#winter hours was good! very thought provoking and really made me want to write which is always great

[aaronstveit]

read in 2025!

it's that time again! i've been doing reading threads here since 2022, and i always enjoy them. as always, you can find me on goodreads and the storygraph.

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie* (★★★★★)

Winter Hours: Prose, Prose Poems, and Poems by Mary Oliver (★★★★★)

The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden (★★★★☆)

Moon of the Crusted Snow by Waubgeshig Rice (★★★☆☆)

The Examiner by Janice Hallett (★★★★☆)

*An asterisk denotes a reread. **Two asterisks denote an ARC.

[ficsnroses]

Shower - Keanu Reeves x Reader

Hope you like it!

Word Count : 4690

Warnings : NSFW, Smut, Shower Sex. 18+ only. Fluff.

Summary : After Y/N returns from lunch with friends, and Keanu returns from training, they decide to have a *steamy* shower session together. 

A/N : There is plot lol I swear. Also side note, this is my first actual smut centered one shot & I’m still trying to learn how to write smut pls be nice :(

The lacy bra you were wearing had begun to really pierce into your skin, as you had finally pulled into the driveway of your home. You had just returned from a small brunch get together a couple of your friends threw in their home. It was a semi formal affair, you had opted for a long sleeve short dress best suited for the January cold, and some classic heels.

Keanu hadn’t been able to come with you today, which did upset you minisculely, although you knew he would have been there with you, had it been in his power. He was currently in the training paradigm, getting prepared for upcoming projects; possessing an immense passion for the craft, nonetheless, and that was enough to keep you happy. Knowing he was happy.

A few people had inquired on his whereabouts, why he hadn’t accompanied you to the party. Keanu was a private man, translating to much of the industry populace being unaware of your relationship. Nevertheless, that didn’t mean it hadn’t been speculated by the mass of the tabloids. Whether it was a cradle of hands during an evening city walk, or candid portraits clicked at dinner, it had been a frequent in Hollywood news. It was bound to happen, you had been in a committed relationship for a little over three & a half years now.

Regardless, both your friend circles and acquaintances knew. Everyone you’d regularly socialized with knew how smitten you were by each other, and how well things were progressing. Needless to say however, much like today, there were plenty of times Keanu couldn’t company you to events hosted, due to his jam packed schedule. You didn’t mind, he’d never let the thought of you not being his biggest priority cross your mind. You knew just how much you meant to him. He showed you that in private, to the only person who really mattered. It was irritating when people constantly pressed on your relationship, asking where he was. You didn’t like feeling compelled to prove how inviolable your relationship was to the world.

Stepping out of the car, you felt small beads of water begin to pepper your skin. The news reported a storm approaching, the gray clouds, as big, somber balls of cotton in the sky proved right. With a scamper, you bolt to the door, your need desperate to get out of the rather uncomfortable outfit. With the auburn and earthy dead winter leaves propelling themselves through the atmosphere, and a wind chill, cold and arctic practically roaring at your exposed skin, you sighed relief once you reached the front door.

With a jingle of your keys, you let yourself in, immediately rushing up the wooden stairs as you kick your heels off. The house was hushed, peaceful, everything left untouched. Keanu wouldn’t be home for a few hours, presumably. Sighing, you run a hand through your now tousled hair, letting yourself into your shared bedroom, the white framed door creaking in the process. You swore your eyes must have lit up a golden hue, seeing Keanu unpacking his gym bag by the dresser, throwing dirty clothes into the wash hamper. His eyes find yours, spotting you walk into the bed room.

“Hey, beautiful.” He smiles, eyeing your outfit. Anytime Keanu saw you in a dress, he felt his breath hitch. He loved how astounding, staggering your legs looked, velvety and silken. How perfectly crafted your body beheld, the dress perfectly embracing each curve, highlighting your femininity in all the right ways.

“Hi. You’re home early?” you say, as you walk up to him, enclosing your arms around his neck, stowing a kiss on his cheek. His arms wrap around your waist immediately.

“Finished early. How was it? You look stunning, hun.” he replies, observing your lips, smoothing his hands over your hips. You run your hand through his hair, ruffling it a little, before sighing.

“It was alright. Everyone kept asking where you were.” You tried your best not to frown, intending to refrain making him feel bad. You knew he wanted to be there with you. “It’s alright though, work is important.” You smiled, cupping his cheek, assuring him.

“I’m sorry, baby. You know I’d be there in a heartbeat if I could. You’re not upset, right?” he asks, grabbing the wrist of your hand caressing his cheek, pressing a feather light kiss onto it.

“No, of course not.” You promise. “Why are you so warm and damp?” You chuckle, rubbing his shoulder.

He begins to back away out of your touch. “I’m all sweaty and gross. Sorry.” He frowns. You grin back, turning to walk away from him as you throw your hair into a messy bun. 

“You know I don’t mind, love.” As you walked to your vanity, you began taking off your earrings in the process. “How was training? You’re not too sore, are you?”

“I’m alright. Could really use a shower.” He speaks from the other side of the room. He’s browsing his side of the walk in for a fresh pair of shirt and pants. Sauntering out, his favourite gray Arch t-shirt in hand, paired with black sweats, he catches a glimpse of you sat on your vanity, wiping off your makeup. To him, you looked divine, beatific, bewitching. In moments like this, when you were quite frankly just doing you own thing, existing around him, he found himself immensely in awe with you. How deep he’d fallen in love with you over the years. You seize him staring through the mirror. “Care to help me with my zipper?” you smile.

“Of course.” He walks up behind you, crouching slightly to reach the top of your zip. As he brings it down steadily, gradually exposing your back, your skin looking so seamless and smooth, he finds his pants grow a little tighter than before. As the sleeves of the dress fall gracefully off your shoulders, leaving them bare, you wince slightly at the cold air that brushes them.

Keanu can’t help himself, as he brings his hands to rest on your waist, his head finding comfort in the crook of your neck. His tender lips are browsing the skin, placing delicate kisses along the surface. Every now and then, his tongue softly grazes your neck, nibbling, causing butterflies to quiver in your mid. You bring your hand up behind you, to tangle in his soft, lengthy locks. “Baby…” you gasp.

As Keanu’s hands begin to lightly move, massaging your hips, you know he’s in the mood for a quick…or not to quick rumble. Truthfully, you wouldn’t mind being with him right now, having him. Despite your busy lives, together and apart, your sex life had never suffered, your desire for each other still as strong since the day you met. As you turn around, faintly touching, facing him, his lips are now on your jaw, tugging at the dress that still rests above your chest. “Can I?” he asks, asking permission to discard it off you fully.

“You know you don’t have to ask…” you bite your lip, staring him right in the eyes, your own orbs suggestive. Keanu doesn’t linger a second longer, skillful fingers beginning to peel the material off your delicate, exquisite skin. As he finds your breasts, covered with the lace bra, he immediately begins placing open mouthed kisses just above the fabric, stocky fingers working at the hook. “So beautiful, baby. Just for me.” He breaths, as you palm his now very distinguishable bulge. You nudge him gently, raising yourself to stand as his hands refuse to leave your body.

“How’s that shower sound?” you say breathlessly, gripping his nape.

“Sounds fucking amazing.” He smiles, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You disconnect briefly, taking hold of his hand as you lead him into your master bathroom. With the lights flickering on, his hands are right back on your hips, as he gently guides you to the counter.

“Wait, you’re not too tired or sore for a round, right?” you ask quietly, cautiously scratching his beard, your noses barely touching. He loved the way you always made sure he was okay, and cared for him, no matter the situation.

“Oh baby, I’m never too tired for you.” He smirks. “I’ll never be able to say no to you. For anything.” He stares you intently right in the eyes, for a moment. You knew each word escaping his lips was true, coming right from the honest depths of his heart. He’d do anything for you.

With a gentle prop, he places you on the granite counter, you moan as his lips find their way back to your neck, beginning to fiddle with the hook of your bra again. As the material falls, he glides the straps off your shoulders, his ruff beard gently scratching your skin as he takes a nipple into his mouth. You can’t help but moan at the feeling of him so close, all his attention diverted on you, pleasing you. He always knew just where to touch you, just where to dance his lips across your skin. 

Sometimes you thought he had memorized your body just as well as a bass guitar he would play on stage, knowing by heart exactly which strings to pull, exactly how to play the rhythm, which riffs would provoke a melody. His breath is warm, tantalizing, as he brushes, nibbling the delicate skin just below your ear.

You snake your hand into the waist band of his pants, sliding it into his boxers. Your lips curl at how hard he already is for you. Taking his length into your palm, you stroke him, mid shaft to tip. “Feel good, baby?” you ask, looking down at your hand pumping him inside his pants.

“So good. You make me feel so good, sweetheart.” He moans, his head tilting back, his own large palm coming down to grope over your hand inside his pants.

“Take it off, babe.” You tug at his sweats, urging him to pull them down for you to remark him in his entirety. He obliges, tugging at your waist to pull down the sheer tights that accompanied your dress, along with your panties. His cock has grown bigger, and its began to throb, each vein becoming clearer, more prominent. It’s only inches away from you, practically poking at your thigh as he stands between your legs. Your mind races, aching for him to be buried deep, deep inside you.

You resume stroking Keanu’s member, his hooded eyes watching as he slips through your grip, dewdrops of pre cum seeping, helping him glide in your hand. A few hoarse moans sashay out his lips, teeth biting the skin in ecstasy. He brings his large hands to cup your breasts, gently massaging them, watching how they bounce in his grip. You tug at his shirt, urging him to take it off. Once he’s pulled it over his head, you reach down to run your fingers softly over his large stomach scar. He’d got it years before he met you, on a motorcycle accident. You always enforced him to be careful when he went on bike rides, the thought of him getting into another accident so big never truly would leave your mind. He’d assure you he was careful, always bound to find his way back home to you.

Cupping his face between your hands, you bring your lips to kiss his once again. Something about kissing him was so, so intimate to you. The way his tongue felt; tasted against yours, an after hint of smoked tobacco always lingering, his taste so uniquely intoxicating; way you could sense each steady breath. His hands roamed your body, making it their alter, which only turned you on more by the second. As his hand travels down further and further, it ceases where you needed him most. He gently rubs your folds, that have gradually grown wetter and wetter, two fingers slipping inside briefly, curling, preparing you to take him. You swore you didn’t mean for your lips to let out such a sultry, louder than intended moan as you watch him bring his fingers up, licking them clean, eyes never leaving yours.

You grab his shoulders, hopping off the counter, grabbing his hand once again to lead him to the shower. As you turn it on, you test the temperature quickly, slipping a hand under the steady stream. “Ah! Cold cold!” you whimper, jumping back slightly.

He’s amused, watching you. You make sure to sway your hips a little, sticking out your ass a little more than usual. He brings a broad hand to slap it gently. “Peachy.” He grins, as you smirk. You heard a deep rumble of his chest, as he brings your entwined hands up to his lips to place a kiss to your palm. “You’re so adorable. I love you.” He grins. 

“Oo! It’s ready.” You chirp, stepping into the shower, Keanu following behind. Once both in, he situates himself behind you, steady stream of steamy aqua cascading water droplets down your skin. He’s got his sizeable arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, your back pressing against him. There was something so right, so emitting of being home, when his arms were wrapped around you like that. The warmth, the security of his embrace, capturing you. He rests his chin on top of your head, both closing your eyes, sulking in the moment. It was nice to be in such a vulnerable setting together, feeling each other’s bare skin, knowing there’s not a single barrier between you two.

As you palm his length once again, remembering what you were in the middle of, he sneaks his hand down to your heat, rubbing at your sensitive bundle of nerves. ‘Let me taste you, darling.” He whispers lightly into your ear, gently nudging you to turn, lips on your neck. As you follow suite, he guides you to the shower wall, kissing your lips briefly, before trailing lower, and lower, as he’s kneeled down in front of you, his hands on your hips. “Can you lift this up for me, darling?” he asks, gently nudging your leg to drape over his shoulder, allowing him better access to your basically drenched cunt.

Hoisting your leg up, placing it over his shoulder, your hand tangles in his hair. Within seconds, his face is buried between your crotch, his skilled tongue lapping at your clit, licking long strokes across your heat. He slips in a finger, adding two gradually, pumping in and out as his breath is so hot on you, sucking feverishly on your clit, your hips bucking in his favour. Your eyes close, incoherent moans escaping your lips as you tug on his raven mane.

“Keanu…oh gosh…harder, please.” You gasp, widening your legs to allow him better access. “Harder, sweetheart?” he suggests, pumping his stocky fingers in and out of you faster, curling them more now, making sure to rock his hand so skillfully, his tongue doing wonders on your clit. You were practically squirming under his touch. The determination to bring you to your edge was intense in him, visible in his hazel eyes, perceptible in the way his hands moved on you. You could feel the pit in your stomach building, as the steamy air lingered on your skin, the water vapour so gently kissing your body, your gentle, gaspy moans muffled by the shower spray. “Yes, baby. Just like that right there, please don’t stop.” You begged, eyes closed, head tilted back against the shower wall. Within seconds, Keanu has you coming loud, moaning his name, your release coating his fingers.

“You sound so beautiful, love, saying my name like that. Don’t think I can ever get tired of this.” He smiles, raising himself up, making sure to hold onto you tight, as he can tell your knees have fallen weak, your breath heavy from the mind blowing orgasm he just gave you, so effortlessly.

“You got another one in you for me, baby?” he asks, his forehead pressed against yours now, pressing a kiss to your cheek. He tucks your dripping strands of hair behind your ear, pressing kisses wherever he pleased. You nod frantically, rubbing his nape. He’s still got you pinned to the wall, his overlong hair dripping at the ends, tiny turquoise globes of water peppering his face. The beauty of his features, the exaggeration of just how perfectly sculpted he was, was so prominent in that moment. You couldn’t help but appreciate how beautiful he looked. Handsome, sure, but the word didn’t do justice to the man who held you tight in his grip right now. He was beautiful.

Fingers ghosting his chest, you begin to lower yourself in his grip, ready to satisfy your man on your knees. Keanu tightens his grip on you, however, delicately stopping you. “No, princess. I won’t last.” He chuckles. His fingers are back on your cunt, slowly, sensually massaging. “This is where I want you. Where I can feel you.” his voice is deep and sultry, alluring, and it’s making you lose control.

You stare him right in the eyes, your gazes never faltering from each other. “Ke?” you say in a low, barely audible voice.

“Yeah?” he replies, his hands rubbing up and down your sides as you pull him closer by his nape. “I love you.” 

You needed to say that to him. 

“I love you more.” He smiles, pressing a few needy kisses to your lips, sensory, and affectionate.

“Take me. I need you.” You stroke his rock hard length once again, gently pulling, urging him to make home within you. You prop your foot up onto the edge of the tub, one leg holding you steady on the ground, although much of the work was being done by Keanu’s herculean arms holding you tight, fixated. 

Keanu brings your leg that rests on the bathroom ledge to wrap around his waist, in attempt to pull you closer to his skin. Grabbing his cock, he guides himself into you, entering inch by inch, slow, gradual, allowing you to adjust to the first few inches. 

He’s big, beautiful, and warm, the sensation so good, stretching you, but leaving a burn. No matter how many times you’d had time, he always took getting used to at first. He smiles big, knowing he had that effect on you. You can tell he’s proud of himself. “Tell me when, princess.” He whispers, making sure to press a kiss to your bottom lip.  

You nod when you’re ready, eyes closed shut, as you place both hands on his ass, urging him to move. With one hard thrust, he’s fully in, setting the pace as he thrusts in and out slowly at first, the pads of his calloused fingers nipping into your hips, keeping you in place. A string of moans escapes his lips, as his head falls back, his cock twitching within you. “I can’t believe I get to do this. Can’t believe I get to make love to you, whenever I want. Fuck you, when I want.” His hoarse voice fills the shower room walls. He opens his eyes to look at you, your eyes still closed, flustered, taking in shallow, moany breaths as your swollen breasts bounce beautifully to his pace. Your skin is glowing, glimmering in the humid bathroom walls from all the steam. 

“Do you want me to make love to you, sweetheart? I can go slow if you want.” He breaths, watching himself slip in and out of you so easily. His cock is glistening with your slickness, the sounds of him moving in and out turning both of you on more and more. “You sound so sweet, so tender, so drenched for me.”

You smile, eyes still fluttered closed, your head resting on the wall behind. “Just the way you like it.” 

“Give me a little of both. Show me what you got, Reeves.” You grin, your wet hair clinging to your silky, smooth skin. He’s burying himself gaping, deep, profound inside, fully, each time. His thrusts are moving in and out leisurely, focusing on just making each other feel close, connected by each other’s bodies. You don’t think you can ever get over this, ever get tired of feeling him so deep inside of you, knowing you’re the only woman in the world who gets to feel him this way. The sounds that leave his lips are only an added ecstasy. Your favourite sound in existence.

“Fuck, Y/n,” he mumbles, eyes shut tight, burying his face in the valley of your breasts. 

“Is it good, baby? Do you like how needy you’ve got me wrapped around you?” you moan into his ear, one hand holding onto his shoulder, the other massaging the back of his head that’s made camp between your breasts.

“So good baby. You’re so good for me.”, is all he manages to get out, before his lips are attaching to your skin, placing sensitive, wet kisses all over your chest. As he continues to pump in and out, he brings one of his hands from your hips up to cup your cheek. “I love you so much, baby.” He breaths, thrusts becoming needier by the second. You can’t bring yourself to reply, although, a particularly loud moan echoes from your mouth, bouncing off the four walls. He grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging lightly. “So fucking much.” He reiterates.

“Can you go harder, Ke? Please?” you ask, your tone stifling, grabbing both his shoulders for balance.

“Harder?” he asks, placing a kiss to your collarbone. “Do you trust me, sweetheart?” he asks, between moans.

“Of course.” You reply, fingernails now raking into his biceps.

“Then I need you to do something for me, princess.” He asserts, staring you into your glossy eyes. It wasn’t that you were crying, your eyes had filled. Keanu was fucking you so good, so well, it made a few tears threaten to fall. It felt like the best feeling that could ever be felt. Too special, too precious. “I need you to wrap your other leg around my waist as well. Can you do that for me, love?” he asks intently, tone full of affection, adoration, and care, as he lifts your chin up with his index finger.

You swallow, nodding. You trust him. “Gimmie a litte jump then, sweetheart.” He says, grabbing the back of your thigh to support you, as you raise your feet off the ground with a hop, wrapping your other leg around his waist as well now. He’s got you pinned against the wall, completely levitating off the ground, both legs wrapped securely around him as he’s buried entirely inside your cunt. You loved how he had complete control over you in this moment, granted permission to do whatever he wanted, however fast, however hard he wanted. You were entirely at his mercy, completely wanton, so voluptuous.

He begins thrusting hard, and faster into you, holding you steady in his arms and the wall. His hands are definitely leaving bruises on your skin, but you don’t mind. You only wrap your arms tighter around his neck, clinging to him as his thrusts have become more rapid, urgent.

“Do you like that?” he asks, voice low and grumbly, full of lust. You only manage to nod and bite your lip, speechless and out of breath. The familiar pit in your stomach is rising again, and you fear you wont be able to last much longer, Keanu so expertly thrashing, hitting all your right nerves, he’s begun to fuck you senseless against the wall.

“Oh god, fuck baby. You’re making me feel so fucking good.” He’s biting his lip as well, trying to keep from screaming your name.

“You’re so vocal today.” You smile at him, bringing a hand to tangle in his hair.

“I can’t help it. You feel so fucking good today, Y/N. I can’t praise you enough, honey.” He moans, his voice shaky now. He’s shuddering, cock twitching, you can tell he’s nearing release. Rocking his hips, he begins rolling them to flawlessly hitting all the right nerves in your mid, you feel they’re going to snap at how expertly he’s bringing you closer and closer to the edge. The sound of his skin slapping yours is filling the room, and it’s killing you. His skin, slapping yours, hastily, senselessly.

Holding tighter to your waist now, Keanu begins pouring all his might into giving you some final hard thrusts. He’s pushing as much as himself possible into you, and you can’t help but scream, bringing your arms tighter around him, your lips attaching to his shoulder, biting, trying to muffle your yelps. 

“Where do you want it, baby?” he asks, thrusting still, hasty.

“Inside. I wanna feel it.” Your breath hitches, anticipating his warmth spilling inside you any second now. You bring your hand down to lazily rub a few circles on your clit. Normally, Keanu would do this for you as he moved in and out of you, however, his arms were full holding you up. Within a few more particularly forceful, ridged thrusts, you’re unravelling around him, screaming, shrieking his name, as your nails rake across his back, definitely leaving marks. 

“Ke, oh my gosh, Ke. You’re so good to me baby. So fucking good.” You’re breathless, collapsing on his shoulder, trying to steady your breathing as he’s still thrusting diligently. You’re riding out your high, as Keanu moans louder than he’s moaned the entire session, buried deep, heavy inside, as you feel him shoot creamy ribbons of his seed into you. He’s moaning your name, eyes clasped shut as his face is buried in your chest, your breasts providing him a safe haven. 

You let him finish, stroking his hair, placing delicate, kind, heartfelt kisses onto his head, as he manages to collect himself once again.

You gently tap his hand to let you down. He does, and you immedietly hold onto him again to steady your balance. He chuckles, grasping your waist tight again. “You good, love?” he asks. 

“Never been better.” You grin, cupping his face with both hands, to place a tender kiss to his lips. “Thank you so much, babe. That may have been the best you’ve ever fucked me. It was new, I liked it.” You smile lovingly at him, gently stroking some wet hair out of his eyes. He still looks dreamy, his skin flushed, red patches on his neck and chest. He sure knew how to treat his lady.

“I liked it too. You were so good, Y/N. I’m proud of you.” He hugs you close to his chest, pulling you in, positioning you both under the temperate spray of the water. 

”We should try out new places more. Its a lot more exciting than our bed.” you giggle. 

“Anywhere for you, doll.” he presses a kiss to your lips, his hands stoking, palms soothingly running up and down your back. Keanu was just as amazing during aftercare, as he was during the deed. He basically made your heart flutter with how loving, gentle, and caring he would always be after sex. 

Good thing you were already in the shower, the mess you both would have left on the sheet would have been quite the task to clean. You could still feel his sticky release coating the inside of your thighs, trickling down. 

Your eyes dart to his shoulder, where you’d left a very prominent bite mark from when you had reached your end, the sensation too much to endure. “Oh my, shit. I’m sorry.” you trace your fingers over the scar, frowning. “Does it hurt, babe?”

“Not at all. Kinda sexy, actually.” he declares. You ruffle his hair, laughing.

You rest your head on his chest, closing your eyes. He rests his head on top of yours, closing his earthy eyes as well, arms holding you close. You both enjoy the moment, holding each other in your embrace, feeling each other’s heartbeats finally calm down, your skin sticking together. After a few moments of very comfortable silence, resting with your love, Keanu speaks. 

“Hey, sweetheart, I hope you’re not too upset over me not being able to make it out today.” He frowns. You move your head back to look at him, brining your hand to rest on his bearded cheek.

“Baby, I’m not at all. I promise. I know how much you love me, and I know that when something truly significant comes up, you’ll be there with me. I trust you fully, Keanu.” You smile, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Please don’t upset yourself. I love you so much.” You restate. He brings your wrist to place a kiss to the side of it.

“I love you too, Y/N. So much.”

You grin momentarily, a smirk planting itself on your lips. “If only I could tell all those… inquisitive people at the party just how much, how good my man loves me. How well he takes care of me. Treats me like his queen.”

Keanu lets a laugh out of his chest, with a rumble. “Aren’t you a feisty little vixen.”

“Can’t help it. You just felt so good today.” You smirk, repeating his words from earlier. Keanu presses another closed mouth kiss to your lips, and another to your forehead. Subsequently, he grabs the shower cream off the lip of the tub to lather into his hands, before massaging it over your back, your shoulders, your breasts, pressing kisses to your nose and your cheeks in the process.

“Shall we wash up?” he smiles his dreamy smile at you. You laugh, before pressing a kiss to his chest, rubbing it soothingly. “Yeah.” You reply, grabbing the shower gel, to lather into your hands, so you can enjoy a nice, long, intimate shower with the man of your dreams. The love of your life.

And you needed to prove that to no one.

No one but him.

*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•*•* 

  Taglist Posted Separately (Ask to be added or removed!) :

[aphrodicted]

Numbers and signs

The Universe has many ways of communicating with us. On some occasions, the simplest messages can hide a powerful meaning with an immediate impact in our lives. To achieve this connection, however, we must work our third chakra and open ourselves to everything that has to come. It’s essential to get rid of burdens such as prejudices, archaic beliefs or fear of knowing the messages that are waiting to be received.

It’s true some people have an innate connection with the Universe, but if that relationship isn’t worked, the messages received may be distorted or part of the content may be lost due to not being sufficiently connected. Gifts exist, but they must be worked on like any other skill within us.

What kind of messages am I talking about?

There is no exact definition. They can really be phrases, words, songs, numbers, or ideas that come out of nowhere. However, not everything is a sign and that is something we must learn to differentiate. The sign will always be something unusual, something we aren’t used to seeing and draws our attention to the point of stopping to reflect on its appearance. For example, seeing a butterfly of a certain color in the winter is a sign. Seeing that butterfly in midsummer when it's easier to see them won't be a sign.

We must not get confused in the reiteration of that sign. The Universe communicates with us constantly and if we ignore certain signs, they can be repeated for a certain time. The fact of seeing the same sign for a few days can be a wake-up call, that sign will not be usual or normal, but a wake-up call to pay attention to the element or message in question.

As a personal opinion, animals, colors and numbers are the most frequent signs and, in the long run, they have the most powerful message. However, each person shares a different connection to the Universe. We have to keep in mind, in the end, the Universe will communicate with us through a language familiar to us. The Universe will never use a language or elements we can’t understand. We may not be experts in the way the Universe communicates, but that symbol or object will always awaken something within us. At least, it will stay in our minds.

After this introduction, I want to share with you some thoughts on how the Universe has been communicating with me. Maybe some of you find some help in my words.

Since I started my "witch journey", the Universe has always communicated with me in different ways. However, numbers have been one of the most used methods this year. The Universe has no qualms about sending messages to any time and place, although the most revealing messages usually appear when we have a blank mind and we are doing nothing. In those moments in which we simply "be" without doing or expecting anything. It’s at that moment when messages enter more easily in us.

The format of those numbers doesn’t matter. Sometimes it's hours, sometimes it's a page number and even car license. The important thing is to make me see the number so I can interpret them quickly. All these numbers have something in common: they are repeated numbers or "mirror numbers." This is the unusual element in this type of signs, since any number sequence has no message.

How do I interpret those numbers?

A few days ago I had a celebration with all my family and my parents and I had to use the car to move to where the celebration would take place. On our way, we passed countless vehicles and as it was a somewhat long trip, I decided to clear my mind and rest a bit. During that time when I was calm, without thinking anything and observing the landscape, a car pulled up in front of us and I noticed its license plate: 0550. Definitely that was a message from the Universe about how the celebration we were attending would go.

I immediately knew I would witness in (at least) two fights. The two numbers five so predicted it to me. The zeros at the beginning and at the end augured a calm at the beginning of our trip or celebration and a quiet end of the party.

Why am I doing this kind of interpretation? Very easy. The numbers must be interpreted individually. In the mentioned numbers, 0550, there are four in total. First we must discover what meaning 0 hides and what is the meaning of 5. When we know what each number means, then we can interpret the entire series of numbers as a set:

Zero talks about nothing. The beginning of everything. That first spark that starts everything. The beggining. The calm. The principle of union.

Five indicates conflict, argument, rivalry, a power struggle. It also indicates deep sadness, even betrayal at times. The void after a hard-fought victory in which we have learned nothing and get nothing in return after so much pain.

Therefore, after remembering the meaning of each number, we look at the sequence of numbers one last time and interpret the four numbers together.

The first zero indicates the beginning of the journey or the celebration. My family will meet and start a meal to celebrate all together. This meeting can be interpreted as the union of my family in a specific place.

The first five announces a first conflict in the trip or celebration.

The second five can be a continuation of the first, so that first conflict can be lengthened or is the announcement of a second conflict right after the first conflict end.

The second zero ends the conflicts and marks a peaceful end to our celebration. The family will find peace and will reconnect and balance the energies of the environment, beginning a new stage that can occur in the same place or in a different one.

The numbers don’t have to be interpreted in a specific way, but this interpretation serves for a sequence of numbers on our phone as for a tarot reading. The numbers have a specific meaning and this will be the same regardless of how they reach us.

This interpretation helped me to avoid a confrontation with some relatives in that celebration. Especially knowing how to calm the situation and how to redirect the party. Also take advantage of that conflict to unite certain relatives who seemed to carry past grudges that made no sense today.

Therefore, it’s essential to keep your eyes open and know when a sign is presented to us and when it isn’t. Remember not everything it’s a sign, since sometimes things happen because we unconsciously provoke them. We shouldn’t become obsessed with the fact the Universe is constantly communicating with us, but rather learn when it is and when it isn’t.

There are many other elements such as animals or colors usually help me to anticipate future events. Some signs talk about events that will occur that same day, while other signs refer to situations I will face in the near future. That is why I recommend writing down these signs in a notebook or our telephone.

I hope I’ve been helpful! If you have any questions or want to comment on something, you will always be welcome to the blog.

Good luck, angels!

[whengreenmeetsbrown]

Prompt- married Jily tell James’ parents that Lily’s pregnant, maybe in Christmas?

Hi, that’s a wonderful prompt and I did have fun writing it! Maybe it is slightly AU as I’m not sure if James’ parents were alive when he was married to Lily. But I tried my best so:

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

“Good morning baby.” A soft voice mumbled, rubbing his wife’s stomach, smiling genuinely.

The red head groaned as she replied, still sleepy. “No morning yet, still not the time to wake up, the sun isn’t out yet. But yeah, good morning.”

The boy chuckled. “I wasn’t talking to you but okay Lils.” He said putting a soft kiss on her temple. Lily suddenly woke up, putting her hands up like some zombie. James was startled.

“What happened love?” he said, rubbing her back.

“Are you cheating on me Potter?” she said still half asleep but in her senses to listen to what she was saying.

“Cheating on you Evans? Why the hell would I do that again?” James gasped, catching on the let’s-call-each-other-by-our-surnames-like-when-we-did-in-Hogwarts.

“If you didn’t say ‘good morning baby’ to me, who was it?” she said, scratching her head, glaring at him.

A chuckle escaped James lips as Lily still glared at him, waiting for an answer. Her husband lightly smacked her head. “OW! What was that for?” “So you can wake up. I was calling the baby in your stomach ‘baby’ because we haven’t named him yet.” He gasped again, clutching his heart. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that you’re pregnant with my child!”

Lily groaned as her head the soft pillow. “Yeah yeah. I know I’m having a baby. It’s literally in my stomach. Now let me sleep or else I’ll hex you into oblivion.”

“But I wanna talk to my baby.” James whined like a five year old, tugging at the sheets. Lily opened her eyes, pouting. “I’m jealous that you’re not giving me attention, should I just have married Benjy? He-“

She was cut off as a pair of lips gently came down, softly and caressingly, as she pulled away. “Don’t, I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”

The boy grinned his crooked smile which Lily loved. “But you were the one who provoked me by saying that you should have married Benjy.” He folded his arms. “No offense but you would have made a horrible couple.”

“Hey!” she threw a pillow at him as he stood up. “Who says?”

"Me.” James stretched as he got out of bed. “Now, what do you want for breakfast baby?”

Lily grumbled. “Clarify who you’re talking to Mr. Potter.”

“I’m asking Lily Potter what she wants for breakfast.”

“An omelet please.” She said as she lay down and started snoring in a moment.

James sighed as he ran a hand through his hair. Walking to the kitchen, he started making the meal, thinking about Auror meetings along with the meetings of the Order of the Phoenix. Half an hour later, the omelets were made, looking absolutely delicious. This very smell brought the pregnant girl downstairs as she entered the kitchen.

“This looks good James.” She said hugging him from behind, her face in the crook of his neck. She was only 2 months pregnant after all, she wasn’t that fat. Yet.

“How about we visit Mum and Dad today? To tell them the news about the baby?” James asked, as they sat down.

“Mmm? Yeah, sure, no problem, when do we leave?” she answered.

“How about this evening?”

“Sounds good.”

***

Lily pulled on her blue jumper and black jeans, and a small jacket as it was snowing. Stepping into her snow boots and wearing her hat, she entered the room where James was waiting in some white jeans and a Christmas sweater, his hair messier, completing the winter look.

“How do you think we should go? The healer said that apparating is risky for the baby.” James asked.

“Portkey?”

“Don’t know where to find it.”

“Floo powder?”

“Out of stock.”

“Well I don’t know then!” Lily said throwing up her hands.

James thought for a while. “How about you drive a car?”

Where the hell would you get it O’ great one?”

He grinned. “Magic.”

***

They rang the doorbell, an hour after the crazy ride here. Lily did not want to know how James brought the car, and she wondered how she had driven a car after ages.

A house elf appeared at the door of the great mansion before them. Lily had been here before so she wasn’t that surprised. The Potters’ mansion was huge. One way to describe that. They were filthy rich purebloods, even if they used it for good and honest purposes.

“Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Potter, come in!” it squeaked motioning inside. Entering the mansion was like entering a Muggle museum. It had a huge chandelier and a ginormous dining hall, which lead to several other rooms, which led to the Quidditch pitch. Yes, they had a freaking Quidditch pitch. No wonder James was so good at it. In the dining hall, Mr. and Mrs. Potter were waiting, as they beamed brightly.

“Lily darling!” cooed Mrs. Potter. “How lovely to see you.” The women hugged as the men looked at them.

“Hi Lily, you look gorgeous today! Rosy cheeks and snowflakes on your face, a true beauty.” Mr. Potter winked at her.

“Dad! Stop flirting with my wife at every chance you get!” James moaned. Then he turned to his mom, “And you Mrs. Potter didn’t even greet me when I’m your one and only son.” His mother laughed as she embraced him tightly. Lily felt a pinge of sadness; she missed her own family, parents, even sister, desperately. However, the war loomed over them and was afraid of visiting them as they were Muggles. Targets in the war.

They sat down, chattering along the way, talking about whatever occurred.

“How’s married life going Lily darling? I hope he’s not bugging you.” Mrs. Potter asked smiling.

“No, it’s going fairly well. I haven’t hexed him yet.” Lily laughed. It felt good laughing and enjoying after a long time. Lily saw that her husband was having a hard time sitting still,he couldn’t wait to tell his parents the news.

As dinner was served, James tapped at the table. “So Mum, Dad.” He said gesturing at them. “We have some news to share.”

“Good or bad?” they looked anxious.

“Lily’s having a baby.”

There was a sudden silence as the parents looked on at them. Lily cleared her throat nervously. “So, um, what do you think?” she asked lamely.

Mr. Potter suddenly bawled, crying his eyes out. “What happened sweetheart?” his wife asked, eyes wide open.

“Little James is having a baby! A real baby! And at such a young age! And to think we waited all this years to get him. Honestly wife we could have done it earl-“

“Fleamomt!” she interrupted, flushing red with embarrassment.

“Are you happy Mum?” James asked nervously, glasses askew, pulling at his hair.

She laughed loudly. “Of course I am dear! That’s wonderful, simply wonderful. Come here darling.” She said. James moved forward but his mother hugged Lily.

“So much for her being my mother.” He grumbled.

“So happy dear. I know it’s hard but once-“

“SO HAPPY! HEY BON, BRING SOME CAKE AND WINE, WE NEED TO CELEBRATE!” Mr. Potter shrieked, jumping around despite his old age.

“NO BON! NOTHING EXCEPT SOME CAKE.” Mrs. Potter shouting back. “Now sweetheart, don’t get too hasty.” She scolded.

The father embraced his son. “I’m going to die a happy man now Jamsie. A happy one.”

***

Finally back home, completely exhausted, the pair fell into bed, cuddling as they got warm.

“Your father seemed really happy.” Lily mumbled from under James arm.

“Yeah.”

“What’s the matter?” she asked, lifting her head up.

“Its just, raising a baby is going to be hard, especially with the war and all.” James sighed.

Lily traced circling and soothing circles on his chest. “We’re going to be fine James. It’s just a war, we’ll get through.”

“Yeah, I hope we do.” James replied, giving a thorough kiss to his wife and rubbed her stomach.

“I’m going to protect you baby. I love you already, before you’re even born.”

[friday-ocean]

What Is Your Price?

Summary: Bucky suffers from his two mothers: Steve and Sam. Both of them interfere in his life and know everything better. One evening they suggest he flirt with you at Tony’s party. Even though Bucky does everything else, you seem to get involved with him. Why only? Bucky’s only explanation: You were paid for it by his two mothers. Strange, but the certainty of not being able to do anything wrong works wonders for Bucky. Finally, he can really relax in your presence. Warnings: alcohol, Smut (18+) Paring: Bucky Barnes x Reader Authors Note: Written for @bxcksdoll  writing challenge. I must apologize explicitly for taking so much longer...!

Prompt: “Are you flirting with me?”

 ~*~*~*~*~

 Sam and Steve, together, side by side, at a party. Worst case scenario ever. While Steve kept poor Bucky close in sight and supported him in all his decisions like an enthusiastic mother, Sam was more of a mean stepmother. Basically, Bucky was accompanied by a mean or annoying commentary. On normal days and missions, Bucky could now easily ignore his two mothers. As long as he didn't interrupt them, and didn't get carried away with an answer, he would be left alone again.

But on evenings like this, they didn't leave Bucky's side. Sam on his right, Steve on his left, almost shoulder to shoulder, shoulder to shoulder. Asking and pushing each one didn't help. They did not move away from his shoulder. "Another drink," Sam asks, waving his glass with the lonely pieces of ice. Steve hands him his empty glass, but Bucky shakes his head. The two men watch Sam cross the large room towards the bar.

Tony had again invited him to one of his many parties that evening. There was something to celebrate. One of Tony's companies was successful on the stock exchange, or he had developed a new operating system or something with drive technology, or, or, or... Bucky didn't listen to him anymore when he was looking for a reason to organize a big party. He would have to show himself for at least a few hours anyway, even if he fought it off with his hands and feet.

"Don't you want to go over to Sharon?" Bucky asks and sees the young blonde talking to a group of older men. Steve didn't want to admit it, but he had been keeping an eye on the pretty blonde the whole time. "Oh, no. She seems to enjoy herself very much with the people there..." His voice became thinner and thinner at the end and his gaze slid over to Sharon again. Captain America's attention span seems to be getting shorter and shorter over the past weeks.

Bucky sighs and takes a little sip from his drink. Steve may have been able to disassemble a whole army of sophisticated robots, but his interest in hiding a pretty, intelligent and funny blonde failed him completely. Finally, Sam came back with the two drinks. His grin gives Bucky a bad gut feeling. Sam's gaze was too focused on his person to be inconspicuous.

 "Don't you want to get something new to drink? Your whiskey is certainly warm already", Sam passes the second glass to Steve, but keeps Bucky firmly in the drink. "Why are you so interested in my drink," asks the interviewee sourly. Thanks, Mom, I'm happy', but Bucky would rather answer. Sam shrugs his shoulders briefly but says nothing more about it. He looks at Steve with big eyes and nods his head slightly towards the bar.

 "They should offer really good wine. Almost someone as old as the two of us," Steve tries to joke.

But Bucky can't laugh much about it. Since when has Steve been interested in wine? Next, he might want to talk about cheese! This thought makes Bucky shudder even more. Sam, Steve, wine, cheese! What a terrible idea! Then it's better to voluntarily flee to the said bar. Bucky takes one last, big sip from his whiskey glass. "All right, then I'll go and look for this special wine." Without waiting for another word from his mothers, the not so young boy flees towards the bar.

You had this whole evening in mind in a different way. When you learned that your company would send you to New York at short notice to negotiate a contract, you immediately called Pepper. Finally, you came to this exciting city and could spend some time with your beloved cousin. Since she runs the company with Tony and lives in a kind of marital relationship with him, you've been talking less and less. You, as a lawyer for a big automobile company, have always travelled the world a lot. But now you can't even arrange to make Skype calls or anything.

Pepper was very excited about your last-minute visit. She didn't know yet that Tony was organizing a big party in his tower. She realized this when a huge ice sculpture in the shape of the Iron Man suit was delivered in the morning. Of course, Pepper had suggested that you still go to a cocktail bar on Broadway as planned and leave Tony alone. But you could see her fear in her eyes. Can't imagine what Tony would do if she wasn't there to stop it. Your suggestion to just spend the evening at the party was therefore even more happily accepted by her. Cocktail bar or party at Tony's can't be such a big difference, you thought.

But unfortunately, you were terribly wrong. All party guests were mostly older ladies and gentlemen, from the economy, politics or education. The gentlemen wore expensive three-piece suits and the lady’s elegant trouser suits and skirts. However, your suitcase did not give you a similar ensemble to choose from. For the whole trip you had only two outfits packed, which would correspond to the dress code of this evening. Unfortunately, they were already planned for the next two days of negotiations and the risk of ruining them was simply too great. You had to put on the planned outfit for the night in the cocktail bar. The dark green satin dress flatters your curves, thin spaghetti straps and a waterfall neckline complete the sexy look. Standing the dress has a daring brevity, but you can't imagine how short it will be if you had to sit.

Once again you smooth the hem of your dress inconspicuously. Until recently you had been standing on the edge of the room with Pepper and talking to each other animatedly. But of course, Tony soon provoked her full attention. But before she could run to him and stop whatever he was about to do, she had pushed you into a group of older gentlemen. It was a kind-hearted attempt not to make you feel left alone by her. Only Pepper's self-sacrificing interest in your person prevented you from confessing to her that you fervently desire to be left alone. You already had to endure conversations with older gentlemen on your own working days and parties, and the prospect of having to do the same in your spare time made you shiver coldly.

In your desperation, you introduce yourself to the group as Pepper's special friend. You renounce all information about your profession, too much worried that the men might still get interested in you. Your tactics are even successful. For quite a while the gentlemen take no notice of you and soon you can apologize without leaving a rude impression. Hurriedly you make your way through the small groups towards the bar, hoping that nobody will stop you. Your feet hurt terribly when you finally reach the bar. With a small, relieved sigh you sit down on the bar stool - your much too short dress completely forgotten. How you would like to tear those damn high heels off your feet. Black, high and sexy, but modern torture devices.

Someone clears his throat next to you and you turn around. A tall, dark-haired man with incredibly bright eyes stands next to you. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky Barnes. Winter soldier. Of course, you know him. From the news, stories and conversations with Pepper. Although you know all the terrible reports and can imagine that there are much darker secrets, you don't shy away from him. Who are you to allow yourself to be judged?

Bucky's lips curl a little, apparently hoping for your attention. "Good evening, may I buy you a drink?", his voice is not particularly firm, he doesn't seem quite sure of his behaviour. If only he knew what effect his imposing figure, his bright eyes and his sharp jaw have on you - his self-confidence would extend from here to the moon. With a small, cheeky grin you answer: "I thought the drinks were free. So why all the effort?"

Bucky takes a bumpy step back, strokes himself embarrassed through the long hair. If only he'd just let it go. Stupid idea. "Yes, that's right... Sorry." The tall man turns to walking and you're scared. Such a man and then so shy? You wanted to turn him on with your charm and not scare him like a little deer in the spotlight of an SUV. Quickly you reach for his arm. "Wait a minute! That doesn't mean I don't want one," you're trying to save the whole situation. With raised eyebrows Bucky turns back to you: "Sure?" You nod and point to the empty glass in front of you. "I'd love a wine."

Still a little timid, Bucky sits down on the bar stool next to you and orders two of Tony's best wines from the bartender. It only takes a few minutes until two elegant glasses with the dark red liquid are placed in front of you, but it feels like a little eternity. None of you say a word - you, afraid to frighten him off again and he, afraid to embarrass himself again.

The silence between you becomes more and more unpleasant. For a moment you think about thanking Bucky for the drink and moving on. But the alternative was still only various groups of old, boring men. How exciting could the time with this pretty man be? "Are you enjoying the evening," you ask carefully. A harmless question, which hopefully doesn't frighten him too much again. Bucky wrinkles his nose and dedicates himself to his wine. The dark liquid is velvety soft and heavy. an outstanding taste of tobacco, wild berries and honey-sweet finish. "I could find a more exciting accompaniment than my two...", Bucky quickly interrupts. To call Sam and Steve mothers in front of a strange woman would probably leave a false impression. He ends the sentence by saying, "Introduce buddy". You smile amusedly: "Well, now I'm here. Now it can only get more exciting."

Irritated, Bucky puts down his wine glass: "Are you flirting with me?" Your warm, upright laugh fills Bucky's inner self, a tingling sensation develops between his belly button and his knees. You put your little hand on his forearm and bend over to him, your sensual lips slightly open. "Is that so absurd?" When you leaned forward, the neckline of your dark dress slipped and gave Bucky a wonderful view that he just can't escape. Dark red lace contrasts with your light skin and caresses your full breasts. Your nipples will pierce through the fine fabric and stretch towards it.

This is madness! Something seems to be going wrong. Is he dreaming? Does he have a stroke? Hallucinations? Here you sit, so close to him that he can perceive your perfume of lavender and honey, your hand on his arm, your wonderful neckline and on top of that you seem to be interested in what he says! Finally, this happened to him before the war - before he became who he is now. His gaze wanders across to the end of the room. Steve and Sam, shoulder to shoulder, with a wide grin and hopeful faces.

Suddenly Bucky falls like scales from her eyes. Sam and Steve, his two mothers. Sam, who absolutely wanted him to go to the bar. Steve, who encouraged him, maybe a nice conversation partner would sit there. And finally, you. You, in that dress that doesn't hide a secret. You, with that forbidden deep neckline and the lace and your nipples. You, with that gorgeous smile. You, with your interest in his person. Bucky growls. Finally, he has added up 1 and 1 and 1. This is all an attempt to get him back on the horse - out of the bad mood, out of the compound, into life. Again, Bucky lets his gaze wander over your figure, but this time with different eyes. The sexy, tight dress made of noble fabric that leaves nothing to the imagination but still covered enough to arouse hot curiosity. High heels that would have to be registered as weapons. Glittering earrings and rings, so discreet that they already scream for the highest price tag. Unmistakable, for the time you spend with him, you get paid.

Upon realizing this, Bucky suddenly relaxes noticeably. What a cunning plan! But he can't really blame his mother’s either. His mood had been miserable in the last weeks. Your hand slightly presses Bucky's forearm and he turns his attention back to you. Your big eyes look at him waiting and he must admit that his mothers have really shown excellent taste.

How much do you think they paid for you? More importantly, how far would you go for that? Bucky, lost in thought, strokes his dark red lips with his tongue. He would find out the answers. Finally, he devotes his attention to you again, gives you a radiant smile. "Excuse me. I was just completely enchanted by you. You return his radiance, your voice still whispering: "I can say that about you too.

Bucky turns on his stool so that he can push his knee between your legs. He continues to bend towards you. The knowledge that you listen to him and don't run away, no matter what he says, releases a blockage in him that he didn't know existed. Well, you are paid for your attention. So what? As if it would be a great difference whether you get the money in cash or in the form of a dinner. Actually, this whole arrangement makes you even more attractive. Isn't there a kind of secrecy in this service?

Your hand detaches from his forearm and reaches for your wine glass. Without breaking the eye contact between you, you hold the glass to your lips and take a strong sip. When you put the glass down again, another drop glitters on your full lips. You take your lower lip between your teeth, suck on it. Bucky watches your every move and his lips slowly curl. The evening suddenly promises to be so much more interesting than with his mother’s...

Bucky puts his big, rough hand on your knee. Slowly he wanders up, under the skirt along your leg. Each of your movements is watched by him, trying to guess how far you are ready to go. You pull yourself together so as not to let anything show, but you shudder at every new millimetre of soft skin he touches. Where does Bucky's sudden courage come from? You don't care. This whole unbelievable situation is too exciting.

His fingertips stroke the edge of your panties and you bite the inside of your cheek. If he would have his fingers stroked further to your centre, he could feel how wet you have become through his gaze, his voice, his touch alone.

"Can I get you another drink?" The suddenly appearing waiter makes you both flinches. He discreetly looks you both in the eye and skilfully ignores Bucky's hand under your skirt. Whereby a hand under a skirt is still not a scandal for him... Bucky clears his throat and leans back a little, but he doesn't pull out his hand. He enjoys your warm and soft skin too much. "Do you want to enjoy the drinks somewhere else?"

You put your hand on his, only the thin fabric of the dress separates you. "Very much gladly.

Bucky grins at the waiter: "Thank you. But we're happy." You briefly think about what the waiter might think of you, but you quickly push the thought away. Nobody knows you except Pepper and Tony and why should it bother you, whatever some stranger thinks of you? Bucky briefly presses your thigh before pulling out his hand under your skirt. You slip off your stool and Bucky put his arm around your hip, his hand lies deep on your back.

At his side you cross the room, his big figure shields you from everything. The elevator takes you up one or maybe two floors. In the elevator Bucky pushes his hand back under your skirt, but this time he puts his hand on your buttock. His rough palm triggers goose bumps and you snuggle closer to Bucky, attracting his body heat.

On Bucky's floor, he leads you straight to his private room without releasing his hand from your ass.

His private space doesn't surprise you - clear lines, few personal items, but lots of books, notes and newspapers. But you don't have much time to look around. The door falls into the lock and Bucky presses you against it. His metal hand finds your other butt cheek, he kneads your soft cheek and squeezes against you. Your hands lie around his neck, pushing his head down towards you. Your lips meet, your tongues look for each other, dance with each other. Breathing heavily, Bucky interrupts the kiss, his lips wander across your cheek, up to your ear.

"What did they pay you for", his voice is deep and triggers a tingling sensation in you. The heat that develops between you makes you almost not understand the content of the question: "Please what? "Sam and Steve. What did they pay you? Slowly the content of the question seeps through your foggy brain. Of course, you had already heard something about Sam and Steve. Together with Bucky they often form the centre of Pepper's stories. But why should you pay for anything? Bucky's carnal finger wanders over your hip, strokes along the waistband of your string, down to your centre. You draw in the air sharply as his finger strokes over your lips, moisture and heat spreading.

"What is your price? Shocked, you open your eyes. Price! You, your price! Finally, you understand it. Bucky thinks you'd spend time with him for money. In short, you have the desire to push him away from you, how could he possibly believe that you are being paid? His finger slides between your lips and you suppress a moan. Fuck it. Then in his eyes you will just get paid for it. "Don't worry about it, sweetie. Better tell me what you want...', your hands wander across his muscular chest. The idea of getting paid for this, satisfying Bucky's desire and your own, only creates more moisture in your midst.

Bucky growls. Steve and Sam have really outdone themselves. As Bucky thinks, his other hand wanders over your hip. He chops his thumb under the waistband of your briefs and pulls it down. You wiggle your legs and the slip slides to the floor. His hands are back on your ass, stroking along the plane between your two buttocks. "On all fours, butt in the air."

You're shuddering. This man had a thing for your ass. "Take off your dress," Bucky orders and takes a step back. You come loose from the door, your legs slightly wobbly, but you try to cover it with circling hips. The spaghetti straps are pulled from your shoulders and the delicate fabric falls down your curves to your feet. Just as you're about to bend down to open the buckles of the high heels, Bucky stands behind you, his two big hands on your hips. "Keep your shoes on", Bucky's warm and cold hand brushing your hips up and down, the contrast a sensation on your soft skin. "Now on the bed. Show me your sweet ass."

You crawl into the middle of the bed, the cool and silky linen and your hands and knees. "Legs wide apart." You follow his instructions and spread your legs further, your ass and vagina in the air. Before you can analyse the whole situation any further, Bucky's long fingers are already further on your lips, his cold hand resting on one of your buttocks. His rough fingertips rub over your lips, pinching just before his fingers dip between them. He only wanders over your cave for a short time, but that already elicits a whimper from you.

As if in a visual word, he withdraws, apparently completely unimpressed by your seesawing buttocks. Something rustles and you hear several layers of cloth falling on the floor. Just when you want to turn your head to watch the beautiful man over your shoulder, you feel the contrast of his two hands on your hips again. But you can't concentrate on this feeling for long. Bucky, now kneeling behind you, between your legs, rubs his erect penis over your buttocks before taking it in his hand. With its tip, it rubs over your lips, distributing your moisture and its pre-ejaculate on its shaft. Just feeling his length between your labia tells you how thick and long his best piece is.

Finally, his head finds your entrance, slowly he presses against it. You want to push yourself towards him, but his hands on your hips deny you any movement. With a strong push he penetrates you, your inside torn apart by his hard tail. He fills you like none of your lovers - or one of your special toys. Its shaft is velvety soft, and you think you can feel every single protruding vein.

Bucky gasps. You enclose him so wonderfully tight and damp that he fears not to hold out much longer. For so long he had renounced this sensation. He lets himself slide out again, until only his tip rests in you, before he pushes hard into you again. Again, and again he withdraws so far back, only to push back into you with unchanged power. His rhythm is ruthless, coarse and bossy - just as you secretly hoped. Not reminiscent anymore of the shy man from the bar.

The muscles in your arms get stiffer and stiffer and before they give way under the weight of your body, Bucky wraps his arm around your belly. With a jerk he pulls you up, your back lies on his strong chest. Your hand lies on his cheek, turning his head to your face. Your lips greedily seek his, your tongue strokes over his soft lips, into his so sinful mouth.

Meanwhile, Bucky has mercilessly continued his rhythm. But now, with the changed angle, his penis rubs exactly over the one special spot in your innermost. Every new push makes you tremble, trembling the orgasm builds up inside you. Your legs start to twitch, and you moan in Bucky's mouth, no longer able to express yourself differently. Buck's cool fingers find your sensitive button, it pinches, rubs and with another push you fall into your climax. You want to shout Bucky's name with ecstasy that everyone in this huge building can share in your climax, but there's nothing more coming out of your mouth than a throaty groan. Your innermost is cramping around Bucky, sucking him deep into you. He can't delay his own climax any longer and with a push and a grunt he discharges his hot juice deep inside you.

Breathing heavily, you lie leaning against Bucky. Your juices mix and run warm along the inside of your legs. But nothing could interest you less at this moment. Bucky's human hand gently strokes the sticky hair from your face before he withdraws from you. You whimper disappointed, but Bucky again embraces your centre and this time he pulls you down under the silky lacquer.

F.R.I.D.A.Y.S. beep wakes you from your comforting post-sex coma. Nestled to Bucky's chest and completely trapped in his body heat, you need a moment to understand the whole situation. "What is it, F.R.I.D.A.Y.?" Bucky's voice is nothing more than a sluggish sigh. "Mrs Potts asks if they know where their cousin is," the IA replies. Bucky lips stroke your hair before he buries his face in it. "How should I know where her damn cousin is?" His voice has a slightly annoyed undertone, but your soft body and delicate smell distract him far too much to be angry. "Mr. Rogers and Mr. Wilson said they left the party together." Bucky's body stiffens, but before he can reply, you answer: "Tell Pepper I'm already in my room. I'll talk to her again tomorrow morning." "I'd love to."

Bucky blinks irritated. Did he just really understand you correctly? He moves a little away from you, but not too far, just far enough to look you in the eye. On your lips is a cheeky little smile as Bucky looks at you questioningly. "You are...", Bucky begins, but must clear his throat, because he doesn't know what to say about it. "Pepper's cousin? Yes," you answer Bucky's unasked question. You can't prevent your grin from getting wider. "That means... You became...", again Bucky cannot formulate the question to the end. His big brain is apparently still not supplied with enough blood. Under the blanket, your cute fingers draw circles over his stomach, and you giggle: "No, I wasn't paid either. Neither from Steve nor from Sam."

Bucky swallows hard, his shame written on his face: "Then you're not... either?" Your giggling makes butterflies fly again in Bucky. You stretch a little, let your lips float over Bucky's.

"No. I'm not. I was just incredibly gagging for you..."

 ~ Fin ~

[anthropologicalhands]

r/n 21. on a place of insecurity

note: it’s a hogwarts au! link to Ao3

~

Before she knew she was a witch, Rebecca’s seventeenthbirthday hadn’t held any special appeal for her, not the way the birthdaysdirectly preceding and following did. But the day her Hogwarts letter wriggled outof her mailbox and swept her out of her mother’s house changed all of that. True,it wasn’t a complete rescue; no castle, no matter how far away, could save herentirely from her mother and her neverending push for excellence which, unmooredby the new standards that a whole wizarding world revealed, doubled down inother ways.

However, by wizarding law, at seventeen a witch is an adult.When Rebecca turns seventeen, provided that she does not involve Muggleswithout ties to the wizarding world, she will be able to prove to Naomi Bunch,once and for all, what magic can really do.

There is always more magic to learn, even filled as the pastsix years have been with falling in love with Josh Chan, developing unusual butstrong inter-House friendships with Valencia Perez and Heather Davis, andfinding refuge in the Divination tower to have tea with Professor Proctor, evenif Rebecca had to drop the subject after her A-for-Acceptable-except-notOWL, forced to concede that she was too willing to read signs into anythingthat might suit her wishes.

That self-awareness, however, doesn’t stop Rebecca fromwishing for a sign right now.

There are barely fifteen minutes left before the end of herstudy session with Nathaniel Plimpton and she still hasn’t made her propositionyet, and it isn’t entirely clear if her own nervous anticipation or some otherforce is stretching the seconds out, so that the time to drag on especiallylong. Maybe it’s the short winter days, which makes the shadows in the libraryare especially long and dark, even though dinner isn’t for another two hours,or the flickering candlelight that makes her eyes sting and is definitely notthe best source of illumination. Idly, she wishes had her favorite reading light,the one shaped like a cartoon anglerfish, but no; it’s against the rules tohave any Muggle technology in the castle, even components as simple as alightbulb and batteries. She might still try it before she finishes; evensomething that small is a novelty to the classmates of hers who have only knownmagic all of their life, who haven’t had to fight to hold onto it, to make sureit isn’t just a fever dream.

She wants to see how Nathaniel would react, in particular—notto a reading light, but to a whole list of Muggle contraptions; he usuallymakes wonderful faces when confronted by technology he doesn’t know. From whatshe has seen of his Muggle Studies syllabus, they tend to skip out on some ofthe more interesting innovations.

Nathaniel likes to claim that Muggle Studies are a logicalchoice as a course of study going into Wizarding law, even though he knewabsolutely nothing about the Muggle world before they started talking inearnest, and he refuses to take her insights until after the professor hasgraded and returned his work – the result of a couple of small, harmlessmisconceptions she planted in his head early on in their acquaintance. Still,she’s looking forward to reading his essay on electricity after he gets it back—hetends to make interesting assumptions about the devices used in Mugglekitchens.

Rebecca sighs, not quietly, and peers over A Guide toAdvanced Transfiguration to see if Nathaniel might have the same jitteryfeeling as the end of their session approaches and might speak first so thatshe doesn’t have to start. But he seems perfectly content as he writes out hisessay in that neat, narrow script of his, nearly at the end of his roll ofparchment. She fidgets and groans to herself, realizing that she can’t wait forhim to look up first if she wants to talk to him about this and not miss herchance. Because she really, really wants to see how he’ll react to thisidea of hers.

“Hey,” she says, breaking the silence, testing the waters.

His eyes immediately flick up to meet hers.

“Hey,” Nathaniel returns, the word clipped and neutral. Buthe sets down his quill, like he knows that she wants to talk, and a full-bodyflush goes through her at his acquiescence, though she clears her throat andtries to seem perfectly unaffected as she leans towards him, so that there isno chance of their conversation will be overheard. He shifts towards her aswell, mirroring her folded hands and inclined head.

“Have you ever thought about what form your Animagus wouldtake?”

Nathaniel raises his eyebrows at her, unimpressed.

“Not particularly,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “Whatuse would I ever have for that? They’re just going to ask about the generalprocess, or the spell, not about your opinion.”

Rebecca pouts at him. “Come on, dude. Leave the cut-and-dryroutine and play along.”

Nathaniel rolls his eyes at her, the way he does when he isgoing to oblige her but wants her to know that he knows exactly what he is doing. She sits back, completely unashamed –whatever makes him feel good enough that he gives an answer.

“A cheetah,” he admits, with great reluctance.

Rebecca blinks, surprised; it’s a slightly more fancifulanswer that she would have expected.

“Really? A cheetah? The super sickly mammal known to haveanxiety? That one?”

“It’s the fastest mammal in the world,” he defends.

Rebecca hums, not entirely sold. “I guess. I’d have thoughtthat you were gonna pick a big cat, it would be a lion. Though, it makes sensethat you didn’t, ‘cause then you would lose face with all of your Slytherinbuddies, huh?”

Nathaniel just gives her a Look; she smiles innocently.

“What about you?” he asks, not because he cares, but becauseit is the point of the conversation, and he knows it. Rebecca is happy to takeit anyways.

“I haven’t decided yet, but I’m about to find out very soon.”

Nathaniel cocks his head to the side, the way he does inclass when the professors make a point that doesn’t track for him. “What do youmean by that?”

She nods, trying to seem careless and not like her heart ispounding in her throat. “What it sounds like. I’ll know before my next birthday.”

“Are you saying that you’ve…”

She smirks. “Not yet. But I will.”

She likes getting Nathaniel caught off guard, the way hisexpressions contort and how he tries to recompose himself afterwards. She usedto fluster him so easily, after their initial animosity had turned towards a friendlieracademic rivalry; he’s gotten used to her, but she can still do it, and she isconfident that announcing her intentions to become a teenage Animagus is morethan certain to provoke a reaction.

“Wow, that’s…”

“Amazing? Intense?” she supplies helpfully.

“A lot. That’s a lot of work for something that might beultimately pointless.”

The anticipation that had her floating so high abruptly turnsto lead, threatening to drag her down. But where there might have been mortificationwith anyone else, indignance flares up instead.

“What do you mean by pointless?” she demands,suddenly defensive to cover up her disappointment. She had been wanting areaction like the first time she successfully Vanished her raven and he hadlooked at her with such frank admiration. “There have only been sevenregistered Animagus this century. I would be among the best. What’s pointlessabout that?”

She can tell that she’s getting riled up, and she stops andcloses her eyes, taking two deep, slow breaths—after the Josh drama last year,she’s been working on monitoring herself, how she strikes out when she’s hurt.When she feels sufficiently calm and opens her eyes, Nathaniel is still sittingacross the table, concerned, trepidatious, but waiting for her.

Some of her irritation dissipates at the sight; she coughsand rolls out her shoulders self-consciously. “Sorry. That was a bit much.”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“What did you mean, then?” She tries to sound curious anddisaffected, but does not succeed, if Nathaniel’s wince is any indication.

“I misspoke. It would be impressive,” says Nathanielslowly, cautiously. “But is it really practical?”

“Explain.” She means to sound commanding, not petulant, butit comes out in enough of a snarl that Nathaniel holds up his hands, palmsforward, to show he means no harm, that he has no means of defense if shedecides to hex him.

(Which is silly, she would never hex him. Tackle him downthe stairs towards the Great Hall, maybe. Or send him a Howler. But nothexing.)

“Rebecca,” he says, and a tiny part of her softens at howcarefully he says her name. “You’re definitely smart enough to get it right. That’snot a question.”

She can feel herself softening further, an additionalflicker of warmth in her chest at the compliment, but has no time to enjoy itbefore he continues, “But the process requires really precise conditions that onlyoccur by chance—you can’t exactly conjure your own lightning storm.”

“Watch me,” Rebecca mutters, but without heat. She slouchesback down in her seat, crossing her arms and not breaking eye contact. “Whatelse do you have?”

“Right.” Nathaniel still looks a little ill-at-ease, but thatnever stopped him from delivering a lecture before and it isn’t stopping himnow. “If you turn into something…unusual, you’re more likely to get caught,especially if you don’t want to get registered—”

“You think I would be something unusual?”

“Not the point. Besides, we need to focus on our NEWTS. Doyou really want to undergo a painful, highly dangerous transformation duringexams? What if you get stuck without thumbs?”

Rebecca lets out an involuntary snort of laughter. IgnoringNathaniel’s grin, she says, “That’s your worst-case scenario, that I can’ttake my exams? Please. Becoming a fully-fledged Animagus would totally countas a practical demonstration of my magical capabilities.”

“Again, not the point,” says Nathaniel tartly.

“Well, my point is that I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’tcompletely sure I could succeed. I thought you would be into that, because it’sall daring and individualistic and a challenge. Always reaching, right? Isn’tthat what you like to say?”

Nathaniel narrows his eyes at her use of his words againsthim, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s a risk, and not acalculated risk. What did your girl mob say about it?”

“Conceptually, they found it very interesting,” says Rebecca,a little too casually, and knowing it, hating how Nathaniel knows her wellenough that his eyebrows climb high up his forehead again at her reply.

“Conceptually?” he prompts.

“It was the best way to frame it,” she says quickly, rushingto get ahead of his objections. “Look, if they knew I was serious, Valenciawould just start freaking out about all of the laws and regulations I would bebreaking, and Heather might not say anything but she would give me that lookthat she gets sometimes and, really, I’ve thought this through, I don’t needany of that. So, no, I haven’t told anyone else. Just you.”

She only feels a little guilty when Nathaniel straightens upin his seat.

“Why me, then?” he asks, too carelessly for it to be natural.

“Well, like you said, it’s a very precise process, so I needsomeone who likes that sort of thing – exact quantities and followinginstructions to the letter—just to make sure that I don’t end up without mythumbs. And, logically, that means you.”

She internally cringes at how thickly she’s laying it on, almostlike desperation, but she comforts herself that it is, at least, true. Shetrusts Nathaniel to help her carry this out, if he so chooses—she wouldn’t haveasked him otherwise.

Nathaniel just looks at her for a long moment, a familiarmixture of exasperation and fascination across his features, like he can’tbelieve what he’s hearing. It used to make her feel self-conscious, but thesedays she knows how he thinks – the fascination usually wins out. For all of hisown obsessive tendencies and demands for perfection, she has never felt like hewanted her to fail, and she thinks (hopes) that this time will be no different.

“Very well,” he says at last, holding out his hand. “You’reon.”

Her heart lifts; she knew he wouldn’t let her down.

“I don’t need your challenge,” she says. “But thank you.”

They shake, and the prickle of electricity that shoots upthrough her arm and settles deep in her stomach has nothing to do with theanticipation of the challenge. It doesn’t quite make up for the reaction shedidn’t get, that she was hoping for, but it comes more than close enough.

Her homework planner chirps a five-minute reminder.

“Time’s up. When do you have Quidditch practice again?” she says,tilting her head so that she’s looking up at him from under her eyelashes.

“Not until six,” Nathaniel says, his voice thick, sending apleasant shiver up her spine that has nothing to do with the draft.

“All right.” She claps the book in front of her shut, tryingnot to seem too eager. “Walk me to the dormitory?”

~

“Have you noticed that this closet isn’t here most of thetime?”

“That’s what you want to talk about right now? Really?”Rebecca asks, as she shoves Nathaniel inside, quickly following and turning thelatch behind them.

Rebecca does, in fact, know that the closet isn’t usually inthis corridor; she’s done her research on the subject. And as a Room ofRequirement, since all they require is a tiny space with the door that locks,the door will stay locked, Alohomora or not. She sloughs off her bookbag and Nathaniel’s hands are already settling at her waist, fingers splayedwide before curling in, hooked in the waistline of her skirt. She laughs when hespins her around and presses her back against the sturdy door.

“You’re in a hurry,” she teases, not waiting for his answerbefore reaching up and tugging him down by the back of his neck to kiss him.His fingers flex in, one hand sliding low around her back and the other comingup and curling into her hair, shifting to get a better angle, while her handstighten in the crest of his hair and curve around the back of his neck, workingtheir way under his collar.

It’s a familiar motion by now, but it still feels new, asnew as every other spell she learns. She knows it’s the same for him, but inthe other direction: Nathaniel grew up in the Wizarding World, a long line oftraditions behind him and stretching before him, very few of the spells theylearn are unfamiliar to him, but he always touches her like he can’t quitebelieve she exists.

It’s not something she can admit to him, though, not withoutgoing against her own pride. She does like him, terrible awful Slytherin thathe is, and she’s made her peace with that, but anything more would get messy.Besides, he’s made his stance on relationships very clear over the last fewyears: no interest whatsoever. And after the spectacular disasters that wereher relationships with Josh and Greg, respectively, that is fine with Rebecca.Studying with Nathaniel is intellectually stimulating and kissing him in closetsstimulates her in other ways, and that’s all she needs right now, really.

Although, as willing as Nathaniel is to follow her lead mostof the time, he can be annoyingly contrary at times. Like right now, when sheonly wants him as close as possible, her arms tangling around him like she’smistletoe and he’s the tree, he abruptly pulls back. She lets out a whine and triesto tug him back down to her, but for once he resists.

“Why do you want to become an Animagus?”

Of course he asks that now, right when she’s no longer inthe mood to answer it.

“You couldn’t have asked me that in the library?” shemutters, arching her back so that she presses closer into him. A verysatisfying groan claws its way out of his throat, and he mock-glowers down hisnose at her. She smirks, unrepentant.

“And risk Mrs Hernandez overhearing?” he asks. “You don’tthink that wouldn’t get back to the Ministry?”

It’s not a weightless concern; Rebecca suspects Secret Earsare stashed around the stacks so that the librarian can better terrifymisbehaving students by enchanting books to beat them over the head for anypotential violation of library policy. But Rebecca isn’t interested in thatright now, going back up on her toes to nip at Nathaniel’s throat where it isexposed over his collar, the hand around the back of his neck sliding around tothe knot of his tie, starting to work it loose. He groans again, but still leansaway, thwarting her yet again, and this time his hands cup the back of her head,which makes eye contact impossible to avoid.

“Seriously, why?” he asks,his voice low in a way that on any other day would have her shiveringpleasantly, but the question is earnest, and enough to give Rebecca pause.

Nathaniel is a wizard born and bred, and for everything elsethey have in common; he has never known a world without magic, and he cannotpossibly understand her hunger for it.

She looks down and stares hard at his sweater, running herhand thoughtfully across the material, smiling when he twitches inadvertently.She has ways of distracting him, the way she distracts others, the way shedistracted Josh Chan while she was trying to figure out how to be his dreamgirl, the way she distracted her mother from prying too closely into her lifeat Hogwarts by hinting at means to restore youth, even if those attempts neverworked for very long. Even though she was so eager to tell him before, now itseems silly – pointless, even. Nathaniel grew up in the wizarding world, afterall; he would never understand her hunger for it. It was better that he hadn’tasked her before; she doesn’t know why she wanted him to in the first place.

But then the truth unsticks from the back of her throat,some internal force overwhelmed by the feeling of his hands around the back ofher skull and the open questions compelling forward an answer that is true.

“Remember those books I showed you?” she finds herselfsaying. “The ones I used to read as a kid?”

“The ones with that totally incoherent magic system?” heasks, forehead wrinkling, and she stamps down the urge to reach up and smooth themaway with her thumbs and swats him gently on the chest instead.

“Says the guy who read the whole series in a week,” sheteases, aiming for levity. “Well, it’s a series about transformation, right?And, in the Muggle world, the most unambiguously magical thing that you can dois change yourself and do it at your choosing. Right?”

“If you say so,” says Nathaniel doubtfully.

“And people say that the animal you turn into—that sayssomething about who you really are, right? That would be cool. Plus, again, it’sa challenging piece of magic and it would prove that I’m a witch of substanceto everyone – Morgan Le Fay was an Animagus, right? It’s big and dramatic andit’ll prove to her that—”

“That what?” Nathaniel prompts, his voice soft.

“That I’m powerful. That I’m a true witch.”

“Who says you aren’t?”

When she hesitates before answering a second too long,understanding flashes across his face.

“Oh. That.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re still worried about not belonging here?” he asks,frustration that has nothing to do with her hands or her teeth slippingthrough.

Rebecca shrugs uncomfortably, hands fisting in the materialof his sweater, as much of a comfort as to remind herself not to panic, not tolook off into the future. It’s another thing he just has never understood, shereminds herself, to hold herself back. Nathaniel has never known a worldwithout magic. He doesn’t know what it’s like to not see it.

To transform at will is proof that you have control overyourself and no one else can take it away from you. When Rebecca first learnedabout Metamorphmagi, she spent days aflame with jealousy, at the idea thatthere were witches who existed with such a perfect ability to transform into whoeverthey wanted to be. But of course, it couldn’t be learned, it had to be borninto. Even magic could be unfair. But still, there are so many spells thatwould reveal more things to her about herself, if she could just read theirmeanings right. Maybe if she had been born into magic she would understand, butshe wasn’t, so she had to study herself into it instead, take the risks that mostpeople don’t have to.

“There’s a world without magic in it,” she finds herselfsaying. “When I’m not here, I’m stuck there, stuck in Scarsdale, and it feelslike none of this was ever real, because it’s impossible to feel magical whenNaomi Bunch is yelling at you about finding a husband and trying to sneaklaxatives into your food. She’s still freaking out about how she’s going toexplain Hogwarts on my college applications, because, you know, she can’t haveher already-delinquent daughter miss Harvard.”

“But you won’t need that,” he points out, in what probablyseems to be reasonable counterpoint, his thumbs ghosting over her temple.

She gives him a weak smile. “Try telling her that.”

“You’re a witch,” he says firmly. “She can’t change that.”

Intellectually, Rebecca knows that. She has potion recipesmemorized by heart, can understand Transfiguration formulas perfectly with anight of concentrated study. Hell, she can physically manifest her physicalbody in another location near-instantaneously, as proven by her flawless Apparitiontest.

But it always feels like she’s missing something more. Thatshe can’t just be a witch, not if she wants to stay. It’s how she felt chasingJosh Chan, that here was someone who melded both worlds so perfectly, embodiedthem both so effortlessly. Josh never worried that one day he might leave thewizarding world and, upon his return, find that it closed itself to him, and shehad wanted that so badly for herself that it nearly led to both their destruction.

“Unless I am thebest, I have no reason to be here,” she whispers.

She feels, rather than sees his exhale.

“For a smart person, you say really weird things sometimes,”he says. She laughs shakily.

“You think so?” she whispers, desperate to hear hisreasoning. She stares hard at the prefect badge pinned just above his breast,the enamel still new and unmarked and the only real difference from hers isthat it is green, not red. It’s strange; for all of the fights they have hadover the years, for all that she knows that he finds the Muggle world completelyincomprehensible, she has always felt he understands, fundamentally, what she islooking for at Hogwarts. That he is looking for the same thing, using the samemethods, even if he won’t admit it.

Nathaniel looks at her, blue eyes blown dark, lips red andkiss-bitten and slightly parted. He blinks and shakes his head, refocusing.

“I don’t know what it means for you, but…I can’t imagineHogwarts without you,” he says at last, and the sincerity of it sends tendrilsof what can only be elation, white-gold and jittery, coursing through herveins, unfurling at her fingertips and down to her toes.

“It’s good to hear you say it,” she says.

But she’s already promised herself—don’t mix up boys andmagic again, don’t confuse cause and effect, so when she brings her hands up tocup his jaw in turn it’s an unspoken gratitude, but the next words out of hermouth pivot them smoothly away from such sentiments.

“But, remember, this is the last time we can do this.”

“What?”

Rebecca grins at his bafflement, suddenly amused, and smoothsher hands down the front of his robes, more conciliatory than arousing. “Comeon, you’ve read the same books I have – part of the process means that I haveto carry a mandrake leaf under my tongue for a month. Can’t take it out. So,uh, all of this kissing and certain…other activities will have to be on hold.”

The intensity, the uncomfortable intimacy of the momentabruptly shifts into something more familiar as Nathaniel heaves a long sigh,put-out, but not particularly troubled.

“I mean, we could work around that,” he says.

“We could,” she hums in agreement. “But I just thought youshould know what you’re getting into.”

“Of course,” he agrees. “It just means that we better notwaste our time today.”

“Please,” she says, going on her toes again to kiss himproperly, relief at having an ally overpowering the trepidation that whateverdelicate balance exists between them is not sustainable, too easy to transforminto something else without a chance of going back.

[filmsthirteen]

Finding Myself through Cameron Crowe Films

  *Minor Spoilers*

    There are a handful of directors, writers, artists, and singers who have influenced my life. Yet there is only a handful of them who consistently released art that contributed to the person I have moulded into, (despite only being 19 and thinking this is the final version of myself). But one filmmaker in particular, resonates as having created films that were pressed play constantly as a teenager. That filmmaker is the man, the myth, the legend, Cameron Crowe. If it were up to me, he’d be Sir Cameron Crowe. An artist who had managed to shape multiple generations and accurately reflect on generations that once existed. From the early eighties, Crowe has contributed to the films that teens flocked to the theatre to see when they were released, and many years later, those teens would show their kids those films. Thus, I was thankfully brought up by brilliant films such as Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Say Anything, Singles, and Almost Famous. All those films manage to capture adolescence and young adulthood, through numerous characters, eras, and most importantly, through the use of music. Now that I’m in my final year of being a teenager, and entering the next phase of my life, I thought it was time to thank Cameron Crowe for guiding me through these seemingly treacherous years. 

    I was raised on eighties films. I always had the blessing of having parents who were really into films, and so I was constantly shown film after film. Many of them were teen films of the eighties. So, of course, there were many late nights of watching Pretty in Pink, Heathers, and Risky Business. Though Crowe's films obviously ended up in the mix, the first time I remember sitting down to watch one of his films ended up being around thirteen. My Dad got me one of those three pack special DVDs from Walmart, with Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club. Both of them I was absolutely obsessed with and made me long to be a teenager. Despite John Hughes being the legend he is, the third film, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, was the one that stuck with me through all four years of high school. I watched the film on my own the night before my first day of high school. I was starting that year off fresh; all my friends were going to the public school, while my parents shipped me off to the Catholic school the next town over, where I’d have to wear khaki cardboard material like pants, and polyester shirts in either green, white or blue. I worried my entire summer about the first day of high school; walking down halls I didn’t know, sitting beside people I never had the pleasure of knowing since kindergarten. On Stacy's (Jennifer Jason Leigh) first day of high school, American Girl by Tom Petty plays. Immediately I grabbed my iPod touch, added it to my iTunes, and played it on repeat on my hour and a half long bus ride, and into the doors of the school. Minus doing it with an older dude, getting pregnant, and brushing up my blowjob skills with a carrot in front of the cafeteria, I wished I was like Stacy. Having a cool job in the mall, somehow being gorgeous all the time (even during exam season?) and having a really sweet guy like Mark take you on a date to a really fancy German restaurant, seemed like an experience I deserved. But Cameron wrote about things in this film so painfully realistic to the high school experience, even thirty years later. I knew girls who went out with weird guys way too old for them, having plans for the future destroyed, and of course, having a teacher who thinks that everyone is on dope (which they're totally right about). It doesn't exaggerate the experience of a teenager, making the film so close to the truth as a film can get. Perhaps its due to Crowe actually spending the year as an undercover student, and honestly, all teen films should've been fact-checked like this one. 

     Less than seven years later, Crowe came out with Say Anything. Though my Mom loves this movie, and used to watch it whenever it would come on TV, it was the 2010 film Easy A that actually got me to watch the movie. I made it a point to go back and watch all those films that Emma Stone’s character lists off when discussing if chivalry is dead. Thus I ended up watching Can’t Buy Me Love, Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and of course, Say Anything. I wanted my life to be like an 80s movie directed by John Hughes, but I got it so much better, I got a life unintentionally directed by Cameron Crowe. And because of that, I fell in love with wanting to be that smart girl like Diane Court. I look back now on how much studying I did in high school, and how it paid off to where I am now. It’s important for filmmakers to add these characters, ones were they say that girls can be pretty and smart, not settling for the cliched pick and choose scenario. So I worked hard, writing endless essays, studying late at night for a math test, and juggled clubs and activities. But still, I wished to also have that and be wanted by someone. Like Lloyd Dobler, who wants Diane so much, its all he thinks about. But listen, for once I can say the character of Lloyd isn't some creepy dude, who has an obsession and is purely motivated by this girls essence. Again, there are way too many films with the lead guy being solely provoked by a woman's body. But when he gets her, he holds on, noting that her feelings are reciprocated. She could go off to Oxford, and he’d be right there. Perhaps love at this age is rare, but when you know, well you know. And that's a huge difference that my generation can see. Though many of us have grown up with divorced parents, constant cheating, and unreciprocated feelings, at such a young age, we shouldn't keep that from the actual emotions that we are meant to feel for another human. Maybe we are supposed to give it all, and as I watch this film, I’m not wondering what if Lloyd didn't go about the relationship as he did, I wonder how Lloyd and Diane are. Because like I said, he wants her so bad that he stands outside of her house after a fight, holding that boombox up high, blasting the best love song of all time, In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel. I can’t even tell you the amount of times I’ve had that song on an endless repeat, but I can promise that I most likely broke the record the summer of ‘18. I longed to be sought after like Diane (cause who honestly doesn't want to be so enormously desired by someone you love?). By the end of the August heat, I laid awake at night, waiting for that song to be played outside of my window (actually would've freaked me out but still, the thoughts nice). But that song ended up being played during the fall, plenty of times in the cold winter days, and in the early spring, all the while so content with listening to it at this very moment. Sometimes boys and girls, it's good to just say anything (add wink emoji here). 

     Despite still being totally obsessed with all things of 80s culture, it's time to bring up that phase that wasn't ever a phase, but the depths of my soul. The tenth grade brought about my “grunge phase.” I got my nose pierced, splurged on Doc Martens, stocked my closet with various coloured flannel shirts and band tees. I wanted people to know that I listened to Nirvana, Guns n Roses, and Pearl Jam, despite it being on my shirt that I’d wear under my uniform sweater. My eyeliner was thick black, and my tweets were usually lyrics from some band part of the Seattle Sound. My Dad was in his teens when the Seattle sound came about, and thus as a kid, I spent many car rides hearing Alice in Chains ‘Dirt’ album, Pearl Jam’s the ‘Ten’ album, and Nirvana’s ‘Unplugged’ album on the radio. For me, I was the real shit when it came to this era of my life. And that became the perfect opportunity for my dad to introduce me to Crowe’s ‘92 film Singles. A group of young adults who all live in (a now extremely famous) the same apartment complex, during the height of the Seattle sound. Surprise surprise, they reside in Seattle. Honestly, there could've been no better film for my dad to turn on. With cameos from my bae Eddie Vedder and the late Chris Cornell, the film brings so much to the group of young adults who chose to immerse themselves in real boy bands, compared to whatever the other ones who sang with earpieces paired with synchronized dances did. No offence. Dealing with the idea of relationships, whether we are to settle or have fun in our 20s, Singles is supposed to be about Gen Xer’s, yet, I can see how many millennials still have this issue. There are plenty of girls I know who have used their ex’s t-shirts to clean their toilets, and though we aren't making dating VHS’s, they are perfecting their tinder profiles, hoping that actual human connection exists on the other end. The biggest point in the film that got me, (despite being sixteen trying to imagine myself in four years time), was the whole fear of what if you commit and what if you don’t? There are many ways you can mess up potential, and still, it lies within not calling after a date, or in our case, texting after hanging out. Sometimes we just need people to say and do the right things without having to tell them what is the right thing to do or say. And if it all works out, we’ll end up like Steve and Linda who move out the single bedroom apartment, and into never having to be labelled again as a single. 

     Eight years came about the semi autobiographical story of Crowe himself, Almost Famous. The film with the best soundtrack of all time, due to it having a budget of 3.5 million, compared to most films with budgets of about 1.5 million. Honestly, that's the best use of money in all of human history. And thanks to Zooey Deschanel’s duffel bag, we get to hear Simon and Garfunkel, Led Zeppelin, The Beach Boys, and everyone's favourite, Elton John. You cannot tell me you did not get goosebumps hearing Tiny Dancer being sung in unison by Kate Hudson, Billy Crudup, Patrick Fugit, Jason Leigh, and well I could go on forever about the well-casted film. Before watching the film, I remember that Fool in the Rain was my favourite Zeppelin song. But after watching it for the first time, I had probably had listened to Led Zeppelin’s song Tangerine a hundred times. If a film has such tangible (see what I did there) scenes, and a song contains such a powerful presence, then that is mastering filmmaking in my opinion. Thus, this film was watched during all sorts of moments in my adolescence. The time I wanted to work as a journalist for Rolling Stone, when I was in need of a change, and when I was absolutely alone and only a Cameron Crowe film understood me. And each time I was damn near tempted to be a roadie for a somewhat known band, who hopefully was opening for Black Sabbath. Actually, it was very much this film that got me more obsessed with concerts than I was before. I’d buy tickets as soon as they’d go on sale, mostly to smaller bands, that way I’d have a chance of being up close, and even meeting the band. Like William, I’d wait by the stage doors for the band. Dragging my friends to the concert at least twelve hours before the show would start, just so I could meet bands like Peach Pit, Pale Waves, Colouring, and well other indie bands that I’m sure slim to no adults know. Believe me, I’d wait a week for Black Sabbath if I could. But beyond that, I think that every young person deserves the life, encapsulated in this film; of just going out there and being absolutely free. You know, before life kicks in. And that's really what this film, amongst nearly all of Crowe's films, demonstrate. Get out there kid, put on those headphones, blast some Lynyrd Skynyrd, and just live before you die. Being obsessed with listening to classic rock, I devoured the only season of Paul Feig’s Freaks and Geeks, and had Almost Famous’s soundtrack on repeat. I owned a long green army jacket, and also a faux sheepskin sherpa coat. I was both Lindsey Weir and Penny Lane. I was walking down the two hallways of my high school, and the one street of my small towns downtown, earbuds in, Fleetwood Mac blasting. And through the many characters of these films, they reminded me that I’m here for the art. For the music from the Bookends album, the score of a Tim Burton film, and the tracks of a Tarantino picture. Like Kathy and Paul who went off to see America, Lindsey who goes off to a Grateful Dead concert with her best friend, and Penny Lane who is off to her dream destination of Morocco, I myself am off to see and hear the world. 

      It's odd to look back on these films that meant so much to who I was and who I’ve become. I’m in my last year of being a teenager, and I’m almost done university’ yet I still feel so attached to these characters I feel that I someway embodied. But that's not because I based my life off these characters Crowe created, it's really because Crowe based these characters off of people that exist in life. In those years of watching any teen film out there, Crowes (and of course Hughes) inspired me to look around constantly, taking notes on the friends I had spent lunches on Thursdays, discussing films with, just in case I’d make a film reminiscent about them. In my seemingly ordinary life, Crowe told me to go out and grab those who write seemingly precognition notes in your yearbook. Most importantly, Crowe told me to just let the music guide me through life. And for that, I got my life to be directed by Cameron Crowe. 

INT. Credits being to roll, as ELTON JOHN’S TINY DANCER plays. 

FADE OUT 

[terramythos]

Review: The Fifth Season by N. K. Jemisin (The Broken Earth #1)

Length: 449 pages.

Genre/Tags: Fantasy, Science Fiction (kind of), Female Protagonist(s), First-Person, Second-Person, Third-Person, Apocalyptic, Dark, LGBT Characters, Diverse Cast, Great Worldbuilding, Split Narrative, Trilogy, Perfect Score 

Warning(s): This is not a happy book. Child death, graphic violence, torture/abuse, slavery, references to rape. 

My Rating: 5 / 5 (Highly Recommended) 

My Summary: 

In a world known as The Stillness, constantly besieged by earthquakes, a woman named Essun comes home to discover her husband has murdered their son and disappeared with their daughter. Feared, dehumanized, and enslaved by society at large, Essun is an “orogene”, a person with the ability to manipulate the earth and energy around them. She has been hiding in plain sight away from The Fulcrum, the governing body and prison of her kind. Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, a different orogene unleashes a deadly cataclysm that throws the world into the apocalypse.

The story follows three women through various points in time. Essun, in the present, must survive the coming Season as she tracks down her husband. Damaya, a young child from the past, has just discovered that she is an orogene— and is about to discover how cruel the world is for people like her. Finally, Syenite, an ambitious young adult trained by The Fulcrum, is sent on a routine  mission with Alabaster, the most powerful orogene alive. Ordered to produce a child with him, Alabaster’s strange, dangerous ideas about orogenes and their place in society threaten to change everything.

But of course, nothing is quite that simple.

Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall; Death is the fifth, and master of all.

**Minor Spoilers and My Thoughts Follow** 

One thing I want to get out in the open— my summary is misleading. In fact, most summaries I’ve seen for this novel are misleading. Yes, it’s technically true; those are all things that happen. The thing about this novel, though, is that just about everything in it is a spoiler. The worldbuilding is so steady and deliberate that many major components of the story are not revealed until later. So, to be safe (hah), I minimized the details. The result is a story that sounds like many others in the genre. But there’s a whole lot more at play than my summary suggests. And it is going to be hard to talk about this novel without spoiling anything, but I’ll do my best.

This book sounds dark. It sounds bleak. And it absolutely is. But I think this is also a very important book, and even if stories like this are not your usual cup of tea, I highly encourage you to read it.

The Fifth Season was a wild ride. The Stillness is fascinating, and shies away from most of the Tolkein-esque, Euro-centric standards of modern fantasy. The worldbuilding is slow and well-executed, sprinkling details in when they become relevant, but over time forming an intricate, interesting setting. These facts alone would make it worth reading, in my eyes, but it’s the level of writing ability and thought-provoking twists that really make this one shine. If the other two books in the series are nearly as good as this one, I know I’m in for a treat.

The writing is masterful. I don’t just say that because it’s a good story— it is— but the technical level of craft is just mind-boggling. The narrative is deeply personable and made me connect to the characters without me even really realizing it. Without edging into direct spoilers, there are so many details planted in any given chapter that twist back and become relevant later. Or, even more impressive, there are a number of things conspicuously MISSING that end up relevant later. It felt like I was being guided along by an unseen hand throughout the whole book, and the end result was both satisfying and deeply unsettling. This is how good writing should work, and it so often does not. To do this on top of juggling THREE different stories? N. K. Jemisin makes the whole thing seem effortless.

At times I had to stop reading because I couldn’t believe anything could be this GOOD. This is the first book in a long time where I couldn’t wait to get home and keep reading. I spent hours at a time just completely engrossed. I love reading, I love good stories, but this one is the first in a while that felt like an experience.

One thing I really appreciated was how Jemisin plays with expectations. I found myself predicting how certain storylines or conflicts would unfold because I’ve seen them before, but then she would, at the last moment, pull things in a completely new direction. Some things went how I expected them to, but there was enough divergence to keep things interesting. And boy, was I hooked the entire time. Even in places where the pacing slowed a little bit, I was eager to see what was happening with the other characters in one story thread or other.

And the characters… whoo boy. I really enjoyed the perspective characters, but there are several side (arguably main) characters I really liked as well. Alabaster in particular was fascinating, and probably my favorite. I also liked Tonkee and Hoa, characters who show up part way into Essun’s story, who I’m assuming are going to be bigger players going forward. One of the main antagonists is so goddamn creepy, but not in the usual way? It’s hard to describe, but he was fascinating as well. There are others, but I don’t want to just list a bunch of names that won’t mean much to someone reading this review. Just read the damn book.

Representation is also excellent, which I didn’t expect at the beginning of the story. First off, none of the major characters are white (well, at least by current standards). There’s at least one major gay, bisexual, and transgender character in the story as well, which is always nice to see. I won’t say who is which, just that each was a pleasant surprise to me. There’s even a happy and healthy polyamorous relationship late into the novel, which I really enjoyed. There are so many irritating love triangles out there that it was nice to see a deliberate subversion.

As I have implied, there are some major twists in the story. Some are more obvious than others, but they all felt well set up and executed. One of my favorites is a throwaway line that comes back to reveal one twist, then comes back AGAIN for a second sucker punch at the end. The novel doesn’t even draw much attention to it— it’s something you have to realize on your own. I am pretty proud of myself for figuring one twist that isn’t confirmed until the final goddamn line. And still, there were plenty that took me by surprise. I feel like there is probably a bigger overarching twist or two that will be explored in later novels, because there is so much WEIRD shit that we still do not have answers for. The Fifth Season works well as a unit, but it practically begs for sequels, so I’m glad there are two lined up on my reading list.

The Fifth Season is not a happy novel. It starts with a dead kid, so that much should be obvious. A great deal of the narrative focuses on the atrocities and abuses committed against a group of people. It’s obviously an allegory for plenty of horrific things both today and throughout history, and it deliberately sides with the oppressed (something many fantasy stories fail to do). And I think The Fifth Season would be good if it was JUST that, but there’s so much more going on in the story that it truly stands apart as something remarkable. Time will tell, but as of finishing this novel, I think it might be one of the best I’ve ever read. Despite the dark subject matter I really cannot recommend it enough. Please do yourself a favor and read The Fifth Season. If only so I can scream with you.

[militant-holy-knight]

Benioff and Weiss Were Always Hacks: You Only Noticed Now

Or why you should be worried for the future Star Wars movies made by them

(Disclaimer: this blogpost contains spoilers for Game of Thrones)

With only two episodes left for the series to reach it’s conclusion and the announcement for future Star Wars movies in the horizon made by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss (henceforth referred to as D&D for simplicity sake), not many fans seem to be excited about it as they should due to the creative choices taken in regards to the final season of Game of Thrones. Speaking as a GoT fan, I used to enjoy the show a lot and I believe it reached it’s peak on Season 4 and started to go went downhill on Season 5. If D&D were in charge from the beginning what happened?

D&D’s job was always to adapt the book series by George R. R. Martin, which means any merit to the show’s writing can be attributed largely to Martin while D&D were only fit for it to make it work into a tv show - which is still laudable in it’s own right because there are things in the books that still wouldn’t translate too well into the show. In any case, they did their job well from Season 1 to Season 4 which adapted the first trilogy in the series. Even though there are still five books in total released at the time, Season 5 is where they started to run out of material to adapt because some storylines didn’t find their proper conclusion and they needed to come up with their own unique deviations.

Season 5 is considered by many fans to be the low point in the series because of it’s extremely low pacing and controversial liberties taken: the biggest ones have to be the Dorne subplot because that meant axing popular book character Arianne Martell, Stannis Baratheon turning irredeemable evil and paying with his life and Sansa’s marriage to Ramsay Snow leading to her rape, which is still a very hot button among the fandom to this day (and understandably so). Season 5 did have some moments like Hardhome which showed the strength of the true villain of the series, the Night King, the leader of the White Walker invasion who brings winter with him. He is the Thanos-like menace who is teased since the very start of the show with the very first scene opening with a White Walker killing some Night Watch’s rangers and warning us about the danger he represents.

Season 6 fixed some of these problems by giving a more dynamic pacing and build it up with the Battle of the Bastards as the climatic encounter instead of something completely anti-climatic like Season 5′s finale where Stannis Baratheon’s forces were liquidated by the Boltons offscreen. But still, it was an entire season wasted to fix another one’s problems and it still had some individual problems. 

And then Season 7 came along and it all went to waste. I wouldn’t say it was as bad as Season 5 because at least shit happened and it wasn’t boring, but it was still full of groan-worthy moments like trying to force some romance between Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen which doesn’t work because they have no chemistry and they are related by blood, curing Jorah Mormont who has been infected with a dangerous disease that will turn him into a snow zombie by simply cutting out the infected area, and of course lest we forget the Wight Hunt in Episode 6 “Beyond the Wall” which broke all suspension of disbelief. Lemme sum it up for you what happens in that episode so you can get the idea and let me put up a map so you can get it from reference.

The heroes come up with the idea to capture an Wight and bring it South to convince Cersei to from a truce.

The travel by boat to the Wall from their base on Dragonstone.

After reaching the Wall, they walk into the land beyond it to find a wight.

They find one and send one of their members back to ask reinforcements having to sprint a indeterminate distance.

The team gets surrounded by the Night King’s army in a frozen lake for a indeterminate amount of time.

The allies at the Wall send a raven back to Dragonstone requesting help.

Daenerys summons her dragons to fly to the land beyond the Wall to rescue the heroes.

They are fighting to the last against the advancing horde of the Night King just before Daenerys arrives in a triumphant moment to save them.

And all of this happens like... Within a hour apparently. Several days should have taken place between this exchange but time moves at the speed of the plot, but D&D seem to be relying on emotional torque to get viewers to ignore all internal logic and be mindblown by the crowning moments of awesome. And this is the core issue with their writing.

D&D write their scenes the same way they film sex scenes apparently, hoping that the emotional moments will make the audience be carried over. Thing is... I realized this after thinking up about many moments in the past. Hardhome was one such example in Season 5 to make up for its abhorrent dullness and even Season 6 wasn’t safe from this. For example, remember how Rickon Stark died just so he could provoke Jon Snow to act irrationally and spur him into conflict? Why didn’t Rickon run in zig-zag when Ramsay began firing arrows at him? Why did he run into a straight line? Did these writers not watch Prometheus to learn their lessons from it’s mistakes? This problem was carried over in Season 8 and amplified a lot in the Long Night. Many people pointed out the several military blunders made by the protagonists when fighting against the Night King’s army.

I could talk about the moronic choice to film everything in absolute darkness and make it impossible to see shit.

I could talk about how idiotic it was to waste your cavalry against the enemy bulwark.

I could talk about how they didn’t create trenches with tar or use fire for more effective manner against the undead.

But I’d rather talk about that moment.

Arya killing the Night King.

You know at first I was okay with that because:

I wasn’t being a fan of Jon Snow in a long time.

Arya wasn’t a Mary Sue, had skills that justified her, so I could buy it better.

But the more I thought about it, more I came to the realization that it was a wrong choice all along.

Arya never had any investment in killing the Night King. She was a character defined by a list of people she wanted to kill including the Freys, Cersei, Joffrey and others.

Arya was trained as an assassin yes... But her training in Season 5 and 6 was very lackluster. She spent some time doing menial works, impersonating some people and trying to spill some poison on someone’s drink. She never learned invisibility, teleportation or any other cool shit.

And most importantly... Melisandre predicting that Arya would shut down “blue eyes” way back when they met in Season 3. If she sensed she was always destined to kill the Night King why did she ever support Stannis? Why did she even support Jon Snow? She even referred to him as the Prince that was Promised. Some fans can try to spin this as much as they want, but it breaks the plot retroactively very hard.

The actress herself didn’t think she deserved it

Of course all of these things were ignored by a large part of the fanbase, more specifically the “woke” crowd because YAS QUEEN SLAY. Little did they know that the very next episode would force them to eat a real shit sandwich when “The Last of the Starks” seemed to turn the narrative against Daenerys Targaryen by turning her into the Mad Queen, killing her handmaiden Missandei and setting up Jon to be the next King of Westeros. Not helping matters is that a series of leaks not yet confirmed as of the time of writing were released prior to the episode (but I personally feel they were legitimate due to some specific things but that is not the point) which sent many Daenerys fans into panic mode.

Speaking as someone who really doesn’t like Daenerys Targaryen, I can actually sympathize with them at some level because this shift appears to be very sudden specially now that the authors favored her more until this very moment. Some viewers can argue that there were always signs like her burning the Tarlys for refusing to bend the knee, which I personally took issue with before but it never really came across as the sign of an insane ruler since she offered very valid rebuttals. It all seemed like the plot was tailored to take her side no matter what and I considered Dany a Mary Sue. But just because they seem to be turning her into a villain now, it doesn’t make me hate the story any less.

Now... I spent an inordinate amount of time bitching about Game of Thrones and if you are an Star Wars fan that doesn’t know anything about it, you might be lost to anything I am writing. Well I needed to give an proper context to both GoT and SW fans since those seem to overlap now and give you a warning because Star Wars seems to be more lost now than ever. D&D were never particularly good writers, they were incoherent about continuity, care more about spectacle over substance and seem to share a thing about subverting the audience’s expectations like a certain Ruin Johnson who succeeded in completely ruining a franchise like there was no tomorrow. The key difference between D&D and Ruin is that the duo doesn’t share the same flippant attitude or picking up fights with fans on Twitter - on the contrary, D&D understand the power of fanservice even if it means daggling the metaphorical shining keys in front of the audience. 

As we come close to Game of Thrones conclusion, I have a feeling that nobody will truly come out satisfied with it should the story take the direction that we are really dreading. I’ve seen interviews about how Emilia Clarke sounds really sad and deflated, seemed like she was really disappointed with how the show ended. Whatever happens, the blame can be laid on the feet of Benioff and Weiss for their frankly baffling creative decisions. This season has been disappointing through and through with two or three episodes being needlessly long and filler to booth and to make matters worse, it was supposed to end earlier than 10 episodes. Why did they need to rush it and yet fill the series with so much dead air?

Now can you imagine a Star Wars movie made by them? With all these things I listed? The next trilogy is already dated, we don't know if it's D&D or Ruin Johnson yet. We are talking about a couple of writers that have no sense of realistic scale, continuity or logic, but rely on cheap emotional tricks to have the audience invested until they begin thinking about it. I would laugh until I was sick if this season turns everyone against those two fuckwads that Disney changes their mind about putting them in charge. If the world was a just place, this is what would happen at least.

[rorykillmore]

okay and THIS one is for @larkspear  who requested any kind of au involving laurel and dolores. this fic is a funny story in and of itself. i spent a little while wondering what to do, weighing more traditional options, and then one day i was like “you know what? these two deserve a romcom au”. so i picked the most winter-y romcom i could think of - groundhog day - and the concept kind of ran away with me. it required a... lengthier execution by its very nature and actually became the longest gift fic i’ve written. so... either sorry, or you’re welcome?? i had such a blast with this, though i went back and forth on whose perspective i wanted to write it from and ultimately decided laurel lent herself better to “being super grumpy about smalltown life” in spite of dolores’ canonical history with timeloops so. all of this to say writing a long fic from someone else’s character’s perspective is daunting and i hope it turned out okay!

spear, i hope this fic is deserving of all the effort and development we’ve poured into this ship. i’m really grateful that 2018 gave us so many great opportunities to rp and plot with each other because every moment of it has been fantastic, and i’m also just really glad to have you in my life as one of my closest friends!! you’re always one of the first to salt with me if i’m grumpy, or reach out and offer something nice if i’m upset. thank you for being such a great friend, for all the rps i still hold close to my heart, and for entertaining all of us with memestream from week to week!!

Hey, Sara, funny you should call. I think I’m losing my mind -- any idea what to do about being stuck in a timeloop?’

Not that Laurel didn’t appreciate a good dose of AC/DC - who in their right mind didn’t? - but she has to admit that in practice, waking up to Highway to Hell is a lot less funny than she’d thought it was going to be last night.

Even if it is still utterly appropriate for the day ahead of her.

She grumbles almost inaudibly against the obnoxiously loud musical backdrop and reaches blindly for her phone -- still half asleep, so it takes her a little bit of fumbling to actually turn off the alarm. Sitting up in bed feels like a monumental task by itself, especially when she realizes that her hotel room is cold.

Like, ice cold.

“Place doesn’t even have a goddamn heating system that works,” she mutters to herself, smoothing her hair out of her face. She’s not sure what else she expected from this stupid, cutesy, outdated bed-and-breakfast -- the only place in Beacon Heights with vacancies, as if fucking Groundhog Day is a pull-out-all-the-stops holiday around here, or something.

The sooner she gets to work, she tells herself, the sooner this day will be over with, and the sooner she can go home. She slips out of bed and goes to get showered and dressed, delayed only slightly by the inconvenience of being held up by the nosy, overly friendly teenage desk clerk downstairs (some weirdo named Ratchet, or at least, that’s what he tells everyone to call him. Laurel’s pretty sure that’s not a real thing anyone would be named).

“Morning!” ‘Ratchet’ calls to her cheerfully on cue. “We have fresh coffee made, if you wanted any --”

“No thanks,” Laurel cuts him off without even looking at him. She’s out the door before he can get another word out.

In the car, she finally takes a second to check her phone.  Just one missed call, but when she scrolls down to see the contact info, she feels herself stiffen in the drivers seat.

Sara.

Why the hell would her sister be calling her? They haven’t spoken in almost two months.

She stares at the screen for a few more seconds, deliberating. There’s a nagging possibility that won’t leave the back of her mind, that maybe Sara just wants to talk, to work things out, but -- 

-- Then that stinging fear of rejection catches up with her. Reconciliation is probably overly optimistic, in light of everything. She’s going to be late for work anyway.

She puts her phone down and tries not to think about it.

The drive into town is, in theory, only five minutes, since Beacon Heights is so insufferably cozy. But ‘five minutes’ today is translating to ten, and then fifteen because of all the traffic, and God, what is it with people in this town and this holiday? What was it about twitchy rodents predicting the weather that got people up out of their beds at 6:30 in the morning?

Small towns were so weird.

When the line of cars in front of her finally start to move, Laurel is about at her wits’ end -- almost crazed and impatient enough not to stop when some freak on a motorcycle has the nerve to try cut in front of her. As it is, he hits a patch of ice and skids haphazardly anyway, making an outright spectacle when he’s finally thrown from the back of his vehicle by the sudden stop and flies straight into a snowbank on the side of the road.

Laurel eyes him for a moment. But the road in front of her is open.  “Serves you right,” she mutters under her breath, and hits the gas without stepping to check to see if he’s okay.

She gets to work almost ten minutes late, as it is. Her director and cameraman - Camille and Felix, respectively, the only two people she can even vaguely count as friends despite how many years she’s had this job - look vaguely exasperated when she finally walks into what passes for Beacon Heights’ news broadcast studio.

“Traffic,” she tells them defensively.

“You’d better tell hair and make-up to make it fast.” Camille eyes her up and down a bit judgmentally. “We’re supposed to be outside and live in forty minutes.”

“Which is exactly why I don’t need hair and make-up,” Laurel, who can’t see the point of even trying to look good when bundled up in twenty degree weather, grumbles.

From there on out, the morning (relatively, for the most part) goes as planned. Filming outside in this kind of weather is insufferable - and the fact that all the cheery townspeople who have gathered to watch don’t seem to have their moods dented by this at all even moreso - but Laurel has been doing her job long enough by now to know how to keep a smile plastered on her face.

It’s a sunny day, so predictably, the groundhog sees his shadow. Everyone acts surprised anyway, and coos and fawns over the damn thing. Laurel tries not to gag.

“Now that that’s over,” she tells Camille under her breath when they’re done filming. “I’m getting coffee. Or maybe something stronger.”

As it turns out, it’s difficult to find anyone willing to serve anything stronger at this hour of the morning in Beacon Heights, so. Coffee it is. Laurel orders a cup to go from the local diner, and she’s on her way out, admittedly in a little bit of a hurry,  when she knocks right into someone.

The disastrous results seem to play out in slow motion. She stumbles. Her coffee cup flies into the air, the lid jarred loose by its velocity. And warm (not steaming, which is probably good) liquid spills all over the woman Laurel just ran into.

She’s pretty, is the first weird thought Laurel has.

(Okay, not that weird, one night stands are not exactly an oddity for her when she’s traveling on a job, but maybe it’s a little weird when you’ve just accidentally covered someone in warm coffee).

Almost out-of-a-storybook pretty, with long blonde hair that she wears in soft curls and bright blue eyes and a matching, expensive looking coat that is now...

...unfortunately, pretty much ruined.

“Wow,” Laurel says unhelpfully in place of an apology.

The other woman gapes at her for a moment longer, and then suddenly seems to shake herself out of it.  “Have you ever tried watching where you’re going?”

Later, she’ll probably look back and decide instigating any further was a bad idea, but right now the hostility in the woman’s tone provokes in Laurel something close to insolence. “Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to know this town?”

The woman bristles at her. “You’re not exactly as charming face-to-face as you are on screen, are you?”

“Depends on who you ask.” She probably sounds like an asshole, mostly because she can’t keep from sounding a little amused. “Today’s probably not one of my finer moments.”

“Well. Because of you, I can either not make my job interview this morning, or show up looking like this. So thanks.”

Laurel shrugs, though she’s starting to feel she’s on the edge of... if not guilty, then at least vaguely self-conscious. Which means, of course, another bout of defensiveness.  “It’s Beacon Heights. Everyone else looks worse than you do now on their best days.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, evidently. The woman shoulders past her angrily and starts to stalk off, and to make things even worse, the man coming up the road from the opposite direction pauses to acknowledge her.  “Everything okay, Dolores?”

Laurel realizes with an unpleasant lurch that she recognizes him: the man she knocked off the motorcycle earlier this morning. She turns quickly before he can notice her and opts to hurry back to her car instead of getting another cup of coffee. Too much risk of running into one of them inside the cafe.

God, everyone knows everyone in this town. It’s insufferable.

At the very least, she’s pretty sure her day can’t get much worse. Until she makes it back to the inn to change her clothes, and finds Ratchet, still waiting for her at the front desk.

She glares at him in passing, daring him to say anything. And of course, he addresses her obliviously anyway.  “You got water? Supplies? Everything you need for tonight and tomorrow?”

That makes Laurel halt in her tracks.  “...What are you talking about?” she asks, turning to face him suspiciously.

Ratchet blinks at her.  “There’s a big storm coming. Weren’t you covering the weather this morning?”

“All we talked about was the goddamn groundhog,” Laurel grits out. “What storm?”

“Big blizzard.” Ratchet shrugs somberly.  “Worst we’ve had this year. Not supposed to clear up ‘til... uh, sometime tomorrow evening, I think?”

Laurel feels her heart sinking rapidly.  “But I’ll still be able to get out of here tomorrow, right?”

“Drive out of here?”  Ratchet sounds mildly incredulous.  “I wouldn’t. And believe me, I’ve pulled off some pretty crazy --”

She doesn’t wait for him to finish his anecdote. All she can think about now is being stuck in this miserable town for another day and a half, and how nothing so far has gone right, and that if one more person tries to make ‘small talk’ with her she’s going to snap.

She storms up to her room without another word. It’ll be hours still before it even gets dark, but right now, she doesn’t feel like doing much more than sulking and counting down the time until she can sleep some of this off.

Living easy, living free Season ticket on a one-way ride Asking nothing, leave me be Taking everything in my stride...

Purely on instinct this time, Laurel reaches for her phone and silences it quickly, then lifts her head from the pillow to glare at it. She could have sworn she’d changed that alarm to something less grating.

She tries not to dwell on it, getting up out of bed and instead moving to the window to gauge the damage of the night before. Maybe it won’t be as bad as the desk clerk said --

-- There’s only a thin layer of snow on the ground. Same as yesterday.  

Laurel can hardly believe her luck. Are the people in this town insufferable and hysterical?

Maybe it shouldn’t surprise her that they can’t even get the weather right. Not keen on wasting any time just in case, she hurries to pack her things, and God, the room is still so cold even though she told them to fix the heat yesterday --

Whatever. She showers quickly, throws herself together even more haphazardly than yesterday, and hurries downstairs once all her things are packed.

“Morning!” By now she recognizes Ratchet’s grating voice.  “We have fresh coffee made, if you wanted any -- hey, uh, where are you going with all that stuff?”

“Relax,” she mutters, begrudgingly approaching the front desk. “I’m checking out. Since the storm blew over.”

Frustratingly, Ratchet only stares at her for a moment.  “The storm’s not... due until tonight,” he answers slowly, and before Laurel can berate him for the misinformation, he adds, “Don’t you have a thing today, anyway?”

Laurel stares back blankly.  “A ‘thing’?”

“I thought you were in town with your crew to cover the Groundhog Day celebration.”

Is he screwing with her? Or just trying to hold her up? She sets her phone on the counter pointedly.  “Groundhog Day was yesterday.”

But then her screen lights up, and she sees she has a missed call. From Sara.

Panic seizes her for a moment - why would Sara call twice in two days, is there some kind of emergency, did something happen to Dad - and then she notices the date on her phone. And her blood runs cold for an entirely different reason.

Had yesterday just been some kind of fever dream? Was she losing her mind?

“Shit,” Laurel mutters under her breath.  “Shit shit shit shit shit.” Forgoing any explanation, she grabs her phone, turns, and makes a beeline for the door empty-handed.

“Miss Lance, what about your luggage --” Ratchet starts to call after her, but Laurel waves him off.

“Get someone to take it up to my room for me; I’ll tip them later!” If she doesn’t haul ass, she’s going to be late.  Like, later-than-yesterday late. How the hell could this have happened? How could she have thought today -- was tomorrow?

All her hurrying ends up being mostly for nothing -- if there’s one thing her dream (or whatever it was) predicted, it was the traffic. And... the call from Sara, now that she thinks about it. And the alarm.

Something weird feels like it’s creeping up on her, and she almost stops paying attention to the road -- long enough not to realize that someone is trying to cut in front of her. The vehicle - a motorcycle, she knows without even looking at it - swerves badly and skids to an abrupt stop at the side of the road, sending its rider flying into a snowbank.

Unwittingly, Laurel slows enough to get a good look at him -- the guy from before, the one who’d been there when she’d spilled coffee all over... Dolores?  How could she have dreamed his face if she’d never seen him before?

He starts to pick himself up, and she snaps out of it, speeding off before he can get a word out.

By the time she gets to work, she’s at least trying to laugh it all off -- content to chalk it all up to a weird case of deja vu, or something, because what else makes sense. It might have worked out, too.

If Camille and Felix hadn’t greeted her with the exact same skepticism.

If she hadn’t had her hair and make-up done in the exact same way, then sent outside to the exact same filming location.

If the groundhog hadn’t seen his goddamn shadow.

Laurel is barely holding it together by the time she gets off work. It’s really the best she can do just to seem like she’s not panicking, and when she goes to the coffee shop -- dreading what she’ll find -- it’s more to prove a completely implausible hunch than anything. Or maybe to disprove it. Like if she can avoid spilling coffee all over that woman, this... spell, or whatever it is, will break.

She inches out the door, coffee held tightly in one hand -- but she’s so intent on squeezing past Dolores that her foot hits the upturned side of the coffee shop’s cheery welcome mat, and she stumbles, and it’s enough to send coffee splattering all over Dolores.

Again.

Laurel can do nothing but sort of gape at her even as she’s met with that same angry, incredulous stare. 

“Have you ever tried watching where you’re going?” Dolores demands, and Laurel almost wants to cry.

I think I’m going crazy.

“I think I’m going crazy.”

No, wait -- she’d actually said it aloud. 

Dolores does a kind of double-take. “...Excuse me?”

“I’m --”  Laurel can’t keep her voice from wavering.  “You don’t remember?”

“Remember you?” Dolores seems caught somewhere between uncertain and disdainful.  “I’ve seen you on TV. And I knew you were in town, of course, for the holiday broadcast I’m sure you think is beneath you. People can hear you when you make fun of them, you know, and news travels fast --”

“No, no, no, remember this -- this -- all of this!”  In her panic, Laurel gestures to an increasingly baffled looking Dolores.  “The coffee, the -- the argument, the --”

Dolores only stares at her unhelpfully.  “...Are you alright?”

Laurel can only laugh, which she’s sure makes her sound at least vaguely unhinged. But it’s clear by this point that neither Dolores nor anyone else in this town has any idea what she’s talking about. Reality setting in has a strangely calming effect on her.  “No. -- Yes. I’m just having a... really weird day.”

Maybe she’s imagining that Dolores’ expression softens just slightly - not that it really matters, she wouldn’t even know how to take sympathy at this point - but before either of them can say more, Laurel hears someone come up behind them. She turns, and -- sure enough, it’s Motorcycle Guy.

“Everything okay here?” he asks, glancing between them carefully.

“We’re fine, Cloud,” Dolores assures before Laurel can even snap at him. What kind of stupid name is Cloud, anyway? “I need to go get cleaned up -- I can’t go to my interview like this --”  She stops, eyeing Laurel again.  “Do you need... help? I could drive you somewhere...”

Some part of her registers surprise at Dolores - who seems to have reason enough to detest her already - even offering, but the kind of numbness that’s set in to override her shock and panic supersedes that. Laurel’s not even sure how anyone could help her. She shakes her head distantly.

“I’m... just going to go back to my hotel room, actually. But thanks.”

Knowing she’s done nothing to reassure them about her behavior - but to exhausted to care -  Laurel turns away and starts trekking numbly back towards her car.  Maybe this time, at least, she can actually stop at the convenience store for some supplies before that storm sets in.

The best she can hope is that tomorrow she’ll wake up, and things will have somehow set themselves right.

Dread creeps up on her when she registers what has woken her up the next morning.  Laurel swears, after this - if there even is an ‘after this’ - she’s never going to listen to AC/DC again.

She remembers thinking last night that if she had to wake up to the same day one more time, she might just scream, or -- explode, or something. So the resignation she drags herself out of bed with surprises even her.

She goes through the motions of the morning almost robotically, and somehow (because of course there couldn’t be an upside to any of this) she still isn’t any more on schedule when she drags herself past Ratchet and out the front door. 

This time, though, she stares at that missed call from Sara for a few heartbeats longer, and imagines what it might be like if she returned it. ‘Hey, Sara, funny you should call. I think I’m losing my mind -- any idea what to do about being stuck in a timeloop?’

Yeah. What a way to reconcile.  

She drives off rather morosely, lost in thought, and thus somehow still - still - forgets about Cloud.  Though she does wince a little this time when she sees him hit that snowbank.

But then something occurs to Laurel. She eyes the now-empty road in front of her, acutely conscious of the angrily honking cars behind her, and thinks -- what is this changes something? Maybe all of this is... karma, or something. Maybe Cloud is some Beauty and the Beast-esque wizard who cursed her for ruining his morning. Who knows. She’ll take just about any explanation, at this point. 

She pulls over to the side of the road, and by the time she gets out of the car, Cloud is already pulling himself out of the snow.  “Hey, uh, sorry about that,” Laurel tells him stiffly.  “My head is... somewhere else today. You okay?”

He glances at her in muted surprise.  “...You actually stopped.”

“Yeah, I know. I surprise even myself sometimes.”  

Cloud seems to be having trouble pulling his foot out of the snowbank, so Laurel awkwardly grabs him by the arm to help haul him out. That accomplished, they both awkwardly turn to stare at his fallen motorbike.

“You... need a ride into town?” Laurel asks finally.

Cloud shakes his head slowly, then crosses to the bike to pick it up off the ground.  “It’s survived worse scrapes than this. Should be fine.”

“Right.” Laurel just kind of stands there for a moment.  Nothing really feels different. “Well, I should... get to work, then.”

As she’s walking back to her car, though, Cloud calls after her -- “Thanks. For stopping.”

In spite of that, however, the only thing that ends up changing is that Laurel’s a little more late to work than usual, and Camille and Felix are a little more disapproving. Laurel can practically mouth along with the town mayor’s exclamation at the groundhog seeing its shadow, at this point. Six more weeks of winter. 

Is that what it’s going to take? Six more weeks of this?

She just goes to the coffee shop out of habit, at this point -- and maybe also in part because familiar faces are all she has to cling to, at this point. This time, she at least manages not to give Dolores the full blast of her coffee spillage, but she does make sure to spill a little, if only so Dolores will stop and talk to her.

She’s not sure if that makes her pathetic or just an asshole.

“Sorry,” Laurel mutters, already pulling the napkins she snagged from the counter earlier out of her purse. Dolores’ immediate indignation seems slightly stifled as she takes them.

“...Have you ever tried watching where you’re going?” she asks with less bite than Laurel can remember in the previous two days.

“Yeah, I know.” She guesses she at least deserves that much.  “I know you have a job interview, and I promise I’ll let you make it tomorrow, I just -- I don’t know. I’m trying to find ways to make all of this feel real.”

Dolores raises her eyebrows, and Laurel supposes it must be because there are at least three different elements of that response that make absolutely no sense to her. “Is that a television star thing?” she asks after a moment, dabbing gingerly at her coat. “Finding ways to make things seem more real?”

Laurel laughs halfheartedly. “I wish.” 

She doesn’t know what else to say, so she just helps Dolores clean up until Cloud arrives on the scene.

“Everything --” His gaze shifts from Dolores to Laurel, and he pauses.  “...Okay here?”

“Our special guest spilled her coffee on me,” Dolores explains dryly.

Cloud regards her bemusedly for a moment.  “You sure are accident-prone.”  When Dolores looks up in question, he goes on to explain, “She kind of helped me wreck my bike earlier this morning. But to her credit, she also helped me fix it.”

“Not really,” Laurel puts in, feeling inexplicably awkward.  “I just kind of... stopped and watched you fix it.”

“Well. It’s the thought that counts.”

Dolores stares at her thoughtfully. “And here I thought someone with your big city schedule wouldn’t have the time.”

Laurel shifts a little.  “Well, you don’t really know me.”  Yet somehow she feels like that’s unfair when she’s spent the past few days being an asshole to Dolores, whether Dolores remembers it or not. 

Dolores frowns at her faintly without comment. Then she turns to Cloud.  “Since my interview’s off the table, we should try and hit the store before the storm rolls in.”

Cloud nods -- then, to Laurel’s surprise, he turns to her contemplatively.  “You... want to come with us?”

Already resigned to dragging herself back to the inn for the day, Laurel stops in her tracks. On one hand, she doesn’t really need the supplies, since more likely than not she won’t have anything she buys by tomorrow morning. On the other hand, the offer kind of startles her. She realizes she’s waiting for Dolores to object -- but Dolores only glances at Cloud and then turns to watch her, waiting for an answer.

“Uh,” Laurel says, literally unable to think of a reason to refuse. Besides, it’ll probably look weird if she isn’t planning to stock up. “Sure. Why not.”

The three of them set off together without further fanfare. Laurel can’t help feeling a little awkward in their company, like some kind of third wheel, especially since Cloud doesn’t seem especially inclined to talk much (to her, at least). So she’s a little surprised when Dolores falls into step beside her, voice lowered.

“What did you mean, earlier -- when you said you’d let me make my job interview tomorrow?”

Oh. Laurel had kind of forgotten that had slipped out. She spends a moment trying to think up a response that sounds sane and reasonable, but comes up blank. Then she figures, well, what’s the worst that can happen if she tells the truth? Dolores will have forgotten by tomorrow.

“It’s gonna sound pretty crazy,” she warns. When Dolores only stares at her expectantly, she continues, “Okay, so this whole... morning. For me, it’s happened before. This is the third time, actually.”

Dolores doesn’t immediately look at her like she’s grown a second head, which Laurel supposes is something, but she does look sort of confused. “What do you mean, ‘happened before’? Like some sort of loop?”

“Yes. That.” Laurel watches her from the corner of her eye. “I don’t... really have an explanation, or anything, I just know that it does. Every day I’ve spent here I’ve woken up to the same stupid song, and a missed call from my sister, and almost killing Cloud on my way to work. Which I’m late for every single time, coincidentally. And then I go to that coffee shop and spill coffee all over you, and you -- usually get really mad at me.”

“Well. It was a very nice coat.”

Laurel snorts, and then backtracks.  “ -- Wait. That’s it? You believe me?”

Dolores shrugs faintly.  “I’m not sure. But you obviously believe you.” She pauses bemusedly, then adds.  “This isn’t the kind of story people tell a stranger when they’re not completely convinced.”

Laurel thinks that over and concludes that she’s probably right.  “So. Any idea what I should do? You know, hypothetically.”

She’s still a little surprised when Dolores seems to take her question seriously.  “If it were me...”  She trails off briefly, brow furrowed.  “If I had to live the same day over and over again, I guess I’d try to make the most of it.”

“And how would you do that?”

“Well, everyone has mistakes that they wish they could go back and fix. Even from day to day. Things they wanted to say but didn’t, letters they never sent... or calls they never made.” Dolores gives her something of a pointed look. “Coffee they could’ve avoided spilling.”

Laurel tries to look at least a little bit sheepish at that, just out of common decency.  “So... what. You think this might end if I finally get... whatever I’m supposed to get right?” It hadn’t worked with Cloud, but maybe that hadn’t been The thing. Or maybe she was supposed to get some kind of perfect score. Not do a single mean, dismissive thing to anyone.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Dolores says levelly.  “...Either way, having infinite chances to get things right is something some people would kill for.”

Laurel doesn’t say much else after that, but she considers it the rest of the way to the store. And after they’re finished shopping, Cloud and Dolores surprise her by telling her about the blizzard party they’re planning - which isn’t much of a party, just stockpiling supplies and marathoning movies until the power goes out - and when they invite her along, Laurel swallows her shock long enough to accept.

It’s the stupid, cozy kind of thing she might have made fun of in some other context, but it ends up being the best afternoon she’s had in... well, actually, since even before all of this started. 

She almost forgets, by the end of it, that Dolores and Cloud won’t remember her tomorrow morning. But she wakes up with Dolores’ words still ringing in her ears anyway.

The next few days and beyond roll out at a snail’s pace, but Laurel finds that it’s the diversifying that keeps her sane. At least, that’s the excuse she’s using for following Dolores’ advice.

It’s actually not that difficult, for instance, to avoid almost killing Cloud on the road into town. She lets him cut in front of her every morning now, and if she’s ever feeling particularly impatient or frustrated, imagining him catapulting into the snowbank once or twice is usually enough to suffice.

She tries to appreciate Camille and Felix a little more when she sees them, even if it mostly just seems to kind of weird them out. She’s usually a little more on time for work, too -- the one day she isn’t is because she stopped on a whim to buy everyone donuts, and afterwards, she decides it was mostly worth the collective sugar rush.

It’s funny, but after awhile, even Beacon Heights itself starts to seem a little less obnoxious. Maybe it’s because it’s all getting so familiar, or -- maybe there’s some kind of magic in looking at people, even the most cutesy, cliche, insufferable people, and trying to find something to like about them. It all starts to make her feel lighter, somehow, than she has in a long while. Even if it’s still pretty annoying when they get all hyped up over that damn groundhog.

She even gets into the habit of saying hi to Ratchet in the mornings, which seems to thrill him. She never does take him up on that coffee, though.

Largely because visiting the local coffee shop, kind of embarrassingly, has become the highlight of the day she’s living on repeat. The one thing she never tries to change. She’s stopped spilling her coffee on poor Dolores, of course, just like she promised -- actually, she finds that if she takes a seat at the diner’s counter and just waits for a little while, Dolores will usually talk to her when she comes in to order.

And Dolores is... nice to talk to. At first Laurel just chalks it up to her being one of the few vaguely sane-seeming people in this town, and the fact that Laurel herself doesn’t generally have a lot of friends. But as the days pass, and she gets new pieces to put together, she starts to realize they have more in common than she ever would have thought.

Dolores was an outsider here once, it turns out. She moved to Beacon Heights five years ago, and says she didn’t stop feeling like she didn’t belong until after the first year. And she has problems with her family, too -- turns out it was a father she was estranged from for awhile, not her sister, but her understanding when Laurel brings Sara up even in passing is nice.

One of the days, on an impulse she doesn’t even consciously process until it’s too late, Laurel asks Dolores if she wants to get dinner after her interview. It honestly kind of stuns her when Dolores accepts. Except it’s all so much that she honestly, genuinely forgets about the blizzard, and when they end up snowed in together she’s vaguely horrified at the idea that Dolores might think she’d planned this all along.

Not that Dolores really seems like she’d mind the idea. But Laurel doesn’t try anything anyway.  Something about it feels too -- well, for Dolores, it’s only been a day, but for Laurel it’s been -- how long had it been? Had she actually lost track?

All the same. It doesn’t feel fair, somehow.

But when she wakes up the next morning alone, she becomes fully conscious of how much the thought that Dolores won’t remember her today - or any day - aches. And that’s when she knows she’s in trouble.

Romantic feelings are typically something Laurel tries not to tangle with, as a rule. She hasn’t really seriously dated since Ollie in college, a wound that - if she’s honest - she’s still not entirely sure she can call healed, but even the majority of her casual relationships since then have had a tendency to end badly. 

Depressing as it is to wake up every morning smitten with a girl who has yet to have any idea who she is, Laurel occasionally wonders if it’s better that way. If she was given the option of a future with Dolores -- wouldn’t she just find some way to screw that up too?

This way, at least, she doesn’t have anything to be afraid of. Except sometimes she feels like if she did have the chance...

It’s just that Laurel’s never really bought into all that sappy shit about the people you really care about making you a better person, up until now. She tries to give herself some of the credit she can grudgingly admit she deserves, but it’s not just reliving the same day over and over and seeing the results of her differing choices that makes her want to be better.

It’s the way Dolores smiles at her when she does something kind. It’s the way Dolores seems to find sincere inspiration and appreciation in all the stupid, simple things about this town that Laurel once would have thought were just -- well, stupid and simple.

Maybe it’s that more than anything that has her sitting in her car on the latest of the now-uncountable mornings, staring at her phone. At the missed call from Sara. Fear and indecisiveness make her limbs feel rigid, but she knows she must look like an idiot sitting unresponsively in her unheated car, and the minutes before work are ticking away, so she hits the ‘Return call’ button before she can psych herself out of it.

Sara’s phone rings a few times. Laurel inevitably wonders if she’s changed her mind, decided Laurel’s not worth it after all, is just going to ignore the call and let it go to voicemail. Or maybe Sara had only called her by mistake in the first place. She’d never considered that. Maybe --

“Laurel?”

Laurel swallows when she hears her sister’s voice.

“Hey, Sara.”

There’s something of a disbelieving pause on the other end, but Sara’s voice sounds surprisingly warm when she finally responds.  “I’m, uh -- I’m glad you called me back.”

“Yeah.” Laurel winces a little at the automatic response, and quickly adds -- “Uh, you didn’t leave a message, so I wasn’t sure if I was in trouble, or...”

“No! No, I -- just wanted to talk, I guess. ...It’s been awhile.” Sara still sounds a little hesitant, and Laurel feels like she’s walking on glass, but at the same time there’s hope starting to bubble in her chest.

“I missed you,” she says instead of whatever careful thing she’d planned on saying. By the time it actually registers, it’s too late to take it back, and all she can do is sit there, frozen, as silence stretches on the other end of the line.

And then, just as she’s sure Sara is going to rebuke her, remind her of all the reasons she has to be angry at and disappointed in Laurel, she hears Sara exhale shakily.

“I missed you too.”

“...And then she asked me to come visit her at her new place in New York. So I think I’m gonna head up there once I’m... once I’m done here,” Laurel finishes the story quietly.

Skipping the part (of course) where doesn’t know when she’ll be ‘done here’, and that by tomorrow, Sara won’t remember that she called. But Laurel will know she did. Laurel will know she can. 

It feels like it means something, for all that most people would call this much repetition pointless.

“That’s sweet,” Dolores smiles at her warmly.  “Family’s usually more willing to reconcile than we build them up to be in our heads. I remember my father was, after we went without speaking for almost a year.”

Laurel already knows this, of course, but she smiles back anyway.

They’re sitting in Dolores’ living room on the evening of the same day, warming themselves with hot cocoa as the snow piles up outside. It’s homier than Laurel can ever remember it feeling. She watches Dolores and hesitates a second.

“This isn’t going to make a lot of sense to you,” she begins carefully.  “But without you, I never would have called her. So thanks.”

Dolores pauses, clearly surprised.  “...But we hadn’t even met until this morning.”

“It’s... complicated.” Laurel tries to ignore the lump she feels forming in her throat. “I told you all about it once, and you just kind of... accepted it. Gave me some advice. It was pretty amazing, actually.” She doesn’t know why this time feels different.

Dolores doesn’t respond right away. She just watches Laurel carefully, almost as if she’s searching for something in her face. “You’re talking like we already know each other,” she says finally.  “The funny thing is, part of me feels like that’s true.”

Laurel waits. Maybe because she’s hoping, just a little, that Dolores will somehow magically, miraculously remember everything. But Dolores just continues watching her contemplatively, even if there’s something in her eyes that seems... softer now.

Whatever it is, even if it’s something that neither of them will ever be able to define, it gives Laurel the last bit of courage she needs. And this time, it isn’t because she knows Dolores won’t remember anything tomorrow and that if she screws this up there won’t be any real consequences.

It’s because even if this day keeps resetting for the rest of forever, Laurel has figured out that these are the kinds of things that matter. And they always will.

“Listen,” she begins softly. “I’ve never been very good at... reaching out to people. I’ve always used this rounded logic where I’m better off alone for a laundry list of reasons, but the truth is, I really just don’t want to lose anyone else. And I know that probably sounds like a stupid excuse to stop trying for the rest of my life, so -- I’m not going to use it anymore.”  She swallows.

“Because if we can connect like we did... today, then it doesn’t really hold up anymore. So thank you, Dolores. Really.”

She searches Dolores’ expression carefully, sincerely. By now, most of the light has gone out of the room and it’s just the firelight illuminating their features. It makes Dolores look softer, somehow.  Laurel bites back the instinct to ignore the butterflies in her stomach when Dolores smiles at her.

“Sounds like you’re the one who did most of the work,” she says finally. Laurel considers that for a moment -- before Dolores slowly leans forward to kiss her.

It catches Laurel off guard, but only for a few seconds. Then she kisses back. It’s soft and careful and not particularly intense, and Laurel supposes she’ll never be able to put into words how much it means to her. But Dolores reaches up to touch the side of her face tenderly as they break apart, and Laurel lets herself get lost in the moment anyway.

Tomorrow, everything will be different. And the same. But tonight, she lets herself fall asleep on Dolores’ couch, nestled against Dolores herself, and can’t quite bring herself to regret it.

The sound of birds obnoxiously twittering outside the window wakes her. That by itself is odd, though it takes her a little while to shake the fogginess from her head and actually process why.

Birds. No Highway to Hell.

Laurel stirs and then, with sudden realization, bolts all the way upright. The next thing she processes is that her surroundings are relatively unfamiliar. And the next is that she’s accidentally woken the person sleeping next to her.

“Ow,” Dolores mumbles, stretching the stiffness from her limbs.  “...Falling asleep on the couch is always less romantic in practice.”

“Dolores?” Laurel breathes, scarcely able to believe it. Dolores pauses mid-stretch, casting her a concerned look.

“What? Are you alright?”

It’s over. It’s -- tomorrow.

Laurel wracks her brain to try and pin down what it was that finally did it. Calling Sara? Her conversation with Dolores? The kiss?

Maybe it was less one thing and more a kind of building of a lot of them. That doesn’t make perfect sense to her right now, because it has to be eight in the morning at the very latest, and she’s still half-trying to wake herself up and acknowledge this is real.

But one thing that’s apparent to her with perfect clarity is that Dolores is still here. Next to her. Laurel gives in to a shaky smile. “Yeah,” she manages finally.  “Yeah -- everything’s fine. Sorry, I was just having a -- a really weird dream.”  She’s so relieved that she might have hugged Dolores, but she’s lucky Dolores doesn’t think she’s completely crazy as it is.

Dolores returns her smile a little uncertainly, but warmly.  “I’m glad you woke me. I was going to offer to take you to breakfast, but I wasn’t sure what time you had to leave --”

Leave?

She’d given up on breaking free of the loop long enough to forget: the storm’ll be dying down now. Felix and Camille will be expecting her back on the road before too long.

All she really wants, though, is to stay here with Dolores, and go to breakfast at that stupid, cutesy diner, and then call her sister, and have a conversation that’ll stick this time. And maybe do something sappy like going for a walk through the snow afterwards.

She wants a hundred more days exactly like that. She’s not sure when the town she couldn’t wait to get away from became something close to home.

Laurel weighs all of this against the prospect of going back to a job that never really made her happy to begin with. As completely cliche as it is to admit, there’s probably something to be learned in all of this about the things that actually matter. And not wasting them.

“If I said I wanted to stay a little while longer,” she says slowly. “What would you think?”

Dolores sort of double-takes, like she’s not sure whether or not Laurel’s being serious. “...Can you do that?”

“What’s stopping me?” Laurel shrugs pointedly.

“But you --” Dolores stops, watching Laurel even more closely, and there’s something like wonder in her expression. It’s almost enough to make Laurel feel a little self-conscious.  “ -- You really want to stay.”

Laurel can’t help but smile. “I’m pretty sure that is what I implied.”

Impulsively, Dolores leans forward and kisses her again, and this time Laurel is actually ready for it.

[sparkleywonderful]

The Prince of Ice: Ch.24.3

Part 24.3 of The Prince of Ice series, a retelling of Heir of Fire from Rowan’s point of view.

The Prince of Ice Parts [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ] [ 5 ] [ 6 ] [ 7 ] [ 8 ] [ 9 ] [ 10 ] [ 11 ] [ 12 ] [ 13 ] [ 14 ] [ 14.5 ] [ 15 ] [ 16 ]  [ 17 ] [ 18 ] [ 19 ] [ 20 ] [ 21 ] [ 22 ] [ 23 ]  [ 24.1 ] [ 24.2 ] [ 24.3 ] [ 24.4 ] [ 24.5 ] [ 24.6 ] [ 24.7 ] [  AO3 ]

A/N: I have been dying to write this chapter, just dying. It was so much fun to write and I always felt that this exclusive belonged in the book. Although we all filled in the gaps, it is the first time you truly see the friendship that is growing between Rowan and Aelin. For tumblr, I will be braking this apart into seven sections for your viewing pleasure.

Gratitude goes to @bookofademigod and @themaasofwar for posting the target exclusive. Without this I would have never been able to write this very important POV.

- - - - - - -

Months before Aelin reclaimed her identity as the long-lost Queen of Terrasen, she still called herself Celaena Sardothien - and was trained to wield her rekindled magic by a Fae Prince in a mountain fortress of Wendlyn… Despite their rough beginning, Aelin and Rowan have finally formed a solid friendship, based on mutual respect, trust, and more than a bit of banter. But just when their bond begins to shift into something neither of them quite anticipates - something far deeper - the fortress of Mistward receives a visit from three Fae nobles. And one of them claims some very, very personal ties to Rowan himself. Read on for an exclusive deleted scene from Heir of Fire, in which Aelin gets her first glimpse of the Fae nobility of Doranelle, and a bit more of Rowan’s history is revealed to her … with fiery consequences.

- - - - - - -

He wanted a bath himself after showing the nobles to their rooms, instead he sat at his work table, sharpening his hunting knife for the bloodbath that was likely to occur during dinner.

“So, you and Remelle,” Aelin said from where she lounged on his bed, her head propped up by her scarred hand.

He should be changing into finer clothes, but the desire left as soon as they dropped off the nobles to their rooms. There was a time to use clothes as a weapon, to remind nobles of his bloodline and status and this was not one of those times. It was not one of the times that the princess should show her bloodline. Finer clothes might bring attention to her lineage. All three nobles were old enough to remember Evalin Ashryver. Essar’s house had the strongest ties to the Royal family of Wendlyn. That close tie was probably the reason she did not view demi-Fae the same as Benson or Remelle did.

They had an hour until dinner. They just needed to survive the dinner and send the nobles their merry way in the morning.

“Remelle was … a very, very big mistake,” not bothering to turn and face her, his focus on his hunting knife.

“Seems like she doesn’t think so.”

He could not help but to turn his head and glare over his shoulder. She was purposely being difficult. “It was a hundred years ago.”

“She acts like you cast her aside this winter.”

“Remelle just wants whatever she can’t have. A condition many immortals suffer from to stave off boredom.”

“She was practically clawing at you.”

“She can claw all she wants, but I’m not making that mistake again.”

“Sounds like you made that mistake a few times.”

Rowan leveled a vicious gaze at her. He hated his past mistakes. Only the touch of jealousy that he felt from the princess calmed his blood. “It was over the course of a season, and then I came to my senses.”

“Mmmm.”

He stabbed the knife into the table and stalked to the bed until he glowered over her. Aelin lay as she was, brows high and lips pressed together. Her shoulders gently shook as she fought back her laughter.

“One laugh,” he warned. “Just one laugh, and I’m going to dump you in the nearest pond.”

She shook harder with the effort to keep her howl inside.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” he growled, leaning low enough that his breath warmed her mouth. “If you—

The door opened, and he froze, a low snarl rumbling out of him, so violent that it would echo in everyone's bones. A clear warning. A threat that Remelle needed to understand. Remelle, stood frozen, blinked, and said, “Oh!”

He knew what their positioned looked like and in that moment he did not want to correct the assumption that Ramelle was making. Maeve did not order him not to have a physical relationship with the princess. It was still dangerous, he would need to tread lightly between warding off REmelle and triggering Maeve’s reaction.

‘What do you want?” straightening but not stepping away for Aelin.

He watched as Remelle surveyed the room, taking in the details that suggested it was not his space alone: the brush on the dresser, the undergarments left tossed over a chair as if taken off in a moment of pleasure, the ribbons she used to tie back her hair, the small boots beside his massive ones, and even the various personal items they kept on their own nightstands. It was clear that they had been sharing a living space.

“I wanted to catch up,” Remelle said, looking everywhere but at Aelin, “but it seems you are … occupied.”

If only Remelle knew who Aelin was.

“We’ll talk at dinner.”

He had to fight back a snarl as Aelin popped up from the bed. “I have to go help Emrys with the meal, actually.” She barely managed to hide her wicked grin. “Why don’t you stay, Remelle?”

If he had been blessed with fire, he may have melted her bones. That wicked grin told him that she enjoyed this piece of hell she was subjecting him too.

He was going to kill her, she won this round but as soon as they resumed training, he was going to murder her. And then murder her again.

Remelle was still in the doorway, frowning in the direction Aelin had gone. When she turned, a serpentine smile danced on her red lips. “Is this part of her training, too?“

“Get out,” was all he said, all he could say.

Remelle clicked her tongue. “Is that how you speak to me these days?”

Gods above, for the last century, yes! She did not love him as Essar loved Lorcan. Remelle was in love with his title and position. Second most powerful Fae male and that was even debatable. They had never faced off, and honestly he would not fight against Loracan with all his being. That was until recently, at one time he would have welcomed the death, now he wondered. Had he healed enough to fight, to dream again.

"I don’t know why you bothered to stop here, or what you expect of me—”

“I heard you were here, and thought I’d say hello and spare you the tedious company of half-breeds. I didn’t realise you’d taken to them so much.”

He knew exactly what it had looked like when she burst in here. Denying it would only lead to a headache, but letting Remelle assume he was sharing a bed with Aelin he decided was equally unacceptable. He couldn’t decide how Maeve would interpret it. But she had not ordered him not to. Unless—

“And who was it that told you I’m here?”

“Maeve, of course. I complained to her that I missed you.”

The question was whether or not Remelle was a willing or unknowing spy. Or if Maeve had sent Remelle to see just what manner of relationship he had developed with the princess.

“As your friend, Rowan, l have to say … the girl’s rather beneath you.”

He held in his laugh. Apparently, Maeve hadn’t informed her who, exactly, he was training. Remelle had been relentless in her pursuit of him a century ago, winning him over with her charm and smiles, but—he didn’t really care to think back to that time. He wondered what Maeve’s game was, something to ponder later.

“One,” he said, “you’re not my friend. Two, it’s none of your business.”

Her eyes narrowed in a way that made him realise Remelle would make every minute until she left a living hell for the princess—not knowing what manner of predator she was provoking.

So rather than see Remelle’s blood splattered on the walls before dawn, he said, “There is a shortage of bedrooms here, and we’ve had to share quarters as a result.” Not quite a lie, but not the entire truth.

Remelle’s brows remained high on her moon-white skin. “Well, I suppose that’s good news for Benson.”

What in the hell did Benson have to do with Aelin, “What?”

“He has needs that must be attended to, and finds her attractive enough. Maeve said it was more than fine if she—”

His blood boiled, “If Benson lays one finger on her, he’s going to find himself without his insides.” He glanced over to the hunting knife embedded into his work table. Yes, that would gut the Fae male efficiently. Maybe too efficiently.

Maeve—Maeve had suggested that she was available for—

He clamped down on the blinding rage as Remelle blinked. “Honestly, Rowan, what do you think most of the half-breeds wind up doing in Doranelle?”

He had no answer—no words at all—as soon as she said that.

She shrugged. “Benson will be gentle with—”

“Benson looks twice at her, and he dies. He looks twice at any of the females in this fortress and he dies.”

The words were laced with a growl so fierce that they were barely understandable. But Remelle understood. Did Lorcan know? He was a demi-Fae himself, had proven himself half a millennium ago. Was he aware what went on in their city? It was disgusting—worse than disgusting. The Fae were better than than. But Maeve—

“I’ll make sure the warning is conveyed,” Remelle purred.

[mira-eyeteeth]

Captivating, pt. 1

Happy birthday, @sylphidine! I wrote you the first part of a Nightmare Dork supervillain story! It’s set in the same universe as this one(x). It features standard supervillain courting procedures, which, as you may imagine, aren’t generally the best way to go about wooing the object of your affection.

Perhaps it was cliche, but they had first met in a bookshop. Piki had been taking a walk to clear his head and get away from his infuriating twit of a twin when a combination of interest and chill winter winds had driven him to seek shelter in a small cafe attached to a bookstore. Soon he was cupping a warm cup of coffee in chilled fingers and idly wandering the shelves to kill some time. And maybe pick up a new novel. He had been looking to replace his rather ratty copy of Salomé; the spine was practically coming apart on his. The filing system of the place seemed to be rather unintuitive, however, and he was having a hard time locating where the play might be if they had a copy.

A flash of white out of the corner of his eye made Piki turn his head in time to see a young man, white-blond and pale as death, vanish between the shelves. For a moment he fancied that it might have actually been a ghost, that there was something supernatural about this place he had stumbled into by chance. Maybe some kind of terrible accident...

The sound of shuffling books from the next aisle over ruined the fantasy and Piki wandered around the shelf to see the young man shelving a set of paperbacks. "Oh, do you work here?" he asked mildly, stepping forwards. The young man jerked, almost dropping the book he was holding, and turned to gaze at Piki with wide blue eyes. "I was wondering if you could direct me to where I might find a copy of Wilde's Salomé?"

The pale young man stared at him for an instant longer before dropping his gaze and hunching his shoulders, wringing his hands in front of him.

"...Do you not work here?" Piki asked.

The other gulped and opened his mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out and he closed it again, biting his lip.

"...Right. Sorry to disturb you. Thank you for your time," Piki said, giving up on any conversation with the silent waif. What an odd young man, he thought as he wandered back to where he had been searching before he had been distracted. Piki wondered if he was actually mute. Not that it was any business of his, really. He spent a few more minutes browsing before he finished his coffee and felt sufficiently thawed, having found nothing that caught his particular interest at the moment. He shrugged and started to head for the door.

A hesitant tap on his shoulder made him pause. He turned around to find the pale young man from before standing there, eyes downcast and holding out a copy of Salomé. "Oh," Piki said, blinking. "Thank you?" He took the book and watched with some interest as the young man nodded and scuttled back into the dusty labyrinth of shelves.

Piki hummed and glanced down to see that the novel had a sheet of notepaper sticking out from between the pages. He pulled it out, curious, and flipped it over to read the shaky, hastily scratched message that had been scrawled on the sheet. I hope this is what you wanted. I'm sorry about earlier. I'm working on being able to speak with others, but it's I hope you weren't too inconvenienced. Have a wonderful day! Sorry again, -Jack.

...That was actually rather charming. This Jack person seemed to be trying to overcome some personal difficulties of his, admirable. Piki wondered if he was like that with everyone, or if he had found Piki particularly intimidating. Well, probably not, not in Piki's street clothes. If he saw Piki in his proper get-up, fully powered and seething with shadows, well, that would certainly provoke an interesting reaction from the poor boy, he was sure. He smiled a little at the thought and idly folded the note back up to tuck it away.

He headed up to the cashier to pay for the book that Jack had so kindly retrieved for him. Piki snagged one of the pens littering the desk and scribbled a quick Thank you, this was just what I was looking for on the back of his receipt.  He slid the paper to the cashier, folded in quarters to conceal the writing. "I was wondering if you could give this to Jack for me?" he asked, smiling when the woman nodded. "Thank you." Moments later he was back into the chill winter evening, black boots crunching softly through the new-fallen snow as he headed back home, a satisfied smile on his face.

Piki found himself gravitating back towards that cozy little bookstore only a few days later. It was still cold outside, after all, and Pitch was still a twit. Besides, the selection he'd remembered from his last search seemed promising, even if the organization of it was a bit perplexing. Piki knew who he could ask for assistance now. Though...

He stopped by the front desk to buy a spiral-ring notebook and a pen.

Piki wandered through the shelves, and it did not take long for him to spot the flicker of white as Jack vanished around one corner. He was on-shift, then. Well, presumably, at least. It was not outside of the realm of possibility that Jack did not work in the store at all, given that he appeared spectacularly unsuited for retail service. Perhaps he was just some neurotic passerby who took it upon himself to try to impose order on this place. Either way, he was fighting a losing battle.

Piki peered around the shelf. “Excuse me,” he said, and watched as Jack flinched and nearly dropped the paperbacks he had been clutching.

Jack whirled around and met Piki’s eyes for a moment before dropping his gaze back down to the floor.

“I- Did you get my note?”

Jack nodded.

“Well, good. I…” Piki trailed off. He retrieved the notebook from under his arm and tore out a sheet. I’m looking for some new reading material. Do you have any recommendations? he wrote on the dismembered page, before stepping forwards and holding out the sheet and pen to Jack.

It was the first time he saw Jack smile.

He'd returned to the bookstore regularly after that, and it became something of a routine for Jack and him to exchange notes in lieu of conversation for an hour or so as Piki nursed a coffee and became increasingly more familiar with the bookstore's layout and Jack's routine within it. It was when he prompted a soft little chuckle from Jack with one such note that Piki realized just how much he wanted to hear Jack laugh and speak with him, how much he wanted to be close to the young man.

If only he had some inkling of how exactly he could go about doing that. He had to be careful, about this, after all. Everything had to be perfect.

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

Piki really could have put just a little more effort into his secret identity. The way it was right now, a monkey could have figured it out. As a civilian, he didn’t bother to act even a little bit differently, or change his voice, or stop being glued to the side of his brother who obviously made up the second half of their little super-criminal enterprise. Seriously, twins who called themselves twins in their supervillian title? Might as well hand out business cards with their civilian identities. On top of all that, Piki wore a costume that left very little to the imagination, in more ways than one.

Not that Jack would complain about that particular choice.

That was, if not for it, he probably would not have taken any notice at all of the Black Twins. They were still small fry, barely on the radars of the City's heroes, let alone something of consideration for the higher-level villains. If Jack hadn’t immediately been able to recognize the bookstore patron who he had been having his eye on for the better part of two months, he would have completely forgotten first encountering them back when he'd been making his escape from the Guardians after nabbing the blueprints for the City's newest tech facility. They'd had some unkind words to say about ruining their reconnaissance mission or something, Jack wasn't sure. He mainly remembered the crick in his neck from the double-take he'd done at seeing Piki.

So it had been a blessing in a terrible, god-awful disguise.

And now, oh, now they were interesting. Or, at least Piki was interesting; clever and ambitious and leading a double life as well...

He could really do without Pitch, though. Pitch was brash and harsh and he had nearly given Jack a panic attack when he stormed into the bookshop to yell and drag Piki away. Pitch was a bad influence on Piki, he could see that much when he ran into the Black Twins during their nights of crime.

Which had admittedly been happening more frequently now that Piki has caught his eye. He couldn’t help it, he wanted to know more. The dark of night and villainous deeds felt more special, knowing that Piki was operating under the same star-strewn sky.

And, well, it was just nice to be able to actually talk to Piki.

Compartmentalization was a hell of a thing. He could trade effortless witticisms and barbs with any heroes or rival villains while he was the Winter King, but the second he went back to Jack Sickle, he couldn’t open his mouth without tripping over his own damn tongue. Trying to make small talk with strangers, or worse, acquaintances who might actually remember him, got his anxiety and stress skyrocketing in a way that heroic pursuit and very, very narrow escape never could. He could scale a skyscraper and break through the most sophisticated security system in the City, but he couldn’t ask Piki if he wanted to get a coffee with Jack at the cafe ten feet away.

Piki had been kind and patient and accommodating for Jack. And Jack… Jack had been pathetic. It wouldn't be surprising at all if Piki looked down on him. It had been months and he still couldn't so much as say “hello” without his stammer rendering the word incomprehensible.

Jack didn't want Piki to think he was pathetic. Jack wanted Piki to be impressed, to be awestruck. He didn't want Piki to have to be patient with him. He wanted to prove that he was worth something.

Jack Sickle couldn't do that. But the Winter King could.

All he needed to do was get Piki alone.

-----------

Piki swore under his breath and darted down a branching tunnel, cursing Pitch and cursing himself for ever thinking this was a decent idea.

Getting into some kind of glorified pissing contest with one of the most powerful metahumans in the City was a mistake. It had been so tempting, when they heard rumors of the latest heist target the Winter King was planning, to try to snatch it out from under his nose. It would have been so satisfying, returning the little favor that the Winter King had paid them. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

His spite was going to be the end of him, and possibly the end of Pitch, too.

Now they were split up, and Piki was lost in the warrens of the sewers, and judging by the way the temperature was dropping all around him, the Winter King was closing in.

He didn’t have enough power to teleport, not without Pitch, and his talent for fading into the shadows was rendered utterly useless by the white plume of his breath that steamed in the frigid air. The Winter King would have to be blind to miss such an obvious sign, and while Piki wasn’t strictly opposed to going for the eyes, he doubted he would be able to blind the other villain. He didn’t even have enough shadows to lift the manhole cover he had planned on escaping out of, something he only realized when he reached the top of the ladder. Who would have thought the damn things were so heavy?

He was out of power, out of weapons, out of options.

Piki slid back down the ladder and grimaced at the sound of approaching footfalls. What did the Winter King even want? It wasn’t like they’d successfully managed to steal the stash before the Winter King did anyway. Piki dashed down another tunnel, ignoring the burning stitch in his side.

The footfalls picked up behind him, dammit. He was close enough to be heard.

An unexpected dead end cut the chase short, and Piki whirled to keep his back to the wall, hand fumbling along the stones behind him for a loose chunk of masonry, something he could throw.

The Winter King peered around the corner, stepping fully into the entranceway of the tunnel after Piki didn’t blast him with darkness. The brilliant white of the ice and snow practically seemed to glow in the gloom of the sewers.“There you are, boogeyman. All out of shadows already?”

“Not… even… close,” Piki ground out between gasping breaths. “I’m just… giving you the opportunity… to rethink antagonising me.”

“That’s terribly considerate of you,” the Winter King replied, smirking. “I should really return the gesture somehow. Hm, how about I show you some good, old-fashioned hospitality?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You can find the most interesting little trinkets for sale, did you know?” The Winter King withdrew a small, irregularly-shaped golden ball from a fold of his icy cloak.

Piki opened his mouth to snap a response back, but the Winter King tossed the orb and it burst into a spray of golden powder, covering Piki. The world dissolved into darkness.

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

Piki started to stir thirty minutes after that, which had given Jack enough time to get him to the hideout and organize everything. He waited on the opposite side of the ice bars that closed off the room Piki had been placed in, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach.

Piki sighed and rolled over on the bed, before flinching and clutching at his head. “Ngh, Pitch, not so loud! Yes, I’m oka-” His voice cut off when he opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. He sat up abruptly. “What the hell?”

“Good morning. Well, technically morning. It’s about 3 am,” Jack said, and Piki’s eyes fell on him.

“What is this? Are you trying to ransom me? Pi- My partner didn’t successfully steal anything tonight, so if you’re missing anything, it doesn’t have anything to do with us.”

“No, no, it’s not anything like that. I just wanted to have a conversation. I think it’s taken long enough for that to happen,” Jack replied.

Piki raised an eyebrow. “Look, if you want to tell random strangers whatever thoughts pop into your head, just make a twitter account like the rest of us. I guarantee you it will be a lot easier than this was.” He pushed off the blankets and got off of the bed, scanning the room for an escape.

Jack smiled. “Oh, I would hardly call us strangers.”

“We’ve spoken only once or twice before this. Acquaintances would be a very generous term for it,” Piki replied, taking a few steps towards the barred doorway.

“Hm, I suppose. But I believe you do know me a lot better than you think you do.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

"Well, if you’re still having trouble working the puzzle out, maybe this will help..." Jack withdrew a small square of paper from a pocket and held it up for the captive man to read. In hesitant, jerky cursive that was far too familiar, it read: 'Hello, Piki.'

Piki's eyes widened, flicking from the note back to Jack. "You..." he breathed, disbelieving for a moment, and Jack felt a little rush of triumph. Then Piki’s eyes narrowed and his face twisted in a snarl. "What did you do to Jack?!"

Jack almost flinched back from the fury in that glare. "What?  N-n-nothing," he stammered out, before he could think about it. The return of that hateful stammer made him reflexively grasp the frayed edges of his persona and wrap it more tightly around himself. He wouldn't be pathetic, not now. He was strong and cunning and in control; he had to be in control. The Winter King straightened his back and cocked his head, meeting the glare with a little smirk, letting the witticism roll off his tongue without thinking. "Well, nothing yet."

Piki surged forward, gripping the bars and baring his teeth. "You-!" He bit back whatever else he was going to say and wrenched his gaze away from Jack. He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, knuckles going white as he clenched the bars. He slowly loosed his grip, shoulders slumping. "...fine, you win."

Jack blinked. "Pardon?"

"You win. I'll do what you want. Anything. Just leave Jack out of this," Piki replied, not raising his head.

Jack felt his heart clench. The absolute failure of his plan crashed over him all at once.

After showing him the note, Jack imagined that Piki would catch on, connect the dots. That he would be impressed at how clever and powerful Jack had proved himself to be. Instead, he had thought Jack was just some helpless hostage of the Winter King. It would be infuriating, if Piki hadn't just shown how willing he was to sacrifice everything to protect him.

"Piki, I-" Jack reached out to touch Piki's hand, but pulled back before he made contact.

Piki might not believe him now, even if he dropped his disguise entirely. And if Piki did believe him, then he would hate Jack. Despite his dreams and grand plans, Jack hadn't established himself as a rival, as an equal. He had acted like a puppetmaster, and he had toyed with Piki. He'd been so focused on being impressive, on being clever, and now he had ruined everything.

Jack didn't want Piki to hate him.

What else could he do now?

The Winter King sighed and waved a hand. The bars on the cell dissolved. "Well, you're no fun at all," he drawled. "You should really work on spotting forgeries, in the future. It's something that comes in handy in our line of work."

Piki stumbled forward half a step at the disappearance of the bars. He lifted his eyes, blinking. "What?"

"Forgeries. You know, fakes?" The Winter King waved the note once before freezing it solid and letting it drop to shatter on the ground. "You can relax, boogeyman. I don't hurt civilians. Just happened to find out about your little crush and wanted to get a rise out of you. I admit, I didn't think you'd go the martyr route. Ah, well. You can see yourself out," he replied airly, gesturing down the hall before turning on his heel and striding off.

He'd gotten five steps away when he heard Piki spit out a dark, "Fuck you."

The Winter King glanced back over his shoulder and grinned. "Only if you ask nicely."

Jack managed to get around a corner and behind a closed door sealed with ice before he slumped to the ground and held his head in his hands.

[la-fille-en-aiguilles]

Ben Barnes x Female Reader: Good Night, Barnes

A/N: This is the first time ever that I write a Ben Barnes anything. I kind of struggled with it, trying to make it perfect for the birthday girl. 

Happy Brittday my sweet, lovely @benbarnesescape! I am so glad to have such a beautiful, exceptionally caring, sassy and determined friend! I hope you are having the time of your life right now! You definitely deserved it!  When you come back from your camping trip, smelling like fire and burned marshmallows, this will be waiting here for you!  I hope you will enjoy it, Britt. As do all of you, beautiful human beings. Lots of love, M. Warnings: This is my first oneshot ever, so it turned out pretty long. It’s angsty and fluffy and completely out of control - just what birthdays normally should be like :) There is also a couple of swear words... Just thought I’d let you know. And my English, which is really not that great... Let’s get this show on the road!

I told you so.

These four words are probably worse than cancer. The way their tiny little letters choke you, wrapping their curves around your neck the moment they finally get out in the open.  The way they make your eyes water, the truth in them blinding you with neon-bright accusations. I told you so is what is said, you didn’t’ listen is what is meant. As you step into the cold night ‘s air, leaving the expensive champagne, the fake laughter, and your best friend behind, you are spending your last effort on biting back tears.

Em, your wifey, had told you so. It was a fucked up idea, had been from the very start. You should not have let him get you into this. Especially not on the night of your fucking birthday.

But boy, did Barnes look good in that Tom Ford suit.

Could you really blame that Kourtney-bitch for getting a little too much to drink and throwing herself at him when he was wearing that suit?

She’s just a friend, my ass, you clutched your fists at the thought.

With a hurricane of sensations, cursing through your body, you approached the busy road in several steps, throwing one of your hands into the air.

“Taxi!” you shouted louder than you intended, relief flowing through your veins when you saw a black cab stop right in front of you.

You didn’t remember how you got into the car, neither could you recall what that cab driver Yousouf had told you about his wife and five kids. You probably wouldn’t remember even if police threatened to send you to prison, should you not give them the information. You needed to get away. From this place, from this party, from these people... From Kourtney flirting with Ben right before your eyes, and him smiling at her, feeling her hand touch his... Her mouth slamming against his own.

All the consumed alcohol making you feel dizzy, you stretched your legs in the back seat of the taxi, trying so hard not to choke on your tears.

Ben Barnes, a fantastic actor, your best friend, the only man you have ever loved... Had shown you he did not give a flying fuck about you. On the night of your birthday.

Whatever, you thought, wiping tears off your cheeks discreetly. She can have him. I didn’t see much future for us anyway.

Neither did he, apparently.

When you arrived to your loft, your house phone squeaked miserably, trying to get your attention. The light on the device shone bright red, which meant it was saturated with messages. You didn’t have to be a bloody genius to know that Ben had probably tried to reach you here, after you refused every single one of his calls on your cell.

Slamming the door shut, you turned around and leaned against it, feeling the coolness of the wood with your exposed back. You closed your eyes, trying to focus – you were tipsy. The sane, calm and cool you would never leave Ben during that fancy-ass Hollywood party. Even after what you saw. The sane, calm and cool you would ignore the sharp pang of pain in your chest, down your last shot of tequila and go home with that hot-looking Winter Soldier guy. Sebastian Stan, was it?

But you weren’t your usual sane, calm and cool self tonight. You were a selfish, possessive, put-it-where-your-mouth-is, tough and bitchy woman – and it felt good. Actually, it felt great. You had the right to be a temperamental pain in his ass for once, not the other way around.

The minimalist clock on the opposite wall was showing three am. Whatever storm of messages and rounds of explanations were hanging over your head, they all could wait until tomorrow. What you wanted now was to sleep your catastrophic birthday off and learn your lesson. You were going to be so much smarter next year. You had it all under control now.

Yet images flashing before your eyes just wouldn’t leave you alone. His lips, parted in a soft smile, as Kourney covers his hand with hers. The way he throws his head back, laughing, as she says something stupid. The memories from hours ago pierced your body like electricity, striking deep, down to the bones.

When someone knocked on the door, you first thought it was blood pumping in your temples. When you felt the wood vibrate against your naked back, you turned around and threw the door open, too tired to think.

The moment your eyes met, you felt your legs failing you, your head spinning and your heart, your disappointed, torn heart shrinking into a tiniest nubbin, causing you to endure unbearable pain.

So much for having it all under control.

You felt your thighs stiffen, as your lower belly muscles twitched. You had never noticed before how tall he actually was – Ben stood in front of you, in flesh, his toned chest before your eyes, hidden by the soft cotton of his neatly pressed shirt, his tie hanging around his bare neck with a throbbing vein, urging for your touch, the forbidden spot of this perfect, beautiful body of a destroyer, a traitor you knew you could never forgive.

He just stood there, your sweet killer, and it was excruciating to watch him bite his lower lip nervously, probably subconsciously… You didn’t want him here. He made his choice. He may have fucked Kourtney, for all you knew. And frankly speaking, you didn’t know how to deal with this mind-numbing thought, your heart shrinking into a thumbnail, your body nearly convulsing under the guilty stare of his bottomless, pitch black eyes…

You stared at him, your heart wildly pounding in agony, exploding. Biting your lip, with tears flooding your eyes, you raised your trembling hand so sharply, he could not have blocked it even if he wanted. With a loud slap, your palm landed on his face.

He looked lost and hurt, as he gasped, his head cocked to a side, his cheek burning red. He slowly brought one of his long-fingered hands to his jaw and rubbed it, facing you again.

“What was that for?...” he whispered, aghast, probably realizing how much rage you invested in that blow. “Y/N, talk to me. Please,” he nearly pleaded, watching you lower your gaze, your put-it-where-your-mouth-is attitude suddenly gone.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you murmured, still avoiding his eyes, you voice lifeless. “I’m done here. Good night, Barnes”.

His black eyes sparkling, he watched you as you tried to close the door right in front of him. He hadn’t yet realized, that was it, you meant what you said – all he knew you weren’t being fair. His head was splitting in two from the chaotic thoughts his brain was still trying to process – you didn’t even give him a chance to learn what happened and to explain himself!... He came all the way here to apologize for something he wasn’t sure he did, to tell you how he feels about you, and here you were, slapping him across his face, done and wishing him good night!

He wasn’t having it. He did not wait all these years for you to show him you cared, so you could just kick him out in the middle of the night. 

Suddenly, Ben’s judgment became clouded. From that very moment he lost control of what happens next. He wasn’t a responsible sweet best friend anymore. His cheek burned in pain, pushing him to the limit. He wasn’t going to let you get away with this.  

As you pushed the door to slam it in his face, he sharply hit it with his hand, blocking it, his rib cage crunching at the blows of his rapid heartbeats. You swore under your breath, stepping back, as the door bounced back in your direction and smashed against the wall. Before the loud bang broke the silence, reigning in the house, you heard Ben swear in pain. With your eyes widening, you saw him step inside as he closed the door behind him with his uninjured hand.

All you could do was gape at him, surprised by the mask of badly controlled temper, plastered on his face. You took a couple of steps back, just to be sure. You knew that look. That look was not that of your friend. The last time you saw this raging fire, burning in his eyes, he beat the crap out of the guy who referred to you as ‘bitch’ in a bar.

Clenching your sweaty hands together, you kept on stepping back, wondering what was going to happen next. Te thought of getting punched frightened you nearly to death, when the idea of his lips on yours seemed so outrageous. 

He was approaching you silently, his breath even, like a wildcat, ready to attack.

You felt your insides twist clockwise. 

How dared Ben-fucking-Barnes step into your apartment, when you made it clear he wasn’t welcome? He really did have some nerve, entering your haven, your world, after doing what he did – and on your birthday!...

You stopped, rooting into the floor, your eyes blazing. He halted too, keeping a relatively narrow distance between the two of you.

“You better leave now, Ben, because if you won’t, I’ll…” you warned, your cheeks painted rage-red. 

“You’ll slap me again?” he offered, his tone rigid and nothing like it used to be when you two were friends. “Go ahead, Y/N,” he was now provoking you, his eyebrows furrowed. “At least this time I’ll deserve it.”

You stared at him in disbelief, nearly choking on a wave of anger, rising in your chest. This was just about as much as you could take. You did feel guilty for slapping him, especially now, watching his cheek still burn, your handprint visible on the irritated skin. But you knew better than anyone he deserved it. You two have stopped being friends a long time ago: you weren’t the only one who noticed his lingering stares, the way he touched your body, brushing his hands accidentally against yours, giving you temple kisses... You weren’t going to play his fucking game, and a nice whack seemed a good way of showing it. The way he spoke to you, like he didn’t know what he did wrong, made you want to kick the crap out of him for behaving the way he did. For making you fall for him, and then leaving you out in the cold.

“Bravo!” you ran your fingers through your hair, brushing the loose strands out of your face so that Barnes could see the disgust, written on your face. “You're a great actor, Barnes. I, personally, would have given you a fuck you trophy for your outstanding performance tonight!...” he frowned at you in confusion, but that only made your voice grow firmer. “Simply because there’s a fine line between great actors and lousy liars, and the second category members never get an Oscar!...” before even giving your next move a proper thought, you felt your legs carry you back to the door. Tearing it open, you motioned for Ben to get the fuck out of your loft, your haven, your world. “Just like I said, Ben,” you narrowed your eyes at him, noticing him knitting his eyebrows together, feeling the fear rise in your chest yet again. “Good night”. 

Ben was now looking at you, uncomprehending. You were being sarcastic of course, knowing full well that there wasn’t going to be any sort of goodness in his life if he stepped out that door. But it wasn’t only him you were hurting – that he could take. He saw you hurting yourself – you didn’t want him to go, he could tell from the way you tucked strands of hair behind your ears, from the way your lips trembled, from the way you leaned against the door, as if you weren’t able to stand on your wobbly legs…

Instead of walking out, he slowly headed in your direction. You felt your skin shiver under his intense glare. You didn’t move. He soon stood right in front of you, his body nearly pinning yours to the door, his arm pressed against the cold wood next to your aching head…

“Good night?...” he repeated, his voice steady. “Do you really want me to show you how good your night could have been, if you weren’t trying to throw me out this very second?...”

You swallowed frantically, suddenly conscious of his closeness. You felt his words strike your core, as his breath touched your face, so hot and possessing. You slowly looked up, your neck stiff and sore, too fragile for your suddenly leaden, heavy head.

You felt his long, delicate fingers leave a lingering sensation of his touch along your jaw. He caressed your cheekbones, his eyes never quitting yours. His breath hitched as he saw you bite your lip absentmindedly. God, he missed you. He wanted you. His beautiful, flawless Y/N. Wanted to sense the scent of your skin, to feel the warmth of your naked body against his…

You both stood there, completely mesmerized by each other, lost in the moment. 

And then a small high-pitched voice rang in your head, reminding you the events from the party you left so quickly.

Get your shit together, you internally screamed, grasping his hand and tearing it off your face. If he was hoping to score twice tonight, he should have known better than coming here, out of all places. 

“Oh, smooth Barnes,” you scolded at him. “So fucking smooth. So what, I’m on your hit list tonight, too?” you commanded yourself not to cry, but hidden tears rang in your voice like tiny alarms. 

Ben stared at you in confusion, feigning ignorance.

Bastard, you thought.

“So snogging Kourtney wasn’t enough, huh? That bad boy in your pants needs more?” you spit it in his face, your mouth going dry.

Ben’s eyes grew spectacularly wide at your straightforward question, his jaw dropping to the level of his knees. He stared at you in awe of confusion and disbelief.

“Me?!...” he barely managed, “Kourtney?!... Snogging?.. What?!” he gazed at you open-mouthed, still shocked. “How could you… Do you really think we could actually?...” Ben’s bewilderment was so sincere, you caught yourself doubting what you thought you saw. You kept your facial expression unreadable, still watching him closely. “Wow,” he sounded hurt now, his right hand rubbing his chest. “That’s… well… Is this how bad you think of me? I came there with you, and you were the only person I counted on leaving with tonight,” his eyes finally met yours, his words knocking you off your feet.

You felt the weight of guilt settle on your chest, your feelings all over the place. You knew what you saw. She kissed him. You saw them.

“But I...” you bit your lip and stared down at your feet. “I saw you, Ben, I...” you looked back up, mumbling, all of your confidence gone. “You kissed her, I saw you both?”

“When?” he spoke softly now, clutching his hands behind his back, in an attempt to stop them from rubbing small circles on your cheeks. 

“Right before I left... It was dark, I know, but I swear it was you... You were the only one wearing this hideous pink tie...” you buried your fingers in your hair, tearing it hard. 

Did you just slap Ben-fucking-Barnes across his face for nothing? You closed your eyes, already knowing the truth. There was one another guy at the party wearing this kind of tie... The tie was the reason you noticed him in the first place. 

“I wasn’t,” Ben voiced your thoughts. “Sebastian Stan was wearing one, too.”

You felt the rush of warmth and tenderness towards this tall, delightfully attractive man, as you dared to face him again. Before you could whisper as much as a word of apology for everything you’d done for the past three hours, you felt Ben wrap his arms around your waist, crashing his unnaturally hot lips into your mouth, his hands traveling down your back. Closing your eyes again, you ran your fingers through his lush mane of hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. Ben tasted like all those things you loved so much, all whipped in a lavish frenzy – your favorite red oranges, marshmallows, glazed in chocolate, apple pies and strawberry... Meanwhile, his hands explored your fired-up body, worshipping your curves, your shoulder blades… You buried your face in his collarbone, your lips ghosting over his Adam’s apple, your hands scratching his back with your nails. He pushed his hips against yours, his hands cupping your full breasts softly, but demandingly... 

Kissing you passionately, Ben could feel his cock twitch, ready. But he needed to know you knew what you meant for him, that he would die before calling you his friend again...

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered in your ear. “I always have. You’re everything I have ever wanted, and I have no idea how my feelings managed to escape your attention...” he cupped your cheeks in his hands, staring in your eyes, making sure his message was received. “I want you to be mine.”

You could feel your face enlighten with a blissful smile, as you gently bit his neck, hearing him chuckle softly.

“I have always been yours…” you murmured, your grip around his neck tightening, “And I always will be…” 

With his heart beating wildly, he lifted you up from the ground. 

“Happy birthday, my love,” he whispered to you before gently biting your lower lip. “It’s time I gave you my present, don’t you think?”

Ben Barnes was a man of his word – it was about time he’d shown you how good your birthday night could get, now that you were his...

[merylqueenstreep]

2017 Ally For Equality - Meryl Streep (Full speech)

"Thank you. Stop. Sit down. Sit down. I'm coming every year. Thank you, Ken. Thank you. This man is writing the visual history of our times, and we are so lucky that someone with the capacity of mind and heart and the integrity is taking on that job. Thank you very much.

I do like football. I want to make this clear. I gave seven years, seven of my youngest, prettiest years to being a cheerleader for football, basketball and wrestling. I have watched more peewee football, Pop Warner football, JV and varsity high school football, JV and varsity college football, and professional football in 60 years than anybody here.

But if you hear a woman in a restaurant say, “My son is very interested in the arts,” she's not talking about football or mixed martial arts, because they're just not the same thing. Some of us like football, some of us like the arts. Many of us want both in our lives. And it isn't helpful to make it us versus them.  I was making a joke and Mike Nichols told me, "If you have to explain a joke, Meryl, you're doomed, so..."

So I honestly can’t imagine what I have done to deserve this great honor. Really...In The Hours all I did was kiss Allison Janney in take, after take, after take, after take...and it wasn’t that hard at all. And I'm also fairly proud of a very jolly portrayal of a gay conversion therapist on Lisa Kudrow’s Web Therapy that I did. And I feel our Vice President might want to check out those episodes because my character’s views seem to doveil with his, although it involves comedy, so I don't know if it's going to penetrate.

And I want to thank (HRC president) Chad (Griffin) and everybody at the Human Rights Campaign for this moving and very meaningful honor, which I dedicate to my gay and trans teachers, colleagues, mentors, directors, friends, all of whom should take the credit for me being up here because they taught me from a very young age, and they continue to remind me every day of the very best lesson and that is to be yourself and love and take joy in your work and what you do.

And I'm very grateful to this incredible organization, the Human Rights Campaign, for what you have done, in such a smart, strategic and systematic way, to secure and safeguard the rights of LGBTQ Americans. Most of the advances in acceptance and advocacy and law have come straight from the work of this organization. Well, I don't know how straight this is but you have made the lives of people I love better, stronger and safer.

When I was a little girl growing up in middle-class New Jersey, my entire artistic life was curated by people who lived in the straight jacket of a very conformist suburban life. In the late '50s and early '60s, all the houses in my neighborhood were the same size. In the developments, they even were the same shape and color and style. And in the schools, your job was was to put pennies in your loafers and look the same as everybody else and act the same way as everybody else. Standing out, being different was like drawing a target on your forehead. And you had to have a special kind of courage to do it. And some of my teachers were obliged to live their whole lives hidden, covertly. But my sixth and seventh grade music teacher, Paul Grossman, was one of the bravest people I knew. Because later, when I was in graduate school, I read that he had transitioned and become one of the first transgender women in the country. And after the operation, she reported back. As Paula Grossman. To our middle school in Basking Ridge, New Jersey, where she had taught for 30 years and she was promptly fired. 

But she pursued her case for wrongful dismissal and back pay through the courts for seven years, all the way to the Supreme Court. Unfortunately, her case was not accepted, and she lost, but she won her pension under a Disability Allowance settlement, although she was disabled only by the small minds of the school board. She was a garrulous, cantankerous, terrific teacher, and she never taught again. But her case set the stage for many discrimination cases that followed. She and her wife raised their three girls. She worked as a town planner and she had an act playing piano and singing in cocktail lounges around New Jersey. But I remember her as Mr. Grossman, and I remember when he took us on a field trip to the Statue of Liberty in 1961. And our whole class stood at the feet of that huge, beautiful woman and sang a song he had taught us, that was taken from the lyrics, the lyrics were taken from the poem by Emma Lazarus engraved at the base of the monument.

singing "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

I can’t remember what I did Tuesday, but I remember...I remember that song Mr. Grossman chose to teach us. It stirred my 11-year-old heart then, and it animates my conscience today. That's what great teachers do. She died in 2003, god rest her soul.

My piano teacher, George Voss. He was about 80 years old in 1965. He lived...or he was probably 40 and I just thought he was that old. Whatever...  He lived in a little house hidden away in the woods in Berkeley Heights, New Jersey, with his lover, Phil. And my mother said, his lover for 50 years. And his house wasn't like the other houses. It was a magical place. It was filled with birds and exotica and collectibles from Central and South America which they'd gathered on their trips. I'm not going to introduce you to all my gay an trans teachers. I just wanted to tell you about some of the people who made me an artist and who lived under duress. That's all.

You know, there is a good thing about being older. There is. You'll see. And that is you do get to mark the decades and the progress of things. You can honestly say things are better now. They really are better now. But what is that famous quote? “The price of liberty is eternal vigilance.” Everybody thinks that's Jefferson, that said that, but it wasn't. It was an Irishman, John Philpot Curran, don't ya know? "Etarnal vigilance is the price of liberty." And he also said - I just, I mean, Ken, great minds, you know -“Evil prospers when good men do nothing.” Ain't that the truth?

Okay, here's my theory. I'm going to go very fast, so have to stay with me, OK? Human life has been organized in a certain way. The hierarchy set, who’s in charge, who makes the laws and who enforces the laws, pretty much the same way for  40,000 years. Yeah, I know, I know. There were some small number of matrilineal cultures and some outliers who were more tolerant to differences, very true; but pretty much and so-called democracies, the great democracy of Greece, where women and slaves were excluded. Pretty much through our history, might made right and the biggest and the richest and the baddest were the best. And the man, pretty much always was a man.

But suddenly, at one point in the 20th century, for reasons I can’t possibly enumerate in the two minutes that I have left,something did change. The clouds parted and women began to be regarded, if not as equal, but as deserving of equal rights. It' true. It was a first. Men and women of color demanded their equal rights. People of sexual orientation and gender identification outside the status quo also demanded their equal regard under the law. So did people with disabilities. We all won rights that had already been granted us in the Constitution 200 years before in theory. But the courts and society finally caught up and recognized our claims. And amazingly, and, in the terms of the whole human history, blazingly fast, culture seemed to have shifted. All the old hierarchies and entitlements seemed to be on shaky ground which brings us to now. We shouldn't be surprised that fundamentalists of all stripes, everywhere are exercised and fuming. We shouldn't be surprised that these profound changes come at a steeper cost than it seemed we were gliding through them in the late 20th century. We shouldn't be surprised if not everyone is totally down with it. . But if we live, if we live through this precarious moment, if his catastrophic instinct to retaliate doesn’t lead us to nuclear winter, we will have much to thank this president for because he will have woken us up to how fragile freedom really is. And his whisperers will have alerted us to the potential flaws in our balance of power in government. To how we've relied on the goodwill and selflessness of previous occupants of the Oval Office. And how quaint notions of custom, honor and duty compelled them to adhere to certain practices of transparency and responsibility. How easily all of this can be ignored. And how the authority of the executive, in the hands of a self dealer, can be wielded against the people and the Constitution and their bill of rights. The whip of the executive can, through a Twitter feed, lash and intimidate, punish and humiliate, de-legitimize the press and all the imagined enemies with spasmodic regularity and easily provoked predictability.

Here we are in 2017 and our browser seems to have gone down. And we are in danger of losing all our information. And we seem to be reverting to the factory settings. But we're not. We're not going to go back to the bad old days of ignorance and oppression and hiding who we are because we owe it to the people who have died for our rights and who died before they got their own. And we owe it to the pioneers of the LGBTQ movement, like Paula Grossman, and to the people on the frontlines of all civil rights movements not to let them down. I am the most overrated and most overdecorated and currently, currently, I am the most over berated actress, who likes football, of my generation. But that is why you invited me here! Right?

Okay. The weight, the wright of all my honors is part of what brings me here to the podium. It compels me. It's against every one of my natural instincts, which is to stay fuck home. It compels me to stand up in front of people and say words that haven’t been written for me, but that come from my life, my conviction and that I have to stand by because it’s hard to stand up. It's hard. I don’t want to do it. I don't want to be here. I want to be home and I want to read and garden and load my dishwasher. I do. I love that. It’s embarrassing and terrifying to put the target on your forehead. And it sets you up for all sorts of attacks and armies of brownshirts and bots and worse. And the only way you can do it is to feel you have to. You have to. You don't have an option. You have to stand up, speak up, act up! Thank you. You are. You are it! You are it!

And when I load my dishwasher from where I live in New York City, I can look out my window and I see the Statue of Liberty. And she reminds me of Mr.Grossman and the first trip there and all my great grandparents who came through and paddes by that poem. Many of them fled religious, religious intolerance in the old world and we Americans have the right to reject the imposition of unwanted religious practice in our lives. We have the right to live our lives, with God or without her, as we choose. There's a prohibition in this country against the establishment of state religion in our Constitution, and we have the right to choose with whom we live, whom we love and who and what gets to interfere with our bodies. As Americans, men, women, people, gay, straight, LGBTQ, all of us have the human right to life and liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And if you think people were mad when they thought the government was coming after their guns, wait until you see they try to take away our happiness!” 

Honoree Meryl Streep speaks onstage during the 2017 Human Rights Campaign Greater New York Gala at Waldorf Astoria Hotel on February 11, 2017 in New York City. (x)

[gleasonfamilyadventure]

Did you know hidden among rolling hills and curved roads of Tuscarawas County, Ohio are historical gems? I had booked my son, Sam for a youth blacksmithing class at a place called Zoar Historic Village. As I was looking for a place to stay overnight I started to see these little known places begin to show up on my map, places like, Dennison Railroad Depot Museum, The Warther Museum and Gardens, Fort Laurens and the Ohio and Erie Canal Towpath. All these locations were within minutes of one another and before I knew it, I had begun planning a historical adventure for the weekend for the kids and I.

I called the Tuscararwas CVB and spoke to the Executive Director, Dee Grossman because I did not have a lot of time to plan my adventure and needed some people who were “in the know” for advice. I wanted a family friendly hotel, the best way to hit all the museums in a timely manner and they were able to point me to the right direction. The Tuscarawas CVB is a great place to stop before you head out on your family adventure. They have free coffee and tea, bathrooms and LOTS of great information. The staff here are friendly and ready to help you plan your time in the area.

  Our first stop was to at the Dennison Railroad Depot Museum in Dennision, Ohio. When you pull up you might think, “This looks really small!” Looks can be deceiving because they have  an amazing museum, FULL of information, artifacts and interactive areas for kids. We met up with our tour guide, and as we entered the depot museum it felt like we had entered a time warp and headed back in time. You could almost feel the bustling and jostling of people and the sounds of the railway as you wander around the first room. The restored stained glass windows and railroad paraphernalia were fantastic.

After you finish your time in the main building you head into the part of museum that is housed in train cars. The kids and I were surprised how much they were able to display here. Seriously, they have made their space work for them! One thing I really must give them HIGH marks for is the interactive activities they have for kids. They actually WELCOME your children and want them to experience the Depot to the fullest.

The Dennison Railroad Depot Museum has train rides in the fall for foliage tours and a Polar Express train ride at Christmas. We have not taken any of these excursions but they do look marvelous! Maybe we will make the trip there this winter?

Our hotel for the evening was the Holiday Inn Express and Suites in New Philadelphia, Ohio. I had been looking for a family friendly hotel and this one hit them mark on every level. The room we had was large,  with 2 queen beds and a pull out couch. This is enough space for the family to spread out and relax! The pool area was GREAT! It had water buckets, a water umbrella and shooting water over top of the pool. My kids spent hours there and by the time they were done, they were ready to crash in bed! (Tired kids = BONUS for mom!) Holiday Inn Express offers an amazing breakfast, including hot items, cold items, juices, and fruit. The highlight were the Cinnabons for the kids! This is a PERFECT place to stay with your family if you need a hotel.

Sam’s class at Zoar Village started at 8 am in the morning so we were up and out of the hotel and exploring early. After dropping Sam off, the rest of us headed to The Warther Museum and Gardens. I did not know what to expect at a wood carving museum.

The Warther Museum and Gardens did not disappoint. We met with Julie, our tour guide, and got a bit of background before we started. How can I begin to tell you about this museum? It is breathtaking, unexpected and thought-provoking. Breathtaking because the carvings take your breath away, they are exquisite. Unexpected because it blows your expectations out of the water. Thought provoking because Mooney’s work ethic and personality cause you to think about what you are doing with your life and time.

I honestly struggle to write this section of my blog because I don’t have the adequate words to tell you about this amazing place. I’ve been to many museums in my life time, but this one left me astounded.

We were hungry after our tour and we headed to the Zoar village to eat at the Canal Tavern of Zoar. This was a neat place to eat and offered food choices that go along with the history of the Zoar Village. I did not love it but Abbie did. If you want food that is authentic to the village, give it a try.

  “Zoar Village was founded in 1817 by a group of over 200 German Separatists seeking escape from religious persecution in their homeland. These Separatists thrived as a unique society for more than 80 years, making Zoar Village one of the most successful communal settlements in American history. Today, Zoar Village is made up of approximately 75 families living in homes built from 1817 to the present. Visit us to tour the museum buildings, see early American architecture, and enjoy the quaint village scenery.” Zoar Village website.

We had a great time renting bikes and riding around the village touring the structures and learning about the history. We were able to get through the village fairly quickly because the crowds were small. My favorite stop was the bakery!

Abbie and I still had some time to go do a few more things before Sam’s class was done so we headed over to Fort Laurens, which was a short drive from Zoar. As always, I realize how very little I know about Ohio history when I come to small nondescript places like Fort Laurens.  You can explore the site of Ohio’s only Revolutionary War fort, built in 1778 as a wilderness outpost, and visit a museum where it tells the story of soldiers on the frontier. It is a short visit here, but still worth your time.

I don’t think any adventure, even a historical one, is complete without some kind of hike or outdoor time. Here in the middle of all this history is the Ohio and Erie Canal Towpath Trail. I love imagining what this path would have looked like in the time of canal boats and busy canal commerce. What richness of history the dirt path trail holds within it. You should walk it, like Abbie and I did, and think about the past as you adventure upon the towpath.

Tuscarawas County left me surprised and exhausted, a good exhausted. There is so much to see and do here and so much we did not have time to see.  Our family looks forward to heading back this way sometime in the near future because more history and adventure await us in Tuscarawas County, Ohio.

Happy Adventuring,

Brandy

Our tickets to Dennison and Warthers were compensated to us, all opinions in this blog are my own.

Tuscarawas County, Ohio : Gateway to Historical Adventure Did you know hidden among rolling hills and curved roads of Tuscarawas County, Ohio are historical gems?

[jenmedsbookreviews]

Today it’s my great pleasure to welcome Karen Cole to the blog to help spread a little BookLove. Karen blogs at Hair Past a Freckle which is a wonderful blog with a wide range of books, including some of my all time favourites. Before we find out whcih books have made Karen’s all time greatest books list, let’s find our a bit more about Karen.

About Karen

My name is Karen, I write about books on my blog, Hair Past A Freckle and I’m a mum to three daughters, aged 9, 15 and 18.  I’m a midday supervisor in a primary school and from September I will also be a teaching assistant there, mostly 1:1 with a child in Reception but I’ll also be the whole class TA for a few hours a week, and I’m going to be the cover TA for the other classes too so I’ll be kept busy! Before having my daughters I was a veterinary nurse in a mixed practice – my claim to fame is I once asked Michael Kitchen (of Foyle’s War) if he had gas! (Gas was his cat’s name, so it wasn’t an entirely random question but I could have phrased it better!) I originally started Hair Past A Freckle as a blog about anything and everything but I fell in love with book blogging. I love being able to writing about and recommending books, and reviewing them is my way of thanking authors for the hours of pleasure they give me. The vast majority of book bloggers are wonderful too and it’s a real pleasure to be a small part of such a friendly community.

You can follow Karen on Twitter, Facebook and her blog Hair Past A Freckle

Childhood Sweetheart Favourite book from childhood

I read voraciously as a child and loved nothing better than rifling through second hand book stalls at summer fetes. That old book smell lured me from a young age! I adored Shadow the Sheepdog by Enid Blyton – I loved several of her books but the story of Shadow and his fellow sheepdogs, Bob, Rafe, Tinker and Dandy enthralled me and I reread it many many times. I also loved The Winter of Enchantment by Victoria Walker, I lost my original copy years ago and for a long time thought I’d never replace it as it was out of print. Fortunately Fidra Books republished it so I was able to buy a copy for my own daughters.

First love The first book you fell in love with

The Outsiders by S.E Hinton. We read That Was Then, This is Now in class when I was in the third year at middle school and I was blown away by this book that featured teenagers who, while still a world away from my sheltered life in rural Dorset, felt more believable and more relatable than anything I’d read before. I immediately read the rest of her books and while I loved them all it was The Outsiders, with Ponyboy, Johnny, Sodapop and Dallas that really won my heart.

Biggest book crush The book character you’re totally in love with

My heart will forever belong to Remus Lupin. I still haven’t really forgiven J.K. Rowling!

Weirdest book crush Well… duh

There’s possibly a theme going on here as if my biggest book crush is a werewolf then my weirdest is faun – namely, Mr Tumnus. He was always my favourite character in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe but I must admit seeing James McAvoy portray him on screen probably cemented this crush.

Hardest break up The book you didn’t want to end

I’m not there yet but I’m eagerly anticipating while simultaneously dreading the last of Paul E. Hardisty’s Claymore Straker series. I wasn’t sure I’d really enjoy his first book, The Abrupt Physics of Dying as I’m not always a fan of adventure thrillers but he completely won me over, and then with The Evolution of Fear and Reconciliation for the Dead got better and better. I’ll be devastated to read the last Straker book but I’m consoled by the knowledge that whatever else he writes will be equally wonderful.

The one that got away The book in your TBR or wish list that you regret not having started yet.

The Shock of the Fall by Nathan Filer. I bought this after it won the Costa Prize but it wasn’t long after my brother Simon’s death by suicide and the description on the back, ‘I’ll tell you what happened because it will be a good way to introduce my brother. His name’s Simon. I think you’re going to like him. I really do. But in a couple of pages he’ll be dead. And he was never the same after that.’ meant that although the circumstances between my real life tragedy and that in the book are different, I wasn’t emotionally ready to read it. I’m in a much better place now and have read so many good things about the book, I really should read it soon.

Secret love Guilty Reading pleasure

I don’t really believe in being embarrassed my book choices. We should all choose the the right book for the right time. Sometimes you may want something deep and thought-provoking, other times may call for a lighter, easier read. That said I don’t often mention Going West with Annabelle by Molly Douglas. My mum bought me the paperback when I had the flu as a teenager and I loved the real life story of Molly, her husband, Christopher and their family as they moved to Canada in 1953 to start a new life. Annabelle was their goat! Originally published in the late seventies it’s very dated now but it was my comfort read when I was ill for years.

Love one, love them all Favourite series or genre

This is difficult! I’ve loved lots of different series over the years – Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers and St Clare’s books, The Chronicles of Narnia of course, Anne of Green Gables, Harry Potter, Patrick Ness’ Chaos Walking trilogy… I think though I’m going to choose a publisher here. I’ve read several books from Orenda and have loved every single one. Karen Sullivan and her team seem to have been blessed with a bookish (and therefore not a curse at all) version of the Midas Touch. I may not know where an Orenda author is going to take me but I always know I’m in for a fabulous read.

Your latest squeeze Favourite read of the last 12 months

I can’t just pick one, that would be like choosing a favourite child! So here’s a few that have really stood out for me this year (in no particular order) Reconciliation for the Dead by Paul E. Hardisty, Block 46 by Johana Gustawsson, How to Stop Time by Matt Haig, The Unquiet Dead, and  The Language of Secrets by Ausma Zehanat Khan and The Man Who Died by Antti Tuomainen. There’s a lot of Orenda Books there! I could have easily picked several more books too, this is such a hard question to answer!

Blind date for a friend If you were to set a friend up with a blind date (book) which one would it be?

I’ve already told my brother he should read Western Fringes by Amer Anwar. The book is set in Southall and I’m sure some of the locations will be familiar to him as he lived on a canal boat in the area for about a year. It’s a brilliant contemporary thriller too so I recommend it to everyone, not just my brother.

Greatest love of all Favourite book of all time.

Now this is an easy choice! It has to be The Humans by Matt Haig. The first book I reviewed for Hair Past A Freckle, without The Humans I may not have become a book blogger. It was the book I needed to read when I most needed books and will always hold a special place in my heart.

Thanks Karen. Some absolutely great choices in here and I totally agree about Orenda Books. Karen and her team of fabulous writers have produced some of my favourite books of the year, if not all time. You’ve also inspired me to go a purchase another book so now have the latest Ausma Zehanat Khan book in my collection – whoops.

What do you think guys? Any suggestions for Karen. As you can see she’s a true book-a-holic and like all good book-a-holics, can’t pick just one book, so perhaps a brilliant series that you think might catch her eye?

Have a brilliant week all. Hope it’s full of bookish wonders

Jen

#BookLove: Karen Cole @karlou Today it's my great pleasure to welcome Karen Cole to the blog to help spread a little BookLove.