#which has pushed further along this road to the point where few of the intimate personal acts of dispossession persist in individual recall

[whetstonefires]

'ethnostate bad' is a shorthand for 'if you set up a legal system designed to privilege and protect one subset of the population it controls over all others, this is guaranteed to lead to abuses and the denial of human rights; trying to get around this by creating nations that only have one kind of people, who can all be protected together, has reliably turned out to instead kick off a speedrun of evil, because human populations don't work like that.'

the sense of entitlement that tends to be associated with an ethnostate, the idea that this-ethnic-group has the definitive claim to this place and any competing interests are illegitimate, contributes a lot to the rate of escalation compared to most other imbalanced legal systems, because it sort of takes the brakes off.

none of these abuses are particularly unique to ethnostates; the US for example has never been in a position to be an ethnostate as classically defined, but we hold gold medals in a lot of these kinds of crimes for overlapping reasons.

'forming an ethnostate' was a Cool Idea In Theory premised on a range of reasonings ranging from Reasonable to Eugenics which, in practice, has always turned out to make things get really ugly really quickly.

this works, i would say, in roughly the same way organized religions have predictable social failure points, which small intense cults tend to hit really hard and really fast.

israel was a powder keg of human rights abuses from its inception, because it had the ethnostate speedrun modifier and also was structurally a colonial power, like the US.

i see discussion about this devolve into What Is Indigeneity a lot, but the relevant issue is the structure of israel's institutions as it became established, which were, as a matter of record, drawing on the colonial model on purpose, on the grounds that it worked. and they could hardly help doing so, given the scenario.

ie: most of the parties initially in power had few to no immediate, personal local ties, and did not depend on the existing social fabric for their authority, which was backed by foreign military power; there was heavy incentive to forcibly dispossess people of their homes so that other people could come from abroad to live there; there was an imaginary version of the country being worked toward, that the existing country must be obliterated to achieve.

change the language, change the law, change everything; maintain central control of the overall process while replacing the citizen body piecemeal with settlers.

and then on top of the logarithmic interrelation of those two elements, the establishment of israel was done almost entirely by people who were deeply traumatized by state violence along ethnic lines.

it would be nice to live in a world where this meant they were motivated to make sure the government they were created Wouldn't Do That, but human nature is such that for the most part trauma is much more likely to focus you on making sure it won't do that to you, because trauma is a survival response.

(and ofc the people who go into Founding A Country in a state of trauma are going to be disproportionately those who feel that power is the only safety. which is a totally understandable conviction under the circumstances! however.)

so add on that most of the foundational decisionmaking was made by people who were not remotely in a place to be fair or magnanimous to outgroup. and there was 0 chance of anything less than a gruesome shitshow.

knowing all of that is useful, i think, to trying to frame what a realistic way out of the morass could even look like, but unfortunately it mostly yields 'well that shit's fucked' because 70 years on all those problems are worse.

well, the holocaust isn't worse, obviously, but the 'all parties in power are primed to make their decisions on the assumption that the only realistic alternative to murdering is being murdered' has just reinforced itself. and the colonial project has advanced far enough that reversing it would just involve kicking off another round of the same thing, so that's not remotely a reasonable option.

but neither is anything else.

I gotta say I still don't understand what you people mean by "Zionist" here on tumblr or in the broader world.

I guess my frustration is that the question of whether Israel was founded in a monstrous or unethical way does not seem to me to have any bearing on whether or not it can be dissolved as a country in 2025 or 2030 in a way that is safe for the citizens living there.

Honestly the current Netanyahu government seems to consist entirely of bloodthirsty monsters who should be removed from all power and left in a dark hole so that they can't hurt anybody anymore, so it seems like the anti-zionist position ought to be at its strongest but all I seem to find is a sort of glib conviction that the October 7th attacks proved that Israeli citizens should be happy to incorporate Hamas into a new Greater Palestinian government that accords Jewish citizens no particular status one way or another, and that anybody who is hesitant about this is just a racist of some sort.

Also there's a very bizarre conviction that the world's Jewish population can rely on the international refugee system if the shit goes down, and that's, uh, just ridiculous on the face of it.

[angeli-marco-writes]

∘◦ ♪ ◦∘ Timothée Chalamet - Concerto ∘◦ ♪ ◦∘

A/N - I wrote and posted this almost a year ago on my Wattpad. My writing has evolved a lot since then, but I’m still proud of this piece, and hope you enjoy it. I do not know Tim, nor do I claim to in any way. This is a work of fiction and entirely my own. 

Warnings - smut. Detailed (but protected and consensual) sex, slight BDSM, overstimulation. Cursing. Legal alcohol consumption and smoking. Also 10k words of sickening fluff though, even the smut is fluffy.

Summary - At a classical music concert, the last person you expect to meet is a young man as charming and suave as Timothée. And the last thing you expected is for him to invite you back to his flat. Turns out music really is food for the soul, and other things...

IT’S A FRIDAY EVENING IN NEW YORK CITY. The sun is setting behind the towering silhouettes of undulating buildings all across the city, the moon casting shadows all around au contraire to the luminescence of building lights, beaming all around as well as the street lamps, bringing colour and light to people’s faces in the dark.

You’re standing on the pavement outside Symphony Space Concert Hall on the Upper West Side, people watching. Nothing more or less conspicuous, just observing everyone flooding into the hall, though none of them seem to be under 50 years of age. After checking the time, you take your phone out of the pocket attached to your delicate silk jumpsuit you’re wearing for the night, the one reserved for classy parties and sophisticated concerts only (though very handy). You open the email holding your ticket for the evening, a Poulenc appreciation concert, and you show it to the bouncer who grants you entry to the auditorium.

The room looks incredible. Photos of Francis Poulenc, as well as some old parchment sheets of his music spread out delicately over the usually bare walls. The lights create a perfect ambience in the hall for what's sure to be an incredible evening. The red velvet seats are half full, dotted with people at least twice your age, except from one seat near the front where you can see merely a defined jaw and brown curls. On the stage stands two glossy black grand pianos, slotted beside one another with plush velvet stools and their lids propped up, allowing one to see the inner workings of such wonderful instruments. Behind the pianos are seats enough for an entire orchestra, creating a crescent moon shape. A couple of the seats already have instruments atop them, aching for their owners to play beautiful melodies with them. You make your way down to where your seat is, familiar with the layout of the auditorium. You’re on the right hand side of the centre stalls, third row back, but as you arrive, there’s a boy you saw earlier, not much older than yourself.

“Hi, do you mind if I squeeze past?” You ask him, watching his head jolt up from the programme to reveal a mop of beautiful dark brown curls framing his chiselled face, piercing green eyes with flecks of hazel when the light changed direction. You recognise him, an actor, you simply can’t place him.

His look of incredulity melts into a smile. “Sure.” He says, moving his legs so that you can squeeze past and take your reserved seat on his left. He turns to face you, smiling. He’s wearing a crisp navy suit with a pale blue shirt and a matching tie. He looks well presented, and by his nervous and lopsided smile, you guess that he’s rather nervous to be at the concert alone too. “Timothée.” He tells you, holding his hand out.

You return his gesture, smiling right back at him, and tell him your name. “You here alone?” You ask him, turning in your seat to get a better view. He nods.

“Thought I’d be the only under fifty here.” He laughs, “I’m 24 by the way, but I shan’t ask your name since you're a lady.” You can't help but laugh at this, just a little giggle at how sweet he is, but your interaction is cut short as the lights turn down in the auditorium but shine brighter on the stage, and a full orchestra enters the stage, accompanied by their instruments, two pianists and a conductor. Murmurs in the hall settle down to a faint hum while the musicians tune to the sound of the oboe, and then begin to play.

The music is mesmerising, starting with orchestral pieces with faint piano accompaniment, then just a nocturne for piano, split between the two lead pianists. You could listen to it all night, but an interval has to come. As the lights slowly turn back up, you see an infantile smile on Timothée’s face, as though he’s just watched the most excellent thing in the world.

“Come on,” you say to him, smiling sadly while you tap his knee, “let’s get a drink.”

He reluctantly stands up to follow you out of the auditorium and to the small bar area. You order two margarita’s without consulting him, but he seems grateful as you sit beside each other on a high table, people watching once again.

“What's your job then?” He asks you, making small talk.

“I’m a piano major at Juilliard, teaching piano on the side though.” You respond, and he seems really taken aback. His jaw falls a little slack while his eyes bulge a tad.

“Wow, you must be excellent!” You blush a little at his words, elegantly taking a sip from your drink while he eyes you carefully. You feel awkward under his gaze, though flattered nonetheless. He’s gorgeous, and he’s complimenting you and accepting drinks from you, what a night.

“What about you?” You inquire. He's an actor, you know that, but asking means that you may be able to get some more context and maybe it’ll click where you’ve seen him before. He clears his throat, and you can see some older people walking by who pull faces, judging the pair of you, but you brush them off.

“I’m an actor, mainly small films though.” He says, remaining vague. You don’t push much more, realising that he probably likes not being fawned all over for once, so you simply ask of the favourite names he’s had the honour of working alongside, which must be an uncommonly asked question because a light flickers behind his eyes.

“Selena Gomez, Steve Carell, Armie Hammer, Saoirse Ronan, Emma Watson, Robert Pattinson, Maia Mitchell…” He begins to list, but only when he mentions Maia does it click. You aren't huge into films, but you have seen him in a film with Maia Mitchell and Maika Monroe a few years ago.

“Hot summer nights, right? You were in that?” His cheeks turn a magnificent crimson and he bows his head as though embarrassed. He mumbles something along the lines of ‘not my best performance’, but you disagree. “I think you were wonderful, and did you mention Armie Hammer?” He nods again, seeming a little brighter. You take another sip from your drink, and he follows suit, watching your poised movements.

“Call Me By Your Name.” You nod in recognition, you remember watching the film when it first came out and loving the music from it.

“You’re excellent you know, at piano I mean, and the intimate scenes aren’t half bad either, you make them better.” You say with a teasing smirk on your painted lips, making Timothée’s eyes widen again. You chuckle and grasp his hand, dragging him into the auditorium for the second half.

The second half is a whole concerto, Poulenc’s Concerto For Two Pianos And Orchestra. Ten minutes in, Timothée’s hand finds your thigh and seems very comfortable, so comfortable in fact that you don't dare move it. As the concerto flows further on, his hand slides further up your clothed leg and squeezes your upper thigh a little You tense under his touch, infatuation and lust filling every cell and exiting through your pores, just waiting for more passion to fill your body and make you drunk on the feeling.

When finally the concert ends, both of you stand to applaud the musicians for a solid few minutes, and you could swear you see a tear leaving Timothée’s mysterious eyes and rolling down his heavenly made, painfully defined cheekbones. While you clap, you surreptitiously edge closer together, millimetre by millimetre until you’re hip to hip with elbows nudging. Your head comes up to his chin, making you feel a little small, but you’ll feel even smaller once your heels come off. Once the majority of the audience have filed out, you grasp his hand and pull him through the crowds where you stand on the corner of the pavement, only metres from the venue. You’re reluctant to loosen your grip on his slim hand, as he is with yours.

“Cigarette?” He offers, holding a half full box out to you. You half smile and shake your head in refusal.

“I don’t mind if you do though.” You say, meeting his gaze. “I love the taste of smoke when I kiss someone.” You add in a whisper, leaning up on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear. He goes rigid, making you smirk to yourself. This is going to be a good night.

He lights his cigarette and takes slow drag, only looking away to blow the smoke in an opposite direction to you. How respectful, you think, as your stomach fills with butterflies and bubbles with anticipation. He puts it out on top of a bin and throws it away without littering, and just that small and helpful gesture makes you crave his touch, having his fingers trace your sweaty skin and making your body tingle, your back arch with desire and pleasure.

“Wanna get a drink?” You ask, pointing to a nice bar across the road. You’re desperate to sleep with him, but not without pleasantries first. He, however, shakes his head and intricately entwines his fingers with yours.

“I’ll do you one better than a drink.” His smirk sets off a different kind of longing in you, forcing your body to follow him wherever he takes you.

As you walk, he starts conversation, but you’re so breathless from the desperation speed walking that your answers are brief. He asks you why you attended the concert, only to remember that you’re a music student and piano teacher; so in turn, you ask him the same question.

“When I was doing Call Me By Your Name, I had to learn the piano, and while I was learning classical pieces, I kind of just fell in love with classical piano music, I don’t know.”

His nervousness is sweet, making him appear far more humble than anyone of his stature would usually be.

You get to his building after a twenty minute dash in heels, and he pulls you flush against him while entering through the revolving doors, allowing you to lay your weight on him for a moment while you gather your breath. You feel his heartbeat thudding and racing against his ribs, reverberating against your own chest. You turn around to face him and place your hand on his chest.

“Breathe.” You say to him, allowing him to release a long held breathy chuckle. You leave the doors, both laughing, and fervently press the buttons to wait upon a lift. “So,” You then continue, breaking the silence where only your breaths were heard. “Favourite piano piece from the Call Me By Your Name soundtrack?”

“Hallelujah Junction!” You both answer at the same time, just as the lift doors open. You fall into the lift in a fit of giggles, clinging onto each other. You find yourself with your back pressed against the cold metal handle bar in the elevator with Timothée’s face inches away from your own. Your breath mingles together. As soon as he presses the button to his floor, he nudges his nose with your own.

“God, you're so beautiful.” he says seconds before his mouth is pressed hotly against your own, kissing you with an unrivalled passion. Your lips mould and move together like it’s second nature. His one hand holds your waist while both of yours grip his face, feeling a slight stubble.

The lift dings and he drags you out, unlocking his apartment door and leading you inside.

“Welcome to Casa del Timmy.” he says while hugging you from behind, allowing you to get a full view.

His apartment is stunning. Sleek, yet also vintage. Your eyes follow across the perimeter through a door to the left, where he has an office area containing a sleek white desk with a mac and a stack of papers and pens, next to it is a vintage white bookcase stacked as high as possible with novels of all shapes and sizes, and even an indie style rug underneath a colourful modern dining set..

The door next to the office is a kitchen, white countertops with wooden cupboards and a beautiful view of the city out of the window. To the right is a set of glass doors that open onto a small balcony where you can see the whole city, even Manhattan and Brooklyn depending which way you look and how the moon beams down. There’s a closed door right in front of you and through the entry hall and living room which you assume is his bedroom held behind a golden doorknob.

His living room, where you remain standing, holds an array of house plants with a couple of very comfortable looking plush sofas, his TV stand as well as his coffee table look like polished vintage items, refurbished from a flea market maybe, while his book shelf and rug are grand and modern. The best part of all though is a grand piano in an oak wood, matching the wood from his television table, and you become instantly entranced by the instrument that you don’t even notice the velvet stool or the perfectly organised cabinet of music, with a guitar propped up against it.

“Wow.” You breathe. Timothée grips you tighter, trailing kisses across your shoulder and up the side of your neck, inhaling every few seconds to treasure the scent of your perfume. Gardenia, rose champagne, grapefruit, davana; heavenly. You grip his hands with your own, holding them tightly where they’re settled on your tummy. You roll your head against his shoulder to give him better access to kiss you, but he stops abruptly and leads you to the piano stool. He opens the cabinet and pulls out a well loved piece of music.

“I know it’s for two pianos, but let's have some fun.” He says, grinning at you, an infectious smile that you can’t help but return. Hallelujah Junction, first movement. He puts the music out on the piano and takes a seat beside you, your thighs touching and hands overlapping as they begin to glide over the keys.

Playing this piece is second nature to you, allowing you to find your way easily, slipping your fingers between Timothée’s, and the white and black keys. You begin a harmonious melody spanning the whole of the piano, but after only a couple of pages, you realise that its not working as your notes cross over, making it very difficult to play on just one piano. You laugh together, but only for a moment before he is trailing his tongue up your neck, then your lips, and delving inside your mouth. You gasp, moaning into the passionate kiss that he’s giving you, and within seconds you find yourself straddling his lap on the piano stool. You trap his thighs between yours, moving and grinding your hips a little against his to receive more friction where you can feel how needy he is.

Within seconds, he has your legs wrapped around his waist and his teeth on your clavicle. The pleasure makes sounds escape your lips that you didn’t even realise were possible. You knot your ankles as he stands up with one hand around your waist and the other feeling his way around his apartment. After a few funny missteps and close calls of him dropping you while only walking the expanse of his living room, he pins you against his bedroom door, finding your lips again

He gently pokes at your dusty pink bottom lip with his tongue, slipping his tongue back into your mouth, exploring avidly and devouring every taste of you that he can muster. You do the same, but become too infatuated by his taste to put much more passion into it: gin, mint, bergamot and smoke. Smoke, sugar and sin, the most deadly combination of them all, and that's all you can smell on him, making you moan even louder. An erotic moan that makes Timothée twist open the handle to his bedroom door as quickly as is humanly possible.

He as good as throws you onto the bed, but undeniably, it turns you on a lot to see his dominant side this early on into the evening. He doesn't seem like the type to pin you down and boss you around, but as he shuts his bedroom door and delicately takes off his probably very expensive shoes, you can see a glint in his eye, almost as if he’s planning on doing unspeakably pleasurable things to you. Just the thought makes you wetter than before.

As he locks the door and shuts his shoes away, you take a quick look around the room. His bed is nice, comfortable and exquisitely large, like other things you hope. He has a nice colourful throw, vintage looking pillows to match his nightstand, holding only a pillbox, a glass of water, hand sanitiser, and a box of tissues. The simplicity makes you want to laugh, but you restrain yourself. He has a big dresser to match his bedside table with the drawers a little skewwhiff and clothes poking out. His wardrobe is fitted to the wall and by the looks of it, surprisingly neat too. That much cannot be said for his sofa though. A plush, light grey sofa sits on one side of his room just away from the window, and it's covered with clothes. At least he made the bed though, that's more than you can say for most 20-odd year old mans rooms that you’ve been into.

He sheds his blazer and crawls up to where he left you on the bed, needy and craving more. He looks down at you with desperation in his eyes, and you can’t help but to attack his lips, threading one hand in his beautiful dark curls while the other nimbly pulls open his tie and undoes his shirt. You shrug it off his shoulders and run your nails up and down his spine. You feel him shiver beneath his touch while your hands travel all over his body. His shoulders, his biceps, his toned stomach; he’s skinny, but has enough substance to him to be strong and sexy as hell.

“You’ll kill me if you stop.” He whispers, followed by a string of breathy curses. His eyes roll into the back of his head, giving you ample opportunity to grasp his shoulders and slip the pair of you over, pinning him beneath you. His eyes flit all over your face before kissing you again.

“You are so freaking beautiful.” He mumbles between kisses. He slips his hands up to find the zip of your jumpsuit which he slides down crazily fast, only breaking the kiss to shrug it off your shoulders. He just lies in awe, noticing that you don’t have a bra on beneath it. His tongue darts out from between his lips as he examines every undulation of your body, following the swell of your breasts right down to your hips. Your nerves return under his scrutiny, making you want to hide your face, but instead he holds your wrists behind you.

“You never have to cover up,” he says, nothing more or less than genuine love in his eyes, “not for me.”

Despite only meeting him hours ago, you know that you can trust him, so you ungracefully clamber off his lap and lie on your back to shimmy off your burden of a jumpsuit. He practically leaps at the opportunity to worship your body, before him in only your panties. He starts at your ankle, placing feather light kisses all the way from your ankle, up your leg, not minding the slight harshness of your legs, and only stops at your knee joint to switch his lips to his tongue, licking a straight line all the way up your inner thigh, stopping centimetres from where you need him the most. Not through any of this ritual does he break eye contact though. He skips over your panties and only pulls them down a little to trail kisses from your pelvic bone, up past your navel, through the valley of your breasts, and finally back to your lips. He makes you feel things that you could only dream of before meeting him.

“Timothée…” you breathe, hearing his breath hitch in his throat at the way your tongue curls around his name.

You reach between the two of you to his trousers. You undo the belt buckle with ease and push his trousers off his hips and down his thin legs, allowing him to kick them off at the bottom. He seems embarrassed, wearing Y-fronts that make more visible just how much he wants you.

“How about we strip together?” You offer, and Timothée reluctantly nods. He pushes himself off of you and stands up, giving you a hand to stand up as well. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you left the concert hall. “3, 2, 1…”

You both remove your underwear, pushing them down your legs and stepping out of them, only to step closer together so that your chests are flush against one another. He moves his hand up to cup your face, brushing your hair away from your face while tilting your chin up, capturing your lips in a lustful yet also sensual kiss.

He nudges you and your legs hit the bed, making you topple over and break the kiss from a giggle, but he doesn’t seem to mind and only laughs with you, moving your body further onto the mattress. He doesn't go to you again, he just lies beside you and dances his fingers absently down your pubic bone, ghosting circles around your clit.

“Jesus Christ.” You exclaim at the sudden feeling. Timothée kisses your jawline, but adds in between kisses, “Less of that, darling, I’m Jewish.”

You can’t help but laugh at him. You know he’s joking, just trying to mess with you, but as a punishment for laughing, he thrusts two fingers inside you with no warning, making you cry out in a mixture of both pain and overwhelming pleasure.

He pumps his fingers in and out of you, never going deeper than the second knuckle even when you cry out for more. Only when your moans turn to gasps for breath and you’re writhing beneath him does he delve in further and add his thumb to your clit, giving you a more intense orgasm than you’ve ever had before.

You immediately feel blood rushing back to your cheeks, colouring them from embarrassment, but Timothée doesn’t mind. He removes his hand from your core, and makes sure your eyes are fixated on his every movement as he licks his hand clean of all your cum. You’re so turned on that you even reach for his own hand, interlacing all your fingers except for his index one, of which he takes the hint and slips it into your open mouth, allowing your tongue to curl around it, making him groan.

He slips further down the bed and locks his eyes onto yours, you can see different shades of green and hazel in them and a whole world locked behind those beautiful eyes. Slowly, he delves into your heat, licking up everything that his hands missed. His mouth works wonders, sending your mind into a state of mild euphoria. The tip of his nose nudges your clit and you can feel yourself involuntarily gasp, so when Timothée finishes savouring every taste of you that he can get, he harshly bites your sensitive clit for just a moment, stimulating parts of your mind and body that you didn’t know could feel pleasure, let alone pleasure that intense.

He comes back up and kisses your lips, planting his hands in your hair as you kiss him back and get lost in the moment, your tongues dance together in an exploration, an experimentation of passion.

You pull away after a minute or so, gasping for air. Timothée examines your face for a moment, and you find yourself once again losing your thoughts and sanity in his eyes, until you feel the tip of his throbbing cock brush against your bare thigh. You feel bad for how much he’s been neglecting his own levels of desire in order to pleasure you, so you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. He takes a sharp intake of breath and flutters his eyes closed, his long dark eyelashes twitching alongside his eyelids whenever you grasp harder or pump him.

He’s surprisingly big, causing you to take longer while rubbing your hand up and down his member. Half way down one thrust, you squeeze his cock a little, hearing him whimper a little. The mere sound of him drowns your core in want. You edge your way down the bed and swallow as much of his dick as you can take until his tip hits the back of your throat. He lets out the most sensual guttural groan that you’ve ever heard, his eyes still closed while placing his hand on the back of your head to keep you steady. You bring your head back up to look at him while your tongue swirls his tip, his mouth is parted a little with breathy moans of your name escaping every once in a while, his eyelids switching from being lazily half open to squeezed so tightly shut that they wrinkle a little.

You go back down slowly, inch by inch, hollowing your cheeks. You work your hand in the part of him that won’t fit in your mouth and continue to bob your head up and down. You lick a strip up a vein on the underside of his dick, making him near enough scream your name. With one final bob of your head where you deep throat him, you pull away with plump lips, climbing up his body to straddle his waist. He looks up at you with wide and loving eyes, pulling you down for a sensual kiss.

“Are you clean?” He asks breathlessly, kissing down the hickeys that he’s already littered your skin with.

“Yeah, i got tested after my last break up a few months ago, and I haven’t been with anyone since. Is that because I just…” He nods and you laugh a little, the vibrations from his chuckle rumble throughout your body.

“I did the same, but I’ll still…” You get what he’s saying and climb off him. He flings open the top drawer of his bedside table and after a minute or so of rooting through it he pulls out a condom packet and places it next to his glass of water. You give him a questioning look with your brows knitted together, but Timothée just smiles at you. He slips one slim arm beneath your back and the other under your knee joint before scooping you up and holding you close to his chest.

“Well hey there Timothée.” You say with a chuckle, secretly astonished at how strong he is, because with one arm still holding you, he throws away the decorative pillows and pulls the duvet back, throwing you onto the mattress and leaping on top of you. You smile into his kiss, savouring every second of the feel of his lips pressed hotly against your own, the taste of smoke driving you crazy.

He pulls away and sits up, tearing open the condom packet and grasping his hand sanitiser. He flicks the lid open and squeezes it liberally onto his hands before applying it and rubbing it into yours. “Are you sure?” He asks you, and your urgent kiss to his jawline is followed by a string of fervent reassurances that you are desperate to have him inside you, though you respect that he wants consent and that he wants to be clean. He slips the condom on, his eyes trained on your lips and the way they part from wanting every few seconds. He’s enjoying torturing you and making you wait, the same way that you edged him but denied him orgasm.

He slips the condom on and slowly enters in one smooth stroke. You gasp at the contact, especially how deep he goes with the first thrust, so deep that his pubic bone hits your own. He reaches for the duvet and he pulls it up over his shoulders, covering the pair of you since he can see that you’re shivering a little in the open. He looks for reassurance, but then begins to thrust inside you, holding his weight above you. You can see his biceps tensing while trying to hold his weight up and keep a steady rhythm.

“How about we spice this up?” He suggests, a sly smirk playing on his lips. He cocks an eyebrow, and the sun hits his face at an angelic angle, only making him more beautiful. You nod eagerly to him, only making his smirk grow wider.

“Yes Mr Timothée,” you say, triggering a dominant smirk to relight behind those stunning eyes.

“That's Mr Chalamet to you tonight, Miss.” Words cannot even explain how wet he makes you by saying that, already making your mind want to submit to his every want. You let out a whimper and remove your hands from his hips to lay above your head on the pillows. He joins his fingers around your wrist and proceeds to lay his slender hand flat against your wrists, preventing you from moving.

“Is this okay?” He asks, his movements coming to a halt. You nod and kiss him again. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

He must really enjoy what he’s doing to you. “Yes Mr Chalamet.” You reply, making your eyes as doe like and innocent as possible.

Timothée’s thrusts restart, faster this time. You moan louder, ecstasy filling every inch of your spent body before you’ve even properly begun. His moans are lower, more like groans, all of your name. It sounds heavenly coming from his lips, the way his mouth moves when he says your name just makes it better. His hips hit yours with vigour, adjusting to get a better position where he hits the best spot inside of you.

“There Timothée!” You scream desperately, your back arching on the mattress while your hands fight to break free. Submitting isn’t as easy as you hoped.

“I’m close.” He warns you and frees your wrists, but he doesn’t let your hand go too far. He interlocks his fingers with yours, using one elbow to prop himself up. His thrusts turn sloppy, more fervent, and just as he’s finishing, he digs his thumb into your clit.

Your entire body turns limp, screaming his name in a state of complete euphoria like you’ve never felt before. It travels from your brain to the tips of your fingers, setting a fire in your belly and making your toes curl. Your back arches so far off the bed that your chest becomes pressed against Timothée’s, your breasts moving in time with his breathing. You feel him come to his own climax, silencing his screams by kissing you with more passion than he has before.

You ride out your highs, but the level of pleasure illuminating every nerve ending in your body means that you don’t notice Timothée pulling out and disposing of the condom, you only notice when he flops down beside you on the bed and pulls you closer to his slightly sweaty body. You rest your head on his chest that seems to be glowing in the moonlight from the sheen of sweat. He absently plaits your hair, staring off into the distance. The faint thudding of his heart within his ribs comforts you, it's a little faster than would be normal, making you smile a little.

“How was that?” His hand grips around your shoulder even tighter, pulling you closer to his body. He seems content in simply holding you, maybe he just enjoys cuddling. “Wait, don’t answer that.” He corrects himself, his pupils dilating and his excellent, angelic body going rigid. You chuckle to yourself, drawing circles on his chest with the pad of your forefinger,

“Excellent, Mr Chalamet.” You tease him.

“I wasn’t too rough, was I?” He looks fearful, fretting, it's evident in the sudden sulk of his face, pulling his cheeks and forehead down. You shake your head again, slowly but surely moving your leg to lie over his. Ye inclines his neck to place a gentle kiss to our hairline, and you can feel him smile into it.

“Timothée?”

“Yes beautiful?” Just his simple words make you giggle and blush, such a sweet sentiment from a gorgeous and well meaning man.

“I’m hungry.” You say, feeling slightly embarrassed. He laughs, you feel his body move from it, and he proceeds to pepper your face with the softest and sweetest kisses possible.

“I’ll make us some food, grab any shirt you want and meet me in the kitchen.”

You watch him pull on a pair of grey sweat pants and walk out. His pale hips sway just a little as he walks, and he looks so lanky from where you’re laying on his bed, the covers pulled up around your chest. He kissed your forehead before heading to the kitchen, what kind of a man does that on the first night? He’s a famous actor and the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen, let alone a couple of years above yourself. He really knows how to please a girl, your skin rises in tiny goosebumps of pleasure while a shiver shoots down your spine and leaps across your synapses just at the mere thought of what he did to you, by far the best climax you’ve ever had.

You slowly slide out from under his warm, plush covers that smell just like him, only leaving with severe reluctance that melts away as soon as you shrug on the pale blue button down that he wore for the concert. Only a few hours ago you’d met at a concert for old people, already having a common interest that few your age have, yet he’s so eager about classical piano which is so special to you. You fiddle with the buttons, leaving the top few open in hopes of another round - he is making you an almost-midnight feast after all.

You walk out of his room and pad barefoot across his living room floor, only to have a little grey cat come and rub at your feet. You lean down to tickle behind its ears, hearing it meow, and you continue your way too where Timothée has left the kitchen door open for you. He’s standing over the stove with some ingredients laid out on the spotlessly clean countertops. You smile in spite of yourself, running a hand through your messy hair before wrapping your arms around his torso from behind. You place a couple of kisses to his shoulder blades until he turns around and picks you up in one swift movement, sitting you on the counter so that you meet his height.

“It looks better on you.” He whispers, pulling you closer by your bare thighs to plant a kiss on your lips. He’s making you feel things you’ve never experienced before, you can’t wipe the smile off your face for the first time in a while, and he's making you food in the middle of the night after cuddling you.

Dreamboat.

After watching him cook for a while, you slip out of his kitchen and take a seat at his piano. You run your fingers over the smooth wood, it’s well loved but well kept. Then you take a seat on the stool. You can feel where Timothée sits to play, your smile turning a little sad. There’s so much to him that people won’t see because he’s getting famous, but he’s still a person and that’s something that you’re able to experience first-hand.

Eyes closed, you feel for F and Ab with both of your hands. You press the keys down gently, creating the soft blend of notes that is Clair De Lune. You fall lost in the music in a new way, a new feeling washing you with all of tonight's new sensations and sitting at a piano that is neither your own nor at school, it feels somewhat ethereal.

Your fingers glide all across the keys, black to white, flats to sharps, switching between octaves like its second nature. Your mind dances along with the rhythm, your whole mind, soul and being becoming lost in the symphony that you’re creating, one that you haven’t been able to create for a while, and it’s only thanks to Timothée.

You become so absorbed in playing that you don’t notice him leaving the kitchen to listen. He just stands in the doorway, leaning against it with his head lolled a little to the side, completely mesmerised by your movements, your music, and just everything you are. Only when you play the final notes are you alerted of his presence from the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet. He walks over to you with purpose, a slight grimace on his perfect lips, but he just hugs you. Timothée just holds you close to his chest, allowing you to entwine your arms around his neck and nuzzle your face in his bare chest.

“Stay the night?” He asks, such a simple request but he truly does seem anxious. You want to be genuine, kind, but it’ll be best to relieve the tension.

“You’re making me a late night post-sex feast and giving me your shirt, of course I’m staying the night.” After a moment of silence, he exhales a laugh and node, brushing a curl or two into his face. “Anyway, your cat likes me too, so it’d be a shame to disappoint the little cutie.”

After only a few minutes, you find yourself back in bed with Timothée. He’s carrying a tray full of food that looks and smells gorgeous, followed by his cat who decides to dance between his legs. He serves you a strangely shaped piece of an odd looking pizza, though it still looks excellent, and it has some perfectly cooked and seasoned vegetables next to it on a white plate.

“What is this?” You ask him as kindly as possible.

“Flammekueche with some vegetables. It’s a French pizza with crème fraiche and bacon. My dad makes it all the time and always gives me some that I just freeze and reheat. I can only make microwave meals and vegetables, so this isn’t bad for me.” The way he explains it makes him so endearing, and even makes the food seem more than enticing. “You’re not allergic to anything are you? Or vegetarian?” You shake your head with a smile, kissing him and thanking him for the meal even though he won’t let you touch it before you sanitise your hands.

You talk the whole while that you eat, learning little things about his favourite books and his family. His favourite book just happens to be Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald, a book you both know and love, and Timothee has a Jewish mother, a French father, an older sister, and he grew up in the city. You however are from out of the city with an exceptionally normal family, and your favourite book is Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. He seems to be growing fond of you, wiping the pizza sauce from your lip, followed by a kiss each time.

He places your plates on the floor as soon as you finish, snatching at the speed of light for some hand sanitiser, lube and another condom. You more than happily oblige with all of his steps and strip off his shirt, kissing the living daylights out of him before he’s even slotted the condom on. He kisses you back with equal fervour nonetheless, exploring your whole mouth with the tip of his tongue. He cautiously adds some lube to the sides of the condom and slips into you while you’re still atop him. You moan at the penetration, arching your body forwards and hereby giving Timothée a full view of your breasts and the way they bounce with his every thrust inside you.

You moan pornographically at his slow and passionate movements upwards and deep inside you, finding your special spot within moments. He settles his hands upon your hips, squeezing them and guiding your every movement. You ride him just the way he wants you to, you can see it in his eyes. He looks at you like a teenage boy would at a naked supermodel, of which you are only naked and most definitely not a supermodel, despite him treating you like one, and Timothée is thankfully older than a teenage boy yearning for sex.

“You look so fucking brilliant.” He tells you, admiring the way that your face contorts with pleasure while taking every inch of him.

You rhythmically grind your hips against him, swirling them occasionally just to hear him cry out. Nothing is a hinderance from you going faster, but this sex isn’t needing to be urgent to be satisfying. He squeezes your hips harder and you decides to move up a little further, bouncing back down on him as he becomes buried to the hilt in your desperate core. You do it again, engulfing him anew and moaning his name continually from the mix of friction and pleasure that’s sending you into another euphoria, but not enough to release again just yet.

Timothée still hasn’t taken his eyes off you, namely your breasts where he’s currently focussed, eyes trained on your hardened nipples - partly from not wearing a shirt and partly from Timothée’s ministrations. He leans up and captures your left nipple in his mouth, sucking and kissing and swirling his tongue around you in the most divine way possible. He moves his hands away from your hips too, allowing you to grind your hips on his in any way that you like. His one hand moves to your other breast, tweaking and pulling at your right peak and sending sensations through your body that you’d never realised could be real before; while his other slips to the rounds of your ass, squeezing delectably.

“Mr Chalamet, p-please,” you find yourself begging, leaning down while still riding him, his torture on your breasts never ceasing, not even when he thrusts his hips up one final time, allowing your core to devour him whole and sending you into your third otherworldly climax of the night.

“Timothée!” You scream, your climax pouring out of you. You feel him come too, and you hear him cry out your name like a blessing.

He doesn’t pressure you, he just waits until you’re able to clamber off him with as minimal pain and exhaustion as possible, though you do whine at the loss of contact as you lie beside him, his arms securely around you and holding you as close to him as possible. It doesn’t matter that you’re both sweaty or spent, it just feels special.

“Look at that, done before 1am.” He chides, cuddling into you. You laugh a little at him, especially his humour, but it is rather remarkable.

“Two rounds, a meal, and a concert. Can’t speak for you, but I’m knackered.” He smiles at you sleepily, passing you the shirt that you wore earlier. You shrug it on and do it up while Timothée puts his joggers back on and draws the curtains, leaving the two of you in dark for the most part. You lie further down, still close to his thin chest, you hear his breathing rattle a little, but it's soothing.

“Night beautiful.” Is the last thing you hear before falling asleep in his arms.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ♪ .⋅} ────── ⊰

The only issue about sleeping with Timothée is that you forget it's a Saturday morning, and on Saturdays, you have to work. Your phone alarm starts to go off at 7.15 precisely, which when you’re home, gives you enough chance to get ready for teaching in a calm manner so that you aren’t already angry before teaching little children how to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Today however, that is not the case.

Timothée sleeps through it somehow, but your eyes are shocked wide awake, causing you to leap from the comfort and warmth of his bed and cuddles just to crawl on the floor in search of your phone and where it fell last night. You find it next to his door somehow, and switch the alarm off immediately, propping yourself up against the door to release a long held breath and to watch the sun rise through his windows. He looks so beautiful asleep, his lips parted slightly, soft snores escaping every so often, dark eyebrows furrowed and his mop of curls haphazardly lying around him like a halo. The morning glow makes his cheekbones appear even more defined.

You want to gather your belongings without waking him, get dressed and catch a cab back to your flat, but just as you go to open his door, he stirs.

“Where do you think you’re going beautiful? Come back to bed, I’m keeping you here with me forever.” You know he’s joking, and his words melt your heart and inhibitions a little, but you can’t justify staying

“I have to work, my first student is at 9.30.” You say, walking across to stand beside his bed and brush some hair off his forehead, kissing him and your lips lingering on his sweaty skin a little longer than they probably should have.

“And? I’ll drive you home in time, if you live near Juilliard then I know a shortcut. Just come back.” He's virtually pleading, puppy eyes and quivering lip just to add to the effect, and you simply can’t say no when he looks so perfect. You place your things on the floor by the bed and slip beside him, allowing your eyes to flutter shut just a moment longer.

His finger traces your naked body beneath the shirt, focussing on the bruises he left on your hips and the marks on your neck. Just his touch is enough to take control of your body, to give you goosebumps, to electrify every feeling of love and lust held within.

“Can I use your shower please?” You ask him, and he nods, placing his chin atop your head.

“I’ll take you to my bathroom and then I’ll make you breakfast. Grab whatever clothing you want from my room, but you can’t leave this bed until you agree to dinner with me tonight.”

Your heart rate increases tenfold at his gesture, and you want to take a leap of faith and say yes straight away, but that would be playing your cards too quickly. “We’ll see.” You respond sultrily, making your way to leave, but his strong grip pulls you flush against him with no space to move. You can hear him laughing in your ear.

“Say yes to dinner and then you can leave.” He slips his hands further down your front without losing his grip and decides to toy with your clit as though it’ll get you to talk.

“Y-yes! God, Timothée, of course I’ll go to dinner with you, just don’t stop!” You find it impossible to understand the shockwaves of pleasure pulsating and electrifying your every sense from an action as simple as the pads of his fore and middle fingers twisting and pressing your sensitive clit. It’s so incredible that after the previous night, it feels like overstimulation, and you can’t get enough.

“I’ll never stop.” He murmurs gruffly into your ear, you can hear the hoarseness that smoking causes but god it sounds and tastes so good.

He pulls your body closer and rolls you over. “Hey baby.” You say as calmly as you can, but within seconds you find yourself sitting on his face, half of his stunning bone structure lost beneath you. He delves his tongue into your already dripping heat, licking as far as he can get and only pulling away to kiss and suckle at your clit.

“Let me come Mr Chalamet!” You cry out, and with one final swipe of his tongue around your core and a squeeze of your ass, you let go. Timothée licks you clean while you still chant his name, and he proceeds to pick you up in order to carry you to the bathroom. You settle your heels at the base of his spine, digging in a little, and his arms tense beneath your ass from the manner he carries you. You like being above him, able to trace every line and bit of stubble on his face with your focussed eyes that he stares so deeply into at any given chance.

“Don’t be too long or I’ll be tempted to join you.”

You slowly cross the threshold of the bathroom, winking at him as you close the door. He inaudibly groans, but you can tell from his facial expression and the tension in his joggers that make him look utterly sexy. You slowly unbutton his shirt, reluctant to take it off, but when you step under the warm jet of his shower, that reluctance washes away along with any inhibitions you may have had about Timothée. He’s an angel: clean, respectful, enjoys classical music, has a cat, isn’t a cocky dickhead, and he’s literally the most gorgeous human being that you’ve ever laid eyes on.

You run your fingers through your hair, standing directly beneath his showerhead. The steam clouds your vision, but you can hear Timothée singing while he cooks, Mystery of Love. What a dork, you think, chuckling to yourself while you rinse Tim’s shower gel from your body, and you just know that after this you’ll smell like him, but he smells delectable. As the water hits the most sensitive parts of your body, you remember the previous night. Just the thought of what he did to you makes you crave his touch again.

Through the bathroom window, you can make out the New York traffic that builds every morning, accompanied by the screeching of tires and sirens and car horns. Despite it being a ruckus, it's soothing as you step out the shower and wrap yourself in one of Timothée’s fluffy towels.

“How do you look so sexy when you’re getting out of the shower? God, I can't stress it enough, you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve seen in my life, even without any makeup and with your hair un-styled, just wrapped in my Goddamn towel. You’re gonna be mine, mark my words.” You feel tears come to your eyes at his kind words, watching him purposefully walk from the kitchen and all the way across his apartment just to place his hands on your waist and tell you how beautiful you are. Those words are better than a concerto to you.

Once you’ve finished getting dry in his bedroom, you ferret through his drawers until you pull out a white top with various tie dye patterns across it. It’s cute, very Timothée. You pull it on and it reaches your mid thighs, making it clock in your head just how much of a lanky lad he is. You bundle together your stuff and head out of his room, closing the door behind you and greeting him with a kiss. He sits you at the breakfast bar and serves you a proper cooked breakfast: bacon, scrambled eggs, and pancakes.

“There's ketchup and syrup in the cupboard if you’d like.” He offers, sidling up on the seat beside you, nudging the tip of your nose with his thumb. The smile hasn’t left your face since you met him.

“This is good, you’re an excellent cook.” You tell him, resting your hand on his. His cheeks glow an even brighter red in the cascading morning sunlight, dappled by his blinds, but he looks magnificent despite his embarrassment.

You take out your phone, just to take a picture of the breakfast while it’s still untouched, and of your hand held by Timothée’s, already wearing rings. You notice that he’s already wearing a silver chain too, and a couple of bracelets on the wrist away from your own, which you find unusually attractive.

“I wish you could stay all day.” he whispers, placing his forehead on yours.

“Me too.” you say softly, smiling sadly and caressing his cheek.

You finish your breakfast and make your way to the living room in a strange kind of waltz orchestrated by Timothée. He insists on holding your waist and turning around a little, moving your feet in sync until you yank him down onto the sofa, catching his lips mid sigh which leads to a much more passionate make out session than you anticipated. Once that’s over, he plaits your hair beautifully, explaining how it used to calm his sister down before an audition. By the time he’s finished a very good pair of plaits, you check the time and it’s already 9, time for you to leave with NYC traffic, but Tim won’t let you go.

“Not without a photo.” He insists, but you question his reasons. Who would want a photo of you with wet hair in plaits, an oversized tee-shirt and a bare face? But his answer is too sweet to refuse. “I like taking pictures of beautiful things, and of which, you are the most beautiful.” Your cheeks flush a raging scarlet, and Timothée takes your few moments of silence as the perfect opportunity to take a picture of you, sunlight hitting your face in all the right places, and he takes another for good measure, his hand on your cheek and his lips on yours, a kiss that shuts you up for good.

He takes you down the stairs right to the garage where he keeps his car, and surprisingly, it’s an understated car, not crazily extortionate nor flashy, something which you respect highly. He sits you in the passenger side, making sure to kiss you before closing the door, and he gets in the driver's side. After starting the engine and leaving the parking lot, he lays his palm flat against your thigh and keeps it there the whole drive while you change gears for him. You tell him all about your childhood, your high school, your time in uni while he tells you his life at a performing arts high school and then his life as an actor, he truly fascinates you.

Once he pulls up outside your building, he tries to convince you to let him come in, or at least walk you to your door, but on the grounds of not scaring the life out of your neighbours and students, you say no with a promise to see him later.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard tonight that you won’t be able to walk.” He says, pulling you in for a final passionate kiss before you step out of the car. He made you wet just before you have to work, you’ll get him back later, but the revenge melts as soon as he leans out the window to blow you a kiss and tell you how stunning you are.

You’re so lost in your trance of Timothée that you don’t notice your first student tapping you on the shoulder and excitedly saying “Was that the Timothée Chalamet?”

You chuckle to yourself, watching him drive off into traffic, all for you. “Yes it was love, yes it was.”

[somersetmummy]

(A/N): This fic takes place immediately following book 1 chapter 11 (after being rescued by Sam from Sofia's closet). Not going to lie, I originally posted this monster fic (7000+ words) on Wattpad as a whole (my first fic, I didn’t know better!) so I’ve taken the opportunity to re-write and condense but thought it read better as two parts. 

Series/Pairing: The Nanny Affair (M!Sam Dalton x MC Katie Hide) 

Original characters - all property of PB: Katie Hide (MC), Sam Dalton, Mason & Mickey Dalton, Jenny Blake, Robin Flores (Part Two only)

New characters: (Present in Part Two) Serena-Rose Warren, Tessa Finch, Lucinda Hansen 

Rating/Content warning: 18+ Light sexual language

Word Count: 1880

Summary: Driving home together, Nanny Katie Hide and her boss Sam Dalton get a little hot and steamy after she receives an offer of a night out with the girls. 

Find Part Two here.

Part One -

The companionable silence within the car provides a stark contrast to the chaos of rush hour on the streets outside. Sam leisurely meanders through the traffic seemingly taking care not to rush the journey, enjoying a rare opportunity for the two of them to steal a fleeting moment to themselves. With their fingers laced together resting on his thigh, as his other commands control of the steering wheel, she steals a lingering glance in his direction relishing in the flutters which catch in her stomach as he notices her watching him. His lips curl into a comfortable smile in reply of her unspoken affection and it takes all his might to keep his eyes on the road.  

In the footwell below her feet the distant hum of a phone, neglected in her bag, buzzing faintly to itself punctuates the quiet once again, as it has been for the last ten minutes. Tired of being ignored, the buzzing transforms into a piercing ring causing its owner to startle and refocus. Untangling her fingers from Sam's she reaches down to collect it, her frustration at being interrupted quickly forgotten when she sees her friend's name on the home screen.  

"Finally!! So you are alive!" Jenny squeals down the phone without restraint.  The smirk on Sam's face is unmissable as he recognises the shrill voice on the other end of the phone. Katie returns his glance with an eye roll of her own as she braces herself for an interrogation.

"Ok, ok I get it, I'm here now. What's up?"

"You need to ask that gorgeous boss of yours to give you Friday night off, we're taking you out and I won't take no for an answer! It's about time we had a girls night, we've barely seen you since you've been living it up with that sex god."

Katie winces hoping Sam hadn't heard that last bit, subtlety was never Jenny's strong suit. She knows she doesn't need to consider her answer, just thinking of how much she's missed her friends the last few months sparks a pang of guilt deep in heart. A night free from the drama of fiancés, stolen glances and torturous longing sounds perfect.

"That actually sounds great Jen, I'll try my best to come. Aren't we pushing it to get a spot at any of the good places though if we're leaving it this late..."

Jenny scoffs, feigning disbelief that Katie would think she didn’t already have a master plan. If she wasn’t her best friend she’d feel a little insulted.

"You don't think I'm already all over that?! And I mean literally, I've got Josh on the case for us and I definitely got all over that!" 

The smugness in her voice carries her words and Katie can't help but giggle as she pictures how her unabashedly forward friend would've convinced her current flavour of the month Joshua Demarco, to use his connections to get them access to the hottest new bar in town. She'd no doubt that while a few flutters of eyelashes and some kind words would have sufficed, it was more likely that Jen would have insisted on giving him something more in return. And that something would most definitely not have been PG. 

As the more outgoing and vocal half of their partnership, Jenny has always had a way of charming everybody she meets, her connection with people is effortless, something which Katie finds both admirable and terrifying. 

While some could argue that Katie too could charm and impress people effortlessly, she is undoubtedly more comfortable in the background, observing and understanding how things work before weighing in. She notices the details, picking up on key points of conversation, getting to know people on a personal level and drawing on their connections to help assert herself. Jen needed to be visible at all times, she was like the sun, drawing people in to her warmth and reflecting her own energy back at them in return. 

"I'll leave it with you then Jen, just text me with the details and I'll see if I can make it. And I don't mean the steamy details of you and Josh, you can save those to share with me over cocktails!" Sam's intensely brooding gaze falls upon her, no doubt trying to glue together the pieces of conversation he'd just overheard. She turns to him realising he probably already suspects there’s a further story to be told. They’d not yet shared much about their lives beyond the penthouse but he’d heard enough to know that she could be easily influenced by her impulsive friend. 

"Jen I'd better go, speak soon."

Returning the phone to the depths of her bag, she catches Sam's eye, his expression warm but curious, clearly waiting for her to elaborate.

"Would you mind if I took the night off on Friday? Jen's asked if I can meet her and some friends, we haven't seen each other for ages...."

Unsure where the feeling comes from, the urge to say more rushes over her like a wave crashing on the shore. It’s the same as the feeling of nervousness she had that night a few weeks ago at the diner, almost like first date nerves. Perhaps, she realises,  they’ve resurfaced because her whole life has been tangled with his for the last few months, she's not really sure how to break out of it and step back into her own, or whether he'll let her. 

"Obviously I'll make sure I get the boys dinner sorted, the place tidy, laundry done and get them to bed before I head out....and I won't stay out late, I wouldn't want to cause any disruption....unless you've got any pressing work or meetings which means you'll be home late... I can cancel, I know it's short notice..."

"Woah, who are you, Cinderella?!"

The mirth in his tone instantly relaxes her as she realises he's only teasing. While attempting, and failing, to look defiant her nose inevitably crinkles, unable to contain the laughter bubbling to the surface at the silliness of her outburst. He leans over gently resting his hand on her knee to placate her, stroking her delicate skin with his thumb.

"Of course you should go out with your friends."

"Really?"

"Definitely." He continues, "as much as I would love to keep you to myself I know that you have a life of your own to live too and you, more than anyone, deserve to go out and enjoy yourself."

Sweeping his hand into her own, she gracefully brings it to her lips, tickling featherlight kisses along his knuckles.

"Thank you....but I don't know that you'd really want me to let my hair down if you knew how our girls nights usually play out..."

A wicked smile casts on her lips as she looks at him from under her long eyelashes, she continues to caress his hand, her lips teasing his skin with every word. He struggles to keep his eyes on the road, his mind racing with the many possible indiscretions which he imagines could take place on girls night, especially with Jenny at the helm. The visions in his mind entrance him and he can't decide whether he wishes he was part of them, or that she wasn't.

"I see, a bit of an every man for himself situation is it?!" 

He pulls her hand over to his lap where he secures it on his thigh under his own. His hope that by keeping his hand on hers he can keep her grounded to him before losing her to the inhibitions of the impending night out.

"Let's just say it'll be a hot mess of short skirts, high heels, cocktails and getting sweaty on the dance floor."

Realising that the car has come to a stop at a red light she turns to Sam looking him straight in the eye as she slides her hand brazenly up his thigh. She can feel his pants straining to contain what's growing within them while his chest visibly rises and falls more rapidly, struggling to control the pulsing hunger running through him. 

"But don't worry, we usually only break a few hearts".

Unable to restrain himself any longer, he launches across the centre console, holding her head in his hands and devouring her mouth with his hungry wet lips. She lets herself fall deeply into his kiss, smiling against him as she thinks to herself that she should ask for time off more often.

The light turns to green and then red again, disgruntled drivers behind sounding their horns in annoyance as the immaculate silver Audi blocks their path, but neither occupant notices as they loose themselves in one another.

Her gentle hands press against Sam's muscular chest, marvelling in the ripples beneath her fingers, before sliding them up into his hair pulling him deeper into the kiss. He keeps one hand firmly at the back of her neck, anchoring her to him while the other roams down the curves of her body, his thumb tweaking a now erect nipple before grasping at her hip.

Intruding on their entanglement, the sound of the in-car phone system echoes around the plush detailing of the car, with 'Home' appearing on the display. Breaking apart in surprise, they finally catch a breath. Sam rests his forehead intimately against hers as he gives the voice command to answer the call and Mason's innocent voice pours out of the speakers.

"Hey dad, are you gonna be home soon? We're staaarving." It's impossible for Katie not to break into a smile as she thinks about the boys at home with Carter, no doubt teaching him all sorts of tricks which she'd never let them get away with. Sam notices her thoughtful smile and matches it with his own as their minds work as one imaging the same scene. Their eyes once again meet as they resign themselves to the intimate moment being lost, instead committing it to memory to recall again when the urge to immerse themselves in thoughts of each other inevitably come to call.

"Yeah buddy, I've just picked up Katie and we're heading home now."

The smile in Mason's voice is evident as his tone becomes more upbeat. 

"Oh great, Katie's with you?...Hey Katie!"

"We missed you today, why'd you have to spend the day with Suck...I mean with Sofia anyways?!" Mickey interrupts, his fear of missing out pushing him to insert himself in the conversation.

Sam and Katie stifle their giggles at Mickey's slip of the tongue, aware of the microphone above their heads. Sam places a soft kiss on Katie's forehead before pulling away begrudgingly as she in turn adjusts her position, smoothing over her now crumpled skirt. 

"Hi boys, I missed you too. I was just helping her with some grown up work stuff, definitely not as fun as a day with you monkeys though.”

Much to the relief of the drivers behind them, Sam's already breezing through the now green light towards the penthouse, this time with more urgency as the sky above begins to melt into dusk.  

"How about your dad and I pick up some pizza on our way back...."

Without even a moments hesitation the twins excited voices burst through the speakers once again.

"Score!"

Tag List:  @shewillreadyou @txemrn @silma-words @thefrenchiemama @secretaryunpaid @sfb123 @fanjessfic

[one-boring-person]

Behave Yourself.

Paul (The Lost Boys) x reader

Warnings: some bad language, mild injury, implied/very mild sexual content

Context: The reader works as a security guard on the Boardwalk, and is in a relationship with our favourite Count Fidget, Paul.😁

A/N: I hope to hell my inspiration comes back quickly, as this is already not quite to the standard I wish it was at, but anyhow, I hope it is enjoyable 😅💛💛

Masterlist

Every job has it's perks. Some of them totally out do the cons of a particular job, but some, like mine, have very little influence on how enjoyable the experience is, especially since the job itself can be incredibly energy-draining at times. Any job as a security guard takes a certain knack for not taking anyone's crap, a courage which any good one needs in order to be able to ignore the remarks and jibes from disgruntled people around them, but as a security guard working on the Boardwalk of Santa Carla, it can be very difficult to uphold these standards.

A dull ache has started in my chest from where some Surf Nazi has jabbed me, trying to threaten me into submission after I wouldn't allow him to use the carousel, having recognised him from a few nights before, where he started a brawl amongst a group of young kids, severely injuring one or two. Naturally, I'd taken this in my stride, not rising to the bait despite the rising frustration within me, my hand itching to crack him across the face, a neutral expression remaining in place on my face as I calmly told him to leave. Of course, he couldn't just do as he was told, instead deciding that squaring up with me was the better idea, though I quickly showed him the error of his ways, disabling him in seconds with only a hard prod against my chest being landed by him, sending him on his way with an angry grumble. Internally, I'm glad he hasn't tried to get back at me yet, though I'm well aware my shift has half an hour still to go, which is plenty of time for him still to try.

A pair of arms wrap around my waist, snapping me from my thoughts as a familiar scent envelopes me, alerting me to who my assailant is immediately. Chuckling, I remain standing upright, knowing that if I'm caught being "intimate" with a member of the public whilst on duty, I'll be fired, choosing instead to keep my eyes focused on the busy crowd ahead of me.

"Hey there, hot stuff." Paul greets, pressing a kiss to my cheek as he presses his chest to my back, trying to get a response out of me.

"Hey Mophead." I return, briefly turning my head to give him a swift kiss on the lips, pulling away seconds later so as not to draw attention to us, laughing at his whine of complaint.

"Busy night?" He asks, tightening his grip when I try to unlatch his arms from around me, holding me against his lean yet muscular body with ease.

"So-so. Sleep well?" I confirm, finally managing to pry his arms apart slightly, only to groan when they instantly move to pin mine to my sides.

"So-so." He mimics, the grin on his face almost audible as I wriggle in his grip, trying to escape, "Where're you trying to go?"

"Paul, you know damn well that I'll get in trouble if anyone reports seeing me like this. Let me go!" I playfully scold him, eyeing the crowd dubiously.

"Nah, I like having you in my arms. You're comfortable." He declines, pressing his face into my hair, or rather, trying to, the stupid cap my superiors make me wear getting in the way. He whines a little at this but is quick to remedy it, using his teeth to pull it off and drop it to the floor.

"Hey! Behave yourself! As much as I hate this job sometimes, I'd still like to keep it! Let me go, I promise I'll give you lots of attention later!" I protest, trying to bargain with him, especially when I feel his hands start to wander, "Paul, I swear to god if you even try something innapropriate here, I'll personally bathe you in holy water."

He only chuckles, kissing at my neck in response, his hand moving to untuck my uniform shirt from my belt, icy fingers tracing the skin that he manages to reveal before my own hands have clasped his wrists, having finally gotten free.

"Paul!" I warn him, spotting another guard a little way off, the muscular guy heading in my direction even if he isn't really paying much attention.

"Aww, such a killjoy." The vampire teases, licking a stripe up my neck as he pulls away from me, moving to stand beside me, a smirk on his face as I tidy my uniform up again.

"At least wait until we're somewhere private. You can come over to mine after I finish, if you want?" I offer, adjusting my composure accordingly.

"I'd never say no." Paul grins, winking at me suggestively.

"You are unbelievable, is everything about sex with you?" I say in exasperation, shooing him off as the other guard gets closer.

"You love it." He responds, leaning over to catch my lips in a rough kiss before he saunters away, leaving me frustrated and eager to get my shift over with.

Unfortunately, this takes longer than anticipated, due to a fight breaking out near the entrance, where a Surf Nazi has managed to offend a Metalhead, the two of them already beating each other into the ground by the time the guards in the area get there. In the process of separating them, a few of us (including me) got a little knocked about, resulting in some bruises, and even a nosebleed in someone else's case, meaning we needed to be checked over before we could leave. By the time it's all over, it's nearly twelve, at which point my shift should've finished an hour ago.

The walk home is no better, the stretch of road lonely and long as I go over it, knowing that Paul is most likely waiting for me at the house, which is why I can't get a ride off him. The air around me is cold, which is surprising given the time of year, making me shiver a little as I go, my hands instinctively moving to pull my jacket tighter over my uniform, concealing it from the view of the few other pedestrians I pass, though none of them pay any attention to me anyway. About half way through, my ribs start hurting on one side, where I took a blow from the Metalhead involved in the fight, the bruise starting to play up, making me slow in my stride so as not to hurt myself too badly, though I know it isn't a bad injury at all, just an awkward one. Annoyingly, this means I only arrive at my house twenty or so minutes later than I should've done, but I don't think much of it until I open the front door.

Instantly, I'm pressed up against it, a lanky body pinning me to the hard surface, hands pushing mine above my head. In the dark, his eyes appear black, though I don't get much time to see them before he's buried his face into my neck, lips busying themselves there as he kisses and licks at the soft skin, biting down here and there as harshly as he can without breaking skin, his actions drawing a surprised groan from me, my chest arching into his. Paul chuckles lowly into my pulsepoint, nosing his way back up to my jaw, where he nibbles a path to my lips. To my dismay, however, he stops there, pulling back a little.

"You're late." His breath fans hotly over my face, his hips pressing into mine.

"I got held up. There was a fight." I respond, eager to get back to it as I lean forwards, kissing him carefully, fully expecting him to back away and tease me for it, brief yet pleased surprise flaring up in me when he reciprocates with equal roughness, trailing his hands down my arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. As soon as they are released, I move my own hands to his hair, where I intertwine my fingers with the soft strands, pulling him closer as his move further down my body.

Once more, Paul's lips travel down the length of my neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses along the prominent vein pulsing under my skin, reminding me of my vulnerability, a moan leaving me as he brushes past my sweet spot, my grip in his hair tightening. Smirking against me, the vampire bites down on the area, being sure to leave it unbroken, his hands smoothing up and down my sides, having pushed up under my shirt, until a gasp of pain manages to escape me from where he passes over the bruise on my ribs, at which point he pulls away, confused and concerned.

"Are you ok? Did I hurt you?" He questions, moving back a bit so he can look me over, trying to find the source of my discomfort.

"I'm fine, you didn't do anything. I just took a blow from one of the kids in the fight." I reassure him, caressing his hair with a small smile on my face.

"You took a blow? Where?" His worry is sweet, hands pushing up my shirt to look for the offending injury.

"My ribs, but it's honestly fine, it's really not that ba-" I go to say, only to be cut off by a hiss of pain when he drags a thumb over the area (accidentally of course), eliciting a little noise of apology from him.

"I don't believe you." Is all he says before he's lifted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist as he carries me further into the house, going to my bedroom. Once inside, he somehow manages to pull off my boots and jacket without putting me down, climbing onto the bed with me on top of him, arms cradling me against his chest. For little while, we remain there, his fingers massaging soothing circles into my tight muscles, encouraging out the knots as I let little gasps of air leave me every now and then, thoroughly enjoying being in his arms.

"I was wrong." I suddenly speak up, resting my chin on his chest as I look into his eyes.

"About what?" He inquires, looking puzzled.

"About everything being about sex with you. You can be really sweet, too." I smile at him, chuckling when he rolls his eyes.

"Only for you." He promises, now laughing at my own eyeroll.

"Bullshit, you can be really sweet with the boys, too." I remind him, tracing a pattern into his chest with a fingertip.

"Now, that is bullshit." He says in response, smirking at me.

"It isn't."

"It is."

"Isn't."

"Is."

"Isn't."

"Is-"

"I won't tell anyone." I reassure him, grinning at the protesting vampire.

"Fine. Swear to it." He grits out after a few moments, having apparently considered the offer.

"I swear."

"Good." He smiles down at me, chuckling when I yawn, the hours having caught up to me, "You should get some sleep."

"Are you sure? Won't it be annoying for you?" I question, too tired now to argue.

"Nah, I like sleeping with you." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at this, obviously having an alternative meaning behind the words, giggling when I slap at his chest in mock disgust.

"Weirdo."

"Your weirdo." He points out, blue eyes sparkling in the dim light.

"Of course."

[chloe-clegane]

Rayllum Birthday Bash - Travel: It was a very stressful situation

Ok! Posting this.... basically right at midnight... ADHD time management skills activate- oh whoops forgot to put in the batteries...

Some more good humored smut for your enjoyment ;)  (see the read more)

--------------------------

Callum and Rayla were making their way through Del Bar, riding on the long road to the city of Serpentongue. Around five o’clock, they reached an inn. Rayla thought they should stop and stay for the night, that the storm clouds were sweeping in and it would be better to lose a few hours of daylight and sleep in a bed, than to go out and risk shivering in the rain. Callum pointed out on the map that there was another inn not much further away and that his connection to the sky arcanum told him the storm wouldn't reach them. Generally Rayla trusted his magic, so she reluctantly agreed.

Cold in the rain was what they were. The storm direction had unfortunately changed, and at the halfway point to the next inn, it began raining in torrents around them. They had no real choice but to keep going and make it to shelter. Initially Rayla was annoyed, but was looked forward to the hot bath and warm bed that laid ahead of them. But when they were mere miles from the next inn, they found that the heavy rain had flooded and completely blocked the road.

First Callum had tried to block the river of water with ice but it simply diverted it and had knocked Rayla off her feet. Which resulted in some very foul language on her part. Second she proposed that he simply fly them over it, he pointed out that would not include the horses and Rayla has to  concede. If they left the poor creatures alone and frightened in a thunderstorm, they could get loose, hurt themselves or worse. Next Rayla suggested Callum fly her over, she could tie and hold a line, and then he could then guide the horses over. He pointed out that he couldn’t manage two horses, that they would need to do it together. She refused, for the obvious reason that rushing water was terrifying. Callum didn’t think that was fair to make him do all the work, and without her it was completely impractical. 

As they bickered, Callum attempted to hold a magic sky bubble up above them. But every time he got frustrated and lost focus, a sheet of cold water would crashed down on their heads. So the previous idea was discarded as well as the next three. Eventually the argument was simply where to take shelter, which became another struggle of wills

Callum explained he had seen some dense trees not too far back. They would shield them from the wind and rain and keep them close to the road. Rayla told him that was a terrible idea because they could still end up flooded. He argued that this is the real world and you can’t always find some conveniently located cave everywhere you go so she was being unrealistic. Rayla won out on that one. It was a bit of a trek off the road but she found a rocky overhang that was elevated enough to be considered high ground. Callum not so passive-aggressively pointed out it still wasn’t a cave.

After trying for a considerable amount of time, Rayla had given up on lighting a fire on the damp mossy ground. She was shivering in the tent with her knees pulled to her chest and left a no man’s land between her and Callum. She was cold and grumpy and mourning the comfortable evening she could've been having. 

“You know, I really couldn't have known-” Callum started.

“No,” she interrupted and held a hand out to silence him. 

“Well, I just don’t think it-” he was apologetic but she cut him off again anyways.

“Don't. Just don’t. Callum, I’m mad at you, and nothin’ yer gunna say right now is goin’ tae change that. You just had to insist this road and that pathway and skipping this this to get us there faster,” she said the last part in a more mocking version of her human voice.

“Ok, ok…” he waited a beat and she shivered. “I really am sorry Rayla. Can I at least hold you and keep you warm?” 

She was resolute, she would stay mad... but she couldn’t help thing, he would be warm, she would be cozy. Her angry scrunched face faltered. “Fine.”

Callum smiled and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and wrapped the blanket around them both. Rayla continued to scowl even as the feeling returned to her cold fingers.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Callum rested his chin on one of her horns.

“Would stoppin’ fer a break really have been so terrible?” she muttered.

He sighed, “No, it wouldn’t have. I’m sorry we didn’t just stayed where we were.” 

“You said you didn’t sense the storm coming,” she exhaled letting some of her petulant anger leave with it, “It’s not exactly fair of me tae hold acts of nature against you,” she was reluctantly reasonable. “So I guesss I don’ hate you.”

“Well thanks for that. I would hate it if you hated me,” he kissed her head and chuckled. “I think we can both agree this has been a very stressful situation.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” she rolled her eyes but smiled.

She was twisted in his arms with her ear on his chest and it was getting uncomfortable. Rayla re-settled herself to sit facing forward and lean her head back on his shoulder, as to avoid poking him in the eye. While she did that she brushed against him and realized something started hardening against her back side. 

“Callum...” she sighed, “Is that yer pecker I’m feelin’?”

“Psh wha…? Maybe…” he confessed.

She groaned. “Right now? Really?”

“Hey, you know I can’t fully control these things, maybe if you weren’t so beautiful and amazing this wouldn’t happen,” he shrugged sarcastically. 

“Mmmmhmmm,” Rayla rolled her eyes and they sat quietly for a few more beats until she started to shiver again.

“You know… there’s a better way to stay really warm.” 

Rayla had to admit to herself, she had intended to coax him into her bath and to take him for herself in the bed at that inn. The excitement hadn’t entirely gone away. But no. She was still cross with him. Nope, stop it, she scolded herself.

She leaned back and ground against him, she felt his breathing hitch and she knew he was grinning. Rayla shifted her hips again and he hummed, and again. He was harder now, stiffened into what she knew was a fully erection. He kissed her neck and she pressed herself harder this time. 

He reached around her and brushed lightly between the legs she shivered.

“This ok?” he muttered against her neck.

“Yeeeeaaah it’s ok,” she sighed and nuzzled against him.

After a few she more grinds against him and and gentle fondles above her clothing, they both moaned softly. Then he very deliberately rubbed his fingers along her folds. Even above her clothes he was able to rub between them. 

He did it again and it built radiating need between her legs. She ground against him again but it became more of an uncontrolled jerk. 

“Callum,” she whined.

“Callum what?” he asked and he knew he was smirking. Sometimes he could be so cocky when he knew he was rendering her helpless. He wanted her to say it. 

“Don’t tease, touch me,” she moaned.

She could feel him smiling against her shoulder as he fiddled with her clothing. His hand was in her panties touching her bare skin and a whiny hum escaped her lips. He ran his finger along her like he’d done before, but this time he’d barely parted the folds when his finger slipped right in between them. His light teasing touches had left her wet and slick. He chuckled. She was feeling too nice to want to sass him. He touched her, rubbing the inner folds and circling around her opening before dipping his fingers into the wet slippery depths. She was humming and had completely forgotten about grinding against him. Occasionally, he pushed her to him and rolled his own hips. Then he moved his attention up to the ready little bundle of nerves and she inhaled sharply. After a few strokes and gasps, she felt the hot longing throb in her belly and down her legs. She knew what she wanted. 

“Could you, er, I was-“ Rayla stuttered.

“What do you want?” he asked sweetly against her neck before placing a few more languid kisses along her shoulder. “It’s okay, I want to know.” 

She felt herself shutter at his words. It was so mushy and stupid that sometimes it was his words and his tenderness alone that could make her melt. 

“Please, Rayla,” he rubbed circles around her opening and she hummed.

“Your mouth, I-I want you to use your mouth.” The last word was a soft gasp and he chuckled softly in response. 

“I’d love to,” he breathed and kissed her neck a few more times. She loved when he did that.

Rayla moved to get up and reposition, but he stopped her. “I’ll move, you just… relax.” He scooted himself out from behind her. He, bless his human heart, tried to smoothly move around her. Instead, he stumbled clumsily and knocked into her. Rayla giggled. 

“Sorry, agh, sorry,” he mumbled. “That was supposed to be sexy.” Rayla reached for his face, kissed him and brushed the hair from his eyes.

“Still sexy to me. Dorky, but also sexy,” she kissed him again. Slipping her tongue into his mouth and rolling it round with his, staying like that for a moment as she slid her hands down his chest and quickly unbuttoned his pants.

He pulled away. “Wait, I want to, you know, you first,” he smiled and his emerald green eyes made her weak. But she chuckled.

“I can still undress ye can’t I?” She smirked. 

“Hmmmm, I’ll allow it… this time,” his eyes narrowed in unconvincing seriousness before winking.

The couple giggled, kissed and fondled as they undressed each other. Rayla was impressed by the warmth they radiated together. She no longer felt the cold and the wet that lingered outside the tent, just the soft, salacious warmth of his skin on hers. The intimate caresses and passionate kisses were simmering her insides and filling her with need. When he pulled away she wanted to reach for him but he gently rolled to the side and he gently guided her down and back onto the pillow. Callum kissed her lips one more time before he started to trail them down. Callum pulled the blanket over himself and kissed down her stomach. With anticipation, the simmer became a throb between her legs. 

Then he licked her. 

He licked her and she cried out loud and involuntarily. A little too loudly. Red-faced Rayla slapped her hand over her mouth.

“Wow already?” Callum laughed, muffled under the blanket. 

“Shut up,” she groaned from beneath her hand and could feel the heat of the blush across her face.

He flipped up the blanket enough to look at her and gently stroked one of her legs. “I love you Rayla,” he smiled and sweetly kissed her inner thigh. His stupidly cute face turned her into chocolate that had been left in the sun too long. 

“For the record I like when you’re loud,” then he nuzzled his cheek against the inside of her thigh. How can he be this cute? She loved him and she needed the talking to stop. 

“Don’t feel like you can’t-“ he was encouraging, but she interrupted.

“I love you too Callum and I’ll be as loud as ye want just pleeeaase stop stopping and put yer mouth on mah cunny!” It was a plea and an order. It left her lips impulsively and Rayla smacked both hands on her face when she realized what she’d said. 

But before she could curl up into embarrassment Callum said simply, “Yes ma’am,” and immediately plunged his mouth into her with no hesitation. 

Rayla gasped and gripped the blanket beneath them. The sudden sensation left her reeling. Callum had gone to work licking around the inner folds of her labia and flicking her clitoris. Rayla was moaning as tension and heat built in her core igniting her body and forming beads of sweat on her brow. He drew circles around her opening before shifting back to her clitoris, sucking gently this time. 

For such a clumsy human, he had an incredibly nimble tongue. Rayla wound her fingers in his hair as her legs began to twitch. Her low humming turned into panting gasps. “Callum, oh oh...” 

He flicked faster and the tension released sending waves of heat down into her limbs. She cried out, the sound was gasping and guttural and it emptied her lungs. 

Rayla layed there, panting. Callum kissed a trail all the way back up to her neck and forehead as she tried to catch her breath. 

“I love you,” she said in a breathy chuckle. He had laid down and reached for his discarded shirt and wiped his mouth with it. “I love you too,” he kissed her on the lips this time. “You know, I couldn’t tell if you enjoyed that, was that okay?” he smirked and she jabbed him in the ribs playfully tickling him. He giggled and snort-laughed before pulling her part way onto his chest. 

“I guuuueeeeess it was okay,” Rayla smirked.  

“You know, you really are cute when you’re loud,” grinning as he blooped her nose.

She giggled and buried her face and replied with an mmhmm before leaving lazy kisses on his chest. He held her close, intimately and steadfast as she laid there quietly drawing circles across his skin with her fingertips. Rayla basked in the afterglow of her orgasm as his fingers combed through her hair. There was a sense of calm serenity within the walls of their tent, somehow silencing the tempest outside it. 

Eventually Rayla broke the silence, “Hey, Callum?” 

“Yeah?” he replied sweetly as he ran his fingers through her hair.

“I was just thinkin’, couldn’t you have just used the air bubble water deverty thingy you used on the rain... on the ground, and we could’ve just walked through the river?” she asked in genuine curiosity.

This time it was Callum who smacked his forehead and howled his frustration into the night. “Aaaghh.”

“It was a stressful situation,” she repeated his earlier sentiment with a sigh and  a supportive pat pat on his chest.

[leiascully]

5 Conversations Between Maggie and Mulder

By @agirlcalledNarelle - I think Maggie and Mulder had a complicated relationship. Here’s my take on a few shared moments between them….

4,7k words. Here on AO3. 

1. 1995

The Glasgow room, otherwise known as events room B, is empty and cavernous when he arrives. Sound bounces off the walls from the other early guests and is presented back to them in an awkward offering.  Helium balloons dance timidly from their weights along the outskirt of the room. Mulder slinks in like a cat and nurses a beer as he watches the room fill. He did not go to the graveyard.

Thankfully the event grows into the space, and the hum of conversation encourages more of the same. There is laughter. Recent friends wear brightly coloured outfits, paisley shirts and ethereal skirts. The family wear black, but wicked humour sparkles through their sad smiles. Scully and Maggie arrive, accompanied by a smattering of aunts, uncles, cousins. It’s strange to see Scully with a support network which excludes him. He doesn’t feel like he can approach her; he will wait for her. They make eye contact briefly, and she moves towards him before being intercepted by someone. Maggie smiles as she speaks, but he sees her glance frequently around the room for her remaining daughter as if proving to herself that she is still here, that she hasn’t lost Dana too. 

There is never enough food at events like this. Out of some misguided sense of chivalry which no one witnesses, he is late to the buffet and picks at the remaining trays. Having made small talk with some cousins from Wisconsin, he sits furtively at a table for two, hoping his vibes deter anyone from making any further effort.

‘Fox.’ He looks up, mid-room temperature shrimp half-way to his mouth, to see Maggie standing at his elbow with Scully behind her. Mulder can see foundation gathering in the creases around her eyes. Her cheeks have has sunk, no longer blooming from happy memories. Mulder stands and wipes his mouth on a napkin.

‘Mrs Scully,’ he kisses Maggie on the cheek. ‘I’m so very sorry about Melissa.’

‘Thank you.’ Her eyes are shiny pebbles from the bottom of a stream, clear and hard. Mulder gulps, his mouth dry, and wipes his hands on his napkin, frustrated he has nothing of value to offer when she suddenly speaks, low and forcefully. ‘Tell me, Fox. Was it worth it? Was what you found worth it?’

‘Come on, Mom, let’s go say hi to the Denman’s. I see them over there.’ Scully puts her hand on her mother’s arm and pushes her gently away. He watches them, relieved to avoid further interrogation, and considers making a quiet exit when Scully turns and mouths ‘don’t go.’ Damn. Suddenly no longer hungry, he pushes his plate to the opposite place setting and waits. He watches.

Scully and Maggie work the room, sometimes together, sometimes apart. They are the only members of the immediate Scully family representing Melissa to her mourners. The extended family, comprising of short women and tall men, make sure that Scully’s wine glass never fully empties. Maggie favours brandy. She remembers the names of Melissa’s childhood friends and greets her adult friends with generous hugs. Laughter abounds as family reacquaints and friends rediscover commonalities.  Each table hosts a framed photo of Melissa, and on this table, there is a photo of the Scully children in front of a big fish that Bill Junior has caught. Melissa is tall, beautiful with early-teen self-consciousness, smiling without teeth. Dana is at least 6 inches smaller, her face chubby and framed with bangs, and excitedly pointing at the fish with her two index fingers, her mouth open in a perfect ‘o’.

The sun takes polite grief with it as it sets, and the mood of the room shifts towards a more frantic, unrestrained celebration. Ties are loosened, music starts to play, and voices grow louder as the guests realise their hours for remembering Melissa together will soon draw to a close. Scully sits opposite him, pushing aside the remaining plate of food. Her eyes are glassy, her cheeks pink. A tissue peeks out of her cardigan sleeve, and her mascara is slightly smudged under her left eye. She smiles languidly and rests her chin in her hand. They hear Maggie laugh across the room with the cousins from Wisconsin. They are both taller than her, and one wraps her into a bear hug. She has the effusiveness of a dinner party host, eager to inform everyone where the food is and to help themselves to drinks. In the gap between conversation, Mulder sees Maggie staring into the middle distance, steeling herself to share the next anecdote.

‘I don’t know how she does it,’ Mulder remarks.

‘This is the fun part,’ Scully says, her s’s slightly stretched. ‘Remembering Missy with all her favourite people. And some of her not-so-favourite people.’ They watch Maggie take another brandy from the waitress. ‘She’ll crash later once we’re in the cab. I’m staying with her tonight.’

‘Can I take you both home?’ Mulder asks, suddenly wanting to do at least this for Scully and her mother.

‘Thank you, but that’s not necessary, Mulder.’

‘Please, I’d like to.

Scully appraises him, draining her wine. ‘She’s not herself today, you know. Don’t give it another thought.’

No apology, Mulder notes.

‘I know. She was right to ask. She has the right to ask, I mean. She should ask.’

‘She does. She should.’ Scully gazes lovingly at her mom, eyes misting with tears before someone else catches her eye, causing her to giggle into her hand like a schoolgirl. ‘Oh no. Missy would be devastated to know that Sam Charleston is here. She had the biggest crush on him when she started her first job, and he kept her well and truly in the friend zone.’

‘Go say hi. Go mingle.’

She leans on her knuckles to steady herself as she stands. ‘If that offer is still open…. That would be nice. We would love a lift back.’

‘Of course.’

‘Oh, and Mulder,’ she says as she starts to totter away. ‘We’re Irish. This is going to be a late one.’

‘I’ll be here.’

2. 1997

Mulder wakes to the shadow of someone standing over him. Blinking, his back burns as he sits up in his plastic chair.

‘Go home, Fox,’ Maggie says. ‘You should get some rest. In a proper bed.’

Her eyes are bright, too wide, like a child who has eaten all their Halloween candy in one sitting, twitchy and hyper. The hall is quiet, the bustle of the day replaced with a cloak of calm inevitability as some patients gather their strength for another day, and some succumb to the everlasting sleep which floats through these rooms like a genie, offering to grant the most desperate wishes.

‘Uh, I can’t seem to leave.’ He rubs his neck. ‘Is Scully ok?’

‘She’s just fallen asleep.’ Maggie sits beside him. She rubs her hands over her face and reaches for his hand. It’s an intimate move, but a hospital at 3am is an intimate, almost holy place and those who witness it are bound by their understanding of this. He covers her hand with his, a silent gesture of solidarity.

Maggie, Bill and Mulder haven’t slept properly in days; Scully sleeps too much for all of them. She can’t smell, can’t taste, doesn’t eat. Her headaches are sudden and vicious, the only respite being ever-stronger painkillers and sleep. Suddenly her teeth start to grind. She loses track of conversation, eyes, fingers and face all clenched, and Mulder presses her painkiller button in frustration that this is all he can do. All the road signs are pointing towards morphine. No one mentions it explicitly, knowing it will likely be the last landmark for Scully.

‘Where’s Bill?’

‘He’s gone back. To pick up some clothes, pick up my copy of Little Women for Dana.’ Maggie rests her head against the wall and closes her eyes. ‘When she’s awake I’m worried that she’s not getting enough rest, and when she’s asleep I just want to wake her. It’s like she’s 2 weeks old all over again.’

Mulder stays quiet.

‘She’s stopped arguing with me, have you noticed? She doesn’t have the energy. I just want to see her eyes flash at me again, I want that ‘here we go again’ feeling one more time. I’m trying to remember the last time we did that. I’m trying to remember.’

‘Mrs Scully, you can’t give up hope, not yet.’ Mulder teeters of the edge of acceptance but hasn’t fallen into that hole just yet: its depth is too deep, too dark, and he’s not sure he would recognise the man who comes out the other side. He needs his anger to stay on track for Scully, to keep going, and more importantly in this moment now, to stay awake.

‘Fox, I haven’t given up hope, far from it,’ Maggie’s voice is tired and resigned. ‘But you can’t deny what we’re seeing. We can’t expect things from Dana that she can’t give us. Then it’s not fair on her.’

Mulder feels this new perspective like a splash of cold water on his face. He hadn’t considered the impact of his unending fight on Scully. Did she feel like she had to perform for him? Did she gather her strength every time he entered the room to protect him from what was happening, to allow him his little charade? Does the energy needed for his visits mean more frequent headaches, more pain? His shoulders slump further as more guilt settles across them.

Maggie’s head suddenly brushes his shoulder, and she looks up in surprise, blinking. A microsleep.

‘Mrs Scully, you should take your own advice.’ He squeezes her hand where it still rests in his. ‘Get some proper rest.’

Maggie shakes her head. ‘There’s the meeting with Dana’s doctor first thing. And then the Priest is stopping by.’

The meeting is to learn the consultant recommendation after examining the chip that Mulder had offered him like frankincense. They had scanned it, taken photos, made notes, but the chip itself remained in Mulder’s pocket at his insistence.

‘I hope you know I respect the work of the priest.’ Mulder clears his throat, not sure of his next words. ‘I’m not exactly what you’d call a good disciple, but I’m willing to try anything at this point. And I know what it means to Dana.’

‘I won’t lie, I don’t like the idea of this chip, Fox. But you’ve earned the right to an opinion here. And anyway, Dana will do what she thinks is best: she won’t have anyone else make this choice for her.’

‘I know. I just wanted you to know that … I just want to make sure we’ve tried everything.’

Maggie stands and puts a hand to his cheek, her hand soft against his stubble. It’s a move he’s done to Scully before, but he had underestimated how much comfort it brings. He wants to nuzzle into her hand, to close his eyes and rest in the warmth.

‘I know you love her, Fox. You love her as she deserves to be loved. I do wish you might show it with roses instead of computer chips,’ she smiles ruefully. ‘But there aren’t words to convey how grateful I’ve been to see your love for my daughter over these past few weeks.’

He watches her go back into Scully’s dark room. They both wait, in different rooms, for the sun to rise on the day when Scully’s holy trinity of faith, family and work will entwine around her like the roots of a tree in a final attempt to nourish her back to health.

3. 1998

It is still dark when they pull up outside the house, but someone has clocked their arrival and the front door flings open. Maggie waves, wrapping her cardigan around her, and gestures inwards.

‘You have to come in now, you realise,’ Scully says as she unbuckles her belt.

‘Oh, no, Scully, I don’t want to do that. You be with your family. It’s 6:30am.’

‘Come on, you’ll offend her. You don’t want to offend my mother on Christmas morning, do you Mulder?’ Scully teases. ‘Or do you? Is that what you want?’

He sighs and walks with her towards the house. Modest fairy lights twinkle on the porch, and the Christmas tree glows from the front window. Mulder can see tasteful, coordinated ornaments and the outline of people in the front room. Already the Scully Christmas is in stark contrast to Christmas at his mother’s house: a quiet affair with two lonely presents under a tree that never seems to stand straight, decorated with all Fox and Samantha’s homemade decorations from over the years. A roast chicken that would invariably burn as Teena became engrossed in a Christmas movie and Mulder slept on the couch. They would end the day with a quiet game of Scrabble. He feels a protective pang in his chest: it’s not much of a Christmas, but it’s their Christmas. Teena is never outwardly demonstrative, but he knows he is loved. She has saved all his crafts, every homemade Mother’s Day and Christmas card. I’ll call her later, he promises to himself as he walks to the porch, swallowing the bitter taste of treachery as he crosses another mother’s threshold on Christmas morning.

‘Come in, come in! Merry Christmas!’ Maggie exclaims as they stamp the snow from their shoes. They are her first gifts of the day as she unwraps their coats and scarves. ‘Fox, what an unexpected surprise.’

‘Uh, Scully’s car didn’t start, so I gave her a lift,’ he said lamely, hoping the explanation doesn’t lead to more questions.

‘Well, you can at least stay for breakfast.’ She stands on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He is uncomfortable, unused to meeting Maggie outside of a crisis. He doesn’t have anything to offer her, not even a Christmas card, and he almost regrets offering Scully a lift this morning. He had been high on infatuation, waking after their late-night ghost hunt to find Scully snuffling under the covers next to him like a grumpy guinea pig, her scruffy red hair poking out from under the covers.

‘Thank you, Mrs Scully, that would be great. I’m sorry I didn’t bring anything.’

‘Please, Fox, it’s a last-minute invite. It’s enough that you’re here.’ Mulder smiles, and sends a thought remembering his mother at the Vineyard on her own. It might be called a prayer, if he was a man of any sort of religious faith.

‘Sorry we’re late, Mom.’

‘Don’t be silly, Dana, I don’t know why we have to meet at such an ungodly time anyway.’ She ushers them into the living room. Bill sits in front of the tree wearing a Santa hat, his son perched in his lap lifting and shaking any gift in his proximity. Scully hugs her sister-in-law affectionately, and Mulder notes that something has thawed between them since San Diego.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Bill asks in surprise, quickly removing his Santa hat.

‘Hush now, Bill,’ Maggie says easily, entering with a tray of mugs and a cafetière full of coffee. ‘It’s too early to be so contrary.’

‘I just think it’s odd that her work colleague is in our living room at 6:30am.‘

‘Bill, please. Fox is Dana’s partner, and they get to decide the context of that. Not us.’

Mulder glances at Scully. He’s not sure what Maggie has just insinuated, or what Scully has been saying to make Maggie to make her think that way. They’re still walking this path cautiously, and yet Mulder feels like Maggie has just confirmed something fundamental that neither had fully acknowledged yet.  Scully reflects his surprise, raising an eyebrow before looking back at her brother.

‘Admit it, Bill,’ Scully says, ‘you’re just embarrassed that Mulder’s seen you in your jimmy jams.’

There is a pause in the room before Bill spreads his hands and laughs.

‘Guilty. Grab a seat, Mulder, let’s see if there’s a lump of coal under here somewhere for you.’ Scully squeezes his arm in solidarity. Mulder sees the steel under Bill’s smile and nods, accepting the tentative olive branch.

‘Excellent.’ Maggie sits beside the tree and pulls Matthew onto her lap, who desperately reaches towards the tree. ‘My grandson has been patient enough. Now that we’re all here, and caffeinated, how about we open some presents?’

4. 2001

Mulder stares through the nursery glass at the eight babies wriggling in their little beds. It’s like a very small and very strange zoo exhibition. I’m sorry guys, he thinks, visiting hours have just started for you. His baby is back row left, wearing a blue hat and sleeping with his mouth slightly open, oblivious to all the motion and emotion surrounding him.

Scully needed stitches. The doctors were not happy with her delivery in general, and Mulder felt them glance suspiciously in his direction when he wasn’t looking. They had also given Scully a sedative: she had been shaking with shock and exhaustion, having had no sleep during the 16 hours since the delivery. In the helicopter she had gripped her son with a haunted look in her eyes, only reluctantly handing him to the nurse when the desire to have him checked over outweighed her instinct to hold tight. Go with him, she’d begged, the force of his hand squashing his fingers, don’t leave him alone. Make sure he’s ok. Please, Mulder. He’d wanted to stay until she slept, but his continued presence only made her more anxious. He had left her, weak and weepy with her legs in stirrups, as exposed and vulnerable as a person could find themselves. The nurse had offered to bring the baby to Mulder to hold, but without Scully it feels like a betrayal somehow. He is satisfied just peering through the window, admiring his perfect lips and nose.

‘Fox,’ he turns to see Maggie standing at his shoulder. Her face is tight, her clenched teeth barely restraining her anger. His stomach drops as he feels himself ride over the crest of a rollercoaster.

‘Mrs Scully. Did you just arrive?’

‘I tried to visit Dana but they said she’s sleeping.’ Maggie has yet to put her overnight bag down, her knuckles white as she grips the handles. ‘Do you mind telling me what happened? How my daughter got to Georgia?’

‘Scully, uh, she was in danger and so we thought it safest if she left DC.’ Maggie purses her lips. Mulder’s palms are sweaty. What had made perfect sense at the time was now sounding reckless and stupid.

‘I see. And why Georgia?’

‘We needed somewhere unexpected, somewhere that no one would know.’

‘How exactly did she get here?’

‘One of her colleagues drove her. Special Agent Reyes, you may have met her, she’s been working with Scully for the last, well really for the last 6 months now.’ Mulder felt with each answer Maggie was coiling tighter and tighter, preparing to strike.  ‘Scully likes her, trusts her, so it seemed like the best choice.’

‘I see. Where were you?’

‘I was trying to make sure that the people who were trying to get Scully didn’t. Couldn’t.

‘And did you succeed?’

‘No, no I didn’t. But they didn’t get her, thank god.’

‘You didn’t succeed,’ Maggie says, shaking her head slowly. ‘You sent my little girl to some abandoned town in the middle of nowhere, with no electricity, running water, or even any antibacterial spray, to give birth on her own with only a colleague she’s known for 6 months for support. Is any of this inaccurate?’

‘No, it’s not.’ Mulder’s voice is quiet in contrast to Maggie’s increasing volume.

‘Do you mind telling me what on earth you were thinking?’ Maggie finally shouts, throwing her jacket at him. He catches it clumsily. ‘How could you do this, Fox? In what possible way was this the best solution?’

The tiredness, anxiety and fear which Mulder had been suppressing for the last 72 hours bursts forth, and he is suddenly possessed by rage.

‘Excuse me, Maggie, can I call you Maggie? I think it’s about time, don’t you?’ His voice is quiet but violent. Maggie blinks in surprise and takes a step back. ‘This is my son we’re talking about here. My –‘ he falters as he thinks of Scully in the third room down the corridor, sleeping while her injuries are stitched. His chest hurts with the ferocity of his love for her. ‘This is my whole world. I didn’t just send them away for a jaunt down South. It wasn’t for the fun of it. If we hadn’t have sent them away, in all likelihood we wouldn’t have either of them right now.’

Maggie presses her fingers to her lips as tears slide down her cheeks. Mulder immediately hates himself for shouting at her, she who has already lost so much as a result of Scully’s dogged insistence to stay by his side. He too blinks away tears as he realises what is about to happen next: Scully isn’t going to see her mother meet her grandchild, Scully’s miracle son. She will miss their introduction.

‘I daresay you’re right,’ Maggie mutters. ‘Everything you’ve said matches what Mr Skinner told me. I know you had no choice. But, my god Fox, another phone call, another panicked rush to a hospital, this time in Georgia. I don’t know how many more times I can do this.’

‘I know, Mrs Scully,’ Mulder rubs her shoulder tentatively, taking her bag from her.

‘Please, you’re right, you should call me Maggie,’ she huffs, wiping her eyes. ‘I know you did what you thought was best. But I can’t pretend I understand or agree with it. I think I have to ask you for a little more time before we’re in the same room together.’

Mulder nods. ‘I understand, Maggie. I want to check on Scully anyway, make sure she’s ok. Before I go, let me show you your grandson. There he is: he’s the champ in the top left. See him?’

Mulder sees her face soften, and she places her fingers lightly on the glass window, drinking in every detail of the baby.

‘Oh Fox…’, she murmurs, ‘he’s beautiful. Look at him. He looks like you, you know.’

‘You think?’

‘That bottom lip, there’s no doubt.’ She sighs. ‘He’s wonderful.’

‘Do you want to hold him?’

‘Can I? Have you?’

‘No… no. I’m going to wait for Scully… But you really should. You know how angry she’ll be if she wakes up to learn that neither of us held him this whole time. She would want you to.’

Maggie nods. Without speaking, without eye contact, she holds his hand briefly in thanks. Mulder recognises her resolve; he knows Maggie is happier now she has something practical to focus on. Her face betrays her excitement as she flags down a nurse. He carries her bag with him and opens the third door down the corridor where he is greeted by Scully’s pale face, her anxiety having vanished in sleep.

5. 2005

Mulder hears the gravel crunch under the car as Scully pulls up into the drive. He turns on the grill but stubbornly keeps his back turned as Scully and her mother enter the house. This is Maggie’s first visit to their unremarkable house, their little haven. For the last six months, Scully has met her in the city, at neutral settings or at Maggie’s place. They told each other it was for safety, that it was better for both Mulder and Maggie that they didn’t put Maggie in a position of consorting with a fugitive, but they both knew the truth: they were scared of what Maggie might say. Of how she might react to seeing Mulder again, after so many years on the run.

Scully arrived home from her first meeting with Maggie with red eyes and a stuffy nose.

How was it? Mulder had asked.

It was great. Amazing. It was so good to see her again. Her replies were short, and Mulder heard her unspoken words. They had gone to bed without speaking any further that night.

After six months, Maggie had finally asked to see where Dana and her outlaw partner were living. A Fourth of July barbeque seemed like a good occasion, the external focus distracting from any tension. Scully bought fireworks and s’mores ingredients; Mulder built a bonfire ready for the evening.

He hears footsteps on the deck and turns to see Maggie. They study each other quietly: her white hair, wrists tightly covered by crepe-paper skin, his lined face and wider jaw. He’s been waiting for this moment since Scully floated the idea with him. Now it had arrived, he realised how many lost years sat between them. Maggie stands a metre away, but the distance is a metal spring that stretches wider and wider and wider.

‘Hello Fox,’ she says, and her voice takes him back to hospitals, to phone calls, to missing people and conversations haunted by death.

‘Hi Maggie.’ He doesn’t move, and neither does she. He wants to tell her he’s sorry, but he doesn’t want to accept sole responsibility. He wants to ask for forgiveness, but he isn’t afraid of defending his choices. He wants to ask how she’s been, what their absence felt like for her, but surely the hole they left in her life is too great for him to think about patching up now. Behind him, the barbeque hisses as the fat drips from the meat.

‘Dana tells me you built this deck.’

‘I did, yes. It was my first project when we moved in. Where is Scully?’

‘She’s getting the potato salad ready.’ Mulder looks towards the house and cringes inwardly when he sees no sign of her. ‘It’s lovely out here.’

‘It is.’ Suddenly he’s sick of this dance. ‘Maggie, I want you to know –‘

‘Fox, I think we’ve had enough.’ Her assertiveness catches him unawares and he stops. ‘Don’t you agree? Enough anger, enough apologies, enough guilt.’

He nods cautiously.

‘What did Scully say about our time away?’ He asks. Maggie sighs and looks at her hands.

‘She didn’t say a lot. She mentioned motels, some kitchen work. You know how she is. She stopped talking before she got in over her head.’

‘Are you…. Mad?’

‘Oh, I’ve been mad alright. Father McCue can attest to that.’ Mulder turns back to the meat, and Maggie stands beside him. She looks so like her daughter out of the corner of his eye; there’s a familiarity between Mulder and Maggie that he’d forgotten about. All the fear they’ve shared together sits within a current of energy between them. ‘But I don’t want to be mad anymore.’

The spring suddenly snaps back into shape.

‘That’s good to hear,’ Mulder turns the meat. ‘I was afraid I was going to get my ass kicked.’

Maggie chuckles and Mulder suddenly sees that their bonfire, fireworks and s’mores will be genuinely delightful.

‘Just stay, though, please?’ She asks tentatively. He realises that their détente is quick but delicate, in need of nurture. ‘Stay here. Let me visit occasionally. Maybe there’s a room that I might one day come to think of as being mine. Just let me see you both.’

‘Maggie… Of course we will. You’re welcome here any time. At any time.’

‘What are you two talking about?’ They both turn to see Scully approaching with a tray of salad and iced tea. Her small smile is cautious and there’s apprehension in her eyes.

‘I was just about to ask Fox why the deck slants to the left.’ Maggie takes the tray from Scully and kisses her cheek.

‘Maggie, I’ll have you know this is excellent craftsmanship. It slants so the water can drain off effectively.’ They sit at the table together, with Scully looking from her mother and her partner. Her face glows in a way he hasn’t seen for years, and he squeezes her hand under the table. He is pleased to have brought her back, happy to have given her a home. She is starting to thrive. She looks at him, her eyes shiny with tears.

‘Look at me, I’m being ridiculous,’ she laughs, wiping her eyes.  ‘I’m just so glad we’re all here together.’

[mattzerella-sticks]

Caught in His Webb, a speculative fanfic about what we hope have learned about season 15, episode 8

When Sam met one of Dean's old hunting buddies - made during his time at Stanford - he didn't know what to expect.

When said hunting buddy leaves, after finishing a hunt, and says goodbye with a chaste kiss - he doesn't know what to think.

Can Sam get Dean to talk about his feelings? And will airing everything to dry help Dean understand and come to terms with more than what happened after the hunt?

Sam watches Leo’s truck drive off, waiting until the cherry red Ford disappears around the corner before turning to Dean. His brother putters around the motel packing. Face hidden but flushed neck still burning minutes after Leo left. He isn’t surprised Dean bounces off the walls, especially with the explosive farwell Leo dropped on their laps.

“ Maybe in another lifetime… we could’ve had something good. ”

A cheek kiss isn’t the most suggestive gesture, except the only time Dean’s seen a man’s lips close in on his brother’s face was in the heat of battle. Creatures snarling as they fight against whatever shield or restraint that blocks them from tearing into his brother’s face. Nothing as soft, innocent, or intimate as a featherlight press against stubble.

“Dean -”

“We better get a move on Sammy,” Dean cuts him off, zipping up his duffel, “if we leave now we can probably skip an extra night on the road.”

Sam frowns, brows pinching tighter than a rubber band. “Dean… we need to talk.”

Dean’s hands pause from where they rest on the handles. His shoulders stiffen, enough that Sam doesn’t need to see his face to know his dimples are on full display. “Talk about what?” he asks. Gruff, tone warning Sam that if he chooses to travel down this road it’ll be filled with bumps, potholes, and traffic.

Luckily he knows all of Dean’s shortcuts.

“Leo was a pretty swell guy,” he starts, leaning against the wall.

Dean, thrown off like Sam planned, finally sneaks a peek. A fog of wariness clouds his gaze, as expected. “Yeah,” he says, “Glad to see the years don’t really change a guy…”

“So he was like that when you knew him?”

“Not exactly,” Dean says, “Was a lot less responsible, then again he wasn’t in charge of a whole camp. Just volunteered there a few times a week. More so in the summer… once it felt like I didn’t see him for two weeks when I was in town ‘cause he was putting in extra hours. I always felt like the bad influence, telling him to take time for himself so me and him could…” The smile slowly blossoming on his face withers away in the next moment as Dean catches onto Sam’s ploy. “No.”

“Dean -”

“I said no, Sam.” he barks, ripping open his duffel once more, “I don’t want to talk about our history, don’t care how much you want to.”

“ Our ?”

“Our what ?”

“You said our,” Sam smirks, “As in your’s and his… meaning there is history.”

“So?” Dean asks, attempting to play cool even as his shaky fingers give him away, “you and I got a past. That’s our history. Don’t know why you have to say it like that ‘bout me and Leo.”

“Because our history isn’t… your’s and Leo’s history.”

Dean digs further into his bag, messing with the already perfect packing. Unfolding jeans and wrinkling shirts, tossing guns and blades like they were wadded balls of paper instead of weapons. Sam huffs, pushing off the wall and gliding towards his brother. He takes the plaid shirt from Dean’s hands - knuckles pale, freckles pronounced - and sets it to the side.

“C’mon, Sam,” he says, voice trembling, “we can’t waste any time…”

“Dean. Please .”

The plaintive notes Sam spoke jar with Dean, tipping him over the edge. He shoves Sam away and roars, “What do you want me to say, huh? What do you want from me!”

“I want you to tell me the truth,” Sam says, “I want you to know that whatever that is… I’ll accept it.”

Dean challenges Sam with a long bout of silence, unaware to the lengths of awkwardly charged silence he’s willing to suffer through. Showing nothing but honest affection, Sam waits for his brother to fold. He crumples like a napkin, fog turning to mist.

“Shit, Sammy,” Dean coughs, rubbing at his eyes, “Couldn’t you have pretended you didn’t notice?”

Sam shrugs, mouth stretched thin. “Pretty hard not to.”

When Dean pulls his hand away Sam at least won’t comment on the redness rimming his eyes. “Me and him had this thing, okay? Dad had gone off on his own when I stumbled across a haunting here in town… Leo was gonna be its next victim when I swooped in and ran the ghost in with my crowbar. And then when the ghost came after me he did the exact same thing…”

“I figured it’d be a one-and-done kind of deal. We salt and burn the bones and then we go off our separate ways except… Leo didn’t want to leave. If that bastard is one thing it’s kind… saw hunting as another way he could give back. Tried to talk him out of it, tell him that it wasn’t the glamorous job he was thinking but… he was stubborn. And I guess I was lonely.”

Sam nods. “You and him hunted together?”

“Whenever I was in Texas,” Dean continues, “I’d call him up and we’d handle a case here and there, then we’d drive back to his place and patch each other up. I taught him all I knew about hunting and… well, Leo opened my eyes to this whole other world I was missing out on, too.”

“Then it wasn’t…” Sam sifts for the right words, “A one time deal? Some kind of gay thing?”

He can see Dean weighing the options, hands swaying from side to side as he compares. Thankfully Dean chooses and shakes his head. “Definitely more than that. We never put labels on it or anything… with me on the road all the time I didn’t want him wasting away, waiting after me. Whenever we met up though… it was like the world didn’t exist. Of course, one day the pressure gives and it crashes back into you.”

“Dad hadn’t checked in in over a month, and not even Bobby or anyone else heard from him. All we had was…  Jericho, California.”

Sam tenses, reminded of ghastly women and burning ceilings. He thought he put that town far back in the rearview mirror, so much so it wasn’t even a speck. But as this year has proven, nothing can stay buried in the past for long. Like the aftereffects from that simple hunt years ago still shake the very foundations of his and Dean’s relationship. Swallowing around the stone in his throat, he asks, “When you came to get me?”

Dean hums, a tight-lipped smile fixed to his face. “I wasn’t planning on coming alone,” he admits, “I was with Leo, getting ready to hit the open road again when I… I guess I was feeling bold. Or maybe cocky… I don’t know. Something made me ask him if he thought about coming along, to help.”

Stunned, Sam unconsciously moves away from Dean. Wobbles with spinning vision, as if learning what could have been was enough to fell his oak-like stature. His mind races at the possibility of Dean showing up in his apartment with Leo in tow, both there to whisk him away to find John. How different the road so far would be. The worst possibility Sam imagines sends shivers racing up his spine. Where the max occupancy remains two, except it’s Leo taking the shotgun seat instead of Sam. Sam washes his hands of any responsibility for John and sends Dean off with a half-hearted goodbye. An apocalyptic decision, he thinks, given the only reason the world’s been kicking for so long is because of them and the friends they’ve gathered.

He clears his mind of the what-ifs, reminding himself that they don’t matter since he and Dean went to Jericho, alone. They didn’t find their father but they finished his mission. He lost Jess… but he found his brother.

Sam focuses on the present and his brother’s uninterrupted rambling. “...a mess, though. Like, what if dad was in Jericho? Leo wasn’t ashamed of who he was… dad would’ve known in a heartbeat what was going on between us. Doesn’t matter now, though, since Leo said no.”

“Why did he?”

“Texas was one thing,” Dean smirks, gazing at a point beyond Sam, “California was another. Thought that by me asking for him to come with I was really asking for him to leave his old life behind which… in a way I was. When you’re a hunter, it's really hard to live half-in, half-out. Leo couldn’t cut the ties.”

“And what did you do?”

“What could I do?” he chuckles, “Tell him he was making a mistake? You saw his life… loving husband, great kids… I couldn’t give that to him. I swallowed down the hurt and left early in the morning, before he could wake up. With a note saying that he should forget about the life… and about me . Then I ditched my phone and picked up a burner on the way to meet… you .”

Dean collapses onto the bed, uncaring to the mess he sits on. Gasping as he breathes for the first time without all that weight crushing his chest. Sam, at a loss for what to do, blindly reaches for his brother and squeezes his shoulder.

“Thank you for telling me all this, Dean,” Sam says, “I… I should’ve realized how close he was to you.”

The past few days make sense, the final piece fitting and highlighting the full picture. Dean’s awkwardness whenever they met up with Leo. His arms hung awkwardly at his side, no idea what to do with themselves. Over aware of their surroundings at all times, budgeting every word and movement like they were in short supply. Whenever Leo mentioned his family he jumped worse than a rabbit. How curt Dean became whenever Sam asked how he and Leo came to meet, offering only one or two words in explanation. Usually ‘no comment’. He figured there was hurt Dean kept hidden, but wouldn’t have guessed the cracks were in his heart .

Dean snorts, running his wrist up his face. “No, you shouldn’t’ve. Leo was my first and last . With him it felt like whatever anyone else thought didn’t matter, and when he was gone I… I locked the closet door behind me.”

Sam doubts that. With the floodgates open, memories pour into his awareness of times that Dean flexed the other half of his sexuality. How his eyes followed a mark a little too closely sometimes in the bar, leaning into them and blaming it on acting ‘drunk’. The snarky compliment here and there, masking the actual appreciation. Every time he deflected violently or made fun of Sam’s preferences weren’t the crumblings of Dean’s fragile masculinity. It was a scared boy, afraid that his younger brother was about to discover something he didn’t want getting out.

“Not even once?” he asks, “You know I wouldn’t have cared… right?”

His brother shrugs. “Yeah I knew. There were times I thought maybe I… could’ve said something. All those near-death experiences… and the actualdeaths… I was never able to break through those walls though. Every opportunity was shadowed by the fear of dad finding out… even when it wasn’t possible. I’d lose all ability to talk and I… I’d freeze up like a deer in headlights. Kept me from saying a lot… doing a lot… being - being with…” Dean tucks his hands under his armpits, curling around himself.

The sudden pause draws Sam’s curiosity in, his mind leaping ten steps ahead to finish his brother’s thought. He tries to do so, attaching every possibility he can consider. ‘Being comfortable with himself’ isn’t a wild guess, but it makes no sense seeing how Dean was already this vulnerable with Sam. ‘Being with Leo’ tracked, given the lingering thread hanging between them. But he doubts Leo would trade the life he made for himself here, nor would Dean give up his life. He said before how proud he was of the journey they’ve traveled - all the people they helped and the wrongs they’ve righted - and Sam doesn’t doubt the conviction threading through those words.

Although he does consider what life Dean and Leo could have made together. Would Dean continue hunting every month, slowly weaning himself into retirement. If Leo was in Dean’s life could he have prevented some of the crazier things that have happened. His influence a calming force in their Winchester whirlwind?

Maybe with Leo Dean’s chance at normalcy would have succeeded? Waking up every morning with a pair of blue eyes to greet the morning.

It hits him like a lightning bolt.

“Dean,” Sam starts, “do you… you’ve felt this way about somebody else, right? Who wasn’t Leo.”

Dean rocks on the bed, unwilling to answer.

“Dean,” he whispers, “do you love Cas -”

“That’s enough!” He jumps forward, throwing Sam’s hand off of him. “We’re done with all this… touchy-feely crap. My skin’s starting to crawl…” he mutters, picking up the stuff he scattered with a fury. “You know I like guys, big whoop. That’s the only emotional doozy I’m sitting on so let’s get the show on the road, okay?”

Sam cannot turn away. They’ve made it this far, he needs to see this through. “You love him.”

“Sam, he’s our friend. He’s like a brother -”

“And you love him -”

“I did!” Dean shouts, rounding on Sam, “I did love him. Did . Past tense… over and done. Meaning we don’t have to dive back into this bullshit. I felt it, I lived it… and I’ve gotten over it. Stacked it on a pyre and burnt the shit out of it. There’s nothing left to dissect but ashes, capisce?”

Given the grand display Sam finds it hard to believe. He stays silent though, the anger coursing through Dean’s gaze enough to char an iceberg. Sam retreats to his own bag. Cleaning in silence. A beat passes and Dean stomps to his duffle, shoving things inside.

They don’t speak to each other, and don’t need to.

Sam uses the time to reflect. On all the shared moments between his brother and the angel. Every charged exchange in the roller coaster of their relationship. From the highest peaks to the rocky lows. Remembers how friend and foe alike commented, reading more into what laid below the obvious surface. Again Sam figured they swung for low fruit in an attempt to rattle his brother. Actually they were striking closer to the heart.

The way Dean slammed Baby’s trunk reminds Sam of when Castiel died at Lucifer’s hands. When their friend’s grace dimmed, so did the light in Dean’s eyes. Returned only when he appeared in that alleyway. Dean’s face twitched, unable to smile. As if he forgot which muscles were used to lift the corners of his mouth. Or maybe was too scared that if he did Castiel would disappear in the next blink.

And therein lies the problem

“He’s as much in this as you are.”

Dean swerves, halfway out of the parking lot. Sam’s voice echoed in Baby’s cabin, the atmosphere too tense for any of Dean’s cassettes.

His brother squints at him, “What are you -”

“Cas,” Sam continues, “whatever logic you’ve used to convince yourself that he doesn’t love you back… it’s all wrong.”

Scowling, Dean completes the turn onto the main road. It takes one stop sign and two red lights for his brother to respond. “Who do you think you are, Mr. Know-It-All?”

“I think I’m the guy who’s had enough of his family falling apart and is yelling at the reason for it.”

“Me!” Dean shouts, “How is it my fault? Cas was the one who kept Jack’s soullessness under wraps. Who got mom killed -”

“Stow it, Dean.” Sam glares at his brother, shifting in his seat so Dean suffers the full force. “Cas isn’t the reason mom isn’t here. I know it, you know it - even mom knows it. What would she think if she knew you were acting like this to Cas?”

“But -”

“He thought he was doing what was right, and when he realized it wasn’t he apologized ,” Sam tells him, “You said you accepted it, but you still keep him at arm’s length. You barely speak to him unless it’s about a hunt. If it was really about mom, things would’ve gone back to normal but no - you’re afraid -”

“Maybe I have reason to be afraid, huh?” Dean snarls, clenching the steering wheel, “With Chuck abandoning us - for good - we have one shot. No more do-overs, no more hidden fixes. No kid to come by and shove another quarter into our slot, taking us into another level - none of it! And when things are on the upswing for us… that’s when the boot’s waiting to smush us. I can’t handle watching Cas die, again, Sam. The bastard’s more stubborn than you and I… he’ll go out in a blaze of glory before either of us. Where will I be then, huh? Mourning him all over? Wanting to die, again? Why shouldn’t I numb myself to that pain?”

Sam’s anger softens as Dean finally reveals the source of his problems. Worry lines add texture to Dean’s face, aging him severely. “So we have one shot,” Sam says, “now we’re no more special than anyone else. Good. You know how terrible it is being brought back again and again, Dean? Thinking you’ve found peace only to be shoved onto one last ride? With Chuck gone, it won’t be like that again. Finally we can choose how we end it.”

“Everyone ends up leaving me, Sam,” Dean whispers, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, “Cas always gets taken from me, just when I think I have him.”

“ Chuck took him away,” he tells Dean, “Chuck was the one who did that. To make you suffer for… character development . Like he did with Jess, and Eileen… Bobby, Rufus, Ellen and Jo, Charlie… dad and mom . We’re off the page now… it’s our life to live.”

“And die,” Dean says, staring into the open road as they leave the small Texas town, “Would it be more or less cruel if we die because of chance? If Cas gets unlucky during one fight?”

“Then wouldn’t it be worse to have loved him and not told him?” Sam asks, “Some of my biggest regrets are never telling Jess I loved her one last time… or asking Eileen to dinner… we need to make each second count this time around. So stop pushing us away and allow yourself to feel. It makes what little life we got left last longer.”

Sam, saying all he has to, faces the passenger window and waits. The flatlands go on for miles, blurring because of the speed Dean drives. They passed cattle and horse ranches, Dean not slowing down for either of them. He weaves through the traffic, a reactive driver even while stewing.

Overhead the sun dips, orange bleeding into the blue sky. They’re halfway through Oklahoma when Dean clears his throat.

“I love you, too, y’know,” he says, “Figured… if I’m gonna be saying it to Cas. And… don’t really know how many of those we’ll have left.”

Sam mirrors the tiny smile on Dean’s face. “I love you… no homo .”

“Sam!”

“What?”

“Quit ruining the moment!”

“I just wanted to make it clear -”

“Oh like I’d ever get with you -”

“Some people want us, too. And you said you weren’t in love with Cas anymore…”

“I was trying to get you off my back -”

“Maybe I’ll see if Cas is interested in me? I think we’d be great together. We’ve been able to hang out a lot since you’ve been avoiding him.”

“You touch him and I’ll drive us both into a canyon. I’ll end it right here, right now.”

“You wouldn’t do that, you love Baby too much!”

“If we’re both dead who’s going to drive her? Better she goes out with me than stolen by some spaz who won’t treat her right!”

They bicker while the sun sets, and well into the night.

[aseriesofunfortunatetexts]

Here we are. 5000 words of conversation, sexy bits, and more conversation. Features Dewey being soft, a liberal smattering of quotes from classic literature, a little naughty stuff, and a whole conversation with Frank that at no point turns into a shouting match. I’m so proud of all of them, I really am.

I’m dedicating this one to @virtualfindingsdocumented, just because.

It’s been four days since you and Frank fucked in his office and you more or less rejected him, and he has been avoiding you ever since. He’s succeeded at it too, which is kind of impressive when you think about it, seeing as you work together in a single building, however large. Meanwhile Ernest has picked up on the persistent awkwardness between you and stepped in to function as your primary superior instead, without commenting or asking what happened, for which you are very grateful. You wonder if he somehow knows, but surely that’s just you being paranoid?

Although you also wonder why he hasn’t initiated any amorous contact between you two either...

Daytimes thus ruined, you start focusing more on your nightly duties.

Tonight you’ve spent most of your time with Dewey categorizing reports from a volunteer stationed in sub-Saharan Africa, different countries depending on the month. The subjects of the reports are so diverse, it makes you wonder just who this volunteer is, that they have such a broach scope of interests.

Still, it’s not enough to keep your mind off what happened with Frank, the scene you witnessed yesterday with Ernest and the other concierge, and the nagging sense of doubt that’s starting to take a hold of you. What if Frank really has been right all along?

“You’re distracted tonight,” Dewey remarks. He’s sitting by one of the many reading desks in the library, a novel open in his hands. He does that sometimes, lets you work while he reads, fiction instead of the occasionally dry reports you have to shift through all night.

“Enough to distract you as well?” you ask.

Dewey smiles. “Just about. Did anything happen?”

You debate whether to tell him everything, but you’d really rather not. “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” you say.

“Do you want to talk about something else, then?”

Dewey’s love of talking never ceases to both delight and depress you. Delight you because you love talking with him about anything and everything long into the night, depress you because a man so fond of conversation shouldn’t be forced to live his life virtually alone in a hidden library, with very few people to talk to.

You face must reflect your inner gloom, because Dewey frowns. “Everything all right?”

You shake yourself. “I’m fine. What are you reading?”

Dewey allows you to change the subject by holding up his book. Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

You can’t keep a grin off your face. “Pornography for the discerning gentleman.”

Dewey puts a hand on his chest in mock-outrage. “How dare you slander such a fine piece of modern literature?”

“I wasn’t aware that was what I was doing?” you reply playfully. “I happen to think there’s much to be gained from reading quality erotica.”

“Do you now?” Dewey asks, and you can practically see him already mentally compiling a list of books to show you in the future.

You nod, putting down the paper you were sifting through and walking up to him. “Indeed I do.” You perch yourself on the edge of the desk, just close enough for your thigh to almost touch his arm, and pluck the book from his hands. You flip back to the first page, but instead of reading it yourself, you hand it back to Dewey. “Will you read it to me?”

Dewey clears his throat first, then begins, “Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.” He stops, closing the book and looking wistful. “That about sums it all up, doesn’t it?” he asks.

“I wouldn’t call it a ‘little habitat’, this place you’ve built. It’s rather enormous, actually.”

Dewey smiles wryly. “But it is amongst the ruins nevertheless.”

“I like the last part. ‘We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen’. It sounds hopeful.”

“It speaks to the determination of the human soul,” Dewey says, “That we continue to live and hope for a better future despite all the tragic things that has happened to us in our lives.”

“I suppose it does,” you agree, “or our foolishness.”

“You’re not foolish,” Dewey says with sudden intensity.

You snort. “Oh, but I am. Just ask Frank.”

Dewey grabs your hand, making you freeze. “I’m not asking Frank; I’m telling you that it’s not a fault to still have hope.”

You sigh, shoulders slumping. “Right,” you mutter, turning your hand over and allowing Dewey to hold it. It’s comforting, an effortlessly affectionate touch. “Can we just read the book tonight?”

“It’s not the most obvious bedtime story,” Dewey warns.

“I’d still like to hear it,” you say.

Dewey squeezes your hand once and then lets it go. “As you wish. Come on.”

You’ve never been in Dewey’s bedroom before. It’s furnished almost exactly like the rooms in the hotel, but it feels warmer somehow, lived in. Books are piled on every available surface, and yet it doesn’t seem cluttered.

Dewey hands you the book, and you climb onto the bed with it in hand, making yourself comfortable against the pillows. You watch Dewey remove his jacket, vest and tie. Then he joins you on the bed. Lying on top of the bedspread as you are, it doesn’t feel like a sexual situation, just an intimate one.

Dewey sits up against the headboard and places a pillow behind his back, shifting to get comfortable before reaching out silently to make you hand him the book. You do so, and while he flips through the foreword, you inch closer to him. Without looking up, Dewey raises his arm in invitation, and you happily accept his offer, moving around until you’re lying on your side next to him, your head pillowed on his shoulder, his arm curled around you.

He starts reading, his voice low and soothing, and you allow yourself to let it wash over you. You have no idea how much time passes, with the two of your lying there, but for the first time in a long while you feel truly secure.

You start to drift off a little at some point, but you don’t really notice until Dewey pauses, and leans down to whisper, “Are you sleeping?”

“Mmm,” you hum, keeping your eyes closed, “maybe a little. Don’t stop.”

“I demand an attentive audience,” Dewey says teasingly. “Mr. Lawrence would be appalled if he knew I was squandering his words on someone who’s asleep.”

“I’m not actually sleeping,” you protest, but Dewey closes the book nonetheless, even as you open your eyes and crane back your neck to give him a reproachful look. “Can we continue tomorrow then?”

“After we’ve finished working,” Dewey promises, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles down at you.

Something in the mood shifts, and you both feel it. Dewey’s smile softens, and you take a shuddering breath, closing your eyes as he leans down towards you.

The kiss is gentle, but not at all hesitant. Dewey’s lips moving smoothly over yours, coaxing you into responding. You kiss back lazily, parting your lips when Dewey pushes his tongue against them, groaning with pleasure as he explores your mouth. He tastes like Earl Grey tea.

You take your time undressing one another, constantly getting distracted by kissing instead. Dewey has no qualms letting you set the pace and remove his clothes as you see fit, one piece at a time, each of them tossed thoughtlessly to the floor. You revel in the control you have over the situation, so unlike what you’ve been getting used to.

Dewey is pale, even paler than Ernest or Frank, and his chest is covered in irregular freckles. You trace a finger lightly over three of them, located just above his right nipple. “There’s so many,” you observe, amused by how a bunch of them create a trail down his stomach, towards his crotch. “It’s like a treasure map.”

Dewey snorts, his abs tightening as he tries not to laugh when you inadvertently tickle him while charting out a course to the edge of his underwear. “I’ve never thought of them like that.”

“Obviously,” you say, resting your fingertips on his lower abdomen. “That’s because I’m cleverer than you.”

You both laugh at that, knowing that it’s not even remotely true.

Dewey gets a hold of himself first, his eyes still glinting with mischief as he reaches to stroke your cheek. “Why don’t you show me where they lead?”

You give him your most sultry grin, and without further ado you slide your hand into his underwear and curl your fingers around his cock. He inhales sharply as you start stroking him while using your other hand to push down his briefs, giving you more room to touch him. He’s hot and hard in your palm, and he makes the most delicious little sounds of pleasure when you touch him, spurring you on.

You try to keep focused, but when it becomes difficult when Dewey leans down to kiss you again and slides his hand down the middle of your abdomen, pausing at the edge of your panties. “Yes,” you breathe against his lips. “Yes, please.”

His fingers slip under the fabric and continue south. You let out a moan when they briefly rub against your clit before moving on, two of them slipping up inside you. You let out a sigh, shifting your hips upwards to make it easier for Dewey to reach deeper inside you. When he proves capable of firmly rubbing your clit with his thumb while moving his fingers back and forth, you lose your focus entirely, eyes falling shut, only just managing to continue stroking his cock, you’re so lost in your own pleasure.

“Fuck,” you exhale. “You’re good at that.”

Dewey makes a little sound, somewhere between pleased and aroused. You open your eyes to find him looking at your raptly, his cheeks flushed bright red and his eyes impossibly wide. It’s not difficult for you - knowing him as you do by now - what’s the cause of that particular reaction.

You make a note to gently tease him about it at a later date, but right now you’re just going to exploit it. “So good,” you breathe, “You’re so good to me, Dewey, please don’t stop.”

Dewey catches onto what you’re trying to do and lets of a strangled laugh, but he doesn’t stop, rather he buries his face in your neck, sniggers turning into moans when you keep talking, a mix of encouragements and compliments falling easily off your tongue while you quicken the movement of your hand and cradle the back of his head with the other.

It's Dewey’s turn to struggle with keeping his wits about him, but you don’t mind the uneven stimulation you’re getting right now, not when he’s thrusting into your hand and making increasingly desperate noises against your throat. “Please,” he chokes. “If you don’t stop I’m gonna-” you tighten your fingers and he gasps.

“Come?” you ask, turning your head and kissing his temple. “I want you to. Come on, baby, come for me.”

His orgasm seems to take Dewey by surprise, judging from the way his hips suddenly jerk forward and the strangled cry he tries to muffle against your shoulder. It turns into a long, deep-chested groan, his body shuddering while he spills over your hand and stomach. You keep stroking him through it, whispering soft nothings in his ear until he stills again.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice a little hoarse. “I was meant to focus on you.”

“I did try my hardest to distract you,” you point out. “We’ve got time.”

Dewey pulls back to look at your face. He looks amazing, hair ruffled, cheeks flushed, eyes still shining with pleasure as he smiles at you, wholly unguarded. “We do,” he agrees, leaning down to kiss you firmly before moving down to kneel between your legs. You tangle your fingers in his hair as he puts his mouth on your cunt, trying to anchor yourself while he licks your clit, sliding a couple of fingers back inside you. It doesn’t work, you got no control left to grasp at. You come crying out Dewey’s name, glad that only the books are around to hear you.

*

You lie on the bed afterwards, still naked, watching Dewey get up to get dressed, and you find yourself reciting from memory, “’Then he stood there, above her, fastening his breeches and looking down at her with dark, wide eyes, his face a little flushed and his hair ruffled, curiously warm and still and beautiful in the dim light of the lantern, so beautiful, she would never tell him how beautiful. It made her want to cling to him, to hold him, for there was a warm, half-sleepy remoteness in his beauty that made her want to cry out and clutch him, to have him.’” You breathe in, sadly. “’She would never have him.’”

Dewey stopped dressing the second he realized where the words come from, looking at you just like Mellors looked at Constance in those lines, eyes dark and gentle. Then he smiles. “I thought you hadn’t read the book.” 

“You really thought I hadn’t read Lady Chatterley’s Lover? I’m insulted.”

“Then why did you ask me to read it to you?” Dewey asks, although he must know.

You tell him anyway. “I like the sound of your voice. I wanted to just... listen to it. Lie here and not care about anything else.”

Dewey’s smile turns melancholy. “I hope it helped.”

“It did,” you tell him, honestly.

Dewey walks back over to the bed, sitting down on the edge, and reaches out to brush a lock of your hair off your forehead, tugging it behind your ear. He strokes your cheek, and murmurs, “’He had no idea what she was thinking, but to him too she was beautiful, the soft, marvelous thing he could go into, beyond everything.’”

You turn your face into the palm of his hand and breathe deeply, trying to keep yourself from tearing up. Things would be a lot simpler if you’d just fallen for Dewey and no one else.

But it’s too late for you to go back, you’re caught in this situation of your own making, and you have no idea how you’re going to get out. You suddenly feel very helpless.

“Hey,” Dewey says softly, and you realize that you’ve started crying despite your best efforts to contain your emotions.

“I’m fine,” you try to say, but your voice breaks pathetically halfway through and it’s painfully obvious that you’re far from all right.

Dewey lies back down on the bed and gathers you into his arms, quietly holding you and gently stroking your back while you sob into his chest. He seems to understand that there’s nothing he can say right now that will help, so he doesn’t try.

It takes you a while to cry yourself out, but gradually you regain control of yourself, although you don’t try to withdraw from Dewey’s arms even when your tears have started drying. “I’m sorry,” you say, voice rough.

“It’s okay,” Dewey replies. “You’re under a lot of pressure. It’s understandable.”

Oh, he has no real idea of how bad it really is. You sigh, keeping your face hidden in his shirt. “It’s pathetic.”

Dewey makes a disapproving noise. “You’ve got a lot to cope with, you shouldn’t be this hard on yourself.”

“I’m literally endangering my entire mission because I’m incapable of controlling myself around your brother.”

“Well,” Dewey says, not sounding the least bit put off by you mentioning your affair with Ernest, “He can be very charming, when he wants to be.”

And that’s exactly the point Frank has made time and time again, that Ernest is charming when he wants to be, only now that it’s delivered without the usual vitriol you get from Frank, and you find yourself forced to consider the implications instead of stubbornly refusing to listen just because you feel spoken down to.

“I’m going to fix this,” you promise.

Dewey plants a kiss on the top of your head. “I have faith in you.”

That makes one of us, you think. “Can I stay here tonight? I promise I’ll be careful sneaking upstairs in the morning.”

“You can stay as long as you like,” Dewey replies, and you believe him.

***

Moving right onto the Next Chapter

***

You wake up slowly, immediately noticing that you’re not in your usual bed. This one is softer, and the sheets are crisper. But even in your half-sleeping state you remember last night, so you don’t panic. You can hear Dewey moving around in the en-suite bathroom, humming under his breath, the tap running. He’s probably shaving. You stretch, hoping it’s still early enough for you to make it upstairs without alerting Frank to the fact that you stayed down here, knowing he won’t approve of that level of risky behavior. Not that he approves of anything you do at all, but still. You’ve decided to try to mend some fences.

You suddenly feel another presence in the room, and your eyes fly open.

A Denouement, standing in the bedroom door, arms folded across his chest. For a split second you do panic, but then you take in the tightness of his mouth, the carefully blank facial expression, disapproval only visible in the hardness of his eyes. Frank. Your cover is intact. You force yourself to relax.

That’s when you notice you’re still naked and you somehow kicked off the sheets during the night. You quickly sit up and reach for them, jerking them up to cover yourself. You can feel your cheeks growing hot.

Frank rolls his eyes. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve already seen you naked.”

“Mostly naked,” you correct him. Which is true, he never saw you without a bra. Doesn’t stop you from feeling silly now that he’s pointed it out.

Before Frank has a chance to reply, Dewey appears in the bathroom door, already fully dressed apart from his jacket. “Ah, Frank,” he greets, tone perfectly relaxed. “Good morning.”

The look Frank gives him is less displeased than the one he aimed at you, and there’s a hint of understanding hidden somewhere beneath it; he knows why Dewey would do something like this. Doesn’t mean he’ll accept why you did it, but at least he isn’t angry at his brother.

“I brought you breakfast,” he says. Then he looks at you pointedly. “I’m afraid there’s only enough for one.”

Right. Time to go. You glance around in search of some clothes.

But before you get a chance to move Dewey dismisses Frank’s subtle order with a wave of his hand. “I’ll go upstairs and get some more,” he says breezily. “You wait down here, I’ll be you if someone asks.”

Frank opens his mouth to protest, but Dewey is already halfway across the room, stopping only to pick up a jacket that’s been draped over the back of one of the chairs in the room at some point while you slept. He puts it on while walking past Frank, giving him a pat on the shoulder as he passes by him. “I’ll be right back.” And then he’s gone.

Leaving you and Frank alone with no means of escape. “Very clever,” you mutter, already feeling very awkward.

“Indeed,” Frank agrees, looking similarly uncomfortable, although it’s only evident from the tension of his upper body. You still spot it though.

Neither of you move, speak, or look each other in the eye for an excruciatingly long time. Finally, Frank sighs, unfolds his arms, and turns to leave the room. For a second you wonder if he’s just decided to wait out in the library, but then he returns with a tray in his hands. He puts it down on the bed by your feet, and you take in the frankly impressive array of fresh fruit, your stomach growling embarrassingly loud at the sight. Frank must have heard, but he doesn’t say anything.

Adjusting the sheet to keep your covered, you inch forward until you can reach the food. You pick up a large piece of mango and withdraw again, nibbling at it. Frank remains standing silently at the foot of the bed, as still as a particularly imposing statue. You swallow the mango and lean forward again, going for a slice of melon next. Retreat. Eat. Lean in for more. Repeat. Not awkward at all.

“You want some?” you ask, just to break the silence.

“I already ate,” Frank replies curtly. “It’s half past seven.”

Shit. That’s a lot later than you’d hoped. People will be wondering where you are. Time to panic again.

“I told your colleagues you’re sick,” Frank says, sensing your distress. “I figured you’d be down here still.”

“You did?” you ask, shoulders relaxing minutely.

“Yes,” Frank replies. “You weren’t in your room, you weren’t with Ernest. Not many other places you’d be.”

“I’m sorry,” you say automatically. “I meant to sneak upstairs before anyone noticed.”

“I figured that too,” Frank says, and that’s probably the most acknowledgement of your good intentions you’re going to get. Still, you promised Dewey you would make an effort to mend your relationship with Frank as much as possible. If only you knew how...

Then, much to your surprise, Frank lets out another sigh and sits down on the edge of the bed, his body stiff as a board, as if he’s poised for a fight. When you don’t give him one, he eventually drops his shoulders a little and plucks a piece of pineapple off the tray, eating it in silence.

This goes on for a while, the two of your taking turns picking food off the plates, not saying a word. Dewey would be proud, you think bitterly. Or maybe he would. At least you’re not arguing. Yet.

Just as you can’t take anymore and open your mouth to say something, anything, Frank beats you to it. “Dewey thinks we should talk.”

“Obviously.”

Frank finally looks at you, eyes narrowed. “You disagree.”

You straighten. “I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I didn’t.” Your voice has already sharpened, and you can see Frank starting to withdraw. Not physically, just from the conversation. That won’t do, you can’t keep letting every interaction with him end in a fight. “I didn’t,” you repeat, softening your tone. “I mean, I definitely agree with him.”

“So you’re willing to apologize?” Frank asks.

You’re this close to lashing out at him, but then you realize that’s what he’s expecting, what he’s trying to goad you into doing. You won’t give him the satisfaction. “Depends on what you want me to apologize for.”

There’s a hint of surprise in Frank’s eyes at your self-restraint. “Just the usual,” he says.

“I’m still not going to apologize for being with Ernest,” you tell him. “But I shouldn’t have questioned your loyalty to the VFD. I was trying to provoke you.”

“Obviously.”

“And...” you take a deep breath. “I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

Frank looks away. “I suppose this is... satisfactory. As far as initial apologies go.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mutter under your breath. You reach for a cluster of grapes and start picking them off one after the other just to busy your hands. Once you’ve got a good handful, you brace yourself and hold out your hand in a silent peace offering.

Frank stares at it. Then, very carefully, he reaches out and takes a couple of grapes. He pops them into his mouth and chews them slowly. Silence settles once more.

It’s only slightly less uncomfortable than it was before, but that’s better than nothing. You’ve mostly accepted that this is going to be the extent of your conversation when Frank speaks, his voice carefully smooth, his eyes fixed on your hands rather than your face,

“I apologize for treating you so rudely when we first met. I have my reasons for disliking your presence here, but I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you. You did nothing to warrant that reaction.”

You stare at him in shock. That’s... you didn’t expect that at all. “I’m... okay. I mean, I accept your apology.”

“And I accept yours. In case I hadn’t made that clear.”

Wow. You could get used to this kind of open communication with him. “I’m glad,” you say.

“I still think you’re making a mistake.”

You nod, dropping the empty grape sprig on the tray. “Duly noted.” You reach for another piece of fruit just as Frank moves to do the same, and your hands bump into each other. Both of you withdraw.

You look up. “Frank?”

It takes him a few second, but when he does lift his gaze to meet yours his eyes are neither calculating nor cold, they’re... questioning. Even a little hopeful.

Right, time for one more leap of faith; very slowly, you lean forward over the tray, giving him plenty of time to rebuff you. To your immense relief, he doesn’t. Instead, he turns to face you head-on and when you reach him, he closes his eyes. Your lips meet in a slow, gentle kiss. He tastes like the fruit you’ve been eating with a hint of coffee lurking underneath, and for some reason it makes you smile. You feel him doing the same, his hand coming up to carefully cradle the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. You sigh into the kiss, blindly reaching down to push the breakfast tray out of the way so you can get closer. You drop the sheets on your way, but it no longer matters, especially when Frank’s other hand slides around you and settles on your naked back, warm and steady as he pulls you close to him.

“Excellent,” someone says from the doorway, and you and Frank jerk away from each other.

Dewey is leaning against the door frame, holding a piece of buttered toast and wearing the biggest grin you’ve seen on his face since meeting him. “I am a genius,” he says and takes a bite of the toast, chewing loudly. “A goddamn genius.”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Frank says an air of gentle exasperation that makes you certain that he’s been telling Dewey this all their lives. The thought makes you smile.

“Whatever,” Dewey replies cheerily, “I’m still brilliant.”

“All you did was force us to stay in a room together,” Frank points out. “Hardly the work of a mastermind.”

“But it worked,” Dewey counters. “And that’s what matters. Now, don’t mind me, I’ll just...” he slides over and picks up the half-empty tray of fruit. “... take this, and then I’ll leave you alone. I’ll be accepting your gratitude in the form of a greatly improved working environment all around. See you later.” And then he just leaves, a spring in his step.

When you turn your attention back to Frank, you catch the tail end of an eyeroll, but it’s a good-natured one for once. And when he notices you looking at him, he actually smiles. “He’s going to be insufferable for days,” he informs you.

“Oh, I realize that,” you reply, smiling back. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t,” Frank says. “You’re going to be just the same.”

“Insufferable? I thought you thought I was insufferable already.”

“Yes, but this is a whole new brand of it. I don’t think I can handle you smiling at me like this for an extended period of time. It’s... unnerving.”

That doesn’t nothing to wipe the smile of your face, as a matter of fact it just makes it grow wider. “You should enjoy it.”

“I am,” Frank says with a startling level of honesty and you are almost taken aback by it. He must have surprised himself with his newfound candor as well, because you can see the tips of his ears growing slightly pink. “I mean-...” he begins.

“Don’t,” you cut him off, pressing one finger to his lips. “Don’t say anything else. Just... let’s enjoy this for a while.”

Frank starts rolling his eyes again, but before he gets a chance to say something potentially sarcastic or otherwise situation-ruining, you remove your finger, grab his shirt collar and jerk him towards you, tilting your head and kissing him firmly. You feel him exhale through his nose, but he relents without further protest. That’s all the invitation you need to climb into his lap, not caring how it must look, a naked girl in the arms of her fully-dressed boss. It’s actually kind of thrilling, and the feeling of his suit against your skin is really nice.

Frank indulges you for a little while, kissing you and stroking your back with one hand, tangling the fingers of the other in your messy hair and just holding on. But it only lasts for so long, before he tugs you back. “You need to go upstairs,” he tells you softly.

Lesser people would have pouted, but you’re a mature adult, so you settle on sighing in annoyance. “Why?”

“Because once he hears that you’re ‘sick’, Ernest is going to show up at your door with gallons of overly-sweetened tea and dozens of old family remedies for the common cold, just dying to nurse you back to health.” He doesn’t sound bitter about this, it’s just a fact he’s stating. “You should be there to indulge him.”

You try not to smile, but you don’t manage fully. “All right. I’ll even drink the tea.”

“The sweet tea is the important part,” Frank agrees. “A true volunteer would refuse it.”

“Lucky for him, I’m just a random concierge.”

“You’re hardly random,” Frank mutters, mostly to himself. He kisses your cheek. “Now, get dressed, and hurry.”

[roseamongroses]

W.A.L: “A Wizard (And His Stupid Yellow Brick Road) “(7)

Summary:It wasn’t a matter of whether or not they were worthy.It was a matter of who wanted it more. And now they were firmly on the wrong side of history. A history of unfathomable powers and all-knowing immortals, ancient forests and beasts, and a Stranger who wanted to challenge it all.

Vibes/ Tags:time is irrelevent, homophobia who?, magic and beasts, demigods

Warnings: Imprisonment, Mentions of execution, Blood/ injuries,  Mentions of past Death, repression, cursing,

Characters: Deceit(Eden) Sanders, Remy Sanders, Logan Sanders, Virgil Sanders, Patton Sanders, Roman Sanders, Emile Picani

Ship: Roceit

1) (2)   (3)  (4) (5)

(6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11)

---

“Eden?”

…

“...Eden?” 

Eden flinched,  registering Roman’s hand on his face, “Don-” he jerked his head away, “Don't touch me.” he managed to say, hair recovering the scales. 

“I…” Roman’s face fell, “You’ve… never minded before…” he said, “Do they really bother you that much?” 

“Yes?” Eden sighed, “No? I don’t know…not really. It feels… natural at this point. I barely notice them. It's… annoying that I can't control them anymore. The Stranger’s gonna get pissy again when he finds out.”                                                                                                                           

At that Roman hummed, leaning against a tree, “They feel natural now, huh?” he had a curious look, “I don’t think it should be a problem.” he said, “In fact, I’m sure the Stranger should’ve been expecting this.” 

“My incompetence?”

“No,” Roman scolded, “It’s like… It’s like a second puberty,” Roman’s fingers snapped at the revelation. Edens stared at him like he’d grown a second head. 

“No, no really.” Roman paced  about talking with his hands, “You were only introduced-- reintroduced-- to magic like what, a year or two ago? This is a sign that you’re body’s getting used to the changes.” he explained, nodding his head raptly, “It’s pretty common to adopt nonhuman or Goddess traits. It shouldn’t affect you learning how to use magic.”

“That… that makes sense,” Eden accepted, though he didn’t move back his hair, “But…” he twisted his head unnaturally, scanning Roman from top to bottom,  “If it’s normal why don’t you have any?” 

“I, uh,” Roman twirled their hair, “I have a few…” he said, “You shouldn’t really get that many, but my family’s magic is natural and strongly tied to the Goddess, so—stop giving me that look.” 

“What look?” Eden shamelessly checked him out again. 

“Stop that--Ugh I swear,” Roman grumbled, “But…” He parted his thick, red curls revealing delicate, ornate horns, curling against his head.

 It was  a blossoming crown, the smooth silver catching the light with a dazzling elegance, before disappearing into the shadow’s of Roman’s curls. Even though Eden had only just seen them, he found it hard to imagine Roman without them. 

Roman squirmed under the attention, hiding the horns abruptly, “See, it’s perfectly normal,” he said, “And I have a few others...but um,” he looked  embarrassed, “It’s um...private. The Stranger probably won’t be too happy about us taking too long we should go--” he called out, skipping ahead. 

“Knowing him, he’s probably asleep,” Eden said, catching up with Roman, staying a step or two behind. He might have been staring a bit. He blamed curiosity. 

Even though the Stranger had teleported them to… here, they insisted on walking the rest of the way to where they would be staying. It didn’t seem as old as the Hearth, but it was a far cry from the towns and cities. It reminded Eden of the woods around his village. 

It seemed like a memory long since drained. Instead of lush, overbearing forests the trees were sparse and rocks plentiful. Any greenery was obscured by a pervasive tint of grey, effectively making Roman the brightest thing for miles. And the loudest. Lets not forget the loudest.

 It was mainly questions or nonsense which  at least drowned out Eden’s  own thoughts for the time being, so he didn’t mind. As the gravel path became rockier, they saw the vague outline of the Stranger and a cavernous entrance stark with shadows. 

Before they caught up with their mentor, however, Roman slowed. Eden knew without looking they had yet another question.

“Hey…” Roman at least had the decency to look ashamed,  “If you do end up adopting more traits… does this…” His shoulders shook and he covered his mouth. Was...was he trying not to laugh? “Do you wonder what other reptile...traits you’ll get?” 

It was such an innocent question, but Roman’s gaze trailed downward in such a suggestive manner that it couldn’t possibly be innocent.

 Eden blinked, confused. He followed Roman’s line of sight, before immediately flushing and becoming the second brightest thing for miles. 

“Roman.” He gritted his teeth.

“Yes, Eden? ” Roman answered, and the bastard was indeed laughing. 

“Fuck. Off.”

---

They descended into the winding caves single file, steps cautious. 

It wasn’t completely dark, however the slivers of light were only a temporary comfort as day faded into night all at once. Despite this, the caves seemingly came into more of focus. Toothy rocks smiling pleasantly, their drool dripping methodically and gathering in murky pools. 

In the midst of shadows, creatures not quite...recognizable scurried and burrowed. Some with  fur growing in  jagged patches of colors Eden couldn’t name, some had scales lummincent and sliding across their skin. Most had silver eyes. Eyes plentiful, beady, and begging.

While the environment wasn’t...threatening, there was certainly an air of it. As if something commanded respect. Even Roman eventually fell silent.

 At a certain point, the Stranger slowed, turning the address the two, “While we’re here,” his voice echoed, seeming too big for the caves, “You two must be on your best behavior. You may or may not like me or my methods-- I don’t care,” he said, tilting his shades downwards, “Follow my orders and don’t waste my time, ” He pushed his shades up and with a flourish of his hand, the path was illuminated in a spiral down and at the bottom was….

“Oh…” Roman gasped as he peered over the edge, “I thought they were all dead?”

---

It was a village, of what, Eden wasn’t sure.

 He knew they weren’t human. However their bright, wide eyes and bustling interactions in unknown, but familiar tongues suggested they weren’t comparable to the beasts lurking in the caves either.  Something about the way they floated on the air, feet barely brushing the ground, had an air of elegance.Their wings a luminescent trail behind them. 

Eden was sure he’s seen the way they moved before, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. 

“The Aleseners were one of the first, but The Council had declared them dead,” Roman explained softly, as the Stranger led them past stone homes. They weren’t welcomed, but they weren’t turned away either.  Though Eden did feel their stares lingering, and for once he didn’t suspect it was on himself. 

“There will be plenty of time for a history lesson later,” the Stranger’s scowl fell as he stopped in front of one stone home on the outskirts of the village. It was smaller than the rest, lacking any glowing fungi in the windows, or intricate carving in its walls.

Before the Stranger stepped inside an Alesener appeared. Their skin a soft, glittering silver, with matching doe eyes. Her eyes somehow managing to become wider. She clicked something before drifting with purpose to the Stranger. Their wings lifted to embrace the other tight.The Stranger held her tighter. 

Roman squeaked, covering their face. 

“What’s wrong?” Eden asked, averting his gaze as well.

“It...really…” Roman seemed to be getting even more flustered, “It might be a Sanders thing,but wings are sensitive--at least compared to our skin.” Eden waited for him to explain further and Roman did, despite looking like he’d rather be doing anything, but that. 

“It’s...Intimate, for her to let him touch her wings so directly like that…” he said, hugging his arms, “It isn’t necessarily romantic, but it means they’re...close.” 

“Oh…” Eden said, clicking it all into place. The feathery steps, how Roman floated when the watchdog attacked. 

The outline under Roman’s blouse was faint, but it was definitely there.

“Sanders, Eden,” The Stranger called and the Alesener withdrew their embrace, wings tucked behind them along the curve of their spine, “This is Dot. You’ll be staying with her while you study.” 

“Hello,” She smiled wide, her accent tinkling,  “You must be…” she tilted her head, attention narrowed on Roman and in an instant she was behind him, her wide fingers trailing his shoulder, “A Sanders?” She exclaimed, “I thought they were dead?”

“Almost,” The Stranger said, dry, “Apparently their trial is still ongoing.” 

“Aw, poor things,” Dot mumbled, “And he’s so young too? His wings have hardly grown in…” her finger trailed to Roman’s spine, and he jumped. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Roman  said, non too subtly tucking himself behind Eden’s shoulders, despite  being a few inches taller. 

“I forgot Sanders were such modest things...” Dot said, she met Eden’s narrowed gaze,  “You must be His other student,” she said, as if finally registering Eden’s presence. She fluttered around Eden, studying him, “You’re quite pretty, for a... human.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Eden said,  “My name is Eden.”

Dot seemed pleased at that, “A name? He already has a name? Wonderful,” she said, “Eden? Eden, ” she tested out in that curious way of hers, “I believe I’ve heard that before, from a book perhaps? Was it book?” she asked and the Stranger shrugged, “It was a book you gave me, or maybe it was...yes I’m sure of it. “ she nodded,  “Now did he come with that name, or did the Sanders give it to him?” 

“He isn’t my watchdog.” Roman grumbled.

“Of course not, dear,” She cooed, twirling around, making no comment about the Stranger’s disappearance, “Now come along, I’ll show you where you two will be staying. You’ll start tomorrow.”

---

 It was strange to sleep in two beddings, but Eden suspected Roman might want to keep that distance. Aleseners were pretty adamant about keeping most human by-products out, with a couple exceptions, so they were  forced to wear one of Dot’s many backless, silk dresses. 

They weren’t particularly scandalous to Eden, but Roman wouldn’t look him in the eye until Dot gave him a shawl. 

He watched as Roman played with the red fabric, before asking, “So that glowing guy who attacked you was a watchdog right?”

Roman looked up surprised, “Uh, yeah, that’s Patton,” he said, he turned around so he could face Eden better, “He’s a weird one… but I think that’s because he was so close to my brother. It’s not normal for them to get so attached to one Sanders. Usually they go back to their colonies after a couple years of service.” 

Eden squinted, “Logan?”

“No--” Roman shook his head, “Logan never had watchdogs growing up,” he did not elaborate, “I’m talking about Remus. We’re twins.” 

“This Remus isn’t going to be hunting us down too, right?” Eden sighed. 

Roman looked as if he was remembering something, but he soon laughed it off, “If he was, we wouldn’t have a chance,” he shrugged, leaning back and closing his eyes, “Remus is the strongest. If I was born any later....I wouldn’t have had a chance.” 

“I’m sure he isn’t that strong.” 

“Eden,” Roman inhaled, as if the comment itself was blasphemous, “When I was three,  I was still learning how to breathe without falling over. A nurse was practically glued to my bedside until I was like--what? Twelve. When he was three, he dragged a kraken out of the ocean because my pet fish died.” he said, “He only got stronger.” 

Eden opened his mouth.

Eden closed his mouth.

Eden opened his mouth  “Did you keep the kraken?” he asked. 

“We keep it at our summer home,” Roman said with a raised eyebrow, “Though... the council might’ve repossessed it at this point.” 

Eden blinked, not sure if he was still reeling from the pet kraken or the thought of owning a second home, “So… any other people I should watch out for?” 

“Mm, a lot really,” Roman said, “But I’ll keep it simple. Logan is the one with the glasses. Not big on violence, dreadful bore.  Some say he’s the smartest son-- And I guess?” Roman shrugged, “He thinks well, but you think faster. Sometimes if you act stupid you can piss him off real quick and he gets sloppy, but that’s only when Patton isn’t around.” 

Realizing Roman was answering the question seriously, Eden straightened up, attention sharp. 

“Then there’s Patton, the one I hate the least, who’s still the most dangerous out of all of them. Don’t let him touch you. Don’t. Otherwise, he’s pretty quiet.  And then there’s--” Roman frowned for a moment, “I don’t know his name do I? But he’s the frumpy one with a lot of eyes, talks a lot of shit. He’s quick on his feet, but his legs are weak and  he sucks at combat. If he finds a place to hide, you’re fucked. Oh...and some reason he doesn’t like me.” At that last comment Roman’s eyes sparkled, lips curled in a dangerous way.

Eden leaned in closer, “What did you do?” 

“Well...It was the thirdish time they were sent to get me, and they captured me, right ” Roman started, “And I guess Emile-- Oh yeah stay the fuck away from Emile, he makes you talk about your feelings--but he gave them an assignment about the proper way to handling prisioners, right? So me, a prisoner, was prime material--” 

During the story Roman had become a lot more animated, the shawl slipping and gathering around their waist, and him leaning in as well. Around the time they were describing how easy mystery man is to rile up, Roman had somehow acquired Eden’s hands to play with--which did seem to calm him down in a way that made his overly excited tangents more understandable. So Eden didn’t comment on it. 

 Sometime along the way, their beddings were pushed together. At this point Roman was detailing his “extensive criminal history”---which  moreso resembled Roman fucking with the Council, who contiuously couldn’t find an effective way to keep him contained. 

So Eden eventually relaxed, he listened carefully to the stories-- even the ones that were obviously faked-- enjoying the cadence of Roman’s voice. 

Eden knew he should probably be sleeping soon, he should be preparing for tomorrow, he should be planning, he should be remembering why he wanted  this in the first place but…

But… he’ll allow it, for a little while longer at least.

[fontainebleau22]

Director’s Commentary

Thanks to @whereverigobillygoes who requested the end of Sweet Cider by the Fireside, and thanks more generally to the wonderful Mag7 fandom for being so tolerant of the gloomy stuff that I wrote. I reread this fic a few weeks ago and was astonished that people were kind enough to be enthusiastic about it when it has a female OC at the centre and is so sad.

---

The next morning Mr Robicheaux pushed back his chair after breakfast, announcing, ‘Today we’ll tackle the orchard boundary fence: that corner post is rotten right through, and it’s a job for two to replace it.’

‘It will be a boon to see it mended,’ she said, glad to see him in good humour again, and he replied easily, ‘We’ll have it done in no time.’

They went out, Mr Rocks stretching in the morning air, and she heard him say jokingly, ‘We?’

‘Job for two, cher,’ grinned Mr Robicheaux, clapping him on the back.

‘Job for one working man and one lazy one is what you mean,’ said Mr Rocks, and they laughed together like boys as they gathered tools and wood.

I was trying to get the contrast, now that Billy is better again, between Goody’s exaggerated formality when he’s with Martha and the freedom and intimacy of his relationship with Billy.

She was glad to see matters mended between them, and when she went out to pick the last of the tomatoes for their dinner Mr Robicheaux left Mr Rocks at work planing the post into shape and came to greet her.

‘You should have turnips and carrots aplenty in a few months,’ he said, nodding towards the new planting, and she replied cheerfully, ‘It will see us well through the winter, God willing.’

A tiny reprise of the autumn motif: what Martha thinks is preparation for the future turns out to be a dead end.

He cleared his throat, suddenly awkward, then raised his eyes over her shoulder. ‘Your swallows are preparing to leave.’ He nodded towards the neighbouring barn, and she turned to see that he was right, the swallows lined up along the gable, gathering to begin their journey south with the sun. ‘And Billy and I should do the same.’ So casually said, yet the words caught her like the flick of a whip.

I wanted the reader to feel the abruptness of this: in fact Goody has only ever said that they would stay three weeks until Billy was well, but I hope the reader has been lured into Martha’s point of view so this comes as a shock.

Her stomach plunged: she stood there, hands full of tomatoes, struggling to make sense of it. Leave? She tried to school her expression, conscious that she was gaping at him.

‘I hope my work has been of some small worth to you, but if we stay longer we shall become a burden.’

‘You would not - that is, I thought…’ She searched his face, but there was nothing in it save calm good nature.

‘I shall walk out to Ingalls’ place this afternoon and speak to him about reclaiming our horses. It will take a little time to prepare, if we may trespass further on your goodwill.’

‘Of course,’ she said, still too taken aback to frame a proper reply, ‘although …’ but he was already turning away.

Leaving? After his attentiveness, the shared confidences and laughter, the touch of his hand? After all he had said? She had seen them dancing together at Grace Carter’s wedding, sitting by the fireside on a winter’s night, under the apple blossom in spring… Leaving? Why should he announce it so suddenly? And with the thought came the answer, in a flash: it must be because she had behaved so timidly the day before. She had shown disapproval and fear, had made Mr Rocks think himself unwelcome: she had precipitated this. But if that was so, could she not remedy the misunderstanding? All easily mended, she had said, and it need not be otherwise.

This is one of the sad things, that Martha’s immediate reaction is to blame herself for what’s happened. Partly it’s deep-rooted internalised guilt, and partly a way of clinging to hope. I hope as well that at this stage it’s clear that no one is actually to blame, but that two very different interpretations have been made of the same events, and Goodnight really doesn’t understand what Martha has come to think.

She found no opportunity to speak to him at dinnertime: Carrie Brooke stopped by with a request from her mother to spare some sorrel tea for her younger brothers, and when Martha came back, true to his undertaking Mr Robicheaux had gone out, the fence duly mended and Mr Rocks engaged in some silent occupation of his own. At the end of the afternoon, however, the rattle of a cart and shouted thanks brought her to the door, where she found Mr Robicheaux bearing a mound of saddles and harness which he laid carefully on the step.

‘It’ll be an evening’s work to attend to these,’ he announced cheerfully, and she drew breath to speak, but before she could, there was a gentle brush at her sleeve; Mr Rocks had come out silently behind her, his face for once wearing a bright smile.

‘I’ll get the oil,’ he said, and Martha had to retreat and leave them to work, sitting on the stoop and talking softly as they checked and mended their bridles and straps. 

But there’s one person who does know what’s going on, and he’s delighted that Goody is finally up for hitting the road...

She cooked their supper, served it and sat to eat, though the words unspoken in her throat robbed her of any appetite; Mr Robicheaux, though, was as talkative as ever, recounting the news he’d hear from Mr Ingalls. When supper was done and she gathered their plates she saw that he cast her a glance of concern, but she did not wish to speak in Mr Rocks’ presence, so busied herself at the sink, letting the two of them retire.

And there it is, the fatal misunderstanding, seeing Billy as an inconvenient adjunct to Goody. At the start of the fic Martha was seeing him as a child-figure, and then later as a subordinate; she’s about to get a glimpse of the real balance between them.

Once she was alone, however, anxiety and hope warring in her, she regretted her timidity: she must speak to him, and it would all be resolved, and tomorrow they would go to church just as usual. Seized by a sudden determination she laid down her dishtowel and went through the main room to knock upon their door.

The door was ajar, the lamp lit within, and she raised her hand to tap and announce herself, but what she glimpsed through the doorway stilled her to a statue. The two of them siting in the rosy light, too absorbed to notice her, Mr Rocks holding one of Mr Robicheaux’s hands in his, the jar of salve open on the quilt next to him, rubbing it into his palm with concentration. And Mr Robicheaux, face bright with an affection she’d never seen, reaching out his other hand to stroke through his friend’s hair, Mr Rocks raising his eyes with a look of amused fondness.

I wanted this to be an intimate scene but an innocent one at the same time; the contrast is (I hope) between the studied formality of her fireside chats with Goody and what real intimacy looks like.

Shame scorched her from head to toe: shame at the act of spying on a private moment, at what she was witnessing, at what she had thought and done. She closed her eyes lest she see more and backed away without a sound, placed the jug noiselessly on the kitchen table and crept up the staircase, like a thief in her own house.

I’m proud of this, for catching the whirl of emotions, of betrayal and bad behaviour on her part all at once.

Alone again in her bedroom, one emotion beat in her in time with her thumping heart: thankfulness. That she had said and done nothing to expose her hopes, her folly, to public view; that the town need not gossip or look askance; that no one could say that she had not shown the decorum appropriate to a godfearing widow.

This is frustrating: I know I took the ‘no one need know’ idea from another novel I’d read, most likely a historical one, but now I just can’t place it. And I wanted thankfulness to be uppermost in her mind because it’s worth bringing out what small town life was like then, how difficult it was for a poor women to move somewhere else, and hence how powerful fear of gossip could be.

She could not claim that she had been deceived. Mr Robicheaux’s actions, his willing work, his amicability, all were as though seen through coloured glass: unchanged, yet their meaning entirely altered. His often-stated gratitude, his enthusiasm for the community, the companionship he had offered: if he had feared to lose what he held most dear to his heart, how could he have acted differently? And the words he had spoken, words she had treasured, emptied out and refilled to become anodyne. She had heard what she wished to hear, seen what she hoped to see, spinning for herself a picture of a future with Mr Robicheaux at its centre, and the blame was solely her own.

He might not know. God be praised, he need never know. They would continue their arrangement, the three of them, until it was concluded, and there would be no indication from her deeds or words that she had ever entertained a different idea.

I’m quite proud of this too as a way of showing what goes on inside an outwardly very dull character. God-fearing widows aren’t often seen as good fictional material, but I hoped to show that Martha was an interesting person precisely because her reactions are very different from modern-day women, entirely conditioned by the society she lived in. If there is a message in the fic, it’s that historical women don’t have to be unconventional to be interesting.

She stood before the glass, red spots burning on her cheeks, and plucked the brooch from her collar, returning it to its box with trembling fingers, and closing the lid of the chest silently. She reset her cap, drawing the strings tight around her hair and bowing her head.

I spent a lot of time describing head-coverings and hair because they really were tremendously important in the culture. Martha brushing out her hair when she thinks about marrying Goody is the polar opposite of this section.

Eyes squeezed tight and hands pressed to her chest, she swallowed hard to conquer the lump that rose in her throat. God sees all, the weakness and the vanity, the foolish hopes and the empty dreams, but God understands. God forgives.

I read an interesting article recently about loneliness, which is much more commonly reported these days than in the past, and the writer made the point that in a devoutly Christian environment people were never truly alone because God was always there. I think that’s really interesting, and here I was trying to show that while Martha’s religion is a demanding one, making her put aside her own desires to act in particular ways, it could also be a comfort to her; even if she keeps what she hoped for a secret, she doesn’t have to carry it alone.

Thanks so much for letting me talk about this!

[nomenace]

no menace

NO MENACE

I remember this day in detail from start to finish, the same way I remember most days, and I will share the facts with you here. The summary, because I feel it's disrespectful to the severity of this subject to bring anyone through the stress of a long, detailed story without first cutting to the point, is that not only did I not assault this person or any person but I also did not endeavour to disregard their boundaries, needs or communications at any point. I never knowingly violated consent (that qualifying adverb necessary only because I intend to respectfully regard M’s account as a good-faith telling of their experience, just as I trust my own) but acted in what I believed was careful if heady responsiveness to my partner in an unexpected intimate encounter initiated by M. To hear that this was not their experience was shocking, vertiginous, nearly impossible to metabolise, especially as the language online morphed from the already patently false “assault” to “rape”; neither descriptor having any place in a retelling of this evening. Though I know that declarations of my own character have no way of being externally verified except through my actions, which I will endeavour to lay out for public scrutiny, I must here personally affirm the essential nature of autonomy and consent. The violence of knowing boundary-violation, the usurpation of commandment over your own body, these are unacceptable wrongs. In all intimate encounters that I am blessed to experience, I seek to proceed based on the signals I receive from my partner.

The Events of That Day

I fly into Denton, Texas early, around 2pm and loaded into the venue where I am greeted by the day staff. I eventually settled into the venue’s greenroom to plan my set and go over the managerial details involved with this first leg of the tour. I wind up making many trips up and down the stairs from the greenroom to the main room, handling various gear set up on stage and merch table business; the room is still sparsely attended with early-arrivers. By my 5th or so trip up and down I have become conspicuously aware that the person sitting at the table just at the foot of this stairwell is staring more consistently at me than anyone in the room; a fond smile on her face, seeming eager to engage. This is “M”. As the crowd grew and the proximity borne of limited space necessitating a polite acknowledgment of one’s fellow human looking directly at you with pleasantness, I say “Hello” to her and her entire table of friends. This leads to conversation with them; they invite me out to their car to smoke and I, fresh off a TSA search, agree. As the openers played their set inside, we engaged in high-minded small talk. I enjoyed their company; they were warm, clever and kept the pace of their amusing quips rapid. It was a positive connection. M and I exchanged numbers before we all parted ways.

The show itself went fine except for my own blundering of my tour manager duties, neglecting to coordinate properly with the person whose floor had been my intended bed for that night, leaving me stranded at 2am in a sunset town with no hotels. I texted M for some intel (because she seemed like the proverbial homie), explaining that my lodging plans had fallen through and inquiring about anything at all that could possibly be open in town at this hour (the internet having yielded nothing) where I could wait out the handful of hours until my flight. She volunteers that she lives near the airport and agrees to “adopt” me for a few hours, offering to pick me up as she was still out and about. The text exchange was 100% platonic and lightheartedly friendly, in no way leaning towards a suggestion of anything more than shelter for enough time to hopefully get a REM cycle in before the next leg of my journey to Canada in the morning. It wasn’t until she picked me up and I, along with my tour-bus-of-one (large, heavy bags of various metal music cubes, equipment, merchandise and luggage) were loaded up and driving towards her place that she let me know that her roommate or a friend might come by later (it was already almost 3am).

Assuming that I would be sleeping on a couch, I thought little of this announcement; thinking they would be doing their thing in their room/space and she was letting me know that people would be coming and going as I slept, no problem. Had I known explicitly what that would wind up meaning for our sleeping arrangement, I would have taken exception to the generous offer as I was thoroughly spent and desperately in need of sleep. Better to half-sleep in an airport like a mother bird over my equipment than to go knowingly into the space that it would later turn out had already been imagined for at that point.

I unloaded the car and squeezed in half-steps into the Denton flat. Exhausted and ready to power down, the first thing I do when I enter the door is put my stuff down next to the couch that I imagine I will be sleeping on; it is to the right of me. Here is where I got the key surprise of the evening... M says that I can’t stay in the living room as her friends would need the space buuut that there was room in her bedroom for me... I take 5 steps forward and find myself looking into a tiny bedroom, a bedroom so small and cluttered that I can not only not see the floor but can’t imagine that my stuff and two people could fit in such a space.

I regret not being more proactively inquisitive about the offer of shelter over text now of course, but at no point was it made clear to me that I would be sharing a small bed with this person in a room where sleeping on the floor was not an option.

...but I went with it because I am easy going and road-tested, even though I was not looking forward to being trapped in a box.

So I squeeze my one-man-band of bags and limbs into the space capsule of a room and find that the only place I can go, or put myself, is the bed. The door is shut behind me. This entire time, our conversation is being lead by her post-show euphoria and my subtle but increasing uneasiness, but still we are fully engaged and enjoying each other’s company. I can hear that multiple people are arriving and she continuously leaves the room and comes back, closing the door behind her everytime and not once inviting me out into the living room. I’m not sure who all is out there but I believe I spot one of the people we were sitting in the car with before the show during one of M’s trips in and out of the room. It’s uncomfortable but I’m going with it, grateful for the kindness and willing to follow her lead in her space without indulging in complaints or voicing my unease, fully aware that she has gone out of her way to help me out of a travel crisis. I have to go to the bathroom but somehow feel distinctly from her cues that it would be unwelcome for me to go into the living room, so I repress the urge. She offers me weed and then, as I sit on the edge of her bed smoking, fully clothed, she takes off her pants, now down to a blue street fighter tee and underwear. This surprises me, as I wasn’t planning on seeing her in any state of undress or exploring the option of a potential romantic entanglement. Another women at the show offered to take me home with her earlier in the evening in an explicitly sexual context but I  politely declined; not even thinking about it twice, as I was just not interested in seeking out intimacy that night for multiple reasons. I point this out because I take deep exception to the sex-crazed demon I would read me as in M’s statement if I didn’t have the advantage of being there. I am merely single, compliant and open, my nature being more inclined towards going with the flow than not (this has always been the safer choice for me and thus has become my instinct) and this was a lovely person to boot(relative to the region) with whom I seemed to share sympathies and interests. I’m still sitting on the foot of the bed and she gets in next to me, laying down onto her stomach and rolling up against my body, draping her leg onto me. This is the first physical contact between us. I touch her and she leans into my hand in a slow gyration, pushing sensually into my palm; I move my hands up to her butt and she looks back at me grinning sweetly, smiling directly into my eyes. I continued to massage her legs, butt and lower back, never touching her genitals or chest at any point in our time together. At no point does she freeze or physically disengage. She continued to use body language to communicate her appreciation of the massage. She would later text me fond recollections of these moments and of the entire encounter. As we cuddled, she said that she has slept with a friend of mine, a confession that I interpreted as considerate, as maybe she thought I would be hurt if I were to find this out after we were any further intimate with each other. I would do the same thing. I paused for the conversation, assuring her that this did not bother me, thanking her for letting me know.

After this break in the intimacy for some adult conversation, she goes back out to the party with her friends again (all I can hear is music and laughing), returning shortly to climb back into bed in the same position she was in before and we continued cuddling. We are both touching each other when I moved to undress myself and the back of her hand brushes against my penis. She lets me know that she doesn’t want to escalate in this way by shaking her head and pulling her hand out from between our bodies. I apologise and immediately redress myself, and we return to the simple cuddling that we had already been consensually engaged in. We then settled into bed in a position for sleeping, touching still, both lamenting our super early mornings in conversation, speaking fondly to each other.

I fell asleep and awoke two hours later, making sure not to wake M as I left for the airport. We would discuss that moment of my tentative escalation over text the next day as well, me apologising for getting too excited in that moment. I believed I was acting in line with a mutual escalation of intimacy. The moment it was clear that she wanted things to remain at the level they were, I complied happily, responding to her and apologising for my assumption. I regret not discussing/getting confirmation for that assumption aloud first, for example by saying “Would you like me to get undressed / would you like to go further?”, etc.

This telling of the evening’s facts might be a rebuttal to any implication of my ill-intent, but I know that intent and perception/reception are often incongruous in human interaction and I do not wish to invalidate M’s perception or experience. I am deeply sorry that she experienced any negativity during time spent with me as I would never knowingly inflict that on another person or feel entitled to the exertion of my will at the expense of their discomfort.- There are things in her account that are objectively untrue and not subject to perception, but I don’t feel that they are all worth outlining here. She would later tell me over text that she had been drinking heavily that entire night, presumably every time she went out to the party in the living room with her friends? I had no idea at the time that she was in such a state as I didn’t see any of this drinking, nor did she mention it or seem anything other than sober. One example of the incongruity that I will mention is her specific claim that she offered me a “pillow and blanket for the couch”, suggesting that she was hinting that I go sleep on it. This is untrue and also impossible as the couch was my first desire and remained explicitly unavailable to me for all of the 2-3 hours of my time there; occupied as it was by people and circumstances that were never fully explained. She also indicates that she missed an appointment the next morning because of our encounter and an article on the matter said she couldn’t leave her room the next day but text messages she sent me show that she “bailed” on the event intentionally and that she “got other important things done instead”. Our text conversation after this evening was sweet and positive, characterised by M sending sexual pictures and selfies as well as fond recollections of the time we spent together. The only indication of anything even vaguely negative in our text exchange was my apology for my over-excitement in that fleeting moment, an apology to which her response was “I was excited too”.

Before this written telling of the perception of my ill-intent on this night were brought to me, my psychic limitations were already splintering this year (under the weight of unrelated forces that I have hinted at but will discuss at a later date) and I just didn’t have the spoons to know how to engage with this accusation of crimes that I did not commit. There are further aspects to this that I don’t feel are appropriate to go into in this statement but I will take this opportunity to apologise to my fans for taking so long to be able to tell my story. I wish I could have addressed your concerns sooner.

[betweensceneswriter]

Island Hopper-Chapter 8 : Iiokwe Eok (I Love You)

Jamie takes a day off work.

Click Here to Hop to the Table of Contents

Or Read the Entire Work on Archive of Our Own

Previously on Jimjeran–Chapter 7 : Labor and Delivery

Leika’s time has come.

    I did not sleep well.  Several times in half-wakefulness I reached out, patting a small space on the bed next to me, becoming conscious with a devastating sense of loss that something was missing.  I dreamed intense dreams of laboring, and woke up with my muscles clenched, my body sweating with the effort.  After I fell asleep again, I dreamed of sitting with Jamie cradling me between his legs, my back against his chest, his arms surrounding me, letting me press against his hands as I pushed.  And when the baby was born, she had wispy black hair, deep dark eyes, and mocha skin.

    In the pre-dawn hours I again woke, this time with the strange sense that my lower abdomen felt warm.  I heard whispering behind me, and slowly became aware that Jamie’s arm was over my side. Instead of his hand gently cradling my right breast, though, which seemed to be the sleep posture he typically assumed when he was unconscious, his hand was splayed over my belly, his thumb brushing against my navel, his pinky nearly reaching my pubic bone.

    I attempted to keep my breathing slow and even as I listened to my husband whisper. “A Dhia…Ye promised children in days of old, Father.  Abraham waited, and Hannah waited.  Ye sent promises for yer own son to come, and even then Christ came as a babe.  Chì thu a cridhe, Morair.  My precious Claire was broken last night, devastated by the reminder of what she doesna have. Ye’ve done things far more impossible, and ye ken I’ve no asked for much…”  His whispers changed into words I didn’t understand, so it must have been Gaelic. “O, Naomh, èisd ri mo ùrnaigh.”

    I felt like I was intruding on an intimate moment between a Man and his Maker, but yet I felt drawn to join Jamie, so I rolled over and tucked myself in the crook of his arm.

     “I’m sorry, lass,” Jamie whispered.  “I didna mean to wake ye.”  He pressed his lips to my hair, and stroked my back until I fell asleep again.

    When I finally awoke again, the light of day was creeping around the edges of our curtains.  Jamie was still next to me in bed.

     “Jamie!  Jamie!” I shook him by the shoulder.  “It’s past nine!  You’re late for school!”

     “Come back to bed, wee one,” he said.  “Mayor Timisen is subbing for me.  After ye went to Leika’s, I knew I wouldn’t sleep much. I asked him, and then went to school to write lesson plans.  He’s going to tell the kids Majel legends and teach some history.”

     “So, you’re taking a day off work because you knew you wouldn’t sleep well?” I asked.

     “Well, that’s not all,” Jamie said, his gaze dropping. “I remembered that wi’ Maxson, ye were heartbroken after.  I needed to make sure ye’d be okay.”

     “Hmm,” I grunted.  “That’s sweet of you, but I still have to give Depo shots this afternoon.”

     “Aye,” Jamie said, “But ye ken we’ve been married such a short time.”

     “What’s today?”

     “The fourth,” Jamie answered.

     “And when did we get married?” I asked.

    Jamie grinned.  “I thought it was the girl that was supposed to remember these things…it was November 10.”

     “Maybe not the girl so much as the virgin,” I said.

     “Maybe not the virgin so much as the one with a memory for dates,” Jamie retorted.  “Ah, who am I kidding?  It’s the virgin.”

     “Not anymore, though,” I said, diving under the sheets and making Jamie laugh.

     “Stop tickling me, woman!” he exclaimed.  “It’s no fair that ye ken where I’m sens!….itive.”

    He grinned at me as I came out from the covers.  “Ye seem happy today, Claire,” Jamie sighed.  “Are ye truly okay?  Do ye wish to talk about it?”

     “Maybe,” I said.  “Shall we go for a walk on the beach?  I feel like getting out of the house.”

     “Aye,” Jamie said.  “I dinna think we have enough water in the shower, though.  Let me draw water from the well and catchment while you boil some to warm up your shower.

    Jamie pulled on some shorts and headed outside with the five gallon buckets, while I started the pot of shower water on the stove and mixed up a batch of pancakes for breakfast.  Because he was always heading out bright and early, we didn’t generally have much time for breakfast in the morning.  I also set the kettle on another burner, and scooped some coffee grounds into the French press.

    In the light of day, the world did seem brighter.  It had just been exhausting to be there with Leika, to labor along with her, to hold a precious new life, and yet to say goodbye at the end of laboring, to leave behind that warm bundle.  I knew Jamie was going to want to talk about it, and I wasn’t sure what I would say.

    Jamie had a look of concern on his face as he came into the house with two big buckets of water.  One he placed over where we kept our drinking and cooking water, and the other where we kept our well water for washing.  “Can ye come wi’ me, Claire?” he asked.  “I think it’s my imagination, but I need a second opinion.”

    I’d pulled on a sundress in anticipation of heading out to the shower, so I followed him out to the catchment, where he opened the little door and stepped aside for me to peek in.

     “Do you think the water level is dropping?” he asked.  “I mean, doesn’t it look lower than it has been in a while?”

     “Yes, I think so,” I said, “but I haven’t really paid that much attention to the water level.  And,” I met his eyes with a smile, “You have been absolutely lovely about getting the water for us most of the time.”

    Jamie’s forehead was wrinkled.  “Well, I’ll have to keep my eye on it.  I know we havena had a big rain since our honeymoon, so there’s no been much water feeding into it, but I ken we’re not using it this fast.”

    As I turned away from the catchment, I caught my husband looking at my chest. He glanced to the left and right, then quickly kissed me and enthusiastically groped me at the same time.  

     “Jamie,” I objected, “We’re in public!”

     “Ye arna wearing a bra,” he whispered, grinning. “And I dinna have to go to work.”

    I shook my head.  “Usually I’d say yes,” I responded.  “But I’m feeling kind of fragile this morning.  Definitely later, though,” I finished, at the slight look of disappointment that passed over his face.

    After showers and breakfast there was still time before my afternoon clinic hours to get out of the house, so Jamie and I put on comfortable sandals and headed toward Jabo.  We started out on the road, stopping in to see Leika and the new little one farther into Ine.  Jamie cooed and talked to little Peach while I checked Leika and asked her a few questions, and he watched with rapt attention as I unbundled Peach and listened to her heart with my stethoscope, stroking her bitty leg and placing her tiny hand around his big index finger.

     “Aw, Ripālle, she’s so cute,” he murmured quietly, inspecting the perfect, tiny fingernails.

    When we left, he instinctively put his arm around me, and led me to the rocky ocean side beach, where few people put their homes.  Because of that increased privacy, we were able to walk hand-in-hand in silence until we reached the Ine dock.

    We watched the fishermen at their work for a while, and then from there we picked our way further along the coastline until we’d rounded a corner and were out of the sight of any people at all.  

     “Here,” Jamie said, reaching for my shoulder bag. He had stuck in his lightweight hammock and two straps, and he happily busied himself attaching the hammock to two coconut palms while I strolled along the rocky beach looking for undamaged shells.

     “Itok, Ripālle,” he said, finally.  It made me smile to hear those familiar words from him. Several minutes of writhing, wiggling, and adjusting our positions, and we were cuddled together in the hammock, slightly swaying in the breeze, shaded by the trees, with a view of perfect blue skies and puffy clouds, and a sound track of the ocean waves lapping at the rocky shore.

     “Can you tell me about last night?” he said.

     “Labor was hard for Leika.  Ralik and I used pressure points and massage to reduce her pain, but after hours of it, I felt like I’d labored right along with her.  I’ve never been pregnant, but I’ve wanted to be. I’ve thought about having kids, and so it felt like I was laboring along with her.  I was exhausted when the baby came.  And then I held Peach for several hours while Leika slept.  When I left, when I came home, it was the cold, empty spot on my chest, the feeling that there was something missing that got me to begin with.  And I was exhausted, of course.”

     “We talked about children on our honeymoon,” Jamie said.  “That seems to be one of yer deep heart desires, then, am I right?”

     “I get an ache in my stomach when I see a baby,” I said.  “It feels like being homesick or lovesick, just that gut-aching longing.”  

    Jamie squeezed me tighter.  “That feeling I ken well, Ripālle.”  He chuckled. “I feel it when I’m away from you, when I look at you.  I felt it the other night when you were on the bed instead of sitting by me talking to Jenny. I’m sorry about that, by the way.”

     “I can understand her reluctance to accept me,” I said, “and you did stand up for me.”  I buried my face in his chest for a moment.  “And you demonstrated your depth of feeling afterward, too.”

    Jamie laughed and I sighed, hearing the deep, familiar rumble against my ear.

     “Ye can see why I’m terrified of her, though,” he said.  I nodded in agreement.

    We dropped into silence, but I could tell from the way Jamie did some almost-sentence-starts that he had something to say.  I looked up at his face, and urged, “Go ahead.  Ask me.”

    Brow furrowed, Jamie said, “So ye say you’re twenty-seven.  That’s no very old at all when it comes to having children nowadays. Seems many people wait until they’re over thirty.”

     “True,” I replied, “but fertility decreases drastically with age.”

     “Now, ye are a nurse, so do ye ken much about, say, fertility treatments?”

     “A little.  A woman can track her early morning temperature—that’s called the basal temperature—and when it spikes mid-cycle, that indicates ovulation.  I also know that there are medications you can take if the woman isn’t ovulating.”

     “And then, of course, there’s sex,” offered Jamie. He nodded teasingly.  “I know about that, at least.  That when a man loves a woman, he plants a little seed inside her, and it grows into a baby.”

    I cackled, and that started Jamie laughing.  “Is that really all you were taught about sex?” I asked.

     “When I was eight and that was all I could handle,” Jamie said.  “But my da had the real talk wi’ me when I was fourteen, I think.  He told me everything.”  I looked up, and Jamie was wrinkling his nose in disgust.  “I didna want to think about him and Ma doing such a thing.  I couldna look her in the face for days afterwards.”  Jamie shuddered at the memory, and I giggled again.

     “If the fertility issues seem to be worse,” I continued, “there are treatments that become increasingly complicated and increasingly costly.  Like artificial insemination or in vitro fertilization, for example.”

     “That doesna sound like any fun at all,” Jamie said. “But when the time comes and we decide to try to get pregnant, versus not trying to not get pregnant…”  I looked up at his face and took a moment to appreciate Jamie’s confusion as he sorted through the statement.  “When that time comes, anyway, I’ll happily do my part—as difficult as it may be to be forced—to make love to ye frequently.”  He said it completely seriously, but I could see the good-humored twinkle in his eyes.

    I laughed again.

     “As many times as necessary,” he offered generously.  “Day or night.  Missionary position or…something else.  Happy to contribute to the cause.”  He giggled, a very unmanly sound, as I elbowed him in the ribs.

     “Seriously, though, Claire,” Jamie said, pulling me close. “If it matters to ye, we can make a concerted effort.  I have faith that it can, that it’s no impossible.”

    I tried to decide whether to tell him or not.  “I heard you praying for me this morning.”

    Jamie sighed, “I hope it didna upset ye.  I dinna ken whether ye believe in it or not, but prayer helps me release the things I canna control to Someone bigger.  And I felt it, when I touched you, the strong feeling that the two of us will have children in our lives.”

I pulled myself upwards to kiss him on the lips, my eyes moist with tears.  He stroked my cheek, and I closed my eyes, sighing at the comfort of connecting with him.

“Now ye feel in the mood, Ripālle?” Jamie exclaimed, as I kissed him with more enthusiasm.  “Now that ye’ve made me think of my ma and da doing it?  There’s no way in hell I’m getting an erection after those thoughts.  And besides, we’re in public.”  He mimicked my words from earlier, kissing me firmly, and urging me back to my position beside him.

“But ye know, we do need to be realistic,” Jamie said solemnly. “If we arna able to get pregnant, do ye still think life together can be good?”

“Oh, of course,” I said.  “We could work, or continue to serve in the Peace Corps in other places.”

“Like Africa,” Jamie said.

“Or Central America,” I said.

“Or the Islands of the Caribbean,” Jamie offered.  “Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Cuba.”

“Or just this island I’ve heard about, called Arno,” I whispered.  “It’s in the Marshall Islands, and it’s beautiful.  I hear it’s a simple life, but it’s a good one.”

“Aye,” Jamie said.  “Iiokwe Eok, Ripālle.”

“I love you too,” I answered.

On to Chapter 9: Walk of Shame Claire adds to the list of “firsts” for Jamie.

Chapter Notes: When facing infertility, you do reach a point where you have to be okay no matter what happens.  You have to decide how far you will go, how much you will spend, and when you’ll be “done” trying.  It’s not an easy thing.  I remember the realization that life could be good either way.  It was sometime after making that decision that we ended up adopting our eldest son, who ironically is half-Samoan.  I ended up with my own adorable little islander!

[icharchivist]

Ive been told da2 gets a lot of bad reviews. What's your opinion on the game?? :0

Heyo!!

Oh dear. Okay so let’s start it by saying i absolutly adore da2. I love all the da game, and da2 is no exception. They all have different strong points that makes them stand out on their own and as a result da2 is a great game on its own.

I tried, under the cut, to enter more into details without spoiling, hopefully it worked ahah.

IMO the reason da2 had bad reviews…. is that it came after dao and people had high expectations, and some people having problems with new things da2 introduced - ie the general “Sequel Problem” of people refusing it to be any different from its original game. 

I’ll get more in depth under the cut (avoiding spoiling as much as i can) but ay

I believe it’s likely people got upset to be kinda “locked into a city” while dao allowed you to go to more places. The focus of the story is also much more the Mage/Templar conflict while dao focused on a diverse brunch of conflict. (which…. Okay the thing that annoys me with that argument is that yes there were more conflicts in dao, like, the dwarves and such, (and like, dao’s focused on so much because they didn’t focus as much in depth on them. dao was an intruduction to the lore, so it couldn’t overwhelm us with it) but the magic conflict was a pillar to dao not only with the Circle incident, it was worth focusing upon, and even there they took the time to explore others lore stuff. Hell there’s a hell tone of forshadowing in da2 which personally for the lore hungry person i am, i love to death.)

And there isn’t “one great goal” in the end of the game - like in dao you have to defeat the blight! in da2, you have no idea what’s the endgame will be and how it’ll end, you kinda move forward to understand why Varric is telling your story to the Seeker of Truth.

(I think a complain that could happen but that I don’t see brought up a lot is that da2 being the only game narrated by a character, da2′s story could… actually be a little simplified? I personally blame most of the clumsy writting or like, lack of environment (which are two problems a lot of people complain about) to the fact that it’s Varric telling the story and the Seeker imagining it, therefore the point of view is biased. It gives them a good narrative stun imo and it allow more fluidity, and it doesn’t mean that all of da2 is bullshit either I hope people would understand that. I don’t see much people complain about the narrative format but imo a lot of the major “uncoherence” people complain about can… completely be justified over the narrative format so idk)

I think what people are overlooking when they make those complains is that… da2 is meant to be a smaller story. It’s not the story of a Warden, or of an Inquisitor - it’s Hawke, a person who’s trying to survive in this world, who’s trying to have their family survive, and who ends up wrapped into a conflict against their will. 

da2 isn’t meant to be as big and vast as dao because it’s a smaller story with huge consequences, it’s not supposed to be like dao.

(also on the technical levels i’ve read apparently the story was more planned to be dao->dai, but EA pushed the compagny to do another game quite quickly so instead of rushing to dai they decided to expend elements with da2 so the story will flow more naturally. Because they were pressed and with new engins the game had limitations, so they focused on a more intimist story about Hawke and their friends.) 

In some ways da2 can be considered a transition game, but i don’t completely think so, it gained an identity on its own and personally i think the emotions and elements of da2 stand out even more as its own strong story because of the approach taken. 

Then I think also it’s because this game is much more heavy on small consequences, especially with how the approval system work - say, how easily it is to lose the surviving sibling’s life to the deep roads, or how completely different a character storyline can go depending on how you befriend them or rival them. If you don’t play your cards right i think it’s possible to be disappointed with where it’s taken, but 1- it’s not. as bad as it sounds, 2-, I personally think it’s even more of a strength. 

DA2 is a personal game. if the Warden’s companions stuck around because they had to save the world, da2′s companions only stick around because…. they like Hawke. That’s it. That’s why the approval system is Friendship/Rivalry and not Approval/Disapproval. This isn’t a question of them approving your actions it’s a question of how your friendship developped toward the years. It’s extremely bold but require players to be even more involved with the characters because their own friendship is what holds the game together. 

Also the fact that da2 happens over the course of multiple years (if i’m not wrong about 7 years) while we have dao happen over the course of one year/one year and a half with awakening, only. The bound between the companions isn’t supposed to be the same. Da2 asks you to care more than dao did. And while dao definitly have character development with the approval, da2 pushes it further with how the consequences of said development pay off. (although i’m not saying it in a bad way for dao - even if they were “around to save the day” their friendship was genuine with high approval and it was still emotionally charged).

And I think a few people may have had a problem with that while… it’s a great thing? It makes the game stand out. It makes it more emotional. 

Then - be careful with reviews because who generally leave review? Ye certain bases of gamers that. huh. Especially in 2011 where it was still the time of even shittier gamers that we have now. 

For exemple I’ve read there had been a lot of uprising over the fact the whole romance team were bi. Which i find stupid af, but apparently this was a problem in 2011. I’ve read people being absolutly upset and tear the game to pieces because they found it irrealistic. Worse even - Anders shows he has a crush on Hawke no matter what gender Hawke is, so players can’t exactly ignore it. (Also if the info filtered on forum - in the mlm romance with Anders, it’s confirmed that Karl, the mage who was made tranquil in the begining of the game? Was Anders’s… lover for lack of a better word when they were in the Circle so they remained intimate. (he was the reason Anders ran away from the Circle in Awakening for the last time- a whole other can of worm i won’t expend on) It’s therefore implied that after his death Anders’s emotions were all over the place, thus his crush happened over the person who helped him. But ye, if people learned that, they therefore learn that Anders kinda have his bisexuality in the frontrow and it cannot be ignored.) I’ve read hundreds of fanboys rant about how it made them uncomfortable, and a lot of different sort of discourses over the sexualities of that game. (most that I think are completely ot of place and again, remembering the target demographic, 2011 wasn’t as much a good time for those things as recent years.) 

(also the worst thing about da is its fandom, i don’t trust any “common opinions” whatsoever. 9 out of 10 it’s deforming plot informations to fit an argument that doesnt have its place here). (…. although I suppose the same thing could be said from my own opinions so like, make your own opinion, truly. Don’t let people influence you. DA is a personal experience, which can be completely different depending on your choices and on how you get along with the companions-  don’t let anyone ruin it.)

Then i’m not gonna act like the game is flawless either but I think the reasons people pick on it are… not good reasons. There’s flaws yes but like all the games (there’s tons of flaws in dao and dai, and it doesn’t remove from their qualities and the strong stuff that are in those games - why would you treat da2 differently), and they’re minors in the whole game.

I know the ending caused problems for a lot of people too, and that I can’t enter in details there - I see a few cons, but imo the endingS are incredible on what they mean on a thematic level. it’s really complicated to enter into details and i wouldn’t want my “it’s incredible” to be taken out of context or like, about a detail that I don’t mean by that - so maybe later, but i do think the game is asking you to weight the impact of your decisions and the conclusion is really strong. 

I think one of the possible other reason it may have badly reasonated with some fans is the lack of power fantasy? For exemple, especially for human nobles, you can actually become king/queen in dao. And it’s treated as a good thing. And in the end, even without playing this origin, you become Warden Commander, and an advisor in the throne room, and the Hero of Fereldan people will respect for ever. Your accomplishment are important and it makes you feel empowered.Da2 doesn’t treat power the same way. The Mantle of Champion is more stress indulging, especially when you play as a mage, because you are seen by everyone. The Champion Mantle isn’t the end of your story, like the Warden Commander was the end of the Warden’s story in dao. the Champion title is more stress infliging considering the current political state of Kirkwall.and there’s more to that later but to me it’s something I find fascinating. 

What I find fascinating with this series of game is how much the context change how you can approach a similar situation. I’ve compared it a lot to dao to make my point but I want to be clear: i love the approach of dao, it fits in its context, in how the plot elements are going on, about why all of this is happening. because in dao’s context, the fact it happens this way is extremely interesting and much more telling - and the emotional involvement is still here. The idea is that by contrast, because of the different context in da2, the way things are different is fascinating and coherent. But say, a treatment like that wouldn’t have worked in dao’s context - it works because da2 created a context in which this was what rose the stakes.

People who just wanted to relive the experience of dao couldn’t get that in da2 because the context was too different, so even if you can hit some vague marks (romance and have sex with your LI, characters development, position of power ect..) the context will require you to think about it differently, so if you go in thinking about having it the same way as dao i think you can be disappointed.

I personally think da2′s context make for a lot of brilliance in its scenario without undermining what dao accomplished.

(and i didn’t mention dai at all because i don’t want to spoil but my reasoning applies there too - the differences or similarities in dai with the others games works because it works in its context and those elements cannot be taken out of their context if you want to appreciate them. Putting them in contrast isn’t belittling one or the other, it’s seeing why the context allowed to have such different or similar plots and why it works.)

Also i think it may play that da2 is more political. or at least the politics cannot be ignored. dao was extremely political but you could go "shut up i just want to kill that dragon" and make quick decisions about politics. Da2 is entrely centered about the politics of the chantry/circle/mage/templar and people can be allergic to plot asking you to take into consideration a lot of issues linked to oppression. but idk politics were in dao too ppl who complain about it in da2 are just mad that this time they are forced to care about it

I think da2 fall flat if you’re not ready to involve yourself emotionally, because the emotions is the most important factor of da2, before even the accomplishments and the likes. it’s the driving force of the game. I do think the emotions are super important for the enjoyement of all the games, but for da2 i’d go as far as to say it’s a requirement. 

if you like lore, too, da2 is full of it, it has a lot of intruiguing lore pieces to remember for later; I know i didn’t think much of them the first time but ever since dai i’ve been digging in every codex possibles and da2 has a lot of interesting stuff when it comes to the lore. Maybe harder to find the interest for without the big picture, but really incredible and interesting to read nevertheless.

For the story, again, I think it needs the emotional bound to your character and to the other characters, but i still think it’s a really important story that had to be told, and if it had to be told, this way to do it was really good, it was important, it showed how those things in the little picture would affect the big picture. I love this kind of things. Thematically the story is incredible.

TL;DR: I absolutly love da2, it’s an incredible game on its own rights, and i entered a lot of details why because a lot of the things i saw people complain about are… the things I actually love with the game. It’s supposed to be different from dao because of its context, and it does it well, if you’re ready to be taken by this new adventure and understand it doesn’t have the same stakes as dao. 

People complained about a lot of things, the da fandom always complain about something all the time, but especially in 2011, when most of the reviews of da2 came out, the fanbase and people who were loud about it were… Not ready i think? For lack of a better word? 

SO YE that’s more of less my thoughts, and i’m mostly just saying why i like things people disliked, but trust me i loved this game in a lot of others details, and i tried to remain vague to avoid possible spoilers ahah.

Take care!!

[clockworkopera]

FURTHER LORD OF SHADOWS THEORIES: (Part 4)

Disclaimer: My theories are built not just on the Dark Artifices, but from all the previous books as a whole, and will contain SPOILERS if you haven’t read them. These ideas are based solely on book canon.

(edit: This was written before LoS was released. Some ideas might be a little outdated, but still interesting! Especially on the Nature of Parabatai Magic--we still don’t have an explanation for that)

On the Nature of Parabatai Magic – Mirror Magic (This is in some ways a continuation of Part 1)

Will in TID: “You were the mirror of my soul. I saw the good in me in you. In your eyes alone I found grace.”

Theory: The reason their bond so powerful because they mirror back to each other’s angelic power through love. The stronger the love, the more power is reflected. This is good to an extent. Philia and agape are both good loves and that love allows for the magnification of rune power. That’s why runes on parabatai are ten times stronger, or the reason they can wear runes normal Shadowhunters can’t. But, drop the barriers of Eros and then it becomes exponentially greater. Ten to the tenth.

When Emma and Julian are on the beach: (LM pg422) “they were kissing as if they were trying to tear down the bars that held them inside a prison.” (LM pg424) “Fire raced up and down Emma’s veins as the barriers between the vanished;”

Passion, or a magical upgrade? Afterwards, they slept through Malcolm’s presence. Julian dressed her in sandy jeans and she still didn’t wake. Did a new power settling through them render them temporarily unconscious and they thought it was sleep? (LM pg425) “Emma slept, by the side of the ocean. And she had no nightmares.”

Fear drops the barriers too. When Emma saved Julian’s life with a rune, (LM pg272) “Something in her chest seemed to split and crack; she marveled that it wasn’t audible. Energy raced along her veins and the stele moved in her hand…” and “they’d been children in the dark together once but now they were something else, something intimate and powerful, something Emma felt she was touching only the very edge of as she finished the rune and the stele fell from her fingers.” This followed by Emma: (LM pg275) “I feel dizzy.” And: “Her skin felt supersensitized too, as if she would jump or scream the moment someone touched her. She nearly did scream when the waitress returned to get their orders. She just stared until Julian ordered…looking at her worriedly. A-R-E-Y-O-U-A-L-L-R-G-H-T?”

I’m still not sold that this will lead to madness, although the seeds of possibility are there.

(LM pg659) Jem: “It was not long after the ritual had been in use for some generations,” Jem said, lowering his voice, “that it was discovered that if the bond was too close, if it tipped into romantic love—then it would begin to warp.”

***But, doesn’t this mean that everything was also fine for a few generations? So, how could it go so wrong?

Cassandra Clare answering a Parabatai question on Tumblr: “Yes, Valentine came to hate Luke and even wanted him dead, while they were still Parabatai. Parabatai who are bitter enemies are an interesting phenomenon, since it inverts the purpose of the ritual and turns something angelic into something borderline demonic.”

But, what if they mirrored back mutual negative attributes?

For example, if Luke wasn’t the kind of person he was, and he and Valentine loved each other with a passion no barriers could hold? How powerful would Valentine have been then? Would even the Angel, Raziel, have been able to stop him in that case?

Every person and every couple has a range of good and bad in them. Love tempers hate, but even Emma and Julian aren’t wholly immune:

(COHF pg143) “I hope they catch him alive, (Sebastian)” said Emma, her eyes on Julian’s. “I hope they kill him in Angel Square so we can all watch him die, and I hope it’s slow.”

              “Emma,” said Helen, sounding shocked, but Julian’s blue-green eyes echoed Emma’s own fierceness back to her without a hint of disapproval. Emma had never loved him so much as she did in that moment, for reflecting back to her even the darkest feelings in the depths of her own heart. ***

There are additional dangers as well: Fast forward to LM when they are going to the Lottery:

(LM pg327) Emma pushed the passenger-side door open and whistled. “Mark. You look amazing.”

              Mark glanced down at himself, surprised. A surge of prickly heat ran up the insides of Julian’s wrists.

--And when it was time to rune up… (LM pg330): He started on the second rune, and Emma felt a slight biting sting as the stele moved. She frowned. Usually, though runes could sting or burn when applied, runes placed on you parabatai didn’t hurt. In fact, they were almost pleasant—it was like being wrapped in the protection of friendship, the sense that someone else had sealed their dedication to you onto your skin. Strange for it to hurt.

How easy is it to twist? Emma is telling Julian lies and that will invoke guilt. Julian is jealous, but also betrayed. They both need to hide their feeling from everyone they love in addition to the Clave. They aren’t going to have an easy time navigating this and the exponential mirror of those feelings could easily warp what could have been a purer love.

The seeds are absolutely there, both for love and for destruction. Julian and Emma will need to decide what to nurture and what to weed out.

Alt Theory: The reflected magic becomes too strong for either of them to control and if they are caught in a feedback loop of ever increasing power that will eventually destroy them. If not caught early enough and separated their only choice is to go to the Silent Brothers and Iron Sisters, where their runes work as magical circuit breakers and the excess power is bled off to power the Shadowhunters weapons.

Alt Theory: It is just as Jem said and they have no choice but to go mad. But, the Blackthorns study the Greeks: “The greatest blessings granted to mankind come by way of madness, which is a divine gift” (Socrates).

Alt Theory: One could become a downworlder. No one considers this idea because to be a Shadowhunter means everything to Emma, while being able to stay with his family means everything to Julian. But, Julian could die to become a vampire and that could be one of CC’s deaths

POSSIBLE HISTORICAL SCENARIO:

DISCLAIMER: Cassandra Clare warns of becoming too attached to any one theory; that we can’t enjoy the reality when it comes. I’m guilty here because in my head I can’t let go of a link with the Silent Brothers and Iron Sisters so I came up with a possible historical scenario. If you like that kind of stuff continue reading: but it reads more like an outline for fanfic. Further down the crackpot road we go…

Jonathan Shadowhunter and David were the first Parabatai. And the words of the oath reflect more of marriage vows. They were in love and able to do great things and create the first version of Shadowhunter society with that power. Much of the early Shadowhunter’s magical history is in the care of the Silent Brothers and the Codex is very vague as to where their magic came from. They did not keep this blessing to themselves though and offered it to others in the form of the Parabatai ceremony.

Things were fine for a few generations.

Then a pair went bad. It would have been devastating to their society. A lot of people probably died trying to stop them, much in the way a lot of people died trying to stop Valentine and Sebastian. At that point, were they even too powerful to be killed?

The remaining matched Parabatai sacrificed themselves in order to contain the rogue pair and the best solution they could think of was prisons beneath the City of Bones. (Codex pg214) “The prisons of the Silent City can hold the living, the undead, and the dead; they are designed to constrain all creatures, however magical.” The Clave couldn’t take the risk of another potential disaster and made the law banning Eros love between parabatai.

In a combination of 1) We need wardens strong enough to hold the prisons sealed and 2) what do we do with all these other matched pairs: The Clave created the Silent Brothers and Iron Sisters.

David, a leading by example sort, became the first Silent Brother—maybe sending Jonathan Shadowhunter out to find an alternative solution. (Abigail also became the first Iron Sister, so it makes me wonder if they were in a triumvirate) Up till now, none has been found. And if Julian and Emma want to remain together and be Shadowhunters they will be the ones who must figure it out.

The magically upgraded Parabatai power of the Silent Brothers and Iron Sisters are still essential to Shadowhunters. They make the steles for marks, the seraph blades, the wards, witchlights. What would happen if they weren’t there to make those things for the Shadowhunters?

(Codex pg194) For the Silent Brothers: “In exchange for their special abilities, they have given up some of their humanity…”

If a piece of their humanity is amputated from them; they’ve been permanently separated from their parabatai; they’ve lived long enough by centuries to watch all their family die; all the while searching for an alternative that never materialized. How long can hope survive?

All these factors twist something that may have started as noble into something else. Their physical appearance is mutilated and monstrous (especially to Downworlders and Mundanes who have not been indoctrinated to think any differently), but does the outside appearance reflect of what’s going on the inside?

(Codex pg216) For the Iron Sisters: “In the floor is a black circle in which is carved the sigil of the Iron Sisters: a heart pierced by a blade.”

***I’m grappling with Emma and Julian (and presumably the rest of the Blackthorns) forgetting Jem and Tessa’s wedding for Part 5. I have vague thoughts of my own, but would like to hear what other people think.

Thanks.

[araminthe-ispwitch]

Do you have any pliroy/otamila double date headcanons?

You bet I do, anon fam! sorry this is late OTL

Okay, I have a lot for this because I always consider the setting, so if we’re going for close-to-canon setting, there are four variations of this, of course (and I’m not gonna specify the country they’re in). The situation is the same all throughout, though: they’re doing these double-dates out of a legitimate desire to bond/matchmake/be friends. 

No pretend-dating to matchmake a pair/convince their friends here (unless you anon-ask me again...).

Okay, the variations are:

1) None of the couples are together yet (“hang-outs” instead of “double dates”)

It’s either Otabek and Mila decided to team up and push Yuri and JJ together very casually (for friendship or romance, you choose) OR Yuri decided to chaperone Mila and Otabek on their outing (because he’s the best friend, dammit) and JJ just got dragged along halfway through, much to Yuri’s chagrin. This set-up happens when all four of them are competing in the same country.

The places they would go to are pretty much average, since they’re sightseeing—shopping malls (in which Mila and JJ bond over cool brands and bargains while Yuri snorts and Otabek silently trails behind, enjoying their enthusiasm—and Mila’s smile), restaurants/food festivals (I headcanon that Mila is the carefree-food-lover type and is always excited to try out other cuisine), open markets/street fairs (JJ and Yuri unexpectedly bond over trying to find cool stuff and Otabek and Mila are amused at this development), sports arenas (they had to vote for which sport, tho), and fun recreational places (if there’s any competitive games, a few of them will do bets to see who’s better). Tourist attractions are a must, too, and the skaters’ social media blows up with tons of pics (to which Yuri protests if he and JJ are in the same photo).

The first few times they go out, Yuri’s annoyed that JJ’s with them. More often than not, Mila and Otabek had to diffuse the strained atmosphere between the two of them. It helps that Otabek and JJ have known each other for a short while back in Canada, and Mila’s adept at distracting Yuri. Over time, the two boys start getting civil and learning to control their tongues, especially when they start noticing that Otabek’s always faintly smiling at Mila when she’s not looking. This leads to discussions between Yuri and JJ (“Think they’re dating?” “They won’t be.” “What? Why?” “Because I said so!”) and funnily enough, this is what actually develops their relationship. It takes a while for them to realize that Otabek and Mila are now both smiling at them. 

2) Otamila is official/dating and Pliroy is not (yet)

This kind of ties in nicely with my Otamila hc. After a slow start, Otabek and Mila are finally going out/together and Yuri’s not putting up much of a fuss anymore. Now, he’s yelling because they get lovey-dovey in front of him (in which the couple actually does subconsciously, but they’re pretty much tame compared to Viktuuri—only hand-holding, kiss pecks, and loving gazes—and Yuri’s grateful). Back in their courtship days, they noticed that JJ’s actually trying to get close to Yuri (or at least mend their connection), but Yuri’s being a stubborn ass. So the couple decides to help them—through double dates. Unlike the first scenario, Otamila is really actively matchmaking/pushing them together them here. They would find excuses to get the two to cooperate with each other. Otabek’s just fine if their relationship doesn’t evolve into romance (he’s not gonna push that much if they don’t really want it), while Mila’s already looking far ahead in the game and is convinced that JJ would be good for Yuri.

(Isabella contacts the couple herself and helps out because she’s had enough of seeing JJ mope and Yuri be a dick.)

The places they would go to are a mixture of the mundane and the exciting. Amusement parks are at the top of the list, because most of the rides will force Yuri and JJ to either sit together or sit them out—together. (And so whatever the two decide, Otabek and Mila will still enjoy themselves lmao.) Zoos/Petting zoos are second because Otamila knows that Yuri will enjoy himself and be more lenient with JJ in the process (and distract Yuri from getting annoyed by Otamila’s goo-goo eyes). And open markets and restaurants are a must once again because a Yuri finding cool clothes and eating delicious food is a happy Yuri and the couple definitely knows that a visibly-happy Yuri makes JJ fall even harder. Mila then gets the idea for a double-date at a rock concert, and here Yuri can’t deny that JJ’s actually cool when it comes to music. Otabek further supports his girl’s idea by inviting them to one of his DJ gigs. And we can’t forget cat cafes~

Yuri sorta notices what his friends are trying to do and he’s annoyed about it, but he has to admit that JJ’s not all that bad (not gonna admit it to anyone’s face, tho). JJ, for his part, is really touched that he’s starting to have friends within his skating community and Yuri—someone he’s actually admired and is afraid of, at the same time—is finally acknowledging him. Eventually, they get to a point wherein one of them brings up the idea of double-date/outing all on their own. They’re still relying on Otamila, but the couple’s fine with it since they’re at least starting to take the initiative. The rest will come naturally.

3) Pliroy is official/dating (a miracle) and Otamila is not (yet)

Through sheer divine intervention (*coughtheentirecastpitchingincough*), Pliroy is finally going out/together and Otabek and Mila can’t be happier. Isabella won’t admit that she teared up at the news (“My boy is finally growing up...” “Belle.”), but she’s just as ecstatic and is ready to support any time. Now during the days Yuri and JJ had to wade through awkward romance, Otabek and Mila were very active in their support, especially in setting them up. The couple once thought that maybe it’s because third-wheeling between the two of them wasn’t easy, so they always invited each other for moral support and patience. But even after the mission finished, the two were still on such good terms that Yuri accidentally came upon them out for a walk. JJ, the romantic of the pair, can tell that there’s attraction at play and suggests that they help out as thanks for what they’ve done for him and Yuri. Yuri rolls his eyes, but he can’t deny that Mila and Otabek look so happy together. So they plot. It’s actually shocking that the two never thought to date while helping Pliroy back then.

The places they go to are the ones where Mila and Otabek will shine the most. Yuri knows that Mila loves food, so food fairs/festivals are perfect. Otabek always had this besotted look on him whenever he watches Mila happily bite into a great sandwich, so Pliroy will most definitely take advantage of that. And Yuri knows that Mila is a great singer, so karaoke it is—even though Otabek won’t sing much and JJ will serenade him the whole time. Then they attend Otabek’s gigs so Mila can see him DJ the hell out of the dance floor. (Yuri’s not sure if they should just chaperone at this point, but JJ quickly solves that by spinning him into a dance battle). Then Pliroy decides to try a cooking class that Isabella recommended—and invites Otabek and Mila along. Let’s just say that Otabek is smiling more and more and a flour-covered JJ and Yuri get kicked out for laughing too much. And then Otabek and Mila surprise Pliroy by inviting them out for a trip to the museum. They discover that Otabek’s actually sort of a geek and Mila’s no dumb redhead either. JJ doles out several cheesy pick-up lines while they’re at the planetarium and Yuri won’t admit that he likes some of them. 

Funnily enough, while Mila and Otabek appreciate the double-dates, they like spending time alone with each other more—and Pliroy has chanced upon their quiet and intimate dates more than once (whenever all four are in the same country). Unlike Yuri and JJ who post their couple selfies when dating, Mila and Otabek never once post anything about dates (Otabek dislikes social media and Mila’s fine with that). Only their friends do (Phichit always takes candid pics but he doesn’t post, out of respect to Otabek). When they finally post a picture of them together and obviously on a date, it’s because they’re finally a couple. (Phichit now posts all the candid photos he took and so do the others.) 

4) Both couples are together (and ready to compete)

This is the end goal of the three variations—Pliroy and Otamila are practically a squad now. (They’re probs already in their 20s here and the two couples have been solid for a few years now.) We’re talking really comfortable double-dates now and lots of vacations, roadtrips, and sightseeing. The way they started doesn’t matter; a few years down the road and this is their situation.

Since they’re pretty much all close friends because of all those double-date shenanigans they did, friendly rivalry often pops up in their outings. Beach dates turn to “I bet my boyfriend’s more ripped than yours” “I’ve seen your man already, hag, and I can tell you that mine’s better.” Relaxing bar dates can turn into “Let’s have a drinking game” “Not again.” Bowling night will always have a nacho-piling contest. And there’s a good amount of fluff, too. At this point, they’re all comfortable in having indoor double-dates in their places, so movie nights and game nights are a thing. And most definitely, there are rink dates~ (it’s worse than ever though because the competitiveness is now up to eleven lmao)

The really fun thing about this dynamic, though, is that if one of them can’t make it, the date is still on—but this time, it transforms into an outing of three good friends. The couple who’s present will make sure that their friend won’t feel left out and will make sure to cheer them up while their S.O. isn’t around, and that they’ll turn the PDA level down a lot for their sake. 

If the situation is that both couples aren’t that close yet (they’re not in their 20s and all those double-dates weren’t that many), just expect dates wherein Mila teases Yuri and JJ. :P

Okay, omfg, this got away from me but there you have it. We need more Pliroy and Otamila hanging out together. OTL

[agameforgoodchristians]

A lukewarm, wretched, pitiable, poverty-stricken, blind, and naked loser. (Revelation 3:17)

tl:dr = You should Learn what ‘LUKEWARM’ MEANS AND then Stop being so God-damned ‘lukewarm.’ also,why aren’t you in the streets right now?

This card comes from John of Patmos’ message in the Book of Revelation to the church located in Laodicea. It is the last church addressed of the seven churches of Asia Minor that appear in Revelation 2-3. From the start, let us be clear that we are not going to delve into the end-times, conspiracy theories over these letters. We know they exist. We were weened on them as children. We grew up and read a book or two, including the Bible.

What is important of note at this juncture is that is the only one of the seven churches for which nothing good is said. This is the “lukewarm” church in danger of being spit out of God’s mouth (Rev 3:15-16). But more on that later. Right now we want to show the connection to a figure important to the story of this church: a man named Archippus.

Archippus Who?

While Church tradition names him as possibly one of the 70 disciples Jesus sent out in Luke 10:1-16, Archippus is only mentioned twice in the Bible. At the beginning of Philemon (1:2) he gets a typical, “say ‘h'i’ to that guy” from Paul, but in Colossians 4:15-16, Paul gets a little more personal writing:

Give my greetings to the brothers and sisters in Laodicea, and to Nympha and the church in her house. And when this letter has been read among you, have it read also in the church of the Laodiceans; and see that you read also the letter from Laodicea.

Then in vs 17 he drops:

And say to Archippus, “See that you complete the task that you have received in the Lord.”

Imagine being Archippus at this moment. A letter from the great apostle Paul is being read among the congregation. You hear your name mentioned. Your head pops up, chest puff out for a second, and then you hear everyone hear Paul tell you to suck less and do the work you’ve been given to do (an admonishment no one else ever got in any of the Pauline letters).

Translations and interpretations of what Paul meant abound. We are a bit partial to how Wuest formulated it: “be ever keeping a watchful eye upon the ministry which you received in the Lord, that you discharge it fully.” The Ye Olde King James Version of the Bible (KJV) employs the phrase “take heed.” We like it, so we’ll be using it as a shorthand from here on out.

At its core, the Greek for “take heed” means to literally or metaphorically turn towards something, and to have intimate empirical knowledge of something because of use; to understand, weigh maturely, and consider in a very specific way. This is born out in its usage in other New Testament Scripture (e.g. Mt 5:28 & Eph. 5:15-21). Thus, Paul is calling to Archippus’ specific attention to complete some task, and Paul has publicly charged the community to push him toward its completion. Cool, but what does this have to do with our card from the Book of Revelation?

According to Tradition, Archippus was the first bishop of Laodicea. He helped start the church there and, by varying accounts, was later martyred during a pagan feast in Colossae where, along with Philemon and Apphia, their home was raided, they were captured, tortured, whipped, stoned, and then stabbed to death by children holding nails. It’s assumed that taking up the call to ministry was what Paul was telling Archippus to do. And even though it had dire consequences, he sacrificed to do the will of God.

So how did his church end up so “lukewarm” and God-damned (not a swear: we mean that literary)?

The Comfort of Laodicea

Laodicea (in modern Turkey) was initially a church-plant from the Christian community in Colossae. The Christians who lived in Laodicea resided in the center of one of the great economic powerhouses in the Roman empire.

Laodicea was a regional hub. The most important thoroughfare for trade and culture of the day—the road running east to west from Ephesus to Syria—ran through Laodicea. Another less-important, but pretty snazzy road also ran from north to south through the city. Laodicea was also an important clothing manufacturing center for the region. Not only did they cultivate and breed a strain of sheep whose wool was highly sought, they were also able to mass produce relatively inexpensive clothing and widely distribute it (they were Versace and Wal-Mart at the same). In addition, Laodicea was an academic and medical center for the region, boasting a prestigious medical school, as well as the production and sale of Phygarian Powder, an eye salve which was exported around the Greek world, and heralded by the likes of Galen and Aristotle.

As a result of these factors and others, Laodicea was the banking and financial center of the region, and one of the wealthiest cities in the ancient world. So much so, that emperors were known to cash their checks there. An anecdote illustrates the level of Laodicean wealth: In 61 CE, an earthquake struck the region devastating everything. As a part of the Roman Empire, the Laodiceans were entitled to a government bail-out to help them rebuild this important cog in the economic machinery. The people of Laodicea did not want to be seen as beholden to the central Roman government. They were so rich, and so proud, that they pooled their resources and rebuilt without any assistance, creating a city more fabulous than it was before.

In short, the Christian community living in Laodicea were in very secure and comfortable place. But just like Archippus, they are the only church to receive an admonishment from John of Patmos, with nothing good being said about them (the others that got crapped on at least got a small pat on the back first). The ironic tragedy: the very things that they took pride in are the things that John says are holding them back from doing the work they were given to do.

A Message to the “Lukewarm” Church

“And to the angel of the church in Laodicea write: The words of the Amen, the faithful and true witness, the origin of God’s creation:

I know your works; you are neither cold nor hot. I wish that you were either cold or hot. So, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I am about to spit you out of my mouth.

For you say, ‘I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing.’ You do not realize that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked. Therefore I counsel you to buy from me gold refined by fire so that you may be rich; and white robes to clothe you and to keep the shame of your nakedness from being seen; and salve to anoint your eyes so that you may see.

I reprove and discipline those whom I love. Be earnest, therefore, and repent.”

~ Revelation 3:14-19

Some Sunday School lessons (and Sunday morning sermons) of this story, import a “Goldilocks and the Three Bears” mentality: Some things are too hot, some things are too cold, but the middle is juuuussssst riiiiiight! Apparently these people can’t read (but they teach our young and our adults. Cool. Cool. Cool.) Just as incorrect, some teach that ON FIRE CHRISTIANS are “good” and COLD-HEARTED CHRISTIANS are bad, again showing a lack of reading comprehension (but a good use of metaphoric thinking, so points for that). However, they fail to see that the metaphors could be changed: “hot” Christians are “backsliders” and “apostates” on their way to HELL! “Cold” Christians will be “chilling” in the clouds above with the Father. Whatever. Our metaphor doesn’t have to work because our point is that this line of thinking completely ignores both the biblical text and the geographic realities that they are based on. In addition to the other historical features mentioned above,

an aqueduct that ran from a hot spring in Hierapolis, cut through Laodicea on the way to Colossae.

This is the source of the famous, though often misunderstood/misinterpreted passage. The hot spring at Hierapolis was healing; the cold waters at Colossae were refreshing. Both are good. Good. Not one good, the other bad. Both are good. However, The lukewarm sludge at Laodicea was pretty damn useless.

Which makes sense:

A critical writer can be effective in communicating her message if she is very hot or very cold to her subject—loves it or hates it—, but not in the middle. Some strong emotion must be felt or it is just a bland restatement of dry facts.

Meat in the freezer, good and safe. Meat, appropriately browned and finished off in the oven, good and safe. Meat, allowed to sit on your counter all day and then snacked on, God bless.

While some people love hot coffee, others iced coffee, but only a freaking monster loves a cup of tepid, room temperature, congealed, decaffeinated garbage. There is a revolting quality to those who are in this position, hence the illustration of being “spit out of the mouth.”

But how does a church community end up in this position? How does an individual? “Because you say I am rich, need nothing . . . blind, poor, wretched, naked, worthy of pity” (vs 17). John of Patmos takes direct aim at the things the city of Laodicea was best known for, the things that they took the most pride, security and comfort in. They are so far from the path that they are pitied by God, and admonished to find true wealth, clothing, and vision (vs 18). They are further admonished to “be earnest and repent,” to take heed, and change, before it is too late (vs 19).

And Here We Are

We write our Card Talks in a (relatively) timeless manner. Meaning, years from now, other than a few topical touchstones and pop culture references, the message should be unambiguous and clear without relying on contemporary tropes, people, events, or issues. At times we purposefully break this rule and write about things completely wrapped up in where we are. Right now we hope that this post is an example of that: a post that will make no sense in the future.

This Card Talk is being written in the midst of racial unrest in the United States. In recent days:

Ahmaud Arbery, an unarmed Black man, was chased down by two white men and shot to death for jogging through the neighborhood. The prosecuting attorneys refused to act until after the video of the murder was released to the public.

Breonna Taylor, an unarmed Black woman, was murdered in her home, in her own bed, when police executed a no-knock warrant in the middle of the night, without announcing themselves. They then arrested her boyfriend for “attempted murder” for defending them against the intruders. It is doubtful that the officers will face any criminal charges.

Christian Cooper, an unarmed Black man, survived a white woman’s attempt to weaponize the police to intimidate or murder him. He had asked her to leash her dog in a public park. She called the police, screaming in increasing hysterics, saying she was being attacked, while Christian recorded her lies from a safe distance.

George Floyd, an unarmed Black man, was crushed to death by four police officers—two kneeling on his back, one on his throat, and one keeping onlookers at bay. After crying out for help, saying he couldn’t breathe, that he was dying, he gave up the ghost. The police continued applying pressure on his dead body for a while after. They had pulled him out of his car for allegedly using a counterfeit $20 bill at a store nearby.

We were going to include a list of the many, many, many others. But figured your eyes would just gloss over them. Just like they glossed over the descriptions we gave above, because you “already know” the stories.

But we hope future Bible nerds and lay people reading this post will look on these descriptions in shock and disgust. Not just at the horrors described, but at the very notion that such atrocities were common place. We hope that they will look at these events the was we (should) look at the (slightly) less government-sanctioned lynchings from only a few decades ago (“officially” ending in 1968). We hope this will be the case. But we have our doubts.

Such a change would require the Church in the United States to actually “take heed” to the ministry given by God to love and care for all of God’s children. The same Church who still (problematically) sings

“…red and yellow, black and white, they’re ALL precious in His sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world.”

The same Church which seems happier, more content, when those red, yellow, and black children live in other countries which are not so “rich…prospered, and [in] need [of] nothing” as ours is. he Church, which will do mission-trips to ever corner of the world to spread clean water, the Word, or to simply do it for the ‘gram, seems to forget the people with similar skin tones here.

When will the Church in the United States realize how wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked we are when we deny the dignity of our sisters and brothers?

Look at this scene:

We don't know the full context of this photo. We don't know the people at the table or in the background. They could be you. And that's the point.

This image shows the division

in the Church right now:

On one side, in the streets, you see a racially and socioeconomically diverse group, taking action against injustice.

On the other, at the table, a homogeneous group wondering what all the fuss is about, desperately wanting not to be bothered, and hoping none of this will impact their plans. And, honestly, it makes us fucking sick.

Use your Sunday School training: where would Moses be, at the table or in the streets? What about David and Deborah? Jeremiah and Ezekiel’s crazy ass? John the Baptist, Peter, Paul, Archippus? Jesus?

And let’s be fair to the table sitters: maybe he’s scratching his head because he is genuinely confused or has been living under a rock. Maybe red hat is sympathetic to their cause, but was raised not to make too much noise, so she’s “with them in spirit.” Maybe green shirt is wanting to get up and join them, but is afraid of what arms-folding and giggling will think and say. We can’t know what is in everyone’s head. But we can make a simple request:

Get up from the damn table, OR spit the bread and wine from ouT OF YOUR mouth;

stop pretending you break bread with Jesus or his people.

Stop posting more about “looting” and “rioting” than the murders that presaged them. Stop pretending like you give a damn about the corporate interest of Target or the small business that have been destroyed when you didn’t comment on the families burying actual human beings. Stop defending, once again, a president or pundit because…you know what, screw your reasons. Just stop doing it: you make all of us look bad.

Wipe the excuses and lies from your eyes. Trust less in the comfort and security of your skin (yes, talking to you white people). Be the damn Church. “Take heed” of the ministry we have been given.

Or never open your mouth again in moral outrage ever again.

World without end.