, I checked the colors by hand, they're all in the greener sections of the color wheel):

4) The Kingdom Hearts series is particularly unique because it features a blue-eyed Sephiroth but with an explicit reason for it. Kingdom Hearts 1 simply says that Sephiroth is part of Cloud’s past, but Kingdom Hearts 2 literally has Cloud saying “I'll get him. This time we settle it. Me, and the one who embodies all the darkness in me.”, and then explicitly clarifying that it’s Sephiroth he’s talking about. Sephiroth even shares Cloud’s facial shape, which is particularly obvious in KH2 renders:

All other Sephiroth appearances in the KH series also feature him with blue eyes, except for any usage of material from other media.

5) Itadaki Street games feature Sephiroth with green eyes:

6) Puzzles and Dragons features a rare teal-eyed Sephiroth:

And finally 7) All other Sephiroth appearances in spinoffs and other media feature him with light blue, blue, or rare teal eyes, except for sprites, which are (most likely) reused from Record Keeper:

And that’s FINALLY a wrap. All my evidence for Sephiroth’s actual eye color in one place, and even a theory on why it can potentially fluctuate between that and the iconic green.

Actual TL;DR: Sephiroth’s eyes are actually light blue in 90% of his appearances, and the remaining 10% either comes from temporary green-ness or partial green-ness thanks to mako/Lifestream stuff, or spinoffs.

There is one small point I’d like to make at the end of this, and that is the remaining mystery of why Sephiroth’s pupils are even slitted and cat-like in the first place. That... is far more ambiguous in terms of evidence than the eye color. Some series, particularly the Kingdom Hearts series, have them as regular round pupils, while others sometimes if not most of the time give him the cat-like ones. I may make another in-depth analysis post trying to figure it all out, but for now I’ll say that it may just simply be a result of the Jenova cells he has or something along those lines.

If you made it this far down and didn’t just instantly scroll past my massive log of images and sundry, thank you so much for reading all of this! If you did just instantly scroll past, I don't blame you. I guess I'm in proper Sephiroth hell now, lol.

I hope you have a great day and that things turn out well for you fhjksdgfyhughuhyudfs

[gondowan]

Over Your Shoulder

Pairing: Paz Viszla x f!Reader

You're used to working for others. As a freelance armstech, you flit from contract to contract, never staying too long in one place. Although the freelancer life is fun, you kind of wish you could trade it all for a little bit of stability. As the maker would have it, that stability shows up in the form of one (1) Paz Viszla.

Tags/Warnings: nothing right now, but future loving degradation, Good Communication Is My Kink, daddy kink, and other sexy consensual shenangians. Reader has slight self esteem issues.

Notes: I haven’t written for fun in forever, but new year new me! If you know me in real life never bring this up because I will combust lol. I was going to fire off a brief smutty one-shot pwp thing but of course I couldn’t resist adding ~ b a c k s t o r y ~ so here you go. Subsequent updates will probably just be pwp.

Chapter 1: All The Grass is Greener Everywhere You Look

Nervousness, you assumed, was a regular feeling for anyone who was newly married. Doubly so for the new spouse of a Mandalorian. Unlike the rest of the galaxy where marriage vows were somewhat loose, Mandalorians took their vows very seriously. Forever, generally meant, forever.

Your relationship with Paz Viszla was strange in and of itself. As a freelance armstech, you hopped from planet to planet offering your repair services, never staying in any one place for too long. While on Bothawui, you had let slip to a client that you were headed to Nevarro next. Greef Karga, the head of the Guild, had put you on a retainer for services to guild members for a few cycles. The pay was good, and he had promised you a steady supply of commissions from the local bounty hunters who frequented Nevarro in need of new weapons and repairs on top of the already nice stipend.

The Bothan, a short humanoid by the name of Eesk, perked up when you mentioned Nevarro, and the next day he came over as you were on your way to the spaceport.

“Can I ask a favor? Do you mind making a delivery for me while on Nevarro?” he asked, pulling a datapad out from his robes.

You looked up, eyes narrowing. Bothans were famous for their information network, and were instrumental to the destruction of the first Death Star, but still, you were understandably nervous. “ Eesk, I’m not interested in looking for trouble. I don’t need the New Republic or any Imp remnant breathing down my neck for delivering that for you,” you said.

Eesk laughed, “Relax, I promise you this isn’t serious. Just deliver this to a Mandalorian on Nevarro. It’s nothing classified, I’m just returning a favor for a friend,”. He slid over a stack of credits. “I’d take it to him myself, but unfortunately I’m held up on New Republic business”.

You reached over and tucked the datapad into your bag along with the credits, “Fine, but you owe me”.

“Next time you’re here, drinks on me.” he said as he walked away.

It was only until you had boarded the transport ship that you realized Eesk had never actually told you were to meet this Mandalorian. ‘Oh well,’ you thought, ‘he’s not getting these credits back’. You leaned your head against the wall of the ship, tired from hauling all of your luggage to the spaceport, and fell asleep.

You were three standard weeks into your contract with Greef Karga and the Guild, and still no Mandalorian had shown up to collect the datapad. It was nice to be somewhat settled in one place for longer than a week, and you had enjoyed the steady stream of work. You had also learned from Karga that the Mandalorian covert scattered from Nevarro, and he hadn’t seen one in a while. For all of their information trafficking and spy network, perhaps Eesk had gotten it wrong for once, and you didn’t really care to ask. After all, it would be nigh impossible to miss a person wearing head to toe armor, especially on Nevarro.

One morning, as you had returned from your walk to the lava plains, you discovered the door to your apartment was unlocked. Strange. Not a good sign. None of your alarms were triggered either. Carefully, you pulled your blaster out its holster before quietly pushing the door open.

“There you are. Been looking all over for you.”

A large man, clad in blue armor and covered in more weapons per square inch that any other being you had ever seen, sat next to your workstation. Despite the blaster pointed at him, he seemed unperturbed, posture open and relaxed.

“What do you want?” you asked, blaster raised, "You picked the wrong house to rob,". You had fended off your fair share of robberies, the expensive equipment you lugged around as an armstech was attractive to petty thieves, and not cheap.

“The datapad.” he said.

“I take it you’re the Mandalorian that Eesk spoke about.”

“Correct,”.

You rummage through your toolkit and dust off the datapad. “Here you go Mr. Mandalorian, although I suggest next time you knock during business hours. Breaking and entering is reserved for long term partners, and you haven’t even bought me a drink yet”. You wince a little inwardly, maybe this dry spell was affecting you more than you thought.

You tap the edge of the datapad on the Mandalorian’s chest plate. “Oh and you might want to get the blaster strapped to your thigh checked, those scorch marks are usually a bad sign,”.

The blue hunk of armor stood up and took the datapad from you. “Thank you for this,” he rumbled before heading out the door.

“Ah, so you do have manners,” you teased before moving to shut the door.

You can’t see the expression on his face, but you hear the huff of a laugh through his modulator accompanied with a shake of his shoulders.

You were pretty sure you’d never see him again.

Wrong.

The next day right as you returned from dropping off a box of repaired pistols, there he was again, blue armor and blank expressionless helmet, sitting in the same spot next to your workstation.

“Can you fix it?” he asked.

You gaped at him for a second, before remembering the comment you made yesterday. “I can take a look,”. You cross over to your workstation, turning on the light and the magnifying glass and grabbing your toolkit. It was an easy but time-consuming fix, and you quickly busied yourself with disassembling the rifle.

“You’re not from Nevarro,”. A question, posed as a statement.

You didn’t look up, “Nope, I’m just passing through.” Hmm, that power cell did not look too good.

“Where is home for you?”

“Nowhere,” you said matter-of-factly as you tinkered away, “Like most people, the Clone Wars and the Empire destroyed what little of a childhood I had. Got taken in by a kind armstech who taught me the trade, and now I hop from planet to planet making a living. What about you? I heard about what happened to the Mandalorians on this planet,”.

“Also nowhere,” the man grunted, and he remained quiet. You finished your work, and handed him the blaster, butt end first.

“You owe me two drinks now, breaking into my place like that.”

He took the blaster from you, two gloved finger tips drawing a line from the middle of your forearm down your wrist. An unnecessary movement, he could’ve just taken the blaster. You gulped. He put the gun back in its holster and leaned forward.

“I might, if you ask nicely. I saw the way you sized me up the first time,”.

You swallowed, mouth going dry. “It’s uh, part of my line of work. Gotta make sure everyone’s packing-- I mean, everyone’s weapons are in tip top shape.” Your stupid lizard brain, at it again.

He cocked his head to the side, “I’m sure it is,” the mirth evident in his tone.

Every evening thereafter, the blue Mandalorian showed up at your doorstep, a new weapon in hand for you to look at. It was nice, you had to admit to yourself. A consistency in your otherwise inconsistent life, and you grew to enjoy his company. What you couldn’t handle however, was the escalating tension between the two of you. He would occasionally stand behind you, his big, all-encompassing frame brushing up against your back, and lean over you to ask about this or that. The first time you thought it was an accident, but then he followed up with an oh-so-casual touch of your wrist, and you were pretty sure it was on purpose, but you also couldn’t tell if that was wishful thinking on your part. Occasionally the two of you would strike up a conversation, but for the most part he sat in a comfortable silence while you worked. When he came over the fourth night, large gattling gun in tow, you decided it was high time to try to get to know him better.

“Uh...would you like to stay for dinner?”, eyes looking down on the (ancient) gattling gun, trying to keep your voice light.

He paused and shook his head “I can’t,”.

Oh, an immediate shut down. Great. Well it was worth a shot.

“Not for the reason you think. I can’t remove my helmet in the presence of others, that’s part of the creed,”.

That made a lot of sense. You hadn’t come across many Mandalorians in your travels, but all of them were rather cagey about their armor and helmet. You had assumed it was due to the value of beskar, but this was the first time you had heard about this creed.

You looked up at him. “Don’t you ever get lonely?” you blurted out, the words forming on your tongue before your brain could shut you down. “Nevermind-- I’m sorry I-”

He interjected, “Sometimes. There are some exceptions though,”.

You leaned forward. “Such as?”.

A pause. He stepped forward, tipping your chin up with a finger.

“ Would you care to find out?”

Ch 2 here

[blodreina-noumou]

The 100: One Final Rewatch

This is it. My send-off to The 100. One full, complete rewatch. Season one to season seven. Episode 1 to episode 100. Every cringeworthy, beautiful, brutal, heartwarming moment. Every chopped plot thread, every inspiring character arc, every sailing and sunken ship. Every gut-wrenching death and every narrow escape. The best, the worst, the utterly mediocre.

All of it, in order, one last time.

Unfortunately, we’re not starting off on a strong foot.

Episode 1x01: “Pilot”

(Fun fact! I totally watched the pilot last night and wrote up almost this entire post, and then I forgot to save it in my drafts. In that post I was like “I’m never watching the pilot again after this, lol!” but now I have to so I can remember my notes. I’m mad.)

Highlights

Best quotes:

“Looks like your dad floated me after all.”

“No one has a brother!”

“Let’s give them something else to remember you by. ... Like being the first person on the ground in 100 years.”

Best moments:

1 - Getting to see our first glimpses of most of the major players of The Hundred. Octavia cheering on Finn’s rebelliousness, when he starts floating around the chamber. Monty and Jasper sitting together on the dropship. Murphy standing behind Octavia as she steps out onto the ground. Bellamy and Clarke sure are...there.

2 - Octavia stepping off the dropship and screaming, “We’re back, bitches!” Fucking “Radioactive” playing as the kids run screaming out of the dropship. Everyone experiencing sunlight and fresh air for the first time in the entire lives. It’s cheesy, exciting, and on-the-nose. I love it.

3 - The final moment almost makes up for the rest of the episode. Watching under the impression that these kids are alone on the planet, and basically just running wild without supervision because they feel relatively safe, and for some of them, free for the first time in their lives - the whole thing is charming, but feels a little too juvenile. Then, right in the midst of a fun, summer camp moment, - swinging across a river on a vine, complete with indie pop rock soundtrack - Jasper gets speared right in the fucking chest!! The music cuts, the remaining kids scream and run, and Clarke gasps out that succinct and game-changing line: “We’re not alone.”

Lowlights

Worst quotes:

“Hey spacewalker! Rescue me next.”

“Note to self: next time, save the girl.”

“We have to warn them.” .. “That’s what my father said.”

Worst moments:

There is SO much that I hate about the pilot. So much. It’s hard for me to pin down the worst moments, because I think it’s most of the episode. Here’s my Top 3, to keep it short.

1. Bellamy. Just all of Bellamy in this episode. It took me a long time to warm up to Bellamy, and this season really reminds me why. He’s pulling all of this alpha male posturing that makes me want to mock him relentlessly. He causes chaos and postpones very vital and obvious measures for their survival just to cover his own ass. He might’ve gone to the ground to protect Octavia, but once he’s there, most of his decisions are about making sure he never has to face the consequences of that choice. He does grow a lot from here, but it’s hard not to hate him in the first episode. His hair doesn’t help. Thank god they let that one go quick.

2. Clarke and Finn are supposed to be these super smart, master survivalists, but they drink river water without boiling it or purifying it in any way. Hello giardia! Just one example of bad world-building and inconsistent realism in this universe.

3. Murphy being like, “Leave Jasper alone, he’s with us.” Only because in like, two episodes, he’s going to be ready to kill Jasper. Murphy is a dick in the first season, lmao. It works well, though, because his heel turn is one of the best I’ve ever seen on television. And it’s fun to watch Richard Harmon play around with being a total asshole.

Small Things

Things I Never Noticed Until Now:

1. Finn’s foolishness, and the boys who followed suit, is what breaks the dropship communication systems. I don’t know how I missed that in my half dozen viewings, but here we are.

2. Clarke goes from a very practical braid to a much less practical half-ponytail in the space of five minutes and no one comments on it.

3. Finn is actually the very first person to call Clarke “princess.” I’d always thought it was Octavia. Fun fact - so many people call Clarke “princess” in this episode/season, I spent my very first viewing back in 2015 convinced she was literally descended from royalty.

MVP of the Episode:

Wells Jaha. He tries really hard to counter Bellamy’s ego trip. In the beginning, he’s one of the only people, besides Clarke, who is focused on trying to keep everyone alive. They had to kill him in episode 1x04 because he would’ve solved everything if he stuck around. There’d be no drama, just Wells running shit.

Overall Impression 

The premise of this episode had so much potential. But a clunky script with too much exposition and some very awkward performances makes it fall very short. Maybe it actually stands as a chilling portent of a pattern we’d come to know too well in this series - incredible potential, very little satisfying follow-through.

Episode Rating: 1/10. 

This is one of the worst episodes in the entire series. A feat that wouldn’t be achieved again until at least s6. 

The good news is, we’ve got nowhere to go but up!

[ftstorm]

My take on 5x10

Welp, that was a big one!

You know, before going into this episode I reminded myself this was the first episode of a new era, the first episode completely made by the new team.

So with that in mind my expectations were "Okay, let's see what they've got."

And oh boy did they surprise me.

DISCLAIMER: this text post is long af, not kidding.

1. THE INTRO SCENE.

You guys have no idea how glad I am that we got Mac doing a usual MacGyvering in his house. It's been ages since they implemented this format of showing his dynamics outside Phoenix and around his house.

I wasn't worried about the proposal thing at all. Guys, you have to accept that MacRiley was always going to happen after that 4x04 episode.

There was also the fact that this was the intro scene (usually the most important plot issues happen in the outro scene), Bozer's weird reaction and the melancholic audio cue.

If that proposal was happening, they would've made it more uplifting.

(I gotta say that watching Monica Marcer and the official MacGyver account making damage control in Twitter 3mins into the episode was a funny experience)

So my initial questions about Mac wanting to propose were: "what are his motivations?" and "how is this not going to work out by the end of the episode?"

The second question we got the answer later on. The first question remains unanswered. If we take on Mac's words, he says:

Mac: Unexpected, I know, I know. But that's why I like about it. You know ever since I lost my dad and Jack I've been thinking about the bigger picture. A commitment to make things work it's exactly what Desi and I need. A grand romantic gesture. *cue melancholic music*

Here we're presented with a bunch of things worth analysing, in my opinion.

He's trying to see the "bigger picture" which, for me, it means he's trying to tackle down different issues from his life with one specific, efficient action [the proposal]. Those issues being:

> his current romantic relationship: make is aware they have an inconsistent relationship > his performance at work: he needs balance between his personal affairs and his work, which is based on saving the world in a daily basis and for that he needs to be focused. > dealing with his past losses: to my understanding, saying "ever isn I lost my dad and Jac I've been thinking about the bigger picture" means that he doesn't want hopelessness to take over him, he wants to keep on moving and being proactive about his life.

So... you have to understand that in some sort of way, this proposal thing is a signal that Mac is healing. In some sort of way, if you were in Mac's shoes you would see that it was a positive thing for him. A step forward.

The thing is, we [the audience] have an extended understanding of the situation and we know that an engagement would be an incredibly rushed decision.

As well as it is that Mac's trying to move forward, he obviously hasn't been able to pinpoint the true issue behind his relationship with Desi. He isn't wrong about them lacking in the commitment department, but forcing the relationship to scalate isn't the right move. He should be asking himself: "Why are we avoiding commitment?"

And that's when he'd find out that they have very deep and important trust and communication issues.

~~~~

2. Moving on. MURDOC.

Russ: I can process it more efficiently by having it all spread out ahead me, you know. I reckon see the bigger picture at once.

This is when I realized that the episode was centered on this whole "bigger picture" idea. Russ struggles to see the full picture until the very end and Mac finds out that he hasn't been seeing the full picture of his life at all by the end of the episode.

Fast forward, the team's in Mexico, Riley knows about the ring already and she has already had the talk with Bozer in which she refers to her feelings for Mac in a past tense.

Then Murdoc appears.

And as if the episode wasn't already a rollercoaster after Mac's reveal, now Murdoc shows up to put everything upside down.

First I gotta say, man Dastmalchian is SUCH A GOOD MURDOC. Excellent actor. The way he delivers his lines, his facial expressions, all of it make an original and very entertaining Murdoc.

He always gives me such a Andrew Scott's Moriarty vibes and I love it.

Secondly, his dynamic with Andrews: *cheff kiss*

I loved how Andrews was so over Murdoc's theatrics, to the point his facial expression screamed "Why did I even reclute this guy" LOL.

Back to the story.

This is something I was hoping it wouldn't happen but at the same time I don't see another way it could've happened which is the explanation behind Murdoc's escape and how Phoenix didn't know about it.

Because what they told us is that the FBI didn't let them in on Murdoc's escape, right? Does that imply that the FBI has a corrupt agent in charge? Does it imply that the order of not letting Phoenix in came from above? Maybe someone with higher clearence than Matty? A politician? Governement conspiracy?

It smells like plot hole, tbh. I feel like the Murdoc's escape is a classic "it is what it is". We'll see if they come back to this in later episodes.

~~~~

3. BIG SECRET REVEAL 1.

By now we're at the point of the rollercoaster where you're going up and up and up. Your tension building more and more as you're getting close to the drop.

Bozer and Riley's audio was the drop.

You know, during this scene I jumped from my seat, closed my eyes, cringed, squealed, my heart accelarated, forgot how to breathe...

As a person who is a little bit bipolar when it comes to romance (I can be very shy about it or very outspoken about it) that scene made me SO UNCOMFORTABLE.

Imagine having your feelings exposed not only to the person you have feelings for but also his girlfriend who happens to be your friend, your boss and the criminal that's threatening to kill hundreds of people.

I was like: "Not like this!!"

And Mac's reaction didn't help because of the lack of it. I don't know what I expected but his slightly monotone reaction broke my heart.

Thankfully, I've recovered since then and I don't mind that it happened that way.

Still, imagine how suffocating it must've been for Riley. That idea was what made me so uncomfortable and I think that's what they were going for. They wanted to make it as straightforward and awkward as possible.

But it doesn't end there. It's followed by Mac revealing the ring to Desi (and Riley). Mac's in "fuck it" mood and Desi kinda panics.

Little side note here, using GUM and a DIAMOND to break a bullet proof glass... BIG YES. That's an intrinsic MacGyverism.

~~~~

4. BIG SECRET REVEAL 2.

Then we get a breather from this drama by introducing another drama, Leanna's death.

Bozer's reaction to the news was heartbreaking for my already heartbroken heart.

I have my suspicions as to why they decided to kill her... The other episode completely made by the new team was the Quarantine one (5x06). During that episode Mac and Bozer bond over Bozer's pain. After learning about Bozer's mom, Mac chooses to share a piece of his own pain with him.

So, hear me out, I think they writers are planning to help Mac process his own grief THROUGH Bozer's grief. Keep in mind that we still have a Bozer centered episode coming up.

This is just a theory. I may be wrong, but I think it may be right too.

Back to the episode.

Once again we see a three dimensional Russ. He does something accordingly to his own judgement thinking it's the right decision [hiding Leanna's death], he realizes he screwed up, he gives Bozer a very heartfelt apology about it.

Henry's acting talent shone with this narrative. Actually, most of the actors had the chance to shine THANKS to the NARRATIVE. Murdoc, Andrews, Desi, Mac, Russ and Bozer... they all had their highlight moments (I'll talk about Riley later).

Parenthesis here... THE NARRATIVE HAS RETURNED THEIR SOULS TO OUR DEAR CHARACTERS!

WOW, they aren't brooding, angry, sad or whiny ALL THE EFFIN TIME. ABOUT TIME!

~~~~

5. LAST ACT.

For the third or fouth time in this episode my heart broke again when Mac was friendly towards Riley, after she explained herself. It really felt like he was friendzoning her.

But here's something to point out. Riley visibly relaxed when he reacted that way. What does that tell us?

> She had been so tense up until that point. Imo, she's on the defensive now. You can even see it in her wardrobe, make up and hairstyle choices. They're very contrasting to Riley's most vulnerable moments in this show (like when Audrey broke up with her).

Riley has had a year to sort out her feelings. We see in this episode that she spoke about them in a past tense. Whether she achieved it or not is unknown. We just know that she has at least tried to move on.

> She was mostly afraid of ruining her close relationship with Mac (who's her only family, along with Bozer) and her friendship (?) with Desi. We've seen it over and over again: Riley DID NOT WANT to get in the middle of them.

Keep that in mind as we go in the last scene.

It took me a while to figure out a possible thread of thought inside Mac's mind. Why did he look at the ring and decided to go to Riley's house? It really didn't make sense to me.

One moment he was thinking about his proposal and somehow that lead to him having the necessity to know if Riley still had feelings for him? Why??

My theory is that he went to her apartment for permission.

His question was a way of asking Riley for permission to propose to Desi. It was a way of reassuring himself that proposing was still the right decision.

In a way, he could also be fishing for an excuse to not do it [the proposal].

Because now he has doubts. He's confused, unsure.

Mac asks:

Mac: Hiding your emotions and letting it pass. Did it go away?

What could her answer have been? Here I wanna go back again to Riley being emotionally defensive, added her strong desire of not wanting to be in the middle of Mac and Desi's relationship.

I think she would've said "Yes, it worked."

Because it also lines up with my idea that the love triangle has changed from "Riley's a better match for Mac" to "Mac needs to win Riley's heart".

Riley's done her job. She worked out her feelings. Now it's time for Mac to sort out his humongously messed up internal self and reignite her spark. That's what I think.

Also, if anyone has any idea on how the song that played in that scene relates with the moment please share it with me because I don't really understand the song choice lol.

~~~~

6. ADDITIONAL COMMENTS

Desi. I'm not sure what's going on in her mind. She seemed stressed out by the ring, very serious about Riley, lenient with Mac... I'm really not sure.

My guess would be that she doesn't want that type of commitment but she wants to be with Mac yet she can't ignore Riley so does that mean she has to end it with Mac? That's the thought process she may have had? Idk...

I'm glad they let her be mature about it, with no overreactions, no whining, no blaming, nothing of that style that we're used to see in her.

I'm also glad about that moment when she defeats Murdoc and Andrews. THAT'S HOW YOU WRITE A TOUGH DESI. It was filmed with such a gracefulness and elegance. I liked it.

From a MacDesi point of view, she's probably being open minded and giving him space and waiting for him to come back to her... but somehow I got the vibe that she's actually... running away?

Lastly but no less important.

THE HISPANIC REPRESANTION OMG. RUSS SPEAKING SPANISH AND THAT CUMBIA MUSIC FILLED MY HEART WITH SO MUCH PRIDE!!! :')

[martvota]

Reading “The Ballad Of Songbirds And Snakes” by Suzanne Collins [1]

✴ The switch of perspectives, an utterly rotten setting, the return of various symbols, something about proper character crafting and should we even like Coriolanus Snow? ✴

The first thing I’ve noticed was that people worried Collins might try and give Snow a redemption arc or use the new book as an excuse for his latter actions but I wouldn’t fret – doing so would only invalidate the universe she has built, would make one of the most important characters inconsistent. No proper writer wants that.

If anything, the way I see it, the book is intended to give us more insight on the beginnings of the system and state we (along with Katniss and Peeta, and all the rest) already know. Which is somewhat fascinating, as all well-crafted universes are.

We are given some more information on the civil war/First Rebellion that has spawned the Treaty of Treason but it (mostly?) doesn’t come in form of a history class; it flows quite freely with the main character’s thoughts and other characters’ conversations. There is no excessive detail or raw facts. Instead, we are presented with broken memories and broken homes, traumas, political and economical outcomes – and none of it is impersonal. Susanne Collins has successfully portrayed a society that has just experienced war. The streets that remain ruined years after “peace” has been achieved, the fierce… nationalism, I’d say? Though Panem is technically one state. What I meant was the approach of Coriolanus’ grandmother, almost teary-eyed over Capitol’s completely false glory, extremely hostile while speaking about the Districts. The “us versus them” mentality, the extremely protective kind of patriotism (post-war patriotism, I’d say). The state is trying to lift itself up, the old money families are attempting to regain their riches, and they are choosing the most cruel tactics to achieve that. 

We got to know the situation in the Districts thanks to the previously published books – but this time we are taking a look at the Capitol at its least glorious (and if the Capitol hungers, then it’s easy to say the rest of the country is dying of starvation).

That being said, I think it is crucial to remember whose perspective we are adopting for the sake of the novel. In this case, it is young Snow’s so – a ruined upper class family’s heir, raised to believe that he deserves what is the best solely due to his surname. Yes, he is to become the cold-blooded tyrant and killer of millions. No past excuses those crimes, ever.

But we have to keep in mind his upbringing, his origin – he has never been taught to empathise, only pity or detest; he has never been taught to respect people from the Districts unless that brings him gain (and even then, such respect should be faked – think of his beginnings with Lucy Gray).

So of course he was not crafted for us to enjoy. In fact, painting him as an obviously likeable, misunderstood boy would make for a redemption arc or an excuse, wouldn’t it? Instead, we are given a young representative of an extremely corrupt system, by no means its victim but rather product. He might not be a straight-out villain just yet but this book is our chance to observe him grow into one, all the while remaining not entirely bad nor good – he is remarkable at many things and it shines through the pages; he is remarkable at playing the protagonist. He is not one, he was never supposed to be one, and a great feature of this book is that the narrative tricks the readers into forgetting that fact.

If we are looking for a just and compassionate lead, this novel is not the right place for our search. Few of the characters are outrightly bad, as in, even the ones we’d expect to have no remorse whatsoever show some of it every now and then (and I am mostly talking about the Capitol’s citizens). Which is good – I’d say it prompts the reader to question, why would they do that? ( ← I might touch upon that in another post or add examples in reblogs. )

The only actually good characters I am seeing so far are Sejanus and Lucy Gray, but I believe that might have been the author’s intention.

Speaking of which, I have seen someone accuse Collins of (perhaps unknowingly) attempting to lessen the value of a compassionate and vulnerable stance (such as the one displayed by Sejanus) in the eyes of the reader, due to the way the lead character views it as. I disagree – the reader should not agree with any of the ideology Coriolanus follows from the very beginning of the book. Him being the main character doesn’t mean that the author agrees with his views. And if the reader falls for that narrative for a moment, then that is completely okay – the way I see it, it mainly shows that the character has been written properly (he does with the real life audience the same thing he does with the fictional people around him, tricking them into looking at things from his perspective).

Besides, there is plenty of wake-up calls (though once you get lured in by the narrative they may become less striking), such as the bizarre scene where teenagers are brainstorming how to make a mass execution more interesting. Under a teacher’s guidance, in class, just freely exchanging ideas that will later take a toll on the lives of thousands. That’s terrifying.

Or the entire concept of the monkey cage, the message it conveys; they are locked up in a rundown zoo, out in the open for other human beings to view and mock – as if they themselves weren’t human, as if they were humanoid. Similar, but not developed enough, not bright enough, clever but not intelligent and never equal. And then the privileged masses that put them there dare to act afraid.

That’s disgusting. That’s cruel and absolutely outrageous, and I love how Suzanne Collins has not given up on her expert usage of symbols (another example: the names, but I could go on and on about that), even if I do think some of those metaphors could have been disguised better and not just served on a platter.

( I’m aware this review might come off as void of criticism but it was completely unplanned— my first impression, if you will. )

I though I would wait with voicing my opinion until I finish the book but now I’d rather update this post as I go, as not to forget anything.

I found out about this prequel by pure chance, just because I had been meaning to give the HG trilogy another read after a long break (so chances are I wasn’t and won’t be able to pinpoint all the allusions to the saga).

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Dragon Dancer IV: Zero

I heard the wind through the trees first. It carried the scent of pine needles to my nose and that opened my eyes. Darkness still reigned, so not much time had passed. I sat up and was steadied by a pair of hands.

I looked up into pair of reptilian eyes and gasped. Lu Mingfei was still more dragon than human, leaning in the shadow of a large tree. He held up a finger to his lips, curving a sharp claw. He was breathing heavily, like he’d run the whole way here.

Were we hiding? I tried to get up and he held me down. His grip tightened and he shook his head. He suddenly crouched, his wings folded up against his back.  A helicopter shined spotlight over head.

Fenrir’s bone armor had turned black and had was falling away from him in pieces. He’d used the Word Judgement against the members of dragonslayers come to kill him. Everywhere I had looked, there was nothing but dead bodies falling from the sky.

Could it be that he had expended all his remaining power? He was only one quarter of his strength. With Fenrir’s bones crumbling, he must have used all the power in them as well.

“They’ll be using infrared.” I whispered. “You’ll have to let me teleport you.”

“First, I need the bones of Constantine.” He whispered back to me.

“Do you know where they are?” 

He nodded once. 

The sound of the helicopter swung away from us and we relaxed for a moment. 

He looked into my eyes. “No matter what... don’t come out of cover.”

“Mingfei...”

“I’ll have to face them. I can hear... they’ve surrounded us. They’re coming.”

“Are you going to die?”

Mingfei lifted one claw and drew it along the contours of my face. Then he stood up and walked away from me. I was lying, propped up against a tree, half buried in sticks and leaves. I stayed quiet.

The trees thinned out in the distance. The roar of the helicopter returned, incredibly loud, throwing down gales of wind that sent the forest swaying. Someone jumped from the helicopter, directly in front of Mingfei.

This shadow of a figure tossed aside his trenchcoat, and I saw a person who was only slightly less of a dragon than Mingfei was. Even in the dark of night, his skin was so pale it practically glowed. His hands reflected the moonlight, glittering with fine white scales.

I swallowed. Was this one of them? The dragonslayers of Beowulf? I shrank lower to the ground, doing my best not to be seen.

The helicopter was rotating in the sky, making slight adjustments in angle and altitude. A sound, like a sharp whistle of air reached my ears and the sight of a long dark harpoon ripping through Mingfei’s back reached my eyes. It sliced clear through him, exited out the other side. The tip opened into array of hooks that bit into his chest when when the helicopter lifted. Mingfei was taken off his feet and left dangling in the air in front of the man.

The attack was so swift and unexpected that Lu Mingfei couldn’t react. I heard him gasping, struggling against the harpoon that held him. His body suddenly stiffened and he began to howl and scream, his voice higher pitched than humanly possible. I saw smoke rising from his body and realized that they were sending electricity through his body at a rate strong enough to kill someone. A light, bright and pulsing like the sun appeared at the point of contact and I was forced to look away.

After an interminable amount of time, the torment stopped and Lu Mingfei was limp. 

The man strode forward and knelt down, rubbing the tips of his finger into the ground. They came up dark. He ran his tongue over them and let out a sigh closing his eyes.

I lay low, suppressing the small whimpers from coming out of my throat, but I couldn’t hold back my tears. Grief welled in me like a breaking tsunami I had to hold my breath to keep from screaming. My nails dug into the ground. I had to stay still and quiet but all I wanted to do is rip the world in half. I pressed my face to the ground and tried to control my breath. But I inhaled a long involuntary gasp that would have been audible had the sound of the helicopter not concealed it.

“Are you surprised? You shouldn’t be. We caught your brother like this you know.” The man raised his voice so Mingfei could hear him over the sound of the machine. 

“We heard that a Dragon King may have escaped a secret lab in Siberia. We couldn’t just sit back and watch. We called out all the elites. Even some of my family were there.”

“It was an extremely tragic battle then as well. He was different from all the dragon swe had contact with. He was very adaptable and very cunning. Like a human. He wasn’t as strong as Norton or Fenrir. But with a simple dagger, he killed hundreds of A-level and S-level secret party members along the way. Just when the mission was nearly defeated, we received a high level order to clear the field as we were going to deploy our most powerful weapon, even if it meant killing other nearby party members.”

“The weapon was a person who could use the Speaking Spirit ‘Rhine’. This power can only be used once in a lifetime, as it obliterates the user in what can only be described as a nuclear explosion.”

“This kid had many ways to escape, but the Rhine user had captured his companion, a little girl. Then he did something that was completely inconsistent with dragon standards. He carried the daggers and kept going. He killed everyone standing in his way. The people he killed were actually decoys. Distractions. He didn’t expect that  what waited for him was a nuclear explosion.”

I lifted my face from the dirt. Mingfei was still hanging limp, his eyes closed.

The man let out a deep sigh. “What a lonely child... unwilling to give up his last companion.”

“A hundred square miles of forest was burned. The child was lying on the ground. He was still alive but the girl had escaped somehow. He was able to take “Rhine” at close range but was immobilized. So we plunged the legendary weapon, Gungnir, directly into his heart.”

Mingfei lifted his head at that.

“Have you seen it? The Secret Party collected it ages ago. Anyone who contacts it dies immediately. But not this child. Its lethal effect was balanced by the boy’s own vitality. He can’t die, but he can’t wake up either. But you... you are not as strong as he is.”

“The people... in the helicopters. You sacrificed their lives .... too?” Mingfei rasped.  He could barely speak, the effort of breathing put pressure on the hooks in his chest with every agonizing inhalation. His words came out in a rush to relieve the pain. 

“Of course. They knew what they were facing. They expected to die and were quite willing to do so. Your powers are incomplete, but you would still have to be weakened for us to capture and kill you.”

“If... I hadn’t... killed them...  What would you have done?”

The man barked out an incredulous laugh. “If you hadn’t... Dragons are bloodthirsty. It is your instinct to kill. Such hypotheticals are pointless.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out what looked like a short sword. It’s cutting edge glowed the bright red of sage stone.

“Before you... before.... you kill me... answer the question.”

The man said nothing. Nothing that I could hear anyway. If he did answer, it was drowned out by the pulsing reverberation of gunfire. Bright beams of light erupted from the trees and impacted the helicopter. Its rotors suddenly stopped and it began to fall. I was scooped up only a few feet off the ground by someone, a young woman who deposited me out of the danger of falling debris.

Her blond braids whipped from her face, her cold gaze faced forward as she raised the automatic weapon at the man and squeezed the trigger. The sound was impossibly loud and I clapped my ears over my head and clambered to my feet. The man pulled out his gun but dropped it and staggered backwards.

The young woman, who looked like she was barely out of high school, coolly reloaded, walking forward, firing, her face impassive until she reached his body.

She reloaded again, fired again until the heat distorted the muzzle and the gun misfired.

I rushed to Mingfei’s side and then I heard voices in the woods. The girl dropped her automatic weapon and pulled out twin pistols. She stepped on the chain holding Mingfei and fired until the bullets snapped it apart. She looked at me, her expression icy in her blue eyes. “Get him out of here. You see that rise in the distance?” 

I turned my head, following her gaze. 

“There’s a truck. The skeletons are there. Get him to them.”

I struggled to lift his limp form but I knew how to do a fireman’s carry. “Thanks... whoever you are.”

She shoved in another clip. “Call me Zero.”

[eclecticstarlightconnoisseur]

EDINBURGH TO BOSTON - CHAPTER 16 - REACH OUT, I’LL BE THERE

Good Evening all! Here is the long-awaited next chapter of Edinburgh to Boston. Once again life has sent another challenge my way to cope with. There are days I cope well and other days. But,let’s not discuss that.

I also had another reason to keep this back until now.  This chapter deals with subjects that are relevant to the New Year: hope, forgiveness, new beginnings, peace. 

As always, I need to thank my most fabulous beta @scubalass​ who finds all my errors, inconsistencies and generally keeps me on the straight and narrow path. I could not do this without you. 🧡🤗

Another interesting item is that Hubby and I were watching a documentary on Motown and the song Reach Out, I’ll Be There came on. And all I could think about was that must be how Jamie feels about Claire as he listens to her. There is a youtube link at the end of the chapter for the song at the end.

I welcome any suggestions, thoughts, comments on the story. I would really like to hear what you think of this chapter.

So without further delay, I give you:

Edinburgh to Boston

Chapter 16

Reach Out, I’ll Be There.

Now if you feel that you can't go on

Because all of your hope is gone,

And your life is filled with much confusion

Until happiness is just an illusion,

And your world around is crumblin' down;

Darling, reach out (come on girl, reach on out for me)

Reach out (reach out for me.)

I'll be there, with a love that will shelter you.

I'll be there, with a love that will see you through.

I'll be there to always see you through.

******************************

She yearned to touch him. Kneeling beside him, her hands hesitating above his head. The need to touch him intoxicated her, to feel his soft curls, the hardness of his bone and flesh, his warm breath on her skin. She needed to know him as real and alive under her fingertips. Whole. But she felt afraid to startle him out of his deep meditative state.

She spoke to him in a hushed tone not wanting to startle him. “Jamie, it’s me, Claire.”

Jamie lifted his head up slowly, not really sure what he is seeing. At first, he believes she is an illusion, an apparition conjured by his fatigued and distraught mind.  He blinks several times, clearing his vision. “Claire, is it truly ye? Sassen...” he looked up at her, unsure if he should use her pet name.

Claire saw how the night affected him, eyes swollen and red-rimmed, eyelashes damp with tears. 

 “Yes, it’s me your Sassenach,” she smiled, gently stroking his cheek feeling the soft scruff prickling under her touch. “I became worried sick when you didn’t come back.  I...I thought maybe you were hurt or lost or had an accident.  I had to find you. God, Jamie, don’t ever do that again to me,” she whimpered eyes glazing with tears threatening to escape their boundaries. 

Jamie struggled to rise from his recumbent position. His legs trembled and he labored to stand. They were stiff from disuse, cold from lying prone on the marble floor, and the remnants of his drunkenness hampered his progress. He looked like a newborn colt’s gangly first attempt to stand. Claire quickly moved to his side using her body to support him as he struggled to remain upright. After regaining his stability, he wrapped her tightly in his arms, pulling her close to his chest. “Claire.” Her name rippled off his tongue like the ruffling of sweet water flowing down a burn. 

Overwhelmed with emotion Claire began to sob. She clutched his jacket needing something to hold on to. 

He spoke tenderly to her, whispering comforting words in Gàidhlig into her hair.  “‘Tis alright a leannan. I’m here. Dinna be afraid.”

Tenderly he stroked her back comforting her as if she were a small child. Her weeping grew faint reducing itself to a quiet hiccuping sound. She looked up into his kind blue eyes and punched him in the chest. 

“Ow! What was that for?!” he demanded with a surprised look on his face.

“You scared me. I...I thought lost you. I was afraid you wouldn’t come back.” She trembled in his arms, “I thought you...” She hesitated, “When you didn’t come back, I thought it was because you didn’t want me anymore.” Claire buried her face into his chest nervous about his reaction.

“Not? Not want ye? For the love of God, woman, I want ye more than life itself. How could I no’ want ye? Yer the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

“Humph. Then why didn’t you come back?”

“Because I thought ye dinna want me.” He dropped his arms from around his beloved shifting his gaze to his shoes intently studying them as if something new and interesting happened to them.

 Turning away Jamie began to pace. His sound hand opened and closed into a fist. Anger and frustration pulsed through his veins. 

“I failed ye, Claire! Ye told me that yerself. Ye said I left ye there to fight him off, tae, tae defend yerself. And how do ye think that made me feel? Hmm?” he spat out angrily. “I kent I was wrong. ‘Tis bad enough that I kent it, but tae hear it from ye. By Christ, did ye need tae throw it in my face?” he fumed.  “Weel, after that I kent I was no’ man enough for ye.  Ye need someone better than me to care for ye. That...That ye deserve someone more capable than me as I couldna keep my word.” He stopped pacing, his back turned to her. “Ye ken tae a Highlander breaking a promise is a verra, verra serious thing. Did ye ken that? No, I dinna believe that ye do. ‘Tis a matter of honor and loyalty th...that yer word has value, meaning. That ye can be trusted. Christ, I couldna keep my promise to ye or to the damn wee birds!” Frustration and shame plagued him, his fingers erratically tapping against his thigh. 

He turned to face her, tears welling up from deep inside him running down his cheeks. “I’m nay good for ye. I came here and prayed for guidance. At the time I thought I was angry because ye dinna want tae have Frank arrested. Truth be told, it drives me mad that ye dinna.” His face was grim and taut with the thought of Frank escaping punishment.  “I understand why ye dinna want tae and I appreciate it. Not tae have the arrest record follow me for the rest of my professional life ‘tis a blessing. But, ye ken I woulda carried that weight for the rest of my life so ye could get justice.” He blew out a breath steadying himself. “Instead, what I found deep in my heart is that I am no’ man enough for ye. When ye needed me, I failed to protect ye as I swore tae do. I’m sorry Claire. Sae sorry for everything.” He turned and walked toward the exit leading back to the shelter. He had the appearance of a dejected man, shoulders slumped, head hanging low. “When I get back to Scotland, I’ll give in my resignation tae the hospital. I canna be yer partner anymore. Ye need someone ye can depend on. I’ll get my things and be out of yer life.”

“Go to him. Be with him. He needs you,” Brother Stan told her.

God Almighty, what have I done!? I’ve shattered this beautiful man, his beautiful soul. Do you see what your secrets have done Beauchamp? The damage you caused.

“JAMIE, WAIT.” Her voice echoed reverberating throughout the cavernous church waking the saints and angels to bear witness to her amende honorable before God and her man.

 Claire ran to him, blocking his way to the exit. She grabbed both arms, looked imploring up into his face, “Please Jamie, don’t go.”

“Lass, ye have a good heart. I ken ye feel the need tae forgive me. But I canna forgive myself for the dishonor I brought to ye, for being a disappointment tae ye. So if ye dinna mind,” Jamie’s hand went to break her hold on him.

“Please! Listen to me. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I haven’t been honest with you. I lied to you about Frank, about me, about our marriage. You need to hear the truth first. All of it. Please hear me out. Give me another chance.” She became frantic trying to make him understand, to listen to her. She took a deep breath having come to a decision that could possibly break her heart forever. “If after you listen, should you still want to leave then I’ll not stop you,” she bargained.

Jamie stopped struggling to escape her grasp on his arms. “Lass, what do ye mean ye lied tae me?” His lips drew taut in an angry thin line. The only thing that Jamie Fraser could not abide was a lie. “Ye lied to me about what?” he asked glaring at her.

Claire let out a breath she did not know she was holding. She rather risk his ire than have him reproach himself when he was blameless. 

“We need to sit. This is a long story. I only ask that you listen with all your heart and an open mind.”

The Scot looked at her quirking an eyebrow in question. “Alright let’s hear it then.”

Claire took him by the hand and led him to a pew. She looked up to the altar, uttered a silent prayer asking for strength to tell him the truth and to accept his ultimate decision.

Taking his hand in hers, she began her confession.

“Everything I told you about how Frank insinuated himself into Lamb and my life is true. He is a master manipulator. He convinced Lamb that he truly cared for me. His behavior could even be called gallant, respectful, courteous. But that all changed once we were married. He was jealous, and became abusive, especially when drunk.” 

She recounted the incident with poor Albert the young professor. “He had threatened Albert, and actually took a swing at him. Fortunately, because of Frank’s level of intoxication, his punch went wide completely missing him.”

She peaked at Jamie from under her lashes. His face remained unreadable.

“Frank grabbed my hand and we left the party. In the car park, he started yelling. He insinuated things, calling me a whore. Then he threatened to beat me.” She told him that was not the only time he had acted like that. There were other incidents, some that ended in violence toward an innocent but the cruelty directed toward her continually escalated.

“Frank is jealous of you and the claim he believes you have on me. He thinks I’m still his. When we divorced, he seized hold of my arm telling me.” Claire paused. She looked toward the chapel ceiling trying desperately to compose herself. She bit her bottom lip hard enabling the coppery taste of blood to fill her mouth. She straightened herself, squaring her shoulders, and looked deeply into Jamie’s calm blue eyes. “Frank said that the divorce meant nothing. He would never let me go. That I am his forever and any man who thought differently would end up being very sorry. He touched me to mark me hoping you would walk away thinking me his or tarnished.  What happened couldn’t have been avoided. He was hellbent on creating trouble.” She blew out a sigh, “I’m sorry for blaming you, Jamie. Neither you nor I could have stopped this from happening.”

When you feel lost and about to give up

'Cause your best just ain't good enough

And you feel the world has grown cold,

And you're drifting out all on your own,

And you need a hand to hold:

Darling, reach out (come on girl, reach out for me)

She continued with story after story. Stories about how he degraded her during her residency and fellowship. Implying the only reason she passed was because of his and Lamb’s influence. This only made Claire work harder to be recognized on her own merit. She became chief resident then chief fellow. She became a recipient of several prestigious awards for the research she did as a cardiac fellow. Despite this, Frank continued to claim her achievements were the result of his influence and not her excellence as a doctor.

Claire stopped talking. She raised her hands to her temples massaging the throbbing pain sitting there.

She resumed her tale continuing to pour her heart out to Jamie who sat expressionless and silent. Imperceptibly, his hand gravitated to hers which now rested in her lap. A thumb began to gently stroke her hand. His hand squeezed hers, supporting her, comforting her. Touching made the ordeal easier somehow. 

I can tell the way you hang your head,

You're without love and now you're afraid

And through your tears, you look around,

But there's no peace of mind to be found.

I know what you're thinkin',

You're alone now, no love of your own,

But darling, reach out (come on girl, reach out for me)

“Go on, lass. There’s more isn’t there?”

Claire bobbed her head up and down acknowledging his statement. Swallowing the lump that formed in her throat, she pressed on with her story. “You recall,” she said with a shaky voice, “I told you that the box of love letters from Frank’s girlfriends fell, opening, and I read them. I also told you that I confronted him and he admitted to all the affairs. I said I struck him and went back to Lamb.  Well, the truth  is that I did find a box of letters, I lied about the rest.” The penitent, took a deep breath, exhaled and began. “What did happen was the day Frank found out he did not make tenure, he came home drunk. He threw me against the door, slapped and punched me in the face. When he was done with that, he grabbed me by the hair and slammed my head down on the dresser, and then.” Claire paused steeling her courage, “And then he raped me. My face was bruised, my mouth and lips were bloody. There were ecchymoses under my eye, my arms and thighs.  I fought him, but he was too strong. After he left, I packed my things and fled to Lamb’s place. That’s when I found the letters after I pulled my suitcase out of the closet.” 

“He broke me. He. Broke. Me. I was never the same after that.” She kept her eyes on him watching for his reaction. 

Jamie said nothing. His muscles tensed, and she saw his hand close ever so slowly into a white-knuckled fist. His eyes grew dark like black swirling thunderheads ready to unleash their fury. His breathing grew deeper, faster. A guttural growl emanated from the farthest reaches of his chest vibrating through him. The veins in his neck distended as blood coursed through them. They looked like great snakes undulating as they filled and emptied with each hammering beat of his heart.

She didn’t know how long had she spoke. It could have been minutes or hours. But she told him everything leaving out nothing. As she finished her account, Claire admitted, “No one outside of Lamb and Lamb’s lawyer knew any of this as I never told another soul.”

Hearing the details of her nightmare flooded Jamie with so many emotions, anger for the pain she suffered. Admiration for her strength and resiliency. Love. His love for her only deepened. It had no limit; it had no end. She was a survivor. And she was his.

“Why did ye no’ tell me, Claire?”

Looking down at her hands, she whispered, “I didn’t want to tell you for fear of what you would think of me. Tainted, damaged, useless. That you would believe the things Frank said about me. That you couldn’t, wouldn’t see me.” She sat up straighter, turned and looked her lad in the face. “If this is too much for you Jamie, I understand. If you want to go, well there’s no hard feelings, just go.” She gave him a small smile and sat waiting. 

She had the desire to cry, but would not. To do so would be to continue Frank’s hold over her. To let him continue to own her. By telling Jamie the truth, it liberated her. The demon was cast out and struck down. The exorcism complete. Her eyes strayed toward the shrine of St. Michael. The Archangel was renowned for slaying the dragon. At this moment, Claire felt a kinship with the saint for tonight she slew her own. She would not let Frank possess her ever again. She finally won her freedom.

Reach out (reach out for me.)

Just look over your shoulder

I'll be there, to give you all the love you need,

And I'll be there, you can always depend on me.

It seemed like an interminable length of time before Jamie spoke, “Mo nighean donn, yer a braw lass, sae brave, sae strong. I love ye Claire, but ye shoulda told me,” he admonished her. “Ye shouldna be carrying this alone. I have a broad enough back to carry this with ye.” His arms came and wrapped around her, pulling her to his chest, enveloping her in his love.

“I dinna want ye to ever feel ye canna tell me something, mo chridhe. Ye need to reach out for me, come tae me. I’ll always be here for ye. Always.” Gently he placed a delicate kiss on her crown tugging her even closer to him.

Claire looked up into his kind blue eyes, feeling the love therein. “There is another reason that I didn’t want to tell you all of this. Fear of what you would do it you ever met Frank. I bloody did not want you to kill him, James Fraser. I am a terrible baker.”

His brow furrowed with a look of puzzlement running across his face. “Lass, I dinna take yer meaning. What in hell are ye goin’ on about?” He looked up and stared directly at the altar. His face turned bright red with the realization of where he was and mumbled a heartfelt, “Pardon.”

She looked at him with a smirk on her face and a laugh waiting to erupt from her lips. “I don’t think I could bake a cake with a saw in so you could escape from jail.” Her eyes danced with the light of merriment and joy. The lines of pain and stress so long part of her visage were smoothed away. She positively glowed.

Jamie swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he attempted to stifle his own laugh. He rested his chin on the top of her head, “A nighean,” he sighed and pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose.

“Ye’re daft woman, ye ken? But, I love ye fine and that’s all about that.”

Claire nestled against his chest feeling safe and loved and relieved.

They sat there immersed in their own little sphere of happiness. Not speaking, not moving, just being.

“Claire? Lass?” I think it’s time we go.”

“Mmm, yes I think we should go too. I’ve had enough of Boston, Jamie. Take me home. Home to Scotland.” 

“Aye, Scotland,” he choked with emotion.

They walked together fingers interlaced toward the exit through the shelter.  Claire helped Jamie into his overcoat and placed his beanie on his head. She quickly prepared herself for a wintery blast as well. They found Brother Stan at his work, comforting all who needed it.

“Thank ye Brother for everything. I’ll never forget ye,” Jamie clasped the cleric’s hand warmly.

Claire leaned forward giving the clergyman a quick peck on the cheek. “Thank you for looking after him.”

“Go with God, go in peace, go in love,” he wished the couple. 

“And,” winking at Jamie “don’t beat up any more trees, eh?”

With his head bowed, a grin on his face, Jamie responded, “Trust me,  Brother, they are safe from me.”

Claire took out her mobile ordered a car to take them to their next destination.

************

They arrived back at the hospital for one final check on Jamie’s hand. A confirmatory X-Ray revealed no new breaks just some new bone bruises. Dr. Nelson, visibly annoyed with his recalcitrant patient placed a brace over the injured hand immobilizing and protecting it from further damage.

“Dr. Fraser,” he reprimanded harshly, “You need to take better care of your hands. Unless of course, you don’t want to operate anymore,” he inquired raising a questioning eyebrow.  

Jamie, rather shamefaced replied, “Aye, I do. ‘Twas foolish and careless of me. It willna happen again. Thank ye for yer care, Dr. Nelson. Truly.”

Once again, they bid their farewells to the staff and hurriedly headed once more to the hotel.

 *********************************

The fatigue from the previous day dragged at their heels. Sleep though would remain elusive as preparations for their departure took precedence. Each surgeon took turns washing their faces and brushing their teeth hoping a modicum of cleanliness would keep their exhaustion at bay. 

Claire began the task of packing their suitcases while Jamie spent his time trying to find an earlier flight home.

He watched as Claire sorted their things methodically and neatly packing. Despite the smile on her face, he could see her desire to be away from here and safe in the embrace of Scotland.

As he dialed the airline he prayed, “God dinna let me fail her this time. I need tae get her away from here, from the memories and the pain. Please.”

“Good morning! Alba Airlines this is Ainslie. How may I assist ye?” chirped a feminine voice on the other end of the phone.

“Good morning tae ye. This is Dr. James Fraser and I’m wondering do ye have any available seats leaving today from Boston to Edinburgh, for two?” 

“One moment sir.” Jamie could hear the clicking of the keyboard as Ainslie typed finding their reservation information to leave Boston in three days; time. The representative hummed softly as she searched for any vacant seats.

“Dr. Fraser,” she said exuberantly, “It just so happens that a couple canceled their flight for today. That flight leaves at 9:50 PM. Would that be alright?”

“Aye, lass that would be fine.  Please make the reservation for Dr. James Fraser and Dr. Claire Beauchamp.” 

“Dinna worry Dr. Fraser, I will make all the necessary arrangements for ye and Dr. Beauchamp.”

“Thank ye kindly, lass.” 

“Sassenach, ‘tis all arranged. Our flight is at 9:50 PM.  ‘Tis a bit late, but at least we leave today. Alright?”

She comes and stands between his legs, wrapping her arms around his neck.  Slowly Claire bends and places a kiss to his cheek. “You’re a magician. How did you manage it?”

Jamie wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer to him resting his head on her abdomen, “‘Twas naught but a wee bit of luck.”

“Well, whatever you did, I’m glad of it,” she smiled tenderly at him.

He looked at her with hungry eyes, pulled her down to sit on his knee. “I love ye, mo chridhe, always.” 

Claire wrapped her arms around his neck pressed her forehead against his whispering, “And I you, forever.”

Jamie took in the face that was his heart. His lass’s face glowed in the soft light. Her eyes soft like a fine sherry, her skin like pearl, and her lips. Ah, her lips blushed like pink rosebuds, plump and sweet, begging to be kissed and kissed often. Slowly, his hand reached up cupping her cheek as his thumb traced her lips. Oh, how he wanted to kiss her, ravage her mouth with his. Possess her. But he couldn’t. Not after her revelations. He simply could not come to her like a brute blind with need. No. That would never do.

“Claire. Lass, I would. I’d like verra much to kiss ye. May I?”  

“Yes,” she whispered while nuzzling his cheek.

Their lips came together tentatively at first, just a mere touching. Claire moved to deepen the kiss.  Her lips parted and her tongue danced across his lips seeking entry. Jamie startled, then yielded to her request. Their tongues moved in a tantalizing rhythm of their own making swirling, tasting. Her hands tangled in the silken curls at his nape. His hand brushed across her back caressing her luxuriating in the feel of her body against his.  And suddenly he broke the kiss. He stared at her. Her face was flushed with passion, eyes smoldering, lips kiss swollen. 

She fisted his shirt, “I want you, now,” she whimpered.

Jamie rested his forehead against hers, “No, a nighean, no’ here in this place of heartache and sorrow. I dinna want ye tae recall our joining here to be tainted with the memories of what happened with Frank last night.” He paused, considering what he wanted to say next. “Ye deserve better my own. I need to love ye in a place that belongs only to us. A place of love. No’ a place where we try tae erase memories but a place where we make them.” He took her hand and kissed each of her knuckles,  “I need tae take my time so I can serve ye rightly. No’ like this,” his voice low and sultry. “We’ll have time when we return to Scotland. Then I swear I mean to make ye moan and weep, even if ye dinna wish tae. I mean tae make ye sigh and scream with the wanting. And at the last, tae cry out my name. Then and only then shall I know that I served ye well.”

Claire leaned forward bit the shell of his ear and murmured, “I’ll keep you to that promise, Jamie Fraser. Do not disappoint me.” 

She stood and noticed an errant sock on the floor. Bending all the way over to pick it up, she displayed, according to James Fraser, her finest asset and gave it a slight wiggle. Slowly the tease stood up sock in hand. She heard a small groan and mutterings in Gàidhlig. 

“Good,” she thought. “That should teach him not to trifle with her.”  

Turning her head around to look over her shoulder, she gave him her most coquettish looks, “I’m going to take a shower.” Claire walked toward the bathroom with an unmistakable sway to her hips. Her lover’s grumbling became louder.

Claire showered, towel-dried, wrapped her hair in a towel and dressed in her robe. She felt relaxed from the heat of the water. The warmth from the shower induced a feeling of calmness and bone-weary tiredness causing her to struggle to keep her eyes open.

How many hours had it been since she had a decent night’s sleep Claire wondered? Too many. She could not recall when she last had a full night’s sleep. But it really didn’t matter how long she had gone without sleep. She would gladly do it again and again and again. For him. She is the keeper of his heart and soul. Never again would she let harm come to him. Nothing else mattered only Jamie. She could not, would not let anything or anyone come between them. He was hers.  

Walking out of the bathroom, the bed looked enticing. It called to her seducing her with a magnetic force she was powerless to resist. Claire tugged on his shirt that she had napped in earlier along with fresh panties. Climbing onto the bed, she stretched out waiting for Jamie to join her after his shower.  The pull of slumber, however, was too great. Slowly her head began to slump forward only to jerk her back into wakefulness as she felt her head drop.

Jamie followed suit, still mumbling his irritation to himself as he entered the bathroom. He quickly showered succumbing to the peace and tranquility of his ablutions. He felt purified somehow.  The pain, tension, and worry were washed away and circling down the drain. He released himself from the stress of the past day and surrendered to his exhaustion. 

How long has it been since he was this tired, he wondered? Probably not since his medical internship. Shite, that was a long time ago and he thought he was feeling his age. I’m tae old tae be doing this sort of thing, he scolded himself. He looked up and thought about the Sassenach in the other room.  I may be too old for this, but she’s worth it. He chuckled to himself. Aye, I’d walk through the fires of hell and back for her. He knew he would willingly suffer more than a few sleepless nights for her because he loved her more than life itself.

He came out of the bathroom with the towel slung low over his hips. He rootled around in his suitcase finding his sleep pant. As he pulled them on he caught a glance of Claire sitting on the bed her head bobbing as she struggled to remain awake. Climbing into bed he drew her to him.

“Sassenach, we need to sleep awhile. Let me hold ye. Come, lass lay yer head down.” They lay together spoon fashion. Jamie wrapping one arm around her chest while the other lay across her abdomen. He felt the steady thrum of her heart becoming soothed by it. Claire snuggled closer, her arse nestled in his groin. She mumbled, “I love you.” 

“I love ye too, mo ghràdh.” They closed their eyes yielding to the narcotic of sleep.

A hazy winter’s afternoon light cast about the room. Early shadows crept up the walls. 

Jamie woke first. He was lying on his back and his Sassenach curled into his side, her head resting on his chest. She snored lightly as she slept. His hand came around moving her curls off her face allowing him to study her in repose. She looked relaxed.  The usual lines around her eyes and mouth were gone. She mumbled something incoherent and gave a wee chuckle. She was dreaming.  He hoped she was happy. He hoped she was dreaming of him and that he was making her happy. Placing a gentle kiss to her hair, he closed his eyes thinking just for a few minutes more.

The room was dark. The weak winter light had long gone. Claire’s eyes blinked adjusting to the dimness of the room. She became aware of Jamie’s slumbering form next to her, breathing gently, hands folded across his chest. He looked like one of the tomb figures she had seen during her travels with Lamb. All that was needed to complete this picture was a little dog asleep at his feet. 

She snuggled against him, inhaling his sleepy scent. Masculine. She exhaled contentedly and then saw the clock blinking angrily 5:01 PM. 

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, we have to be at the airport by 7:30 PM. 

“Wake up! Jamie! Wake up! We need to get ready to leave.”

Jamie became instantly awake, jumping out of the bed scanning the room for threats of danger. Seeing none, he turned his attention to Claire.

“What’s amiss lass?”

Claire was hopping around on one leg trying to shimmy into her jeans. “We need to leave for the airport soon. Don’t we need to take care of the bill? We didn’t even tell them we were leaving. We need to get a car. Jamie, why are you standing there looking at me like that? We need to hurry.”

He sat down heavily on the bed scrubbing his face with his hands. “Lass, dinna do that again. Ye scared me to death. I took care of everything while ye were in the shower. There is nae bill. I spoke with the manager about shortening our stay. He was no’ happy at first, but I convinced him otherwise. Then the wee mannie could no’ do enough. It was aye Dr. Fraser, of course, Dr. Fraser.” Jamie chortled to himself.

Claire gave him a side-long look. “Exactly what did you do to make him so, shall we say, agreeable?”

“Oh, no’ much,” Jamie replied with a broad smile on his lips. “I just insinuated that if word got around about what happened last night the publicity may no’ be in his favor, aye?” His cat-eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Jamie you didn’t!”

“I did.” he snorted. “The man was being a right arse.”

“You know I would never allow that to happen. It would be too embarrassing!”

“I ken it, but he doesna. And Padrick will pick us up at 6 P. M. to take us to the airport.”

“You devious…”

“I am.” With that, he fell backward onto the bed laughing until tears leaked out.

“I told ye Sassenach, I would take care of ye, did I no?” He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand.

“Yes, you did. You didn’t say how though.” She shakes her head. Claire came closer to him placing a soft kiss on his lips, “Ridiculous man.”

“But ye love me.?” It was both a statement and a question.

“Very much so.” 

They finished packing their bags, dressed quickly and went to the lobby to wait for Padrick.

Seeing Jamie, Pierre the maitre d’hotel surreptitiously approached him. “Dr. Fraser, if I might have a word with you? In private.” He grabbed Jamie by the coat sleeve pulling him into a small out of the way alcove where they would not be observed.  “I know the Madame did not wish a list of names who witnessed the umm, shall we say, the occurrence of last night. However, I took it upon myself to create such a list.” 

He handed Jamie a list of the patrons of the restaurant with statements of what they observed duly notarized. It also contained names and contact information should there be a need to testify on behalf of  Dr. Beauchamp.

“The Madame is such a lovely lady and the man un foutu de salaud,un fils d'une pute. He shall never step inside this restaurant again,” he growled.  “I am so sorry this happened to her. Would you keep this for her should she ever need it?” He pressed the envelope into Jamie’s hand.

Jamie overwhelmed from the gentleman’s kindness clasped his shoulder with gratitude. “Merci, mon Amie.” He took the envelope and placed inside his coat’s inner pocket.

“Le plaisir était pour moi, Monsieur.” Pierre bowed and left.

Claire waited impatiently for him in the lobby. Upon seeing him, she glared at him suspiciously, “Where were you?” She had the feeling he was up to something that he did not want her to know about.

Thinking quickly and not completely telling a lie, “I thanked Pierre for his assistance last night, Sassenach. He also assured me that the villain wouldna be allowed back in his establishment.” Jamie said that with no little satisfaction.  He liked the idea of Frank being ostracized from the brasserie.  It was some mark of justice.  

He clasped her chin raising her head up and brushed his lips across hers, “Come Sassenach, our car awaits.”

Padrick the ever-present chauffeur loaded their luggage into the boot and swiftly departed for the airport.

Jamie and Claire arrived at the airport making their way to the Alba Airline terminal. 

“‘Twill be good to be home, Sassanech, do ye no’ agree?”

“Yes, I do,” she sighed with relief at the prospect of leaving Boston.

They found seats in the waiting area and made themselves as comfortable as possible.

“Do ye remember when we left Edinburgh, lass, ye were busy staring at my arse? Did it live up to yer expectations, then?” he said smugly.

“If you must know,” she sat there contemplating. “Hmm, well I would say umm…”

“Fer Christ’s sake, Claire, is it or is it no???” He seemed rather annoyed that her answer was not immediately forthcoming. 

It seems that men even beautifully made men like Jamie, had body-image issues, not unlike women.

Claire looked at him eyes twinkling, “Did I offend you, Fraser? Yes, you have the finest arse I have ever seen or will ever want to see. Better?”

“Yes.” He looked very cross his lip jutting out like a petulant little boy who had been told he could not have a treat. Claire gave him a jab in the ribs and gave him a wry smile. They looked at each other, chins quivering and began to laugh. “I love ye, lass, ye ken it. But yer wicked in yer ways.”

The PA system crackled to life.

Flight 8389 Boston to Edinburgh International Airport now boarding at Gate 34. Please have yer boarding passes ready.

Home.

A/N:

Amende honorable -- was originally a mode of punishment in France which required the offender, barefoot and stripped to his shirt, and led into a church or auditory with a torch in his hand and a rope around his neck held by the public executioner, to beg pardon on his knees of his God, his king, and his country; now the term is used to denote a satisfactory apology or reparation. Amende honorable forbade revenge.

Un foutu de salaud,  -- fucking bastard

 Fils d'une pute. --  son of a whore   

Le plaisir était pour moi, Monsieur  --  The pleasure is all mine, sir.

The song: Reach Out (I’ll Be There) was performed by the Four Tops. 

Released: 1966

Songwriter(s): Holland–Dozier–Holland

Youtube link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yqFz7T5v3iU

[fangirlingalittletoohard]

Movie Moment

Q has just been recruited at MI6. Bond has worked there for years. When the pair meet by chance in Q's bookstore, sparks fly but neither is willing to admit it. A formal work introduction turns into an unofficial date at an art gallery and as Bond walks Q home in the rain, the two men screw their courage and take the opportunity to have a "movie moment."

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You can find the accompanying art by the wonderful 10kiaoi here.

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Word count: 3136

Warnings: NONE! Just 3k words of pure 00Q fluff!

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Q froze on his ladder as unfamiliar voices startled him, the pile of books balanced precariously between his hands and the top shelf wobbled slightly as he attempted to restock the thriller section of the little bookstore in which he worked.

“Are you… Are you James Bond?!” A hushed female voice murmured on the opposite side of the bookshelf that Q was filling.  

“...Yes.” Replied the hesitant, gruff voice of the man named James Bond. The voice reverberated around Q’s chest, making him waver dangerously on the rickety old ladder and forcing him to grip onto the bookshelf to prevent him from falling.

“Oh. My. God. You really are, aren’t you! They told us all about you in training! I’m such a fan! Did you really wrestle a shark on the bottom of the Mariana Trench?” The female voice practically hissed with excitement.

“...What?!” Bond replied again, as if failing to find an adequate response.  

“Will you sign my laptop case please?”

Q rose up onto his tiptoes, almost falling off the ladder again in the process of peeking over the top shelf to catch a glimpse of the man in the aisle opposite. He was tall and bulky with sharp features and dressed in an equally sharp suit: not his usual bookstore customer.

“Okay.” Bond replied blandly, following the girl over to a desk around the corner and out of sight. Q thrust the remaining books onto the shelf and stumbled down the ladder just in time to watch Bond’s dark-haired accomplice thank him and hurry out of the shop. Bond stood, looking slightly bewildered for a second, before turning and catching Q’s eye. “Excuse me,” he began, addressing Q and smiling a strained yet polite smile.

Q hesitated for a moment, clearing his suddenly dry throat before replying; “how may I help you, sir?” Bond’s cool steely blue eyes seemed to pierce through him and Q wasn’t quite sure how to react.

“I’m looking for a spy novel,” he began, striding closer to Q, his footsteps muffled by the thick faded red carpet, “and was hoping you had some recommendations.”

Q took a moment to weigh up the man standing before him; a stark contrast to himself. Everything about Bond was sharp - his eyes, his angular body, his suit, his neat hair - which created an almost comical juxtaposition with his own dark messy curls and soft, oversized sweater and chocolatey brown eyes, yet something in his demeanour told Q that he and Bond had a similar taste in books. “Follow me.” Q instructed, turning on his heel and leading Bond further into the shop.

He escorted Bond to the “spy thriller” sub-section of the store, slid a copy of John le Carré’s “The Night Manager” off the shelf and handed it to him. A satisfied, somewhat arrogant smile tugged at the corners of Q’s mouth as Bond scanned over the blurb and nodded approvingly. “Thank you,” Bond began again, his eyes flicking quickly down to the enamel name badge which was pinned to Q’s breast, “Q?” he questioned, understandably confused by the lack of name on his name badge.

“I, too, happen to be a fan of espionage.” Q confided, smirking subtly at the duality of his statement; Q’s love of espionage was not only satisfied through novels, but also through his recent appointment as head of Q-branch at MI6.

“Ah,” Bond responded softly, “well, I trust your judgement.”

The pair made their way over to the till where Bond paid for his book. “Let me know if I judged your taste in novels correctly.” Q concluded, blushing ever so slightly at his boldness in hinting that he would like to see him again.

“I will.” Promised Bond, gently opening the red-painted door of the bookstore and straightening his tie, the bell above the door tinkling and breaking the silence that threatened to shroud the shop once Bond had left.

“I didn’t catch your name.” Q called after him, blushing more noticeably now.

“The name’s Bond. James Bond.” He replied coolly, saluting in a lazy military style and smiling affectionately as the door swung closed behind him, the bell above the door tinkling again as he did so. Q bit his lip in an attempt to suppress the smile that was transforming his expression irresistibly as he watched James Bond walk away with the promise of return.   

 ---

Days passed without the return of Bond and Q was beginning to feel foolish for believing that he had a chance of seeing him again until he was handed the files of the double-0 agent to which he had been assigned quartermaster. Q’s breath caught in his throat as he scanned through the files labelled “007” in the semi-darkness of his office and stared down at the small black and white picture of James Bond, secured loosely to the pile of documents with a paperclip. Assigned to be James Bond’s quartermaster. The James Bond. According to his files, Bond had worked for MI6 for forever and Q knew that he looked vastly inexperienced in comparison. How had he not bumped into him before? All he had to do was find somewhere that he had the upper hand to re-introduce himself as his quartermaster. Why was he so nervous? This was a professional exchange, not a chance encounter like they had had at the book shop.

---

After a lengthy search of possible locations, Q settled on the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The moment the gallery opened the next morning, Q was there. He spent hours wandering through each room and choosing his favourite paintings before finally whittling it down to a few paintings in room 34 and eventually settling on The Fighting Temeraire painted by J.M.W Turner in 1838. A quick google of the painting’s history and connotations reassured Q that he could be as pretentious as he liked with his impressive interpretations. He liked to be pretentious; it gave him a sense of superiority that he knew he would lack the moment his eyes met Bond’s again.  

---

Q returned to the bookstore for his evening shift, shaking rain out of his hair as he hurried inside, and froze on the doormat as his eyes met Bond’s. He was leaning against the cashier desk with two books in his hands. “Evening, Q.” Bond greeted, smiling subtly.

“How long have you been here?” Q asked in reply, unwinding the scarf from around his neck as he closed the door and paced over to Bond, placing it on the desk next to him.

“Only a few minutes. I came in this morning and asked when you would be in.” Bond replied nonchalantly as he tapped his fingers lightly on the wooden tabletop; he had always been forward and upfront when chasing his heart (or lust for that matter) but he felt almost nervous to be here with Q again and subsequently felt the need to conceal this by acting overly casual. To Bond, Q felt safe. He was soft and gentle but he seemed to have a sarcastic, almost dangerous side to him that Bond knew he could draw out if he tried hard enough. After years working as a double-0 agent and living the inevitable life of inconsistency which came hand-in-hand with the occupation, Bond longed for something constant, and the hint of danger that he sensed from him seemed to draw him to Q. “You were spot on with the book, by the way.”

“What?” Q began, before realising that Bond was only here because he had asked him to review his book choice. “Oh, well I do have a knack for judging people’s taste in novels.” Bond uttered a low-pitched chuckle that shook Q to the core and threw him off his game again.

“Well thank you for introducing me to le Carré.” Bond continued, turning and leaning closer to Q over the desk. Q shuddered and took a step backwards, stumbling slightly over a box of books as Bond placed two new books on the desk. Q caught himself in time and took the money that Bond was holding out to him.

“So I’ll… will I see you again?” Q asked, silently kicking himself for being so obviously attracted to him.

“You will.” Bond replied, already halfway to the door, his heart beating a little faster than usual as he realised that he’d committed to seeing Q again. He turned back as he opened the door, smiling to himself as he was greeted with the sight of Q fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater and watching him leave.

Once outside, Bond instantly regretted not bringing an umbrella as the unusually large raindrops were already beginning to seep through his suit and soak his skin. He had barely taken a few steps away from the cozy amber light of the shop window when the door swung open again and Q called his name. “That suit looks too expensive to get wet.” Q quipped, holding out a large black umbrella. Bond chuckled and jogged back to Q, gratefully accepting the umbrella and brushing some of the rain off his jacket.

“Thank you, Q.” Bond replied affectionately. Q smelled of tea and cinnamon and everything homely and Bond could barely fight the urge to reach out and grab Q’s face and kiss him but he couldn’t be sure that Q felt the same way. “I’ll return it.” He concluded, feeling a dull ache in his chest as he stepped away leaving Q in the doorway of the bookshop.

Q’s chest ached as Bond walked away. That was a perfect ‘movie moment.’ If he lived in a fictional universe, Bond would have reached out and grabbed Q’s face and kissed him under the rain and Q would have wrapped his arms around Bond’s middle and kissed him back as they were both soaked by the downpour and it would have been perfect. But this was real life and in real life you don’t get to live out ‘movie moments.’ So Q retreated into the warmth of the book shop and made himself a cup of tea and tried to forget about the fact that his hand had been so close to Bond’s when he handed over the umbrella.

---

Three days passed without so much as a mention of Bond’s name until the day came to meet him at the National Gallery. Q was dreading it. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get Bond off his mind. He felt like the epitome of a cliche. This was a professional meeting, not a romantic rendezvous. He needed to focus. Q took a moment to tell himself to snap out of his momentary anxiety and took the case containing a radio and a handprint-activated pistol and pulled his coat tightly around him against the cold as he began the walk to Trafalgar Square.

---

Bond ambled into room 34 and sat down as he had been instructed. Introductions to colleagues were usually just an exchange on names and a swift handshake carried out in the MI6 building, they were never as elaborate and mysterious as being sent to an art gallery with no idea who it was that you were meeting. An art gallery, of all places. It was much too romantic for Bond and he decided instantly that he would dislike (but begrudgingly tolerate) whoever it was that he was meeting until a familiar voice broke his train of thought. “It’s a little melancholy, don’t you think?” Bond didn’t have to turn around to realise that Q was standing so close behind him that he could just about feel his warm breath against the back of his neck as he spoke. He didn’t listen to any more of Q’s interpretation of the painting as he knew that he would be instantly engulfed by his chocolate-smooth voice and wouldn't be able to drag himself away to meet whoever it was that he should be meeting.  

“Excuse me,” he interrupted, turning away before Q’s deep brown eyes could convince him to stay.

“007,” Q interjected, placing a hand on his arm and quickly pulling it back as Bond froze. Of course Q had chosen an art gallery; it was eccentric and pretentious, exactly as Bond had imagined him to be. Bond tested his wit, harmlessly insulting him and complaining about his gadgets (which in reality, he thought were wonderful… he thought that anything Q gave him would be wonderful) and eventually held out his hand for Q to shake. It felt too formal and strange considering they had already met, but seeing as how his heart had almost stopped when Q’s hand touched his clothed arm he felt that this was the safest option.

---

Q placed his hand in Bond’s and shook it, feeling his heartbeat in his throat and his hair stand on end as the bare skin of his hand made contact with that of Bond’s. Bond’s hand was rough and his grip was tight and strong and Q couldn’t help but notice again the stark contrast between the two of them. He felt rather small and helpless besides Bond, but he was surprised by the fact that he didn’t seem to mind. “007.” He greeted again, feeling strange using his professional name.

“Q.” Bond replied in a tone that sent a warm shiver down Q’s spine. “So do you happen to know as much about the other paintings in here as you do about this one?” Bond asked, gesturing to The Fighting Temeraire.

“Not quite as much,” Q admitted, “but I can certainly make it sound like I do.” He concluded, his throat becoming suddenly dry as he realised where this was going.

“Well seeing as how we’re already here; please enlighten me.” Bond’s expression was soft and gentle, a contrast to his sharp appearance, and it was enough to convince Q that this was actually happening. He took Bond on the tour of the gallery that he had done a week previously and he and Bond played the game of “who can spot the most naked people in paintings” as they ambled through the many rooms.

---

Once the pair had spent multiple hours in the gallery and had made their way through every room, they began to struggle to find more reasons to stay together without it seeming so obvious. Reluctantly, they stepped outside into yet another downpour. “Bloody rain.” Q mumbled as the rain obscured his vision through his glasses.

“Here,” Bond offered, opening up Q’s umbrella that he had given him three evenings previously and moving closer to Q so that they were both sheltered underneath the fabric canopy. They stood so close together that Q’s arm was pressed against Bond’s, but Q’s hair still seemed to be getting wet so he swallowed what little pride he had around Bond and placed his hand in the crook of Bond’s elbow, pulling himself closer to him.

---

Bond slowed a little and smiled to himself. They had practically been on a date, even if it was unofficial, and now Q was pulling himself into Bond. His dark curls tickled the side of Bond’s face and his warm, unusually fast breath pulsed against Bond’s cold hand that was holding up the umbrella. He knew that to passers-by, they looked like a couple and Bond felt that ache in his chest again. Maybe Q did feel the same way about him. After all, they had spent an entire day together and he was now pulling himself into him. Bond tensed the muscles in his arm a little so that they gently squeezed Q’s hand.

---

Q felt Bond squeeze his arm and his heart rate increased even more. Maybe Bond did feel the same way about him. They were almost back at Q’s apartment now, having just turned down his street, and Q couldn’t bear to spend another week not knowing where he stood. This thought prompted him to grow a little more confident and he rested his head against Bond’s shoulder. Bond momentarily forgot to breathe and Q noticed this, smiling in an “I can’t quite believe this is happening” way. They walked on until they reached the entrance to Q’s apartment block, where the pair stopped and Bond turned to face Q, making sure to keep them both under the umbrella as a not-so-subtle excuse to stay incredibly close to the younger man. The sky had darkened as they had been walking and now they were illuminated by the orange toned twilight and similarly coloured streetlamps. Q allowed his hand to fall from Bond’s elbow, but Bond refused to accept the lack of contact and took Q’s other hand in his own. Q’s heart pounded against his chest; his feelings were definitely reciprocated.

---

Bond gazed down at Q, his wide, melancholy eyes revealing all of his feelings without him having to speak. He rubbed his thumb gently over the back of Q’s cold hand and hesitated. This was too good to be true. He’d always had his way with the countless women and men that he’d slept with, but no one had been good to him before. No one had actually loved him the way he knew Q could and it scared him. Q obviously noticed the fleeting expression of fear that had passed over his face as he placed his free hand gently against his cheek. “Bond?” he murmured, asking with that one word if everything was okay and simultaneously if this was what he wanted. Bond raised Q’s hand to his lips and placed the ghost of a kiss onto his fingers as a response. Bond felt him relax as he moved their hands back from his face before Q’s lips were on his and both of his hands were on his face and he was kissing him. Bond stumbled backwards slightly, almost sending them both toppling over backwards but caught them in time. Bond dropped Q’s umbrella onto the pavement so that he could place his hands on Q’s hips, pulling him as close as he possibly could to his body.

---

Bond was kissing back and pulling him in and it was raining and they had spent a day at an art museum and Q’s heart was thrumming against his ribcage as he and Bond stood outside his apartment complex, kissing. This was the ‘movie moment’ that he’d been dreaming about since they met a week ago. One week. Q marvelled at the fact that he’d fallen for someone so quickly and that someone had fallen for him so quickly. He removed his hands from Bond’s cheeks and wrapped them around his neck, rising up to Bond’s height on his toes and almost making him topple over again. This was the stuff of stories and movies and fairytales and it was just perfect.

[poptod]

The Dead Heed No Lies (Ch. 7)

Description: Where to next?

Notes: it is surprisingly hard to find out how to access different religions afterlives. i’d like to note that my posting might get a little more inconsistent bc i’m going through a lot of physical therapy and doctors visits. Word Count: 2.6k

Chapter Seven: The Stranger

Unwrapping the last of your granola bars, you stuffed the wrapper back into your bag, stimming nervously at the fireside as you wondered when and how you would eat next. Your main fear was having to break your diet, though you'd grown much more accustomed to blood and meat after witnessing two murders. Ahk lay by your side, his hands entwined behind his head as his closed eyes stared up into the sunny day, breath gentle and long. Sac was nowhere to be seen – a couple hours ago she'd lost the trail she was following, and as much as she tried to find it again it was achingly clear it would take a good while.

In the meantime, you would have to be content with sitting by the fire, slowing chewing your old granola bar. And occasionally staring at Ahk. Even though you'd never let yourself succumb to whatever emotions you felt, he was undeniably easy on the eyes, and your attraction needn't go further than that.

At the half point in your bar, you reluctantly wrapped it back up and put it away. Just in case it'd take too long to get more food. Hopefully it wouldn't become another hindrance – you were already lost from civilization, and with Sac fully preoccupied with finding the trail again, you had basically zero chance of finding food in the wild. No, you had to be stuck with Ahk. He was a wonderful person of course, and very fun to have around, but he wasn't exactly the brightest, at least not when it came to survival tactics. Sure, he knew his star charts and yes, he knew how to rule a peoples, but he didn't actually recognize snow when he first saw it. The thought of that by itself always had you forcing back giggles – you hadn't seen it yourself, but God if it wasn't a beautiful movie in your head.

"You do this a lot, don't you?" Ahk said, the words surprising you. It'd been silent for a while, and you thought he was asleep. Looking down, his eyes open and on you, he certainly wasn't.

"Do what?"

"Look like you're about to die," he said with a teasing grin.

"I do not."

"You do! You get all grim and it looks like you're preparing to sacrifice yourself," he said, shifting till he faced the sky once more, closing his eyes. "Not that it's a bad thing."

"How is that not a bad thing?" You asked with a humorless laugh.

"It's very 'you.'"

Great, wonderful, that was exactly what you wanted to be. Thank you, Ahk, for alerting you of yet another personality trait to be wary of. Still, a small laugh left you, which was all he was looking for.

Overhead the sun began to set down into the sky, though it was still plenty light outside. Sac returned from her explorations a little while after that, kicking snow into the fire to douse it, and pulling the two of you to your feet afterwards. Brushing out your clothes, you pulled your satchel back on as Ahk did the same.

"Did you find his trail?" Ahk asked, situating his scarf back around his neck.

"No, but I found smoke, isolated smoke. We might have some help on finding where we are," Sac explained, already heading on the way. You hurriedly helped Ahk with his backpack and followed after her, the heat of the sun burning your cheeks as your feet froze in the snow.

Moving low amongst the crowded pine trees, you kept in the single line format, watching Sac follow her own footsteps back through the forest. The many overhanging branches came to be quite the hindrance, even as you all pushed them away in a neat format. You continued to follow her, past nests and frozen ponds, till in the distant sky smoke became apparent. In the approaching evening, the smoke didn't contrast the sky quite as well, but the burning scent certainly aided your search. Her pace quickened, and in a few short minutes you stood before a small, log cabin in a clearing.

One door rested a few steps above the ground, clearly handmade but still looking well made, something apparent about the rest of the cabin as well. The single window was all that stood out – the only thing that had to be made through machines and professionals considering how clear it was. Inside, the light of a candle flickered, casting moving shadows against the walls. Standing tall from the roof, the mud chimney sent smoke up into the sky. Below all the wood, a stone and mud foundation kept the cabin stuck on the ground, half covered up by the snow that had fallen from the roof.

Sac took a few steps forward, cautious and ever wary of any dangers. Ahk followed her, but you stayed still, watching as she gently rapped on the door. The sound of muted footsteps came from inside, and as the door slowly creaked open you leaned forward. You hurried to stand behind the two of them, still fearful of what kind of person would live alone in the woods in a homemade cabin, seemingly entirely apart from common civilization.

When at last the door opened fully, a person showed themselves, dressed from head to toe in Native American clothes, from homemade moccasins to an intricately beaded headband. Wrinkled lines lay across their face, thick with age and curiosity as they furrowed their brow at your odd group. Freckles and marks dotted across their skin, showing the suns' kiss in every area, tanned from the time spent working. A single, well-healed scar ran from the bottom of their ear to their jaw.

"Aren't you an odd group," they said after a few minutes of silence, all of you staring at each other in the space. Their accent was thick, pairing well with a soft, low voice.

"We're looking for -"

"Why don't you come inside?" They asked, moving away from the door to make space. You looked to Sac and Ahk, who were looking at each other suspiciously – no one ever invites someone into their house at the drop of a dime, but Sac nodded. She must've seen something worth trusting.

Gingerly, the three of you entered in a neat row, standing awkwardly in the one room cabin. All at once the smell of smoke and sage filled your head, calming the edge of your nerves. The fireplace sat opposite the door, and to the left of that was a small kitchen, consisting mainly of cupboards and a bucket full of water. To the right, a bed bereft of blankets sided next to an oak desk. In the corner were baskets, filled with blankets and cloth, and the occasional knife or pipe sticking out.

"Tell me – where are you all from?" They asked, brushing by their desk before taking a seat on the bed. Gesturing to the chairs, the three of you made to sit beside the fire, fidgeting uncomfortably as they stared at you. The warmth was certainly welcome, and the furs sprawled across the chairs softened the hard wood.

"I'm from the..." Sac glanced to the two of you before looking back at them, "Shoshone tribe."

Biting at your cheek, you prayed to any God listening that this person would understand, or in the very least not ask too many questions.

"I'm from Egypt," Ahk answered. His nails were digging into his palm.

"Israel," you said quietly. You were born there, but you hadn't actually been raised there past the age of four. Still, your first memories were of wading in the ocean and crying from getting bitten by the tiny fish, so that counted as your birthplace for you.

"Why are you here?" They asked, another difficult question you'd have to do your best to avoid. You bit at your cheek again.

"Actually, we're a little lost. We were wondering if you could direct us to the nearest town," Sac said, ever the peace in your anxiety.

"I could," they said, standing and walking to the fire, kneeling before it with a prodding stick. Embers flew from the fire, landing on the mud floor and dying out before it could reach the carpet. "I don't think that's what you're looking for though, is it?"

Ahk paled and tightened his fist, nails digging harsher into his palm. Reaching over, you rested your hand over his, loosening his grip on himself. He breathed deep.

"How do you know?" Sac asked in a quieter voice, soft and curious.

"The spirits, they talk to me," they said, nodding sagely. "They told me of you."

"You're Inuit," you said in sudden realization, your mouth falling to part slightly.

"Algonquin, actually," they said.

"Sorry. I'm not well versed in American history," you apologized quickly, fidgeting anxiously with your hands.

"It's alright. Not many are."

Now this, this could help you – the remaining people who still practiced the various religions of Native Americans usually had a much deeper understanding of both the world and afterlife than the general populace did. You certainly knew very little, and Ahk's innate knowledge of Egypt wouldn't help in North America. Maybe this person would know, maybe they could help you – you certainly needed it, what with Sac losing the trail and none of you having any clue as to where you were.

"Do you believe in magic?" Sac asked as they circled the chairs you sat in, making their way to put the prodding stick back in its' corner.

"I've seen it myself," they answered rather ominously. You shifted in your seat again.

Ahk leaned over you to speak to Sac, whispering, "can we tell the truth?"

Neither of them having an answer, they looked to you. Squeezing your hands anxiously, you nodded slowly, standing to explain the situation.

"We're looking for a... well, it's a bit... difficult to explain," you started off, internally cursing yourself for starting off so horribly. "An Egyptian God stole what belonged to him," you gestured to Ahk, "and we need to get it back before the God gets back into the underworld."

They nodded thoughtfully, picking their words carefully as they sat back down on the bed. Leaning forward, they balanced their elbows on their knees, furrowing their brow as they concentrated.

"You're looking for a way to get into an afterlife?"

Oh boy. You did not like how he said that, implying the existence of multiple afterlives. That complicated things to an unbearable extent.

"Yes. We were thinking that ley lines might've lead to the afterlife, but the trail we were following disappeared," Sac explained.

"In that case," they said, standing once more and moving to the kitchen, opening up a cupboard filled with dusty books. A veritable gold mine of ancient information, you could feel your eyes dilate as you caught sight of the old books, the elation quickly dissipating once the cupboard closed. Setting the book atop the desk, they motioned the three of you over. Looking over their shoulder, you payed close attention to the many pages they flipped through before arriving to the correct chapters.

The images painted and drawn across its' pages were the only parts you could understand, the visuals clear and pleasing beside the unintelligible scribbles of letters and writings. It looked enough like English that you thought you should be able to read it, but it was just messy enough, and just foreign enough that you couldn't read a single word.

"Some people believe that certain ceremonies and tributes in a doorway would open the world," they said, reading off the book. "Some believe that it is accessible through dreams."

"Are there different afterlives?" Sac asked, something you were dreading to be true.

"Yes. The world exists in a stasis of equality... every religion has a basis, every idea holds a sliver of truth. Which afterlife are you looking for anyway?"

"The Egyptian one. I don't think Anubis has access to other underworlds," Ahk said, leaning closer to the book.

"That's unfortunate. I don't have much information regarding Eastern religions... in America, many of the gates lead to spirit worlds," they said, trailing their fingers across the dry ink. "Some gates are unreachable. Keep that in mind. The Mesopotamians believed that the gates to the afterlife were at the ends of the galaxy."

"Let's hope that's not the case for us," Ahk whispered to you, earning an avid nod.

"What about ley lines? I was taught that they were where the veil was thin, but again, it doesn't seem like Anubis went that way," you said.

"Spirits use the ley lines for travel. All that connects them is monuments to religion and historical places. Other than fast travel, they can't be used for much," they explained, and as they spoke you could feel your heart sink into your stomach. "I have many books here, with many instructions of rituals and blessings, but I do not believe I have the information you seek."

Stepping back, the three of you stood in a huddle, each of you on different levels of nervousness.

"What should we do? We can't continue on as we have," Sac said, wearing that rarely-used anxious face she had.

"We need to find out where a path to Duat is," Ahk said.

"In that case, we need to first find the information on how to find the doorway," you said, something that sunk all your spirits. Mutely they agreed, the thought of continued search weighing heavy on all your minds as you parted, separately wondering how to access centuries old information.

"Stay the night, you must be weary," the stranger offered, picking up one of the wicker baskets full of furs and blankets.

"We sleep during the day," you said quickly, wary of their reaction to Ahk and Sac turning to stone.

"Then study for the night and sleep for the day. You look tired," they said, and you couldn't deny that. All three of you were exhausted.

"Thank you. Perhaps we can find something that will help in your library, if you don't mind us searching," Sac asked with a small bow. They nodded, and with that Sac was already at the cupboards, pulling down another book to sit by the fireplace and read.

You made to grab a book of your own, but as you did so you heard the door open and close, and with a quick look around the room you found Ahk missing. Excusing yourself quietly, you followed him outside. The footprints leaving the doorway lead around back of the cabin, where Ahk sat in the snow, knees pulled to his chest. Delicately you sat beside him, scooting closer when he showed no aversion to your presence.

"What's up?" You asked quietly, your eye never leaving him.

"We're not going to get there in time," he whispered, his voice cracking.

"You don't know that," you said, hoping your words would help. "And if we don't, we'll find a way to get it back from there. I'm not quitting and neither is Sac."

"No offense, but entering Duat will probably kill you," he mumbled, crossing his arms over his knees and burying his face in them.

"Then we summon Anubis. We find a spell. We trick some Gods – we'll get your tablet back," you promised, keeping your hand on his shoulder, rubbing circles with your thumb. He sighed, shutting his eyes tight.

"What if we don't?"

"I'll stay by your side, we both will. We won't abandon you," you murmured, watching as he slowly untensed and looked to you, tears lining his long eyelashes.

"Swear to it," he said in sudden seriousness, holding out his hand for you to shake. Looking to him and then to his hand, you nodded, shaking his hand firm.

"I won't abandon you."

[dearsherlocked]

Fallen - A Sherlock Imagine

Hi! This is a series that I’ve been writing for quite some time now. I’ve revisited and revisited themes and characters over and over, and I could not face up posting it. But I think it is time I share a little bit of this work just for my sake. Here are the two first parts. There is more to follow! 

Summary: Five years after The Final Problem, Sherlock Holmes has been bored out of his mind. Having a hard time to teal with trauma and a less hectic lifestyle, he’s feeling like he is rotting away. That is until some very interesting case present itself and reveals to be intrinsically linked to him. Chasing after an assassin through London, he suddenly has to face who he really is. 

Pairings: Sherlock x Reader/Sherlock Holmes x John Watson

Warnings: At the moment, none, but might lead to smut. ;)

NOTA: My first language remains French. If there are inconsistencies, I am deeply sorry! 

Masterlist

The gusty wind pushed violently against the windows, causing a din in the small room in a central London’s flat. The night was already well underway, the reflections of the moon pierced the half-open curtains, illuminating the room with immaculate streaks. Inside, Sherlock Holmes’ face was tense. In his bed, lying on his back, his head tilted to the side as he murmured in his sleep. His eyes moved under the thin eyelids. He saw them, these two icy, impenetrable blue eyes, staring back at him, while the hands of his assailant aggressively surrounded his neck. He felt his lungs emptying as he struggled for breath. He felt suddenly euphoric; he was no longer breathing and he let himself go in this sea of uncertainty, lulled by the sweet feeling of an imminent death. Finally, his eyes opened and his irises increased. He was suffocating and his hands were shaking. Paralyzed, he lay in the same position for a moment. Then, when he regained his senses, he straightened up against the head of his bed, switched on the bedside lamp to his right and rested his head on the cool bedhead. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, then glanced furtively at the half-open drawer of his bedside table. He had to resist, he told himself, he couldn't spend his time running away from his thoughts and memories. He snapped the drawer shut and sighed heavily. Outside, London was still asleep.

Sherlock woke up suddenly later in the morning. He fixed the ceiling for a few minutes, paralyzed by the haunting images that took assault his dreams. He inspired slowly and scrutinized his surroundings. His mornings looked pretty much alike: he woke up whenever he pleased and his waking hour depended on the time he had gone to bed the night before, if he had gone to bed at all. Once awake, he usually struggled to stay in place in the large space that was his mattress. The room felt too quiet. He did not need to take a look at the watch he had left on the bedside table, nor had to open the curtains to guess the time of the day; he usually had an idea of the hour just by simply analyzing the ambient sound of the city outside. For instance, if the noise of the honking horns sounded steadily, he knew that the rush hour was at its height. On the contrary, if everything seemed too calm, he guessed that he was still finding himself at the hour of grace, when London, still asleep at dawn, was just beginning to move. At last, sometimes he could speculate that it was already past breakfast time: Mrs Hudson was already on the lookout, making as much clatter as she could, pretending to do some housekeeping in order to get him out of an unworthy sloth for a man of his age. 

That morning, Sherlock knew that the kettle that the landlady had left on purpose in the living-room table was cold. He sighed; he never liked to sleep, felt that napping was a total inconvenience and a fatality. But he had been bored out of his mind lately and sleeping was a good stretch out between the long hours of agony that had become his banal existence. He took his time to sweep out of the warm sheets and laid his feet on the cold wooden floor. He took a few minutes to enjoy the contact of the ground under his naked toes. He then scanned the room carefully; the pale hue of the day struggled to break through the dense curtains and dust particles floated through its glow. He took a deep breath and exhaled, shook his hair vigorously, putting in place some of the dark curls that had rebelled on his head during the night. He slipped on the clothes he had been preparing the night before and threw a quick shot in the mirror, replaced some curls again, slipped on his watch and headed for the living room. His first reflex was to grab the papers that Mrs Hudson always left beside the kettle. He peered out the main lines of the news, being about the only thing he enjoyed nowadays, and lost himself for a while. As he peered out the main lines of the news, his phone vibrated in his coat. He looked at it and smiled widely. 

It was a beautiful day; London seemed to be straight out of a golden-looking postcard. Sherlock stopped in front of the imposing building that housed the Diogene’s Club. First hesitant at the bottom of the stairs, he scowled and climbed the steps with a determined pace, trying to pull himself together. Inside, John Watson was leaning against the large wooden wall, a take-out coffee in his left hand. When he saw his friend, the doctor walked in his direction and smiled. ‘Still drinking that dirty water they dare to call coffee?’ Sherlock teased, walking with John in the long hall. ‘Each time I think it can’t possibly get worse,’ replied the doctor with an amused tone. ‘And yet each time you’re disappointed. You don’t learn.’ They stopped in front of the elevator doors. ‘Where’s mine?’ enquired the detective. John scoffed. ‘I didn’t bring you one.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because each time I do and each time you spit it out and say it’s disgusting.’ ‘It is disgusting.’ ‘Then why would you want one?’ ‘Because now I look empty-handed’, replied Sherlock as they got out of the elevator. John observed his friend walking before him and shook his head. They stopped in front of a part-closed door. Mycroft’s office. They could hear him talking and he sounded concerned. ‘What is it today you think?’ enquired John. ‘No idea.’ ‘Is it another political scandal?’ ‘God, please no. We’ve had enough of these.’ ‘I have no idea what we are doing here,’ sighed John, annoyed. ‘Drinking crap coffee and waited to be called by his Holiness’, replied Sherlock. John scoffed as Mycroft opened the door. ‘I thought I heard voices.’ ‘Then you should consult, Mycroft.’ Sherlock said as he entered the office. He walked directly to sit in his brother’s chair. Mycroft sighed and looked at him, exasperated. ‘Thank you for coming on such short notice,’ started Mycroft. ‘You didn’t give us much choice,’ replied John, sitting in front of Sherlock. ‘I was with my daughter, it’s Sunday.’ ‘Aren’t you always with her?’ ‘That is sort of what parents are supposed to do, taking care of their child,’ answered John, placing his cup on the desk and crossing his arms in front of his chest. ‘Well, I am glad we sorted it out,’ replied Mycroft with a disinterested smile. He turned away to the fourth person in the room. The stranger looked quite ordinary and was about the same age as Mycroft. He was dressed in a posh suit and his salt and pepper beard gave him a severe expression. He looked overall not impressed. ‘This is Darius White, head of the foreign desk’, said Mycroft, pointing to the stoic man. ‘Oh hello,’ replied John, extending his hand. The man stayed in his seat and barely acknowledged the doctor. ‘And this is my brother, Sherlock Holmes,’ added Mycroft. Sherlock waved impatiently. He never was one for introductions. ‘Shall we begin?’ asked the older Holmes, walking to close the door behind them. Darius White nodded and turned at John. ‘Good morning gentlem – ‘ A noise cut him mid-sentence. Sherlock just had taken a sip of John’s coffee and spat it out noisily on Mycroft’s desk, staining the many papers accumulated on the surface. John frowned and looked at his friend, both amused and annoyed at the same time. Mycroft, on the other hand, rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. ‘Sorry, do please continue’ murmured Sherlock, not bothered at all. ‘There has been an assassination of a member on a prolific CEO yesterday.’ ‘Who?’ asked John, suddenly intrigued. Mycroft slid a photograph over John. John gave the photograph to Sherlock. ‘He was not very liked by his pairs,’ added Darius White. ‘Doesn’t make it easy to circumscribe the potential suspects.’ Mycroft cleared his throat. ‘Yesterday, Lennox Burton got out of a meeting at five in the morning, there had been some important transactions during the night. His driver took him home where he was supposed to rest for a couple of hours before returning at his office for a lunch meeting. The driver came back at Burton’s penthouse around noon but as his boss wasn’t answering his calls or coming down, he used his emergency key to enter the penthouse and that’s when he discovered Burton’s body.’ Mycroft pushed another picture to John. Lennox Burton was spread on the floor with what appeared to be a sea of blood around him. He switched on to the next picture, it was a close-up autopsy photograph of the wound: a perfectly horizontal and clean cut on the neck. ‘Neat’, whispered Sherlock. John shook his head. ‘Did somebody see anything?’ he asked. ‘Was there any CCTV in the surrounding areas?’ ‘Evidently not,’ replied Mycroft. ‘Whoever was being the attack managed to alter it.’ ‘So,’ cut Sherlock. ‘It was premeditated.’ ‘Naturally.’ ‘And you want me to find who killed him?’ ‘Quite so.’ Sherlock frowned. ‘But there’s more,’ he thought out loud, staring at his brother. ‘There have been in fact about four similar killings in the past month’, added Darius White. ‘And you think they are related?’ intervened John. ‘Evidence points that way.’ ‘These aren’t just random murders,’ laughed Sherlock. Darius White chuckled. Sherlock Holmes was quick indeed. ‘The first three murders were committed on criminals. Sex-traffickers, drug-dealers, mostly,’ he replied.  ‘But this murder is different,’ observed Sherlock, ‘it was committed on an apparently respectable man.’ ‘Are you sure they were killed by the same person?’ interrupted John. ‘Well, we will need to know for certain. This is why we called you, gentlemen,’ replied Darius White solemnly. ‘I will need to see Mr Burton’s house of course,’ declared Sherlock. ‘I will text you the details,’ said Mycroft. ‘I guess Scotland Yard is involved?’ ‘Already there, brother mine. As usual.’ Sherlock stood up, quickly followed by John. As they exited the office, they heard the grave voice of Darius White advising Mycroft to insist on the confidentiality of this case.

[clockworkkwritesstuff]

RÛNÊN Review

Once again, I firmly believe that Anne has outdone herself with her collection of stories, illustrations, and comics featured in RÛNÊN. I’ll begin by saying how struck I am by the composition of the book itself- It begins with the definition of the title, meaning ‘to whisper’, which strikes me as extremely fitting for these short stories as they are very much the whispered desires of our main heroes. Perhaps I’ve said this before, but Anne has a real knack for gripping readers with her titles, perfectly outlining the content of the book with one word or phrase. This one particularly reminded me very much of a song I love, ‘Undisclosed Desires’ by Muse, as that’s precisely what RÛNÊN is, a series of undisclosed desires. Following the beautifully chosen title, Anne provides a timeline of all the events in relation to the main story, which is a simple addition but an incredible enhancement to give a little more context to what you’re about to read. Thank you very much, Anne, for ensuring we are all kept up to speed with where exactly we are in the story. Having read other collections like this, getting a more exclusive ‘behind the scenes’ can be a little hard to follow when it’s left up to JUST context clues. This was very helpful and the placement of all these stories gives another crucial detail; Embry and Kuo were seriously just on their toes around each other for way too long.

What I also particularly love about these additional tales is the backstory and context it provides regarding the weird and wonderful world Anne has created as the setting. Gimma, like other fantasy settings I adore, is very built and developed, with its own traditions and festivals, its collection of laws and unique vibe to it. In fact, I’ve drawn similarities between the feel of Gimma and the vibes around where I currently live- for instance there’s a huge manor house that’s a few hundred years old, not far from that is a small bar that’s interior is decorated like an old tavern, and there’s at least one traditional event every month – the whole place is both diverse and close-knit, which is the same kind of strong feeling I get while reading about Gimma. Whether this was Anne’s intention or not, I do like it very much! Fantasy stories like Bound where the background and main setting it entirely up to the author partially rely on the context that can be given about said mystical setting – they need to match after all, otherwise we risk the worldbuilding being inconsistent. Let me just say how perfectly built Gimma is. I want to attend a Lenten Feast!!

Now, without giving too much away, I am living for these little pre-contract stories about Embry and Kuo. I am a sucker for awkward relationship stories, and these two are redefining exactly what that means. The line that separated them has been blurred for ages, perfectly shown in Anne’s storytelling by the way, but I also have a strange fascination with just how much Berrin was on thin ice! How has the ice not broken yet? Well somewhere along the line Embry had decided to hold him up (theoretically, of course) and things were so damn close to disaster for both of them that a line had to be drawn. Can anybody else say relatable? Have you seen a relationship like this before? I’m sure we all have, and yes, this period of their relationship paints Berrin as a little dick, we have to acknowledge that falling into this kind of toxicity is also just a human mistake. Even in relation to the main story, I am so curious about this character and how he’s holding up, seeing his interactions with our main duo and how he responds to seeing his old mage getting all heated over Mr.StealYourMan! Damn, Anne, really knows how to flip my feeling on its head when it comes to her characters! There’s plenty of focus on our main pair, but not so much that they have to carry the story alone, there are other people in this world that she’s created and clearly Anne is an expert at making every single one of them perfectly human (I’ve struggled with my own writing in the past. I am living for these character-building stories!)

There’s something so funny about the friendship between Kuo and Benji, they make me feel amused every time, not to mention Benji reminds me of one of my closest friends. Another character I love, please protect Benji!

I still adore Aik so damn much. Thanks, Anne, for the Aik content! Did I mention that RÛNÊN was R18? Yeah, THANK YOU FOR THE AIK CONTENT!!!!

So, here’s where I make a bit of a confession; cheesy romances where the main pairing is just naturally drawn together for no reason? That bothers me. It’s too convenient, unrealistic, overdone, nonsensical, AND YET Anne does it well. There IS a reason for Embry and Kuo to be drawn together, to have the strong connection that they do, and it is presented in a way that makes sense. This is a world where sparks literally seek one another out and try to connect with their mage or page counterpart, and in order for it to work out, they need to be evenly matched and evenly powerful. From the beginning, this has been clear and a well-flowing explanation as to why they always seem to find one another. It’s far easier to accept this idea when it’s justified, which is done through the background and the context of the story being in a world of magic, once again earning Anne more points for developing Gimma so well!

On another note, I love that Embry’s response to jealousy isn’t to lash out and attack someone like so many other cheesy romances… at least not that would actually hurt someone (I do pray for Aik’s tastebuds, sour milk is disgusting) and he remains a bit of a goof about it. More drunk mage content, please XD On this note, how can something like stitching the back of your drunk (boy)friend’s tunic be made so innocent and romantic at once?

I love how Kuo started off as (in Anne’s own words) an emotional cactus, but can also be a smug, mischievous, little tease. It’s his feisty nature breaking through wonderfully, trying to keep his distance but sometimes just being unable to resist being his old self. This, followed by the fumbling awkwardness of them both being dorks, just gives me so many more reasons to love Kuo as a character.

Anne doesn’t fall into the trap of the main couples’ personalities being purely reliant on one another. Kuo’s personality isn’t reduced to how much he likes Embry. Embry’s personality isn’t reduced to how much he liked Kuo. They’re very distinct characters that are perfectly capable of being interesting by themselves without falling flat on their faces. Oh how I adore these characters.

The way these two keep getting interrupted reminds me of living in my flat at university. Let’s not forget that Embry and Kuo live with many other pages and mages alike, and the constant cock-blocking just keeps giving them reasons to perform this same song and dance of trying to abstain. I am frustrated for them, but this all works in their favour because when things finally go how they want, it’s all the more satisfying for the reader (and the boys, no doubt about that).

So when it’s not a concern anymore and they’ve managed to get this far, on my god, we get to see more feisty Kuo, more dorky Embry, and what’s more, switchy boys, it’s a wonderful time we’re living in!

My final word is coming back to Anne’s art more than her writing, and I’ve deliberately put it off until now so that I could talk about it in its own segment. Holy hell, I would pay this woman to give me lessons if I had the money (if you ever get the chance to offer a course, hit me up, I’ll save my finds for years!). On one hand, the black and white pieces dotted around are beautiful in their own sense. All pieces have their own atmosphere, but with no colours to work with, you’re left with shadows, poses, and expressions. Every single one, from start to end, has it’s own strong feeling to it. There’s an eerie confusion, then there’s pure comfort, but also that beautiful, heated and flustered feeling too! Side note, I adore how Anne still makes the blushes pink and red when the rest of the image is black and white. Similar to how I like it when eyes are coloured in a black and white picture, it looks so lovely and adds to the original without stealing all the attention. And the coloured content? Anne uses one of the most gorgeous colour palettes I’ve ever seen. Naturally certain tones are used for ambiance to a coloured piece of work, but at the same time, the characters have such lovely diverse palettes that are so perfectly arranged so that, once again, there isn’t just one, glaring shade that steals the attention from the rest of the piece. I challenge anyone to find a piece of Anne’s art that you don’t think looks fantastic. Even the sketches included at the end of the book are wonderful to look at. This entire collection is delicious eye candy. I must say, there’s a piece included of Eva and Carla that is striking to me. I absolutely adore it.

Thank you for this book, Anne. Thank you for its content, for all your hard work in compiling it, and you have my support for the world of Bound. And to finish off… Thank you for the Aik content XP