#with slightly different context and then realize how well it works for john

[sga-owns-my-soul]

john to the city: you're so good you're so sweet i love you baby you're everything i'd never do anything to hurt you i would kill for you i would die for you

john to the ancients: i would shove you through a space gate for a broken corn chip

[o-uncle-newt]

On the Job minisode and Good Omens as a work on religion

(Note: This was originally a reblog of someone who then expressed that they were unhappy that I reblogged their post. As a courtesy I have reposted it as its own thing- for context, the person was upset that Neil Gaiman's take on religion was stale and said that of course if you have only a surface view of the Torah and the book of Job you'd come away with these kinds of negative impressions.)

I went to Orthodox Jewish day school for thirteen years. I thought the Job minisode was fine, as an adaptation of the story. Not breaking any ground theologically or whatever, but fine. (Though they did definitely get the number of Job's kids wrong, presumably for narrative simplicity, and the shoemaker joke doesn't work because he's really Bildad the ShuCHite.)

And, I mean, I don't think it should be MEANT to be anything but fine...? Good Omens is a fantasy novel in which heaven and hell are both the bad guys- Good Omens the show has basically kept in that model. The whole thing is about a simplistic look at the Christian Bible and a kind of cynical but light hearted agnosticism that doesn't really lend itself particularly to sophisticated religious analysis or whatever. It's not meant for that.*

The Job minisode was written by John Finnemore rather than Gaiman, a writer of whom I am a massive fan and, however, to whom I don't really look for sophisticated religious takes. He's done a Bible/religion sketch or two on his sketch show- I don't particularly love them, they're pretty surfacey- and he's self aware enough to make it very clear that he approaches everything from an "I don't believe in God but I grew up in a Christian country" perspective. (He's a lot more honest about that than a lot of other atheist/agnostic writers I've seen who do takes on religion, incidentally... so many people think they're being "objective" or whatever.)

The thing is, I actually really love the Job minisode as a Good Omens story, working within this complete fantasy world. I was disappointed in a lot of S2 but this felt like the characters, this felt like an interesting meditation on their roles and their choices... I don't know, it just really worked for me.

And I feel like part of the point is to pick one of those "well obviously on the surface this looks a bit fucked up" stories (rather than for there to be an implication that they're the only ones who noticed)- because they're working in a fictional universe in which it's been established since the nineties that heaven/God is at least a bit fucked up (no matter what I as a Jew may personally believe) and so they can just take it and run with it without having to explain! Gaiman did the same thing in S1 with the Garden of Eden and the Ark. It's just a canvas to put an Aziraphale/Crowley plot on. The original book is a Book of Revelations satire!

Honestly, I'm happier to have a pretty basic retelling of a story that's obviously fucked up on the surface, rather than them picking some midrash or something that's more subtle and nuanced and super Jewish-y and then turning it into something about how God or the angels or the demons are bad- partly because Jewish angel/demon stuff doesn't map well onto Good Omens's approach, and also because the whole point of the book from the start has been critical of organized Judeo-Christian (yes I know) religion writ large, and that's not going to change. That was weird for me to get used to as an Orthodox Jewish teen in a Bais Yaakov school when I first read it, but getting past it made me realize that all that meant was that they'd created a Biblical fantasy universe with certain tropes in it.

I think the Job minisode works perfectly well within that particular Biblical fantasy universe, and while I think that you can potentially criticize S1 (and in a slightly different way, the book) for that Biblical satire/fantasy not being particularly sophisticated about religion if that's something important to you, I don't think that it being sophisticated about religion would have improved it as a story.

*I did kinda sorta write a fic that tries to cast Aziraphale and Crowley in a more traditionally Jewish lens and... it was actually really hard. As I said above, the way the Good Omens world is set up doesn't really work for the Jewish thing. I had to make it really clear that angels don't have free will and that Heaven and Hell aren't two different sides.

[ren-therose]

The Penthouse Plot

Sherlock X F!Reader (3.8k words)

Summary: Sherlock, John and Reader all go to a penthouse party to pick up some clues about their newest case. But Y/N and Sherlock are put in a compromising situation. 

Warnings: smut 18+, semi-public sex, fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kids), creampie, squirting, after care

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“We are going to a party”

This was an incredibly abrupt statement from the detective who was still in pajamas at four in the afternoon, slouched down into the arm chair with the news paper covering his face. I couldn’t see his emotions, but I could tell that the idea had already been formulated, and he had not quite been excited out of it. His boredom was chronic, and it would often times only be soothed by myself to get him out of it. 

The first time we met, I was sitting on a park bench in Paddington Street Gardens, not but two blocks away from his flat. As if drawn to the cigarette I was smoking, he walked up as casually as he could, coat turned up, and sat on the bench over from my left. I didn’t look, but I was aware that a tall, dark man was watching me as I tried to solve today's crossword in the paper. 

He leaned closer, trying to take in the smoke for the nicotine high. With a slight glance his way, it was all I needed to take the cigarette from my mouth in my left hand, and casually rest it on the bench next to me. I blew out the smoke to the right side of my mouth though, purposefully keeping it from him, allowing my lips to guide the smoke in a stream to dissipate into the morning air. Still looking at the crossword, I began filling in 20 across, feeling a sense of intrigue and frustration emanating from the man next to me. 

“It’s not diva, its aria,” a deep voice says. I smirk, not looking up to his face quite yet. 

“No shit, Sherlock. 18 down is ‘erie’, so why would I put down diva?” I inquire, but before he could answer, I reply myself. “I was proving my hypothesis: is the detective next to me just trying to second-hand smoke, or is he actually paying attention to me? And the answer was both.”

He stands and comes to sit on my right side, not looking at me directly. The cigarette dangling from my lip wasn’t his main concern anymore. 

“How quickly did you realize it is only an herbal cigarette Mr. Holmes?” I ask, erasing my trap from 20 across. 

“As soon as I first looked at you. You have no stains on your fingers from the smoke, as well as no burns, which tells me you don’t smoke often. If you were a smoker, you would need at least a pack a day, and these tell-tale signs would be there. You don’t need to smoke because there isn’t an addiction. I presume you do it to attract men, though possibly women too, and to fit into the culture of London, as you are not from here. But you specifically looked up this park because you were looking for something or someone. I would presume it is me, considering you recognized me through my name” he says smuggly, finally looking at me. I didn’t know it then, but he later explained that he was shocked to see the prominence of my “subtle beauty”, and the way in which I held posture in every way that symbolized I was relaxed next to him. This of course was followed by the fact that I was so comfortable that I had gained a pound within the first year of knowing him. 

“So you are as good as they say,” I reply, looking up into his clear blue eyes. Those eyes dart down to my lips where the cigarette is still being held by the moisture of my mouth. I remove it, holding out the cigarette between my fingers. “I can imagine it is worlds different from a regular cigarettes addictive effects, but the smell of smoke and the herbs inside might calm you,” I offer. He leans down and takes the cigarette in his mouth, inhaling deeply. I let go of the cigarette as he leans back and removes it. He exhales out, happy to have something other than CO2 leave his lungs. 

“You could have phoned” he said nonchalantly. I closed the newspaper and turned my body slightly more towards him. 

“No I couldn’t. This isn’t about a case or me looking for my parents or some shit. I needed you to listen. I am a doctor and I am looking for the topic of my next publication” I state. His eyes widen a bit, as he gives me a once over. I was quite young to have a doctorate, but the ambition I have was intriguing to him.

“Great, another doctor. And you must study some form of psychology right?” he implies. 

I chuckle as I brush the hair behind my ear to look at him as I explain my credentials. 

“BA in a social science and a minor in Women's Studies and Gender, just to make it easier on you. Two masters in something to do with policy and a knack for behavior trends across cultures. A PhD in…” I trail off to let him figure it out. 

“International Relations. You couldn’t let go of the need to work abroad and help other. You also study the difference in human behaviors and how it can be interpreted and persuaded. It is why you are now living in London, after living in a southern European country, and I’m going to go with Italy” he responds. 

I raise my eyebrow at him. “Italy was fun. I spent most of the time on the mainland with a friend and would visit their family in Sardinia”. 

“He was gay wan’t he?”

“Not that he himself knew.”

The detective laughed. It was the beginning of a friendship, with many late nights, bad coffee and fighting. I lived in the basement of 221 Baker Street, after coming to a bargain price with Mrs. Hudson if I agreed to get rid of the black mold and redo the space for future renters. When I asked her why she was already thinking of future renters, she just smiled and told me Sherlock's door was open and I could just walk in. 

Now, a year and a half later, I was in his flat, in my own night gown and robe, working on pot of tea to make a London foggy, one of Sherlocks favorite drinks I could make. I had told him that if he got to work in his pajamas, or just a sheet at times, then he couldn’t expect anything less of me. But his abrupt statement that we were going to a party had me do a double take. 

“A party? Are we feeling like clubbing tonight Sherlock?” I tease. 

“It is just a bit of field work. But I need you to come with as my date so that I am not bothered by lonely, sad women.”

“Ah yes. All the lonely, sad women will flock to the handsome, cocky detective for comfort and an inquisitive night,” I mock, bringing the tea to him. 

“Isn’t that what you did?” He says without looking up. 

Offended, I grab the paper from his hands and smack him on the head with it. He flinched, protecting his tea from me. 

“Haven’t you figured it out by now? I’m here for John” I say, tossing the paper into his lap. Sherlocks mouth slightly gapes before he snaps it shut, looking behind me. 

“I’m sorry, what did I just walk in on?” John says from the doorway. Sherlock turns red as I walk up to John, pulling my leg up on him, placing my hand on his cheek while giving him a lingering kiss on the other, maintaining eye contact with Sherlock. “Afternoon John,” I say with a flirtatious growl. He didn’t move since my dramatic act, and as I exited the apartment to get ready, I hear John exclaim “I could get used to that kind of welcome”. I laugh as I hear the paper get thrown at the doctor. 

Two hours later, and a lot of fighting with a curling wand, I hear a knock at my door. I do a once-over of myself in the mirror. It was a high-end party, requiring a more put together look, and I was determined to look my best. In helping Sherlock and John, I realized that I rarely dressed up-practicality and professionalism is key. 

I put my phone into my handbag, and slipped my feet into my black pointed stilettos. One more once-over in the mirror next to the door, and I unlatched the lock. As soon as I opened it, the detective couldn’t help but let his eyes wander. My hair was in loose curls around my face, and the dress, oh the dress, flattered my body in every way. It was a silk green dress, that hugged every curve. It was ruched in the sides, creating a tight draping across my abdomen. The fabric on my bust sat just below the tops of my breasts, and dropped to my off-the-shoulder sleeves. I was wearing a simple emerald necklace with matching earrings, and a ruby ring on my left hand. My legs were well accentuated, and the stilettos did wonders for my posture. Still, I was the same girl in pajamas at this now well suited man's place as I was now. 

“You’re giving yourself away Detective,” I flirt, walking by him to climb the stairs to the front of the building. I make extra care to add a little movement as I climb, knowing he would be right behind me and very distracted. It was my favorite game to tease both of the boys, but especially Sherlock. It was always a game, and he loved games. As I exited the building, John was waiting for us outside, also dressed sharply. His eyes widened as I walked towards him. 

“In the words of a great detective, ‘Your body betrays you’ John. It’s still me inside this get-up. Now where is the cab?” I ask. 

“Umm...uh, there hasn’t been an available one yet...” he forces out. 

London was busy on a Saturday night, and it could often be difficult to find a cab. Lucky for us, my dress is pretty reflective, and I was going to use that to my advantage. I stepped off the curb just slightly, jutting out my shoulder blades and putting my weight on one foot to give myself more shape. By the time I had raised my hand, two taxis pulled up. I heard a cough behind me, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson both smirking at me. 

“I’m sorry, did you have a better idea?” I shoot at them. I open the door for myself and climb into the cab. The two men clambered in after me. 

The party was at a lovely high-rise in the middle of London. It looked to be a penthouse, but one grander than I had ever seen. As the three of us exited the elevator, we looked at each other once more, setting our plan in motion. John was to walk around and mingle, while Sherlock and I were to snoop about the place, looking for context clues. I grabbed a flute of champagne from one of the trays, and Sherlock and I began our promenade. We quickly realized that I was drawing a bit too much attention in my get-up and we would need to look around before people noticed we were gone. Our arms entwined, we strolled past the main crowd into a hallway, casually chatting the weather. The detectives hand was on my waist, holding tightly, as though I might leave his side. It was different than they way he usually grabbed my arm to move me around or out of the way of harm. 

We were looking for the bedroom of our hosts place, though, it did not seem there was one here. The penthouse was more of a party pad then a living space, which lends more to our profile of him. We continued to walk, and came across a study. His hand slid off my waist as he entered the room. I stood outside with my drink, while Sherlock took note of every little detail there. As he came out of the room though, I heard footprints coming round the corner. I grabbed his arm and pulled him into the bathroom next to the study. As I pushed him in, our eyes searched each other for the next move that we hadn’t initially planned. Though we were going as a date, it was never really a date. Until now. 

Grabbing the lapels of the detectives suit, I slammed my lips on his, pushing us both backwards onto the sink. Knowing that he was more recognizable. I spun him around so that my back was to the sink and his was to the door. I jumped on to the sink, hiking up my dress a little higher, so that I could hook one leg around his waist. Instinctively, his right hand went to my leg to hold it up, and his left hand was in my hair. 

His lips. I had seen them a million times before, studying his face as he rambled about a case. While he was just a colleague and possibly a friend, there were a few times when I would fall asleep thinking about those lips. And here he was, kissing me on a bathroom sink at a party, with enough force to make me melt into it. My hand went to his hair, as he began to trail kisses down my neck, hiding his face in me so that his reflection could not be seen. My other hand was gripping his waist, trying not to slip into the sink itself. My shoe was dangling on my toes as our bodies continued to crash. We heard the door click open, and my eyes opened to see the host and his assistant wide-eyed at us. 

“Occupied,” I panted, smiling with a small wave. The two quickly shut the door, their footprints receding down the hallway. As soon as it was quiet, Sherlock froze on my collarbone, neither of us moving for a moment. I removed my hand from his hair, trying to pat it back into place. He stood up, and looked down at me. My dress had ridden up further, and my black lace panties were definitely on display. So was the red in both of our faces. I glanced over his shoulder to look at the door, realizing that there was a lock on it. Sherlock didn’t look back. He kept his eyes on me. 

He knew there was a lock. He wanted the situation. He wanted to get caught.

“Lock it” I demanded.

He took a few steps back and turned the button, locking the door. His eyes didn’t leave me. I was still propped up against the sink, both hands propped up behind me. My legs had still been open, and as his eyes raked over my body looked, I grew self-conscious and went to close them. But he stepped towards me, grabbing my lower thigh. I hesitantly opened myself back up for him. His hand moved up my thigh, while the other wrapped around my waist, drawing himself closer to me. I placed a hand on his chest, running it up until it was at the nape of his neck, playing with his soft, black curls. I gently tugged him toward me, and our lips attached once more. This time, it was more more sensual. Taking the time to just allow ourselves to feel one another. As he pulled away, I let out a small gasp as I felt his growing bulge against my clothed core. 

He seized the opportunity to kiss me again, letting his tongue wander and explore my mouth, pulling me as close as I could be to him. He pushed himself against me, causing a soft moan to escape, as I involuntarily rolled against him. He smirked against my mouth, moving once more against me. I hissed, feeling myself grow wetter. 

Sherlock pulled me off the sink, wrapping both of my legs around him before pinning me against the wall. I was sitting just on top of his cock, and the friction was even more frustrating. I grinded down on him, kissing his neck, while leaving small bites in between. I needed more though. I unwrapped my legs, and he lowered me to the ground. When he placed me down, I kissed him with passion while I started to undo his trousers. He walked backwards to the sink, leaning up against it, as I palmed him through his suit. His low groan made me quiver as I licked a long stripe up his neck to his ear, wear I softly bit the lobe. This drove him crazy.

Pants still undone, he whipped us around so that I was against the sink again. He pulled my dress up enough so that he could hook his fingers in the lace of my panties and pull them down. He lifted me up on to the sink to get them off of me. He worked them past my heels, and placed both of his hands on my thighs, rubbing circles into them with his thumb. His forehead was resting on mine and we were both breathing in sync. I opened my legs for him, as he traced his way between my legs. The violinist in him was showing, and he was going to work out the tension and boredom he had been feeling all day. His fingers came in contact with me, running through my folds. He went from my clit down to my opening, just toying with me. I let out a whimper as he placed his middle finger just barely inside of me. He slowly pushed his digit inside of me, causing a guttural groan to escape. I bucked into his hand, desperate for more. He pumped it casually, as if he had done this to me a million times and knew how I would react. He then slipped a second finger into me, causing me to emit another moan. 

“Please Sherlock. No games,” was all I could manage. 

He began to pump his fingers in a come-hither motion, curling them to hit my g-spot. I gasped with every movement, keeping as quiet as I could. He was working his way to get me as wet as I could be for him. I was starting to feel the tension in my stomach build when he placed his thumb on my clit and made sharp movements with it. I cried out, gripping his shoulders for support. I was going to need him soon if he wanted to me to finish with his cock inside me. But he kept pumping and rubbing, watching as my face conveyed every emotion he had ever made me feel. My arm wrapped around his neck, as I could barely keep myself up anymore. 

“Sherlock, you-you’re gonna..m-make me..c-cum…” I stutter out. I am rocking against his hand, chasing what I can’t stop. This only urges him more, as he quickens his pace. Without warning, I cum all over his finger with a cry. But he doesn’t stop. He continues to work my pussy, until I gasp out “I’m...I’m gonna squirt”. He steps out from between my legs, his fingers not stopping. As he steps to the side, he leans in to my ear and finally says something. 

“Show me”. 

It was all it took for my orgasm to elongate itself, as I squirted on his hand. I couldn’t stop and was shaking, barely able to keep myself up. I almost crumpled backwards before he caught me. Once again, he was between my legs, his hands on my neck and waist. I reached for his painfully hard cock, pulling it from his pants. I started stroking him, causing his eyes to flutter close. I was still coming down from what he had done with just his fingers, but I needed his dick inside me. I looked up at him, and said something that I knew would only boost his ego, and he would probably use against me later. 

“Mr. Holmes, I need you inside me, now”. 

His eyes shot open, as I looked back at him with lust-blown eyes. My hand was still wrapped around his cock, slowly pumping him. He and his god-complex were completely enamoured with my new take of teasing him. I lined his cock at my entrance, but not before teasing him through my folds. Just that little movement caused goosebumps to erupt on my skin. As I put his tip in my entrance, he searched my eyes once more for the consent he needed. I pushed myself onto him a little, letting him know he could take me. He leaned in, pushing his length all the way into me. I let out a loud gasp, wrapping my arm around his neck once more, my other hand on his back. I was still throbbing from my previous orgasm, and I knew he could feel my warm pulse inside me. He slowly pulled out, and then quickly sheathed himself inside me again. Our pelvises were against each other and his gently movements drove me crazy. I let out a cry of ecstasy, letting my head roll back, exposing my neck. He kissed it gently, and then, lifted me off the counter and back against the wall. All I could do was struggle to remain quiet as he began quick thrusts deep into me, relentlessly hitting my sweet spot. He was open mouthed against my neck, breathing erratically as he continued to hold me up. 

“You feel, s-so g-good,” I moaned, urging him to continue. He loved it when I complimented him, he had always been that way. But to be inside me as I told him how much I loved his cock, it was heaven for him. The guttural sounds from his throat proved to me that he felt the same.

“Y/n, I’m not gonna last much longer” he said, as though it would deter me. As he began to remove himself, I grabbed his face to look at me. 

“I want you to cum inside, Detective,” I whisper, wrapping my legs tighter around him to prove my point. 

His eyes widened searching my face as I was in taking all of him, bouncing on his dick in a penthouse bathroom, loving everything he did. Seeing what he could do to me, looking into my eyes as I stifled my moans, he began to stutter inside of me. I was on the edge too, and when his hot rope of cum shooted inside of me, my own orgasm exploded, milking him of the rest of his cum. 

When we had both stilled, frozen with him still inside me, we could hear the party still going and the noise of London below us. He pulled his softening cock from me and as he did, our cum dripped down my thigh. My legs were incredibly weak, as he continued to hold me up. I reached for a hand towel to clean me up, but he beat me to it, wiping up and between my legs, careful not to cause pain from the sensitivity. He picked up my underwear that he had tossed on the ground somewhere, and helped me step back into it. I was still shaky if I bent my legs, but I knew he would hold me up. As we looked at each other, there was something new we both saw. Romance. The sexual chemistry that had been there was a response to the catalyst of romance. 

Before we could discuss the aftermath of our actions though, there was a loud banging on the door. Smoothing out my dress just past the door, Sherlock opened it to find John, arms crossed, waiting outside.   

“Are you shitting me Sherlock? You look like you just took a hit of something. Did you seriously lose Y/N at this party because you were trying to get hi…”

The door widened to reveal me, just behind Sherlock, makeup slightly down my fae, and both of our hair tousled. I smiled at John, knowing it wasn’t what he had expected. His jaw dropped, “Tha..you were,,,um...has this been long or...?” Dr. Watson stuttered. 

“No John, that was the first time and it won’t be the last” he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me past him. 

“Don’t be too jealous John,” I said with a wink. 

John didn’t know what to say except, “Are we done here?”

Sherlock and I walked arm in arm down the hallway, casting back a look at John as if to say “What do you think?” 

~~~~~~~~~~~

This was my first oneshot and was it trash? Yeah, maybe. So if you know me, no you don’t :)

Leave suggestions if you’d like, I’m writing smut I can’t find. 

[one-boring-person]

The Good Old Days.

John Rambo (Post-Rambo III) x reader

Warnings: implied death, implied injury, heavily implied sexual themes, possible swearing? Alcohol consumption (moderate)

Context: inside John's head.

A/n: so recently, I saw @slystallone 's post (Here) about a deleted scene from Rambo, and this idea (or at least the first part) came to mind, so I have them to thank for the inspiration! (Also, if you're as obsessed as I am with Sylvester Stallone content, check out their blog, it's amazing!)

Masterlist

His eyes scan idly around the room, taking in the cheerful faces of young people letting loose, watching as many of them move together on the dancefloor, keeping in time with the sappy music playing overhead. Throughout the room, glasses are clinked together, liquids in a multitude of different colours sloshing in their containers as the owners of said drinks swallow down their beverages, the strong odour of alcohol rife in the air. Sweat mingles with this, as well as heady cologne and perfumes, creating the perfect odour of youthful spirit, something he has long since forgotten. Around him, he can see a fair few couples together: one in a booth in the corner, one right in the centre of the dancefloor, and one to his left, each of them enjoying each other's company far more explicitly than the rest of the pairings in the bar.

It should, in theory, be an enjoyable environment, being around hordes of people who are having a good time, but John can't help the discomfort playing in his mind. Something about the strong smells, the heaving throng of people, the lack of clear vision of anywhere fixed in the room and the cacophony of raucous noise doesn't sit right with him, his finely tuned senses prickling at everything. Dimly, he's aware of fighting back flashes of memory that spring, unbidden, to mind, trying to ignore the familiar faces branding his conscience. A lack of control in an environment, particularly one like this, has long since made itself known as a trigger of the thoughts he'd rather forget.

Just as he goes to dwell on these, he's interrupted by a familiar voice, one that grounds him, reassures him.

"John! Sorry I took so long, some kids were taking their time." (Y/n) apologises as she drops into the bar stool beside him, taking her drink back from him.

"Don't worry about it." He murmurs back, twisting the neck of his soda bottle in his hand (he finds alcohol takes away from his sense of control), flicking some hair from his face.

Smiling at him, (Y/n) takes a sip of her drink, turning to face the dancers as she sits with him, the two quite used to sitting in companionable silence. 

After a little while, she finishes her drink and sits back against the counter, only to spring up again when she hears the music overhead change, a wide grin on her face. Bouncing to her feet, she turns to John, expression imploring him.

"I love this song! Remember it? From way back when?" She smiles at the memory, a good one through all the bad ones, "We used to dance to this."

John can't help the small smile playing at his own lips as he is reminded of how they'd danced a couple of times, back on his father's ranch.

"I remember." He agrees, watching her.

"Come on, dance with me now!" (Y/n) chuckles, moving her body in the bare impression of a dance move.

"No, I'm good." John declines initially, waving her off politely.

"Aw, come on! It'll be fun! Just like the good old days!" She pleads with him, reaching out to take one of his hands, very lightly jerking on it as he tries to ignore the butterflies rising at her touch.

"I'm not sure…" 

"Please? Just one song?" She gives him a look, one he has memorized. It tells him she wants him to join her, but that she won't be upset if he doesn't, that she'll understand. She always does.

Eventually, it's what causes him to cave in.

Sighing, he climbs to his feet, allowing her to pull him into the crowd, the veteran pushing down the distrust brewing inside him from the closeness of the people around him, instead focusing on the feeling of her hand on his, grounding himself. As she finds a good spot on the dancefloor, (Y/n) turns back around to face him, face light and happy as she starts to dance, just how they used to. Copying her, John tries to forget the awkward feeling, finding it hard to make contact with the childhood memories that would've helped him, his expression tightening as he moves. 

After a moment, (Y/n) seems to notice this, stepping forwards into his space as she looks up at him with a curious look, silently asking for permission as her hands hover over his shoulders. Nodding, he bites back the sigh threatening to leave him as her hands close ever so gently around him, his own coming up to lightly grip her waist, enjoying the feeling of her body in his grasp. Leaning into his touch, (Y/n) sways them in time to the music, her expression softening as the tempo of the music does, the two of them drifting closer as they move together. Her scent is in his nostrils, somehow discernible through the sweat and alcohol around him, calming him as he leans in further, wrapping his arms more firmly around her body. Carefully, he pulls her into him, feeling her softer curves against his hard muscles, his hands splaying at her back, his nose soon finding her hair as he buries his face in it. She wraps her own arms around his neck, delicately threading her fingers into his hair, stroking through the strands soothingly as she presses her head into his chest. 

As they hold each other, it's as if the world around them has disappeared, leaving them in a bubble of security, just holding each other as they used to, before touch meant more than an idle gesture. It means so much more now, particularly for them.

After a moment, she pulls her head back a little, looking up into his face, eyes searching his, her lips parted as she regards him. They're close, so close he can feel her every breath against his heated skin, his gaze flicking down to stray over her lips as he fights the urge to simply bend down and close the gap between them, and give in to every desire he's repressed for years now. Naturally, she notices this and smiles, reassuringly this time, before she leans up and presses her lips to his. 

Instantly, they find a rhythm, lips smoothing against each other with soft fervour as hands start to pull each other closer together. John runs one hand down to her lower back, splaying his fingers over the curve of her ass, using the grip to pull her more tightly into him, enjoying the feeling of her body against his, the noises she lets out only serving to intensify his feeling for her. (Y/n) gently tugs on his hair, her other hand moving to push up under his shirt, feeling over his tense muscles, arching her body into him as he lightly licks at her lips. Obediently, she allows him access, and his tongue freely explores her mouth, sliding wetly alongside her's, her moans swallowed by him as he rocks his hips against her. Idly, the hand she had pushed up his shirt starts to trail downwards, settling over his crotch.

With a jerk, he breaks free from the kiss, his eyes finally flying open as he snaps upright in the rickety bed. 

Breathing hard, he scans the room, instantly remembering where he is, the knowledge calming him slightly as he wipes sweat from his forehead. Desire and longing course through him, his eyes straying over to find the figure lying beside him, her body left exposed by the thin sheet. 

In the dim light from the moon outside, (Y/n)'s sleeping form appears peaceful, her muscles totally relaxed, allowing for a less guarded look to cross her face, the hard line of her brow and lips softened until she appears more angelic. In the many times they'd slept on the same room, or same bed, John can not remember ever seeing her quite so relaxed, not after they got into the military anyway.

They'd met as teenagers, when she'd come to work for his father on his ranch. During their time working together the two had become fast friends, eventually managing to do most things together, until they both decided to join the military. She'd gone into the airforce, before eventually getting into another branch of the Special Forces, where she faced a similar abrupt finish to her career as he did, losing all of her team to a poorly planned stealth mission, which some corrupt colonel in the higher positions had instructed them to do. After this point, they miraculously found each other again on the long road to a small town called Hope, where things went awry. Neither wanted to leave the other, and so they stuck by each other, helping each other out on the bloody road that came after the events of Hope, leading them to this point. 

Unsurprisingly, John had soon realised that his feelings for the hardened veteran were no longer as innocent as he would've liked to keep them. Somewhere along the way, through gunfights fought back-to-back, mindless races through the sweltering jungle to avoid pursuers behind them, bandaging each other's wounds at the dead of night with only a dull campfire to light their work, and the calmer, soft moments between them, where they both overcame (to a certain extent) the mindless grief hounding them together, John had found that he and fallen for his partner. She'd always been there, back when things had gone to hell in Hope, when Co had been shot, and when Trautman had needed rescuing, (Y/n) had been by his side, fighting his battle with him, because "his battle is her battle now, they are partners after all". She meant everything to him, and he'd kill for her. He HAS killed for her.

At times, he'd played with the idea of telling her his feelings, of confessing to her and hoping things would be ok, but he had never gone through with it. Something always stops him, and that both irritates and relieves him. He has never quite been able to put a finger on what it is, but now, watching her sleep so peacefully, he realizes what it is.

He never wants to lose her friendship, ever, and he's afraid he'll ruin what they've got if he says anything. So he stays silent, keeping his thoughts to himself, lifting a hand to lightly ghost it over her side, thankful that she's so tired her instinctive alertness has dimmed down enough for him to gently touch her without her realising. He never places his hand down, only tracing his fingers over her, keeping the touch gentle and friendly, should she wake. It would be so easy just to pull her body into his, to hold her tightly against his chest and bury his face in her soft hair,  but he restrains himself, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

Groaning, he rolls onto his back, knowing now that sleep won't come again tonight, especially not with his thoughts so high-strung and confused, unless he manages to relax properly again.

Oddly enough, his reprieve comes to him in a surprising, but not at all unwelcome manner: mumbling in her sleep, (Y/n) turns over, her hands reaching out to find something, anything, latching onto him as they find him. Gently, she pulls herself into him, her head pressing into the side of his chest as her hand rests over his heart, his pulse pounding under her touch. 

Eyes wide, John gingerly wraps his arm around her, finding comfort in the solid feeling of her body in his grip, sleep coming back to him now as he buries his face in her hair, breathing in her familiar scent. He could get used to this, but he knows that he never will, not as long as he wants his friendship to last.

Just as he goes to drift off, he hears (Y/n) sigh one thing, her voice a bare whisper, if slightly more coherent than it should be for someone fast asleep:

""Wish you knew how I feel about you." 

Part Two

[zodiyack]

The Unforgivable Curses

Requested by @e-b-immortal: How about a witch reader x tommy shelby again But she just save john with magic and kill the enemies

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Female!Witch!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, magic, murder, death, spoilers?, angst

Words: 1,320

Summary: (See Request)

Taglist: @captivatedbycillianmurphy, @stydia-4-ever, @matth1w, @redspaceace-writes, @simonsbluee, @peakysputain, @cai-neki, @darling-i-read-it, @fandom-puff, @jenepleurepasbaby, @marquelapage, @thewarriorprincessxo, @sebastianstanslefteyebrow, @peakyxtommy​

Masterlist | Peaky Blinders Masterlist

I believe the witch reader concept started here

Watching what would have been her brother-in-law’s death was mortifying. Tommy sent her to watch over his cousin and brother, her secret no longer a secret helping him in his decision making, and she soon agreed with his point. His original concern had to do with the black hands, hers now related to the uneasiness her gut held. It was too...weird.

Nothing was “normal” in her life, but this was a different kind of peculiar. This was an evil kind of peculiar.

Like time was moving in slow motion, her head whipped around to spot a gun beginning to rise. It was all the time she needed to simply whip out her wand and apparate in front of John then grab him and Michael and apparate out of the way. Esme was already out of their line of fire, so she was safe and didn’t require saving. The gypsy woman watched her sister-in-law with wide eyes that contained a pleasant mix of horror and awe. Y/n grinned before ducking down to dodge a bullet that flew at her head.

The bullet she dodged had just slightly grazed John’s shoulder. It still caught him off guard enough to cause panic to emit from his mouth. A loud cry rang through Y/n’s ears and summoned a beast inside her, one Newt had yet to discover. Her wizard friend was too far away to make the discovery now though.

“Arresto momentum!” Her spell made the unrealistic rate of speed real. Time really was moving in slow motion. She watched as every bullet moved slower than a sloth. The Shelbys, and Gray, behind her held three equal doses of confusion but their amusement was fleeting

The thing was, she wasn’t done yet. A darkness clouded her eyes.

Of course, Esme had been filled in on the different spells and what they could do, Tommy and the rest of the family as well, but Esme was the most observant involving the craft. She felt her skin pale and her heart drop to her stomach when she realized what was going to happen next. Tempted to reach out for her sister in law, had she not held back by her husband, she screamed.

“Don’t do it! It’s not worth it, there are different ways! Muggle ways!”

“What are you talking about, Esme?” John narrowed his eyes at his wife.

She turned to her husband with an urgent pleading expression. “Remember? The unforgivable curses, dumbass!” Esme swatted at him but quickly gave up. She was wasting time. “Y/n said that witches and wizards usually are corrupted by the fuckin’ dark curses! She swore to never take part in them!”

John gulped. He developed Esme’s fearful exterior within seconds, exchanging glances with Michael and then running at the same time as his cousin to Y/n.

“What the hell are you doing!? Get off!” She tried to nudge Michael away softly, but his grip on her wand wielding wrist never relented. “Don’t make me do this.” A sincere warning that he ignored yet again. Her other hand grabbed the wand and aimed it towards Michael, “Depulso!”

Michael began moving backwards. He looked to John with a stern nod of his head. They would do everything in their power to prevent Y/n from losing her innocence in her magic. However, Y/n was quick to spot him, flipping her aim as she shouted, “Depulso!”

Fortunately, John observed her when she did the same to Michael. He dodged it and continued pacing forward. Every shout of the spell he managed to just barely miss. Unfortunately, Y/n had now observed John.

“Incarcerous!” Ropes flew at the blinder and tied with unimaginable strength. He was left tied up and shouting, no way to stop Y/n. The shouts only quieted for a moment. A moment in which Y/n gave John a soft empathetic look before turning and following through with her plan. The look told him wordlessly that this was the only way. To trust her.

“Expelliarmus!” The guns flew in every which way, the slow motion’s affect drawing out a small snicker from John. Which elicited a glare from Esme.

The slow motion spell lingered away with the guns, and the men previously holding them looked around desperately. Some men jumped off to grab their weapons once they’d spotted their spots on the ground, but were practically thrown- the literal effect of the spell- back by the words murmured by Y/n.

“Everte statum!” Esme held her breath subconsciously. Y/n had yet to speak the one spell she told the group that she so greatly despised. She had yet to corrupt herself. “Expulso!” The guns broke apart, exploding where they lied, thus preventing the enemies from using their weapons.

Time returned to it’s feeling. The spell was no longer there, but they swore time had slowed again. Esme almost whipped her head around to Y/n to ask what she’d done until she noticed it wasn’t the spell.

It was like a film in the theatre; an entire movie that felt like it went on for years when really it was no more than an hour. A film that flashed the mafia’s life before their own eyes, the four across from them just characters they never asked for. A film that would be their last.

“Avada kedavra!” The words left her mouth with only slight hesitation. She convinced herself it was the only way, a repetition of the phrase to herself was the small nudge she needed to give into the curse and kill the men in front of her and her family.

A few moments passed, Y/n unmoving, standing in the same spot for the small bit of time before she turned and walked to John. “Let me see your shoulder.”

“What? No!”

Esme swatted his arm, “Let her see it, you fucking bloody idiot!”

He groaned before extending his arm and moving his night shirt over the wounded shoulder. A wince left his mouth as the cold air nipped at his bloody skin on display. “Vulnera sanentur.” The pain was gone and his wound was slowly mending itself.

Y/n turned and removed herself from their conversation for the second time. She sat upon the stairs, arm resting on her lap and her cheek held up by her palm. Esme watched with a furrow of her brows. She felt bad for Y/n, afraid even. When they’d discussed spells together, the mention of the killing curse had spooked Y/n.

It was a joke, at first. Esme was jabbing at the Blinders’ work, but then a question involving the killing part of the job popped up. Y/n assured her over and over that it wasn’t her fault, but now she couldn’t help but feel a massive wave of guilt. Y/n had just preformed the one spell she said she could never bring herself to do. Had she truly been corrupted? Was her warning true? Was she not an exception of dark magic’s addicting ways?

“It isn’t over, you know? They’re still out there, and from the looks of it, they don’t plan on walking away.” Y/n spoke up, startling the three.

“Well... What are we gonna do about it?”

“Whatever we can. We’ll think of something with the rest when we get back. For now right now though,” she paced around the property, “rather- before we leave, I have to do something. In fact, I’ll do it wherever  we deem necessary.” Her in lawed siblings and cousin waited for more context in her explanation before they heard a familiar spell.

The spell was one she did when they were threatened a different time. The threat was not as big as their current but it was just as, if not a little less, serious. They’d engraved the spell in their minds, thankful to its usefulness, for how grateful they’d been that it exists.

A warm feeling took hold of them; Y/n wasn’t corrupted. Y/n was determined.

“Protego totalum.” (protection spell)

[toovirgins]

Le Rêve - Part 7

Summary: A struggle to respond to John's confession from part 6.

Rating: T (smut warning)

Edit: This is part 7/8. Ending to come soon!

Paul froze. John’s breath hitched sharply, as if he couldn’t really believe that was what came out, either. Both boys stared at each other in stunned silence as the words hung in the air like snowflakes between them.

I love you.

In any other context, it may have been brushed off as a faux pas, an embarrassing slip of the tongue. Paul could make a “What am I, your girlfriend?” joke, and it would go over quite well with the others: “Geo! Ritchie! John’s said he loves me!” And John would flinch before scowling as they called back, “What are you, his girlfriend?” and collapsed in a fit of laughter. That’s what should have happened.

But Paul took one look into John’s eyes and saw that there was nothing unintentional about the expression. The utterance itself, maybe, but not its truth.

It felt strange, hearing such a thing from John’s lips. It wasn’t something that they said to each other. Because they were mates, because they were men, because of Liverpool and because of the 1960’s and because of deep-rooted ideologies and opinions and etc., etc. Of course, nothing between them was rather normal anymore, but there was something peculiar about the confession—or, rather, the confession’s effect. Paul wasn’t sure if it caused one completely foreign emotion or an overpowering combination of many: it pained his heart but also made it skip a beat, dizzied his mind but also quieted his fears, churned his stomach but also sent in butterflies. It made him want to cry in more ways than one. Never before had he felt such a strong reaction to such simple words.

John loved him.

He wasn’t sure what was expected of him in response. The thought annoyed him a bit, eliciting a familiar feeling of hopeless desperation. What did John think was going to happen? What was he hoping to gain by saying it? To make Paul stay?

And then what?

“I’m sorry.” John’s sudden voice, cutting through the tense air.

That’s when the realization struck him that John might not have meant it. Paul began to feel dizzy. If this was all a sick joke, an empty outburst, he’d have to reconcile his own response to it. He’d thought he’d seen the answer in John’s eyes, but what did he know anymore? It seemed like every chance he got now, he misread the man. Why would this be any different?

Paul felt a nauseating lurch in his stomach as he stared at the man in front of him—the man whom of which he hardly recognized. Before this catastrophe had started, Paul would have sworn that he knew John better than anyone else. He’d challenged lads, albeit indirectly, on the very topic growing up; he was always the first to guess John’s whereabouts, to take him up on a dare none of the other lads would, to coax him out of a mood by being the only voice of reason he’d listen to. They were John and Paul, Lennon and McCartney. A team, a duo, a partnership. Most importantly, they were one.

But these last few weeks had thrown everything out the window. All of the hard work, the straining effort of trying to get close to him, was for naught. Paul didn’t know him any better than the next guy anymore.

Perhaps that’s why the “I love you” was so difficult to hear. Not because it was queer, or because it was sudden, or even because it was true (was it true?). But because it was a secret that their supposed connection never exposed. Paul wanted John to love him—maybe needed it. More than he’d needed anyone else to love him. But in the same breath, John was pulling away from him, alerting Paul that he’d never truly understand him.

The same heartbeat that reached his own had done so only to suffocate him.

It had been a long time since anyone had moved. Paul made a swift decision to finally break the silence, John’s desperate stare becoming far too much to bear. “I don’t know what you want me to say, John.” Which was true.

“I… don’t know either. Just f—” John blinked at the floor, stopping himself too late. Paul felt utterly crushed to learn that he understood just enough to know what John would have said next.

Just forget it.

Paul wanted to scoff and cry all at once. This was so laughably bizarre, this same repetitive cycle. A shot at normalcy ruined by overconfident attempts at reconciliation, inevitably resulting in the relationship going up in vicious flames once more. If something didn’t change soon, he might well lose his mind.

John almost looked as though he were about to say something more, but thought better of it. He pressed his lips together tightly as his fingers found the door frame. He was turning to go.

Again.

Paul began to panic, drumming his fingers timidly on his pant leg. He had to think of something, quick.

“Did you mean it?” He whispered abruptly, frantically. John stilled, mid turn, thrown by the question. But he had to know. He couldn’t let John leave, not again, not without knowing. He could figure out the rest later. “John. Do you mean it?”

John’s mouth opened, but no words came forth. He looked at Paul helplessly, the denial dying on his lips. Paul watched his mind work through his expression. John couldn’t bring himself to say it again, not really; but he couldn’t pretend anymore, either.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

And suddenly, they were kissing.

John went rigid against Paul’s body, and Paul couldn’t blame him; he had no memory of deciding or even moving to do this, but he knew it was his doing, somehow. Paul’s mind was racing with any possible explanation besides the truth: he wanted to make him stay, he wanted to test him, he wanted to take pity on him. Anything but the idea that Paul did it because he wanted to do it.

They stood for a moment, mouths locked, unmoving. John’s lips were timid but not unwilling, and Paul could almost taste the reluctance and confusion of the union. The fingers on his arm gripped hesitantly, stilled in their motion to push him away. A quick peek told Paul that John’s eyes were screwed shut.

His heart pounded in his chest, his pulse thrumming violently, but there was nothing in the world besides John’s lips on his and John’s fingers on his arm and the way John’s body fit perfectly into the press of Paul’s and everything just John. Paul would do anything it took to never leave this moment.

John’s fingers flexed against his bicep, as if contemplating their next move. With a sudden softness, they loosened their grip on his arm and trailed absentmindedly down his side. The trace paused to absentmindedly hook a finger into the waistband of Paul’s trousers, and that was enough for him.

Paul swiftly pressed into him harder, fisting the front of his shirt and pushing him back against the wall. John let out a surprised, “Oh!” and the air between them shifted: he melted underneath Paul’s stubborn grasp, wholly pliant and soft and near-submissive. He began to kiss back expertly, an unexpected fervor driving his movements, and Paul had to physically fight the urge to push the man onto his knees.

Paul had never felt anything more satisfying than John’s body against his. It felt right, as though this was how they were made to be; flush against one another, tangled far beyond separation. Paul was meant to hold John and only John, and to never let him go again.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed in between kisses. “For everything, I’m sorry.”

John never verbally accepted the apology, but the urgent slip of tongue Paul got in response was above satisfactory. John’s fingers trailed to the hem of Paul’s shirt and sneaked their way up his chest; nothing sensual, even, just tracing, feeling, learning. The desperation of wanting to feel skin on skin was evident as John simply touched and Paul simply let him.

He wondered if John had loved him the night that this all began.

In either a flash of attempted reparations or just plain arousal (who could tell?), Paul blindly reached for John’s crotch, pleased to find that he was half-hard in his trousers. John’s breath caught against Paul’s lips, and he broke away to stare down at the fingers that worked his jeans open. There was a strained expression on his face, as if he wasn’t sure whether to tell Paul to stop or keep going.

Tentatively, testing, Paul began to stroke him through his briefs. John’s eyes widened at the movement before fluttering shut once again, leaning his head back against the wall. Paul saw the opportunity of John’s exposed neck and seized it, beginning to suck on the older man’s jaw with ardor.

John’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the moan threatening to spill out, and Paul began to lick teasingly at that as well. Paul slowly grew addicted to the taste and feeling of John’s skin under his lips—throat, neck, jaw, collarbones, earlobes—all trembling slightly as his chest heaved with laboured breathing. John shifted against the wall, looking slightly overwhelmed at the immense amount of pleasure spiking through his body.

He was fully hard now, and Paul took the opportunity to massage around the head, stomach feeling funny as he watched a spot on John's briefs dampen with budding drops of precum. The action earned a faint whimper from the older man, and Paul made the mistake of looking back up at him, drinking in the expression on his face that could only be described as sinful.

There was a hot blush on his cheeks, in the flushed way he got sometimes after a good gig. Paul bit his lip and recognized that it would be hard for him to watch John perform ever again after this moment. His eyes, when they were able to sporadically flutter open, were appreciative and lustful, a combination that sent a thrill of arousal to Paul’s own gut. He was biting down on his lip violently, brow furrowed as he struggled to keep down his groans.

A sudden memory struck Paul, of John’s sounds against his lips right before George—

Paul needed it. It didn’t matter why, anymore, but he needed to hear it. All of the bitterness and confusion and frustration and incompleteness of that night came rushing back to him, culminating in the desperate desire to make John come real hard right now.

His fingers circled the expanding wet spot in John’s underwear once, a bit of a quick check. He paused his tirade of kisses to spit in his hand, watching as John’s eyebrow quirked at the sound. His eyes were still closed.

Without missing a beat, Paul shoved his hand inside.

John gasped loudly as Paul began to wank him fully, spreading the blend of precum and saliva down his shaft. Paul’s movements were merciless, jerking and twisting with unforgiving speed and expertise as his mouth began to draw a hickey on a particularly visible spot of John’s neck.

“Paul,” he voiced hoarsely, thighs trembling with the combined effort of holding himself up against the wall and ignoring how badly he needed to thrust into Paul’s curled fist.

Paul shushed him with a needy kiss, tongue slipping against John’s as his fingers trailed lower to massage his balls and the base of his dick.

“Shit,” John groaned, tangling his fingers in Paul’s hair. His head dropped back again with a silent whimper. “I’m gonna cum.”

“So soon?” Paul teased into his ear in a near moan, feeling the confession go straight to his cock. He didn’t have to look to know that John shot him a glare.

“It’s fuckin’ good,” John mumbled in response, only half-begrudgingly. “Feels—Christ, why is it so good?”

Paul raised his lips to John’s once more, a stubborn thrill in the pit of his stomach. He was going to bring John to orgasm from subtle movements of his hand alone—he could feel the twitching of the man’s thighs against his, the throb of John’s heated skin in his hand, the way his chest heaved with unintentional sounds. The thought sent a tingle down his spine that made his own arousal ache.

In a final surge of power, he dove into John’s mouth and pulled at his tongue lightly. His teeth teased at the muscle invitingly, drawing him in. John wasted no time pushing back, wherein Paul began to suck lewdly as though it were something entirely different.

“Oh, fuck,” John warned against Paul’s lips, and he was coming, a shudder wracking his body as the warm sticky substance began to coat Paul’s fingers. A string of like-minded curses followed in the next seconds, his fingers pulling lightly at Paul’s hair. Paul only moaned back, continuing to work him until he had spilled every last drop in his briefs. John groaned at the hint of overstimulation.

After a few beats of awkward silence, Paul gave him one last tug and pulled his hand out, wiping it on the front of John’s jeans. “Christ.”

John didn’t seem to mind a bit, laughing shakily. His cheeks were slightly pink from both exertion and embarrassment. He cleared his throat. “You could say that again.”

“I wanted to do that,” Paul confessed, his face heating up. “For you. To you. Been wanting that.”

John gave him a soft smile, stroking Paul’s cheekbone with his thumb. It felt like an uncomfortably intimate gesture, despite what they had just done. “Me too.”

Paul chuckled carelessly. “Good. Maybe we should have cleared that beforehand.”

“Maybe.” John couldn’t bite back the grin, relief evident on his face. Paul noticed the expression with a thrill, the air seeming impossibly lighter between them.

He sighed then, dipping forward so their foreheads were pressed together. They rested in blissful silence for a minute, maybe two. His nose brushed Paul’s, and he hesitated a moment before starting again with a mild, quivering whisper. The movement made Paul’s heart flutter in sudden apprehension, inexplicably feeling as though the moment was slipping away through his fingers and he was trying in vain to hold on.

“Paul?”

“Hmm?”

“I have a question.”

“Sounds more like a statement.”

John’s eyes lilted up, an amused glint in them. Paul felt mysteriously breathless at the gaze. He wanted to remark on it, to tell John how incredibly gorgeous he really was, how breathtakingly beautiful—but by the time he found the words, the fondness was gone. Replaced with something both worried and worrying. John looked down, eyelashes fluttering low on his cheeks, now refusing to meet Paul’s eyes. Paul’s heart hammered in his throat as he tried to reconcile the sudden shift with the impending question. John bit his lip.

“Do you love me?”

Paul tensed.

John’s eyes searched his as a chill fell over the room.

Paul said nothing.

He stumbled backwards as John’s hands shoved him off. He opened his mouth to protest, to defend himself, to do something, but the man was out of the room before Paul could even think of calling after him. Seconds later, a door slammed faintly down the hall. The moment was finalized; nothing more than a memory, now.

Paul wondered how many more times John would storm out on him before he just never came at all.

—

There was only one way to make things right. Considering that even worked.

Paul spit out the hangnail he’d been working on thoughtlessly and ran a hand through his hair. It felt well-versed in his mind, now, after spending three hours alone in the studio, doing nothing but staring at the wall and drowning in thought.

Paul loathed women. It was a funny thought, and though he initially dismissed it as intrusive, he began to chuckle at the truth behind his feelings. No, he truly loathed them–so entitled and pretentious, never having to worry about popping a hard-on at the most inopportune moments. That’s what this whole mess was all about, really, if you thought about it. Paul and the goddamn dream and painful lack of self-control. Things would have been so much easier if Paul were a bird. John probably would have fucked him by now, anyroad.

He got up to stretch. His joints popped as he reached up with a groan, a feline arch in his back after being hopelessly glued to the chair for so long. His limbs were heavy with dread as he began to gather himself, physically and emotionally, to prepare for what was to come.

Apologies weren’t all bad, he supposed. At least, in the end, he could look back and know that he had done everything he could to save the music, save the band, save him and John. That was the final selling point in the decision: as much as the idea made his stomach churn, Paul would show up, express regret, and admit that he was ready to forget about it, that nothing like this would ever happen again. And he could tell himself that he did everything he could.

Paul never really registered leaving the studio, but the outside air assaulted him as he hurried down the front steps, clutching his coat and hat. As was typical for London at this time of year, it had started to rain, and Paul flinched as the thick drops pounded him from above. He squinted through the drizzle and hastened toward the curb, waving frantically at the oncoming vehicle.

The cab approached the curb with a squeal of the brakes, sending a surge of collected rainwater over Paul’s boots and trousers. Paul wrinkled his nose at the predicament and shook them off a bit before throwing the door open and climbing in.

When he removed his hat, the cab driver gasped. He spoke with a heavy French accent. “McCartney!”

“Pleasure,” Paul responded, forking over the money in advance. It was well above what a typical cab fare would be for the drive, but he was on a mission.

The driver eyed him skeptically, hesitantly fingering the wad of notes. He looked torn between wanting to clarify and wanting to shut up and accept the blessing. (The incentive, rather.)

“Where to, monsieur?”

Paul sighed and glanced to his right, watching a thick raindrop snake its way down the window.

“Weybridge.”

[fictionadventurer]

Have you seen the new little women movie? If so what do you think of it?

My initial thoughts on the movie are here. I just rewatched it for the sake of answering this ask. My thoughts can be summarized as follows:

This is a beautiful movie. So much loving focus on the things and the textures. The clothes are extremely Pinterest-and-Hallmark-movie aesthetic rather than anything remotely resembling history, but it’s hard to mind when every character is wearing three different textures and patterns at all times and giving the eye so much to look at. (Also, I was knitting during rewatch, so the knitwear was especially satisfying).

But I’m still not sure it succeeds as a story. Much like the outfits, there are so many different bits and pieces layered together, with different textures and colors that make it interesting to look at, but I’m not sure they come together into a coherent whole. Individual scenes could be good, but it was hard to connect emotionally to any of the characters when the backstory was chopped up into so many pieces.

I found it easier to differentiate between the past and the present this time--I finally figured out that the golden light is for childhood and the blue light is for adulthood. Noticing that also made me like the ending more, which I’ll get to later.

I liked the dancing scenes a bit less. They were a little less joyful and emotionally uplifting than I remembered. I did find it interesting how Jo and Laurie’s dance at their first meeting turns into a sort of silent film for part of it, until Meg intrudes and brings them back into the real world by telling them about her hurt ankle.

I liked the Meg and John story less. Emma Watson just doesn’t seem very motherly or wifely. However, the ending scene of the silk subplot was very touching and one of the few scenes in the movie that showed the self-giving side of marriage.

I still wish there had been more focus on the virtue development part of the plot--the “Meg falls to vanity” scene falls kind of flat because Laurie is just scolding her for...wearing a fancy dress? In a way that makes it seem like he’s just scolding her for being feminine and liking pretty things. We don’t have the context to make it clear that she’s bending her morals for the sake of being liked. The scene does set up a contrast between Laurie-the-moral-guardian and Laurie-living-a-life-of-vain-pleasure in the very next scene, but it’s not enough to make the Vanity Fair scene work on its own.

And why didn’t the movie have more of Mr. March? Let us see the marriage that has shaped the girls’ ideas of what marriage is supposed to be.

I found it interesting that the devoted spinster Aunt March who believes in marriage as a purely economic concern rejected offers to enter Meg’s wedding dance twice. She keeps herself but missed out on the joy.

I found Amy and Laurie slightly more believable as a couple. Though when Amy has the struggle of “marry for financial gain or marry for love”, it’s rather too convenient that the resolution is that she decides she’s really in love with a different rich guy than the one she was going to marry solely for his money.

Beth was a lesser character than I remembered (both in terms of screen time and emotional impact). However, I did like her role in the story far more because she’s kind of key to some of the themes (which I’ll get to in a moment).

I still hate Jo changing her mind about Laurie. It makes her choice of Bhaer seem like she’s settling for second-best.

Now’s the point where I’m going to talk about the themes and the ending. Which was the primary reason I wanted a rewatch--to clarify my ideas about this movie’s message and resolution.

SPOILERS AHEAD. FAIR WARNING TO ANYONE WHO HAS NOT ALREADY BEEN FRIGHTENED AWAY BY THIS WALL OF TEXT.

This movie is about three things: Marriage, Art and Money. Money is necessary to survive. Marriage and art can both be a source of money, but they are also pursuits that should be entered into out of love.

This movie harps and harps upon the fact that marriage is an economic proposition. It’s the most stable way for a woman to get money. She also gets love, ideally. But where the movie falters is focusing so much on the getting part of marriage and rarely on the giving. Laurie wanted to marry Jo because he wanted to get her love. Jo’s “I’m so lonely” scene specifically has her say that she wants to be loved, but not to love--she wants to receive rather than give. I’m not sure there’s any indication that either Jo or Laurie ever give or give up anything when they finally do enter into matrimony. It seems that they just get who they decide they want. Amy gets a rich husband and gets a man who loves her, but what does she ever give up for him, aside from another man who she also did nothing to love?

The silk scene with Meg and John is one of the few times where we see a married couple giving to each other, rather than focusing on what they get out of it.

Art, too, is a love that can be turned toward money, and most of the characters have this out of balance as well. Jo loves writing, but she wants to be seen as good, and she mostly cares about the money that she gets out of it. Amy gives up art completely when she realizes she’s not a genius. “I’d rather be great or nothing” is the exact opposite of doing art for the love of it--what she cared about was getting praise rather than giving something of herself to the world.

Beth is the only one who understands the giving nature of both love and art. She performs for no one’s praise or payment--she plays because she loves music. She’s the one who gives up her time to bring the donations to the Hummels when her sisters are caught up in their own pursuits. When she gets the piano, her sisters are the ones who are caught up in admiring it as a thing, but she runs off (without any of her sisters even noticing, too caught up in the wealth in front of them) to thank Mr. Lawrence because she recognized the love behind the gift.

Jo starts to understand the importance of love within art after Beth dies. We have the lovely scene of Beth encouraging Jo to do her writing for someone--give of her art. When Jo returns to her writing, the camera beautifully focuses on the For Beth at the head of the manuscript--Jo is not writing this for money or praise, but out of love for her sister.

I like the ending much better than I did before. I can see the golden sunlit ending as the “real” end of the story, because I noticed the lighting trick. When Bhaer is leaving the March house, Jo is standing in the blue light, but Bhaer is in the golden light. It’s as if Jo sees that a life with him could provide the same level of happiness that she knew in childhood.

It’s still odd that her family has to convince her every step of the way that she’s “in love”. But because of the lighting trick, I can more easily believe that she really did want to spend her life with him.

That dumb scene with the publisher is what ruins everything. We had Jo writing her book out of love. We had Jo deciding to give Bhaer a reason to stay. But it’s derailed by this weird focus on money. Jo keeps insisting that she’s “selling” her heroine into marriage, and that she’s willing to sacrifice her artistic vision just because this ending is what sells. I feel like if they’d cut out all that stuff about the contract negotiation--which seems only to have been put in because Gerwig wanted to show off this bit of trivia about Alcott’s business acumen--the ending would have been a million times more coherent on a plot and thematic level.

I can believe that the sunlit ending at Plumfield is Jo reaching happiness by giving of herself to others. Everyone is using art to give to others--Bhaer is teaching music, Laurie’s teaching some kind of drama class, Amy’s teaching painting.

The shot of the gold leaf being stamped onto the cover of Little Women, which had seemed like the final stroke saying “this ending is fiction” now seems to be saying that “this is the way the story really ends.” It’s helped by the fact that after Jo gets the book in her hands, we cut to the image of a group of little girls playing pretend--it’s Jo being satisfied in her book not because it’s her achievement or a source of money, but because she knows it will inspire another generation of little girls. Thus we can have Jo achieving artistic and personal fulfillment by publishing the book and teaching at Plumfield.

If it wasn’t for that contract negotiation scene, there wouldn’t even be a question of what the real ending was supposed to be. There’s only one version that shows Jo prioritizing the giving part of art and marriage over any selfish gain, and I hate that the ending muddles it so badly for the sake of misplaced meta-feminism.

[floral-and-fine]

La Doular Exquise part 3

Mycroft Holmes x female reader

Greg Lestrade x female reader

Part 1        Part 2

Summary: Greg Lestrade is in a new relationship with y/n, and to everyone, they appear very happy together and very much in love. Surprisingly, Mycroft finds himself longing for something similar. 

a/n: thanks @luna-xial​ for helping me stay motivated :)

“Boring!” Sherlock leaned back in his chair and groaning obnoxiously, “I said find me a good case. Something interesting!”

John rolled his eyes but kept scrolling through their emails anyways, desperate to find something that would get Sherlock off his back. He hated these dry spells, and having to deal with a moody Sherlock on top of it all.

“What about this one?” He asked. “Missing headstones from family plot.”

“Too easy,” Sherlock complained, shaking his head. “The culprit is obviously a family member.”

“Fine,” John sighed, continuing his search, there had to be something worthwhile.

Suddenly, there was a knock at their door.

“Come in!” John shouted as he clicked on an email, in which the subject line read, ‘HELP: my mother’s ghost is haunting my ex.’

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Mycroft said, looking at Sherlock, who had been wearing the same robe and pants for the past three days, with a disappointed expression.

“You’re not,” John chirped, praying that Mycroft had something to keep Sherlock busy. “What do you need?”

Mycroft looked down at the floor for a moment, twisting his umbrella around in his hand. “I need some advice,” he finally stated looking back at John with an unreadable expression.

“Advice?” Sherlock repeated, suddenly perking up.

“Not from you,” Mycroft scowled. “From Dr. Watson.”

“Me?” John questioned, staring at Mycroft in disbelief.

Mycroft nodded, “yes, I’m not sure who else I can ask.”

Sherlock got to his feet. “What could John possibly help you with?” He demanded not bothering to hide his surprise or disdain at the idea.

Mycroft sighed, ignoring Sherlock’s outburst. “Mind joining me to my car, Dr. Watson? It’s waiting outside.”

“Sure,” John replied, though his tone was anything but.

With that Mycroft turned back around and headed out the door.

John gave Sherlock a sympathetic look before he quickly grabbed his coat. “See you in a bit,” he said then rushed down the stairs to catch up to Mycroft.

Sherlock slumped back down in his chair, pouting over being left out. What does John know that he doesn’t?

John and Mycroft sat in silence, the little cafe Mycroft selected was full of people. His reasoning was that if Sherlock did follow, it would be harder for him to overhear their conversation without being noticed.

“So, what can I help you with?” John finally asked getting to the point.

“I’ve been talking with someone, lately,” Mycroft started. “And I want to show her that I’m interested in her.”

“Alright,” John nodded, trying to hide his amusement that Mycroft would come to him for relationship advice. “Well, how have you gone about it so far?”

“We’ve had tea together, I gave her my personal cell phone number, I’ve texted her practically every day since,” Mycroft rattled off.

John snickered, “I’m sorry, but that’s- that’s nothing, literally that is like the bare minimum of what people do for a friend or even an acquaintance.”

Mycroft’s face fell at John’s reaction.

“Sorry, sorry,” John sighed, “just figured you’d be better at this.”

Mycroft added more sugar to his tea. “I have some experience, but none in this context,” he huffed. “The issue here is timing. I have reason to believe that she will soon be available.”

John raised his brow, “Is y/n planning on breaking things off with Lestrade?”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed for a moment, he hadn’t mentioned who he had been talking to, figures Sherlock would share everything and anything with Dr. Watson. “Based on what she and I have discussed, yes.”

“So why do you need my help?”

“You have a history of… going from one relationship to another rather quickly,” Mycroft explained. “This is a delicate matter, I don’t want to act too soon, or too late.”

John gaped for a moment, slightly offended that Mycroft thought of him as the guy who easily moves on between women.

“That’s, that’s not something I can tell you,” John frowned. “She’ll either need time or not, my best advice is to see how she’s doing.”

Mycroft sighed, he figured as much.

…

Y/n stood outside the door of Greg’s flat, her heart beating faster with each passing second.  

On the way over she had planned everything, she was going to say, how this was about them wanting different things out of life, that she wanted things like marriage and children and respected his desire not to remarry. She still wants to be friends with him and truly cares about him, but she's realized that their relationship should end now before it gets even harder.

But now that she was here, standing outside his door, her nerves were getting the best of her.

“Just knock,” She whispered to herself. Taking a deep breath she rapped her knuckles against the door and waited.

“Y/n?” Greg greeted her with a smile giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “C’mon in.”

She could feel her resolve wearing thin, there were so many things she liked about Greg. He had this boyish charm that made her smile every time she saw him.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the couch. “Need a drink or anything?”

“I’m good,” y/n answered, then bit her lip. She needed to get this over with, but she couldn’t seem to find the words.

Greg sat next to her still smiling, he was in such a good mood. A part of her just wanted to enjoy this, sitting close to him, watching TV.

She had never broken up with anyone before, at least not when things hadn’t hit the fan. Things were still good between her and Greg.

His hand slid over to hers, his fingers wrapping her palm. She gave his hand a little squeeze, this wasn’t fair to him, she couldn’t lead him on just because she was scared.

“Greg, we need to talk,” y/n started, her eyes focused on their clasped hands.

His shoulders visibly slumped, “This can’t be good.”

“This isn’t easy for me,” she said, her vision starting to get slightly blurry. “But I think it would be best if we broke up.” She couldn’t face him so she kept looking down.

Greg sighed, his free hand running down his face, “This is about that conversation we had the other night isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” y/n murmured. “I just think that inevitably we’ll part ways.”

“You don’t know that,” Greg argued.

“Greg…” she sighed. “I want to get married, I want to have a baby, and that’s-“

“Fine!” He snapped, getting to his feet. “We’ll get married and have children, all of it, alright?”

“No, not like this, it shouldn’t have to be because of an ultimatum,” y/n shook her head. “It only works if we both want it.”

Greg started to pace, wracking his brain for something to say, some way to convince her that they could work it out.

Suddenly, y/n’s phone’s screen lit up to reveal that she had a new message from Mycroft.

“Mycroft? As in Mycroft Holmes?” Greg questioned, his tone distrustful.

Y/n nodded, “yeah, we had tea the other day.”

“Why would he bother talking to you?” His words stung, even if she knew that wasn’t his intention.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just not like him,” he shrugged. “He’s not the type to care about people. What would you and him have to talk about anyway?”

“I don’t know,” y/n said, crossing her arms. “We talk about little things like my job and books, that’s it.”

“Do you like him?” Greg asked suddenly.

The question caught y/n off guard. She honestly hadn’t thought about it. She enjoyed talking to him, she liked a lot of his quirky personality traits and habits, not to mention he was kind of cute in his own way… y/n could feel her heart beating faster, did she like him? How come she was barely realizing this?

Greg laughed dryly, “Well that’s it, isn’t it? You’ve moved on.”

“That’s not it at all!” y/n shouted, rising to stand.

“Oh really?” He scoffed, reaching for her phone. “Well, let’s see what it says?”

“Stop it,” she urged. “This has nothing to do with him. I’m done.” Shaking her head, y/n gathered her things before heading out.

Greg stared at the door, mouth hanging open. Y/n didn’t bother saying goodbye, slamming the door as she left.

. . .

Y/n dropped her purse on a nearby chair as she entered her home. “What a mess,” she muttered. Somehow what started out as a simple and sweet relationship had spiraled out of her control.

And now here she was possibly falling for another guy.

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed earlier. She thought back to Christmas Day, and how much she enjoyed Mycroft’s company. How he attempted to make her visit pleasant, despite how obviously uncomfortable he was with it. She recalled how victorious she felt every time she made him smile, even if it was just a small one.

It didn’t help either how supportive he’s been while she tried to figure out things between her and Greg. How he was always quick to respond and gave her his honest opinions on things.

Y/n groaned loudly as she collapsed on her bed. Why didn’t she notice earlier that she was falling for Mycroft Holmes? But this just raised more problems.

At least with Greg she knew where she stood, that he did, in fact, care about her, was attracted to her, and wanted to be with her, even if getting married wasn’t an option.

With Mycroft, she had no clue if he wanted to be anything more than friends. Hell, she didn’t even know if he thought of her as a friend!

It could very well be that her loving him could only lead to more pain. She had heard how people referred to Mycroft as the iceman, and she had seen firsthand how he was distant from everyone including his family. Greg had even told her about how Mycroft frequently reminded Sherlock that caring wasn’t an advantage.

Looking up at the ceiling she wondered if he’d be willing to be at a disadvantage for her. If he could care for her enough to make that kind of compromise?

She shot up into a sitting position as her phone buzzed.

“Speak of the devil,” she whispered to herself. Y/n bit her lip as she read the read message.

‘Everything alright? You’ve been awfully quiet today.’

Y/n didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, she knew his concern was sincere, which only made her like him more. God, she just wanted to know if she meant anything to him.

[morethanonepage]

3, 4, 6,8,13, 17, 24?

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

answered here for the main one (the finnpoe historical au). 

4. Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like)

"And I'm not sorry. For leavin’. But how I did, sayin' what I did, I…” he’s not particularly sorry for that either — hurting Chas had been the best way to keep him from following — and it’d worked, after all. But he lets himself trail off, and hopes Chas fills in the blanks the way he needs to — the way John needs him to. John gives one last quick shrug, and rolls onto his side again, curls up around himself.

An arm wraps around his waist. The warmth of Chas’s chest presses tight against his back.

And, after a moment: “You’re still smoking like a damn chimney.”

John exhales. Doesn’t bother holding back a smile — Chas won’t see it, anyway. “I’m a bloody addict, mate. It’s a filthy fucking habit —"

“That nearly killed you."

That did kill him, technically, but he’s not about to bring it up. “That nearly bloody killed me, right. A filthy fucking habit that very nearly killed me, but in the end, ’s all I have left, yeah?"

Chas….laughs. A low, sleepy chuckle, slightly sad, slightly fond. Drops a kiss to the nape of John’s neck. “Yeah,” he says, and pulls John back against him. “Yeah, I know something about that."

(from Adrift, still one of the fics i’m proudest of having written.)

6. What character do you have the most fun writing?

In a sense I both love and hate writing John Constantine bc getting the accent/rhythm even passably right (which is the best I can really do) is hard (bc show!john’s accent esp is a MESS. like supposedly bc Matt Ryan’s pulling from several places, not just Northern/Liverpudlian specifically, to reflect that John’s kind of LIVED all over the place, but also it’s just -- weird. Esp with how much show!john esp has way more time in America than any other John Constantine, so I guess that’s an excuse to uh. neuter it a bit, for ~American Audiences or w/e.)

BUT otherwise John really is very fun to write bc he’s a dick and says dumb shit sometimes just for kicks I think? Which i would love to do IRL but like, we’re not all white blond Englishmen and can’t get away with things the same way. 

8. Is what you like to write the same as what you like to read?

I mean in a sense yes bc i don’t like to read OR write anything. 

But also yes generally I like to read the same kind of stuff I write -- I mostly CAN’T w/ longfic, for instance, and I definitely never write it. I also have preferences for established relationships (getting together stuff usually bores me to read and esp bores me to write), I never write slow burn (well -- i never write slow burn to consummating the relationship. I like to both read and write emotional slow burn ie, they’re fucking the whole time but only realize they have feelings a few chapters in, and it takes another few chapters for them to DEAL with that.)

I would love to read more fusion AUs (which are some of my favorite things to write) but no one writes them well, so alas.

13. Do you share your writing online? (Drop a link!) Do you have projects you’ve kept just for yourself?

c'est moi

17. Do you think readers perceive your work - or you - differently to you? What do you think would surprise your readers about your writing or your motivations?

I’m so bad at even guessing what other people might think of me -- I mostly imagine they don’t. 

I write a lot out of spite and annoyance lmfao but I think I’m pretty open about that. I’m incredibly vanilla when it comes to kinks and stuff but I think that’s also plainly obvious if you read my fic. 

Do people know I’m not white? That is one thing I do wonder about, when it comes to people who read my fic casually. I think it’s more obvious when I’m writing non-white characters but y’know i’m a race traitor & white dicks get more clicks & thus give net more validation, so I don’t do that as often, unfortunately. 

24. Would you say your writing has changed over time?

I mean I think/hope it’s improved, but even like, re-reading my clintcoulson stuff (which I don’t do very often, but sometimes when I get a new comment on something I’ll glance at the fic itself) my general style (heavy on subtext, light on. men who are actually capable/willing to talk about their feelings) has not changed. Like in some ways my writing is (I think) very direct and simple (I’ve never been a big purple prose person), but there’s occasional wild card words/phrases that show up sometimes which are much more in tune with my ~real world profession. Something that’s always been very important to me as a writer is like -- keeping things within the voice of the character, so when I’m in third person limited (which is what i’m most comfortable with, and basically all I write) I try to stick with vocab and idioms and preferences that are the character’s and not my own. Is that just a humblebrag? Maybe. 

But yeah I think I’ve always had and still keep a very bare-bones style when it comes to fiction writing lmfao. Like i don’t want to say Hemmingway-esque but also I do, mostly bc I think it would piss Hemmingway off. 

[jamestaylorswift]

Love’s a game, wanna play?  A meta-analysis of the game of love and Taylor’s love of games

—

Before actually getting into this, I’m obligated to make the disclaimer that this is just my interpretation of some songs. I’m not claiming to be “right” about anything.  I have no way of knowing whether my observations will hold true if/when Taylor releases more music. It doesn’t really matter. There are many ways to interpret music.

Games are not the only extended metaphor in her discography; if you understand one, you don’t necessarily understand them all. This essay is an exploration of how one particular metaphor could be so effective.

In addition, I am often the first person to say that “not everything is that deep.” Yet here I am, making something deep. I was only mildly curious about this metaphor at first. In the process of documenting my understanding, I surprised even myself as I realized how rich this metaphor is.

A warning…this essay is very long. (It’s either mildly interesting or completely ridiculous and nothing in between. Likely the second.)

—

The notion of a ‘game’ is often conflated with the notion of adversarial conflict. This misunderstanding is largely due to Western structural/cultural forces. Mathematicians and economists have a passion for framing most predicaments as zero-sum, or strictly competitive, where one player’s advantageous move by definition disadvantages their opponent. But collaborative and otherwise not strictly competitive games exist too.

Taylor’s fascination with games spans her entire discography. Artistic preoccupation is reason alone to analyze her work from such an acute angle. But pleasantly, Taylor also does not share the academics’ favorite pastime. She strays away from the zero-sum bias in very unpredictable ways. In fact, she has no bias. She prefers to mix and match her language to each situation as she sees fit. Her convolution of love and games is expressive, divorced from the logical framework by which games are defined. I think examining this facet of her work with a fine-toothed comb may be especially illuminating.

It seems counterintuitive to argue that games could (or should) be anything more than Taylor’s favorite metaphorical manifestation of logos. Yet revisiting a metaphor is itself communication, conscious or not. Advancing an understanding of this extended metaphor, in my opinion, substantiates what is usually intangible about Taylor’s songwriting brilliance.

On Games

Precocious and perceptive, Taylor has, for as long as she’s been writing, placed competition, strategy, and collaboration alongside conflict. Therefore, for the sake of coherence and relative brevity, analysis is scoped only to songs with significant mentions of games, puzzles, or game-related imagery. ‘Games’ are not conflated with general fighting, trickery, toying, revenge, mention of rules/strategizing, or winning/losing. ‘Puzzles’ are not conflated with disorder; puzzle pieces must be pieces of a larger, vivid picture.

Consider football. Imagery of high school football makes “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince” fair territory. Someone shouting over a football game in a bar does not qualify “Mean.” The football helmet worn in “Stay Stay Stay” is an absurd and compelling detail in context, as likely to be fictitious as it is true, and hence more significant than a televised sporting event; “Stay Stay Stay” qualifies. In essence, games are interesting as a device rather than a simple detail.

Below is a list of the songs with significant game reference(s), categorized by implied type. Note that a song can belong to multiple categories if it contains multiple references.

Generic/unspecified games: “Come in With the Rain”, “Dear John”, “State of Grace”, “Blank Space”, “Wonderland”, “…Ready For It?”, “End Game”, “Look What You Made Me Do”

Card games: “New Romantics”, “End Game”, “Cornelia Street”, “It’s Nice To Have A Friend”

Dice games: “Cruel Summer”, “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince”

Board games: “Dear John”

Sports/contests: “The Story Of Us”, “Long Live”, “Stay Stay Stay”, “End Game”, “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince”

Puzzles: “Red”, “All Too Well”, “So It Goes…”

Other: “It’s Nice To Have A Friend”

Like many people, Taylor habitually seeks structure to manage unpredictability. (Games provide structure for situational volatility, hence her artistic love affair with this metaphor.) The stylistic choices she makes to entertain this habit, however, are anything but consistent.

The games have a variety of different players, such as in “Dear John” and “Look What You Made Me Do.”

She does not establish strict parity between characters’ emotional affiliation and the competitiveness of a game. “Dear John” features an adversarial game. Conversely, her partner in “Blank Space” is a co-conspirator/collaborator. “All Too Well” analogizes autumn leaves as puzzle pieces; puzzles are collaborative games.

Taylor famously claims that love is a game in “Blank Space.” This song is colloquially understood to be about the love story we see play out in the media. Games can thus include all parts of her ‘love life.’ Arguably, she foreshadows this in “Long Live” by intertwining parts of her ‘America’s sweetheart’ image with professional success, which is derived from writing about love.

Taylor is not always a player in a game, such as in “Cruel Summer.” Her partner may not be either; see the crossword in “Red.”

In short, humans are unpredictable, as is love. It is clear that Taylor uses games as an incredibly powerful metaphorical device. They are a genuine reflection of her feelings about love.

Musical analysis usually begins with careful consideration of each track. Given a disparate and lengthy list of songs, it is probably more fruitful to go up a layer of abstraction. Of particular intrigue for this set of songs is the relationship between time and Taylor’s willingness to divulge more information about a metaphorical game.

We revisit the set of songs to list them in chronological order. The purely ‘generic’ songs are now bolded: “Come in With the Rain”, “Dear John”, “The Story Of Us”, “Long Live”, “State of Grace”, “Red”, “All Too Well”, “Stay Stay Stay”, “Blank Space”, “Wonderland”, “New Romantics”, ”…Ready For It?”, “End Game”, “Look What You Made Me Do”, “So It Goes…”, “Cruel Summer”, “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince”, “Cornelia Street”, “It’s Nice To Have A Friend”

Specificity about a game seems to decrease with proximity to the 1989 era.

Lyrical imprecision in “Come in With the Rain,” a true outlier, probably boils down to youth.

“State of Grace” is a preamble about the themes of Red. “Begin Again,” though much later on that album, shares the same inspiration as “State of Grace.” Red is constructed as a sandwich between these two songs which present the album’s thesis. The album considered as a whole is thus a buffer for 1989.

reputation is a buffer for 1989 because the ‘generic’ game songs are heavily and intentionally front-loaded.

“New Romantics” is a coda for 1989, and its poker game reference is slightly ambiguous. What, exactly, is poker; what is all in the timing? The thematic material of “New Romantics” is most similar to that of “Blank Space.” ‘It’ is the same crude game played in the earlier track, the affair of collecting men. Perhaps this close relation subsumes “New Romantics” under the ‘generic’ game category. (Though this is a loose explanation.)

There exists an undeniable chronological pattern to game characterization. If you graphed the amount of game-related lyrical obscurity versus time, it would look like a shallow sand dune with the tip at the 1989 era. (Or a hill. Or a big pile of leaves. You get the picture.)

Armed with a basic understanding of Taylor’s career, one might say that her desire for personal privacy manifests as reticence to define metaphorical games. The 1989 era was the height of media attention on her. This caused more than a few issues. The art created around this time would have naturally reflected how she felt about the public eye. (See: the entire reputation era.)

But isn’t Taylor almost as famous as ever today? Sure, her name is not as saturated in the zeitgeist as it was in 2014. She’s still one of the world’s mega-stars. And does she not have a very private relationship today? Taylor’s work reflects her hardened personal boundaries, but boundaries alone do not explain the pattern of how she writes about games. Otherwise Lover would be filled to the brim with songs about ‘generic’ games.

To summarize, Taylor uses games as a perennial favorite metaphor to frame her experiences of love. Increased public scrutiny undoubtedly changed the way that Taylor approached songwriting; even so, fame was not a factor that changed how she wrote about games. The connection between time and types of games suggests that we cannot consider game metaphors in isolation.

On Love

The next piece of the puzzle (no pun intended) is what she shares about love. Which 1989 songs are most revealing? Technically…most of them, if you think hard enough. I’d like to draw special attention to “Wonderland” and “You Are in Love.”

Ah, “You Are in Love.” The musical gift that keeps on giving! Fitting, because true love should be too.

In “Wonderland,” Taylor says:

It’s all fun and games ’til somebody loses their mind

Shortly thereafter in the “You Are in Love” bridge, she proclaims:

You understand now why they lost their mind and fought the wars

And why I’ve spent my whole life trying to put it into words

Taylor reverses her opinion about the prospect of losing her mind for love. (The abruptness here is a consequence of a real-life relationship change, plus the fact that both of these songs are bonus tracks.) Of course, she also tells us an important connection between love and games.

I’ll pause here to say that I’m not going to turn this into a (frankly uninteresting) relationship timeline/proof post. But may the profound significance of “You Are in Love” and its subject never escape us.

“You Are in Love” is written in the second person. Taylor is the intensely guarded ‘you.’ We witness her emotional walls get broken down by her lover, the ‘he.’ Fascinatingly, Taylor departs from the second person point of view in the bridge. Suddenly, she alerts us to the presence of an ‘I.’ The bridge says that ‘you’ Taylor, whole and normal-person-in-a-relationship Taylor, finally understands true love. In the same breath, ‘I,’ writer Taylor, admits that she’s had it all wrong for years. (This is not to say that her writing pursuits before this moment were pointless.) Therefore, breaking the second person point of view to include the ‘I’ line shows that Taylor distills the nature of true love in that ‘eureka’ moment.

Yet she exposes the schism of writer Taylor and whole, normal person Taylor in a moment where, in theory, those two roles could not overlap more. Taylor has every reason to faithfully represent her feelings. Her sentiment is always sincere even though she may falsify details of a story. “You Are in Love” is (as far as I’m aware) the only song in which Taylor ever blatantly admits to writer-person misalignment. The schism must run extremely deep.

Taylor was—and surely still is—drawn to songwriting as a means to explore love. She tries to to capture its enigmatic essence with the written word. How fascinating it is that, at the very moment she communicates her deepest understanding of love, she says that the part of her that puts it into words is inherently disconnected from her spirit which feels it.

On Games And Love

We must briefly table the meta-implications of “You Are in Love” to return to the topic of games.

Love probably would have stopped feeling like a game after finding a real gem of a person who doesn’t mess with your head. (Love also probably would have stopped feeling like a game after dialing down on brazen PR tomfoolery.) Taylor has written several albums about her true love. It’s easier now to trace the arc of her feelings: it is a positive path, as anyone would predict.

Why would she continue to write about games after 1989? The obvious answer is that she likes doing it. It remains a useful metaphor.

But recall that chronology discourages us from considering metaphorical games in isolation. To clarify the principal function of the game metaphor in her discography, we must consider the writer-person dichotomy.

First, note that Taylor exposes the writer-person dichotomy in an honest, vulnerable moment. She confirms it as a human phenomenon. The phenomenon thus must extend beyond a singular moment during 1989. Distance between writer Taylor and whole, normal person Taylor—a measure henceforth called writer-person distance—is necessarily a function of time. Coincidentally, so is the measure of game-related lyrical obscurity.

Writer-person distance can grow or shrink. It was small in her youth; this is what pushed her into songwriting. It is small now, as she has told us in the albums since 1989 that true love has stitched her back together. Again, because writer-person distance is a human phenomenon, it changes slowly, smoothly. (“You Are in Love” simply marks the biggest distance.) Does this sound familiar? If you graphed writer-person distance versus time, the graph would look like a shallow sand dune with the tip at the 1989 era. (Or a hill. Or a big pile of leaves. Once again, you get the picture.)

To summarize, game-related lyrical obscurity and writer-person distance are smooth functions. “You Are in Love” is the inflection point of both measures.

With “Wonderland” and “You Are in Love,” Taylor tells us that games are linked to how she conceptualizes love. But not just any love. 🎶 True love. 🎶

At the same time, Taylor presents “You Are in Love” as a dividing line between ‘that which is a best attempt to understand something that inherently cannot be captured’ and ‘that which refines the thing that, against all odds, was captured.’ Our interpretation of games must synthesize an abrupt ‘eureka’ moment with both the measures’ gradual changes.

If we are to talk about metaphorical games, we also must talk about true love. But we know that if we are to talk about games, we also must talk about time. Vital to uniting these ideas is the revelation that Taylor conceptualizes the nature of true love as the nature of time. For doesn’t time define what is gradual and abrupt?

The most important line in “You Are in Love” is when Taylor finds it—‘it’ being love. A literal ‘eureka’ moment. This isn’t just a one-time coincidence.

Writer-person bifurcation clarifies why the game metaphor is surprisingly effective. As Taylor revisits the convolution of love and games, the metaphor morphs in tandem with her innate understanding of love.

Some Good Old-fashioned Song Analysis

Observing how games, love, and time are intertwined requires that we reject purely literal interpretations of game-related lyrics after “You Are in Love.” Of course, literal interpretations are still generally useful, even correct. Games are literal, so references to them should be interpreted as such. Also, lyrics about games are probably Not This Deep in reality. We didn’t have to do all this work to realize what songs might belong in conversation with each other; identifying lyrical callbacks would have been sufficient. Treating game lyrics as purely literal limits how we might decipher a recurring metaphor. Without the notions of game specificity or writer-person distance, we would lack a framework with which to fully interrogate how these songs are are connected (i.e. through time). And, after all, the ultimate goal is to understand why the game metaphor is so successful. But, I digress.

(We’ve also made it this far and we might as well keep going. Another couple thousand words…don’t threaten me with a good time, amirite?)

To observe how games, love, and time are intertwined, I propose the following rule of thumb: A game reference before “You Are in Love” is Taylor’s description of love, whereas a game reference afterwards is a pointer to past instances of that game. Such a reference is metaphysical, or more appropriately, meta-lyrical. If she’s referenced a game already, she knows how to use that reference again. If she introduces a new reference, she’s planting it for future use.

We can group the songs after “You Are in Love” by game type:

Generic/unspecified games: “…Ready For It?”, “End Game”, “Look What You Made Me Do”

Dice games: “Cruel Summer”, “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince”

Card games: “New Romantics”, “End Game”, “Cornelia Street”, “It’s Nice To Have A Friend”

Sports/contests: “End Game”, “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince”

Puzzles: “So It Goes…”

Other: “It’s Nice To Have A Friend"

Analysis requires precision. We should pare down the duplicates, if possible.

“It’s Nice To Have A Friend” is tricky because it’s naturally sparse. “Video games,” for example, are more than a simple detail: they are an essential part of creating a childhood vignette. “Twenty questions” and the card game “bluff” function analogously in the later verses. The brilliance of this song lies in how Taylor illustrates the development of companionship and intimacy. The verse about marriage is the most significant verse because it reveals the meaning of the whole song. Thus, we may take the bluff to be more important than twenty questions, which is more important than video games. “It’s Nice To Have A Friend” ultimately belongs in the card game category.

Central to the pathos of “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince” is the “stupid” dice game lyric. Of equal importance is the portrait of Americana, painted with lyrics about Friday night lights. This song truly belongs in two categories.

At the end of “…Ready For It?” Taylor fires a starting pistol, letting ‘generic’ games begin. “End Game” follows and we assume it must pertain to the same game. So Taylor intentionally places this song in the first category. The hook has lyrics about a varsity “A-team,” though this is probably just a nod to Ed Sheeran. The other truly interesting game-related lyric is the one about bluffing. Thus, “End Game” also belongs in the card game category.

Here’s the new list:

Generic/unspecified games: “…Ready For It?”, “End Game”, “Look What You Made Me Do”

Dice games: “Cruel Summer”, “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince”

Card games: “New Romantics”, “End Game”, “Cornelia Street”, “It’s Nice To Have A Friend”

Sports/contests: “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince”

Puzzles: “So It Goes…”

Each of the four obvious groups of songs illustrate a different way Taylor weaves the natures of true love and time together:

Déjà vu: “So It Goes…”

Hindsight/wisdom: “…Ready For It?”, “End Game”, “Look What You Made Me Do”

Fate: “Cruel Summer”, “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince”

Progress: “New Romantics”, “End Game”, “Cornelia Street”, “It’s Nice To Have A Friend”

Déjà vu

The puzzles category only contains one song, making it easiest to analyze. The namesake of “So It Goes…” is Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five, famously constructed like a mosaic. Puzzles are central to the meaning of this song.

“All Too Well” contains the first instance of a puzzle metaphor in her discography:

Autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place

Taylor calls back to “All Too Well” in the chorus of “So It Goes…”

And our pieces fall

Right into place

Get caught up in the moment

Lipstick on your face

By referencing a previous song using identical phrasing, Taylor creates the illusion of a sudden ‘déjà vu’ moment. The effect is similar to “You Are in Love,” where she reaches sudden enlightenment.

Sonically and lyrically, the “moment” she gets caught up in is implied to be the one in which she gets lost in passionate sex. The déjà vu moment could be this moment, but it doesn’t have to be. Déjà vu is agnostic to the present in the sense that the feeling can be triggered in the strangest of times. The déjà vu moment is whatever prompted her to write this song.

This game lyric connection clearly shows how a moment of love is defined by a moment of time.

Hindsight/Wisdom

The bombastic group of singles, “…Ready For It?”, “End Game,” and “Look What You Made Me Do,” sets the tone for all of reputation. The ‘generic’ games in these songs are the same as those in 1989, particularly the crude (and, in Taylor’s case, often interchangeable) games of celebrity and dating. In “Blank Space,” Taylor spells out in gory detail what she does as an agent in the celebrity dating game. She does not explicitly define the rules of that game, though. It remains sufficient for her to prove that she knows how to play by them. (Musically, this is far more interesting.)

We know that the reputation singles’ literal proximity to 1989 indicates Taylor’s direct emotional response the previous era. The consequences of a ‘fall from grace’ underpin the entire reputation era. Therefore, Taylor uses lyrical connections from reputation back to 1989 to illustrate hindsight. She tells us what she learned from her mistakes and what she wished she would have done differently.

But first, she gets to be salty about it. In “Look What You Made Me Do,” Taylor laments the fact that she participates in public games to appease others. (Because, really, withdrawing from the celebrity circus would immediately solve a lot of her problems. Alas, megastardom is a Venus flytrap.)

I don't like your little games

Don't like your tilted stage

The role you made me play

Of the fool, no, I don't like you

Let’s return to “Blank Space” for a moment. Taylor’s boyfriend in “Blank Space” is considered a co-conspirator/collaborator with her in the celebrity dating game. Central to our understanding of that song, however, is the unequal power dynamic. Taylor is the strategic mastermind, whereas her boyfriend is just along for the ride. The two are on the same team, but they are not equals.

Taylor actually leans further into the games of the 1989 era in “…Ready For It?”

Baby, let the games begin

Unlike in 1989, her partner is an equal on her team:

Me, I was a robber first time that he saw me

Stealing hearts and running off and never saying sorry

But if I'm a thief, then he can join the heist

And we'll move to an island

She then connects “…Ready For It?” to “End Game”

Baby, let the games begin

Are you ready for it?

//

I wanna be your end game

Both Taylor and her partner are forced to play the same game and they share share the same goal. Her partner’s “end game” is Taylor; thus, Taylor keeps her true love by beating the celebrity dating game. They have to work together to achieve this difficult task.

Though the celebrity dating game is not true love, it impacts Taylor’s relationship with anyone who could be her true love. In hindsight, Taylor realizes how media games blew up in her face. It is wisdom—to keep her relationship private, to dial down on PR tomfoolery, to prioritize her happiness—that helps her pre-empt these problems for the reputation era. And indeed we understand the love story of reputation as the lovers’ prolonged attempt to hide from the public eye.

Hindsight comes with the natural passage of time. One only accrues wisdom, however, when they apply the lessons of hindsight to make better judgements about the future. Games again unite the ideas of love and time; they elucidate how Taylor uses wisdom to protect someone she loves.

Fate

“Cruel Summer” and “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince” highlight the elegance of the meta-rule of thumb.

The dice game in “Cruel Summer” is a unique incarnation of the game metaphor because Taylor doesn’t confirm whether she is directly involved in this game:

Devils roll the dice

Angels roll their eyes

What doesn’t kill me makes me want you more // And if I bleed you’ll be the last to know

The song doesn’t reveal much about the nature of the dice game other than the fact that it is competitive. It could be a fitting description of what is going on in Taylor’s personal life. It may not be. What is more important is that Taylor positions herself as collateral damage of the outcome of the game.

This is also the dice game’s first appearance. By our rule of thumb, this lyric exists only to be a link to “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince.”

“Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince” belongs to two different game categories, sports/contests and dice games.

First, dice games. We get a few more answers about the nature of the “Cruel Summer” competition:

It's you and me

That's my whole world

They whisper in the hallway, "she's a bad, bad girl"

The whole school is rolling fake dice

You play stupid games, you win stupid prizes

It's you and me

There's nothing like this

Miss Americana and The Heartbreak Prince

We're so sad, we paint the town blue

Voted most likely to run away with you

Both Taylor and her partner are forced to play the dice game by virtue of being metaphorical students. As a disgraced and about-to-be-vagrant prom queen, Taylor has finally realized that winning the school’s dice game is not worth the price of a ‘fall from grace.’

Next, sports/contests. With the understanding of these lyrics as pointers to her previous songs, sports/contests harkens back to “The Story of Us,” “Long Live,” and “Stay Stay Stay.”

“The Story Of Us” suggests that a shared quality of sports/contest metaphors is that conflict is nuanced, even hidden to outsiders:

This is looking like a contest

Of who can act like they care less

In “Stay Stay Stay,” football is connected to (for lack of a better word) violence, conflict that could result in emotional and physical harm:

I'm pretty sure we almost broke up last night

I threw my phone across the room at you

I was expecting some dramatic turn away

But you stayed

This morning I said we should talk about it

'Cause I read you should never leave a fight unresolved

That's when you came in wearing a football helmet

And said, "Okay, let's talk"

Finally, “Long Live” blends the ideas of small town Americana with Taylor’s personal and professional life:

I said remember this moment

In the back of my mind

The time we stood with our shaking hands

The crowds in stands went wild

//

I said remember this feeling

I passed the pictures around

Of all the years that we stood there on the sidelines

Wishing for right now

We are the kings and the queens

You traded your baseball cap for a crown

When they gave us our trophies

And we held them up for our town

And the cynics were outraged

Screaming, "this is absurd"

'Cause for a moment a band of thieves in ripped up jeans

Got to rule the world

The backdrop of “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince” is not just any part of America. The juxtaposition of idyllic parts of American life with frictional, violent, yet sometimes subtle forces tells us that the song’s backdrop is an American culture war. It is conflict which unsettles everyone, but by nature hurts only some.

In totality, the function of the dice game metaphor is to position Taylor as collateral damage of an American culture war. (Chew on that one for a bit.)

Again, we probably could have surmised this by examining the lyrics closely. The song lends itself to being a signpost in the Lover chronology. It seems too autobiographical to be anything different. We all remember 2016.

However, “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince” sticks out like a sore thumb from the album’s theme of “a love letter to love itself.” Revisiting games as a glue between love and time expands on the purpose of “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince” in Lover.

The “Cruel Summer” bridge contains this lyric understood to be about her true love:

And I snuck in through the garden gate

Every night that summer just to seal my fate

Taylor identifies “that summer” in the 1989 era as the moment which she sealed her fate. Implicit in this confirmation is her perspective from the future. She is looking back on 1989 from the time when her terrible fate has just been realized.

The moment of realization is—you guessed it—the chorus of “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince.” The chorus depicts post-prom queen defamation. Taylor is aware of every single action (many, probably deliberate) that helped her achieve royalty. She never divulges them. The song is scoped only to the time when she lives her fate.

We usually take observations about fate and love to describe how two souls are bound to each other. Taylor does not tell us much about her lover in “Cruel Summer” sans the fact that the shape of their body is new. Paying special attention to games reframes “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince” within the Lover theme as a commentary on fate. However, the emphasis of fate should not be on her lover. The dice game connection tells us that Taylor views “that summer” in the 1989 era as the time when she sealed her fate as collateral damage in the American culture war. From the “love letter to love itself” perspective, the moral is that passion and excitement can make lovers forget the immutability of individual destiny. If you are fated to be with someone, both of you are at the mercy of whatever the world has in store for the partnership and you as individuals.

Progress

An eclectic group of songs shares a reference to bluffing in a card game. The game metaphor beautifully stitches these songs together into parts of the same story.

The first and most detailed description of the card game is in “New Romantics”

We're all here

the lights and boys are blinding

We hang back

It's all in the timing

It's poker

He can't see it in my face

But I'm about to play my ace

A bluff in poker is an attempt to trick one’s opponent into thinking one has a better hand than they do in reality. The opponent may call their bluff and challenge them to prove their hand is as good as they advertise.

Bluffing requires deception, often telegraphed by facial expressions. Here, Taylor says that she is good at bluffing because she doesn’t let her façade crack. She is not truly bluffing, though, because she possesses an ace, presumably part of her even better hand. Her opponent has called her perceived bluff to prompt to her to reveal the ace.

The opponent, “he,” behaves as though Taylor is bluffing. Taylor, strategic as ever, is prepared to counter by revealing the most powerful card. We should thus interpret this metaphor as the ‘bluffer’ exceeding expectations. (Remember that the first instance of a metaphor is a base case, so we must take its meaning more literally.)

Likewise, in “End Game” and “It’s Nice To Have A Friend”, Taylor is the bluffer:

You've been calling my bluff on all my usual tricks

//

Call my bluff, call you "babe"

However, “Cornelia Street” allows room for the interpretation that both Taylor and her lover are bluffers:

Back when we were card sharks, playing games

I thought you were leading me on

I packed my bags, left Cornelia Street

Before you even knew I was gone

But then you called, showed your hand

I turned around before I hit the tunnel

Sat on the roof, you and I

Taylor may have also been a trickster: “then you called” could refer to the lover calling Taylor’s bluff.

The recurring bluff metaphor coincides with progress or forward momentum in a relationship.

Recall a previous discussion of “New Romantics.” We defined the “it” which is “all in the timing” as a reference to finding romance. “New Romantics” is set in a club with a dance floor, boys, and blinding lights. It’s the kind of setting conducive only to landing one-night stands. Taylor plays games with someone in the club, but exceeds expectations for the outcome of that game. What was flirting or courting becomes something more serious than a one night stand (i.e. an actual relationship). The act of calling a bluff in a card game engenders (relationship) progress. Yet again, what is intrinsic to time is intrinsic to love.

This observation fits with each song.

reputation charts the development of Taylor’s relationship, but the card game bluff in “End Game” is at the beginning of the album. That’s exactly why this lyric works so well. Her relationship is still new, nonetheless significant, after 1989. Her verse mixes these ideas:

I hit you like bang

We tried to forget it, but we just couldn't

And I bury hatchets but I keep maps of where I put 'em

//

And I can't let you go, your hand print's on my soul

The “End Game” bluff represents how Taylor goes from wanting a steady relationship to wanting everything.

You might be able to see where this is going. “It’s Nice To Have A Friend” is the ‘discographical endpoint’ of the bluff metaphor. The verse about marriage delivers the song’s emotional punch:

Church bells ring, carry me home

Rice on the ground looks like snow

Call my bluff, call you "babe"

Have my back, yeah, everyday

Feels like home, stay in bed

The whole weekend

Notice, however, that the bluff metaphor occurs after the implied wedding. This is actually a beautiful sentiment. Intimacy, trust, and commitment are ongoing; growth doesn’t stop with a ring on a finger. The bluff, which represents delivering on promises and exceeding expectations for love, powers the relationship forward.

All signs point to the “Cornelia Street” bluff as the one that may have led to marriage.

Back when we were card sharks, playing games

I thought you were leading me on

I packed my bags, left Cornelia Street

Before you even knew I was gone

But then you called, showed your hand

I turned around before I hit the tunnel

Sat on the roof, you and I

So emotionally charged is this scene that we have to wonder what, exactly, Taylor’s steady partner could do to make her (1) walk out if she were being led on and (2) come back so quickly.

The most intriguing detail about this card game is that both parties may have been bluffing. The lover is leading Taylor on, but Taylor does not stay to call the bluff. She leaves. Usually in poker, one would not want their opponent to be able to prove the bluff with a good hand. (Think back to the ace in “New Romantics”.) But what if both players are on the same team at the end of the day? Calling a bluff is now setting oneself up for potential disappointment. Taylor walks out because she is frightened by the mere possibility of being let down.

Taylor is also bluffing, but her lover doesn’t let her walk away so easily. They pull out all the stops and concede their hand in a desperate attempt to get Taylor to turn around from the tunnel. It works. By our understanding of the bluff metaphor, the lover exceeds all of Taylor’s expectations. The events that transpire on the roof presumably are when Taylor reveals her own cards.

The topic of marriage fits with this emotionally charged scene. Of course both lovers would tiptoe around the topic and be scared to reveal their true feelings. 

So following the bluff metaphor helps us follow the course of true love. Calling and revealing a bluff is the catalyst for Taylor’s relationship. However, it also is the nature of time which underpins progress. 

I concede that interpreting the bluff metaphor as the catalyst of a story makes it vulnerable to any truth-fuzzing. Perhaps Taylor hasn’t ever written about a real-life engagement or marriage. We have no way of knowing. We instead should take comfort in the fact that her lyrics are beautiful and music is open to interpretation.

On Writing

Our beliefs about love are bound to change over time. As a writer, Taylor is in a unique position to capture this change by revisiting a metaphor.

Take “It’s Nice To Have A Friend.” The song is written as a series of vignettes to define the qualities of love that remain consistent while relationships change over time. The middle vignette, with its reference to “twenty questions,” could very well point back to the same day as the “Cornelia Street” card game. Feelings reoccur in certain moments—déjà vu. The first vignette is a picture of childhood. The last vignette is a picture of adulthood. Therefore, it seems just as natural to interpret the middle vignette as a picture of adolescence or young adulthood. Light pink skies, back-and-forth conversations, and brave, soft moments of intimacy illustrate a coming-of-age experience. The same moment that pulls Taylor forward in her relationship is the one that also pulls her back to a different time.

Then the coming-of-age experience is reminiscent of the portrait of Americana, the Friday night lights, marching band, and high school prom. During adolescence, we only have an inkling of our futures. We are less aware of all the ways we are connected to others and our world. Young and impressionable, our only job is to live, to change, to make memories and mistakes. Memories and mistakes define what was, and experience creates wisdom that shapes what will be. So Taylor captures this duality in fate. The moment a fate is realized is a moment that is equally a fossil of the past and a forecast for the future. The moment it all makes sense…eureka!

As an artist, Taylor’s job is to communicate her human experience. Listeners decide whether or not she successfully telegraphs what is universal about it. However, Taylor is no more of a spokesperson for the universal human experience than anyone else. She simply possesses the talent, work ethic, and privilege to make a career of it.

Consider Taylor’s own summary of the past decade:

I once believed love would be burnin' red

But it's golden

She consciously and elegantly edits her previous beliefs about love. (Obviously, she may plant callbacks to previous songs purely for fun. This one is certainly sincere.) These lines illustrate the craft she has worked hard to develop.

Manifested in her craft is the need to revisit her ideas. It seems as though certain recurring metaphors have become the only way for her to accurately capture some parts of love. They become self-perpetuating. Unforced yet expressive subconscious consistency constitutes artistry. It is artistry which compels us to believe in the universality of music.

The self-perpetuating love/games metaphor is especially fascinating. It is one of the purest examples, though perhaps also one of the strangest, of how writing about love engenders new experiences of it. Taylor translates love into game language. Games illustrate duality. Duality is love.

Perhaps this conclusion is something others already know about Taylor’s talent. I’ve never quite been able to put my finger on it until now.

To me, it seems like the songs are writing themselves.

[heartofsnark]

This is Love (Chapter Eight): Whispers of Wolves

Notes: Heyo, since A) I took a break and B) it’s friday the thirteenth, as it was when I posted the first chapter of this is love back in January, I decided to go ahead and post chapter 8 today. Chapter 9 is already done and I’ll be beginning work on chapter 10 soon, as this is my current hyper fixation. I hope you all enjoy. 

Word Count: 8671

Chapter Warnings: Oh boy we got some shit today my dudes! Stories/Reference of Past Child Abuse, Animal Death In the Context of Hunting, Homphobic Slurs/Homphobia towards lesbians, and referenced past anti-Semitism. Less important but there’s a pov change and like three different quotes in this chapter, from the Book of Joseph, and two different songs, which is probably a lot but I ain’t editing this shit anymore

For chapter one and the warnings about this fic’s overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here

Pain cracks through Joseph’s skull late that night, shooting across from each temple, seeming to split his head apart. He sits on the edge of his small bed, a modest bedroom in the back of his church. He knows what it means, he’s grown accustomed to the sharp ringing pain, visions always come with it. They’ve started to come more frequently since The Lamb arrived.

He grabs at his head, as if he could press hard enough to keep his skull together as pain racks him, an instinctual reaction. Pain strikes through and breaks the reality of the world around him, closed eyes starting to see visions of what could be, images of what may await him.

A world anew surrounds him; one changed by the Collapse and washed of sins. Lush and natural, even more beautiful than the world that came before it. Vibrant pink flowers decorate the earth, thick green moss covering trees. A soft pink flowered apple tree stands at the center of the compound, white buildings replaced with hand made little houses.

Men and women are all around, working around New Eden. Parents playing with their children, carrying their babies; loyal followers allowed to pass through the gates and grow their family. Some members bring back hunted animals to be prepared for meals and others tending to gardens.

And then he sees his brothers and sister.

A fact that changes time and time again as his visions come to him in waves. He’s seen New Eden with and without them. He’s seen each of his siblings die time and time again, old and young, premonitions of what will be or what could be.

In this version, this vision, he’s been allowed his siblings. Faith, Jacob, and John talk at a distance where Joseph can’t quite hear the words, only taken in the moment. Jacob and John’s ages showing more clearly in the gray just starting to pepper their hair.

A voice rises above all others, cutting through the mumbled conversation through the compound, and Joseph knows it’s calling towards him. The soft voice calls him a name similar in meaning to his title, but it cuts to his heart so differently.

“Papa!”

Through the eyes of his older self, he can only watch and take in what happens, no control as he turns to see the source.  A young boy of about five comes running towards Joseph, bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile. Joseph’s body moves of it’s own volition reaching out to hug his son, his son, but before he can feel the embrace of his child the world cracks apart again.

Pain splinters through the world and rips him from the moment, when he opens his eyes again he’s back in his room. And his hands itch to hold his son who’s yet to exist, instead he rubs at his temples, fingers knotting in his own hair as he attempts to soothe the agony within his own head. The only respite being what he hopes is a new promise from his creator. A chance for his family to not only walk with him to New Eden, but the chance to expand it.

He’ll have a son. The very idea soothes his pain and is like a salve to frayed nerves. Becoming an internal mantra as he eases himself back to sleep that night.

 Sweat coats Dahlia’s skin as she does another push up, her muscles aching at the workout. She shifts to lay on her back on the living room floor, t-shirt riding up her sweaty stomach. Her second day of no work has turned into an impromptu work out, push up and using doorways for chin-ups. She uses her shirt to wipe sweat off her forehead before grabbing her phone to check the time. Dahlia must have gotten her way through the day, it has to be late by now.

“Fucking hell.”

It’s noon, it’s only fucking noon.

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!” She screams into a pillow, how the fuck is it only noon? Dahlia looks at the mess of her coffee table, trying to consider what to do just to eat at her time, she could draw again. But her hand is still cramping. She read somewhere you’re suppose to do warm up for drawing, she’ll have to start doing that.

Then she sees the Book of Joseph, her drawing still sticking out of it. She’s burned through her backlog of manga on her phone and fuck, it’s something to do. Joseph seemed like a genuinely sweet man, maybe he has something interesting to say.  Music still blasting, because everything in her life requires a soundtrack, she opens the book.

 “Bless the name of those who have dealt you blows.

Be grateful to those who have caused you harm.

For it is these sufferings that have led you to me.”

 The first sermon in the book, she chews her lip, it’s not that much different from things Joseph told her yesterday, that he’s thankful her past led her to him. But, something rubs her wrong about the idea of being grateful for her abuse. Not for her, she plans on dying mad about it. She reads onward, an illustration of a flaming capital building surrounded by waves with someone drowning in the foreground. That’s…dramatic.

“If a person had been walking down the poorly maintained road out front of the Seed’s house on that afternoon in June and felt the strange urge to glance over, they would have witnessed a bizarre sight.

They would have seen a man dress in black pants and a white undershirt, frothing with anger, brandishing a comic book in one hand and a bible in the other at his son, a child of about ten. But no one had been down this in the poor suburb of Rome, Georgia, in a long time. Not ice cream trucks, not social service cars, not even police patrols.”

Dahlia stops almost three pages in as Joseph begins to write about a dying widow who once gave him and Jacob cakes before she grew sick. The picture he’s painted is far too clear and hits too close to home for her to continue, at least for the moment. A belligerent bible thumping drunk of a father who derided Joseph for loving Spiderman comics and beat Jacob’s back for the younger brother’s supposed misgivings.

Father Monroe, her stepfather, wasn’t quite the ruddy faced sloppy drunk that Old Man Seed was. But when Joseph describes Jacob offering his back up for a beating, she nearly feels the bite of leather against her own. Stripes for the backs of fools, is all she hears.

She wants to talk to Joseph, she realizes, thinking of both the beginning sermon passage and how their own pasts match up. Does he really bless the man who hurt him? Is he grateful for Old Man Seed? Maybe that kind of forgiveness and peace with it comes with age or is it just him? Ruth has a similar story as well, a little older than Dahlia, and she holds on to the same anger Dahlia does. Has Joseph managed to let it go? Does he still like Spiderman? Did his father beat the passion for comic books out of him or does he still enjoy them? Its hard to imagine, the intense Joseph Seed casually reading a comic book.

Less than three pages is a pathetic excuse for reading and didn’t pass much time, but it’s intense for her. So, she’d rather just…stare at the wall for a bit until she’s ready to tackle it again.

It’s Saturday night, Pratt and Hudson won’t be going to The Spread Eagle tonight, because no work. Meaning a rather mundane day with no interruptions. Other than a short walk, Dahlia spends the rest of it fucking around on her phone and watching shitty tv; passing out after downing an unevenly heated microwave meal.

Sunday morning rolls around, spent much like the last, Dahlia using her down time and excess energy to work out. It’s important to stay on top of exercising and staying in shape, given her profession, she makes a mental note to order some weights online. There’s not really a proper gym in the county and she doesn’t want to lose muscle.

She’s in the middle of another round of pushups when there’s a knock at her door; she jumps up from her position, skin still slick with sweat as she rushes towards the door. Finally, something to disrupt the monotony.

It’s Pratt standing on her porch, hazel eyes looking her over. She’s expecting a shitty comment on her appearance, dressed in shorts and a baggy shirt, hair mussed with sweat.

“You need something?” She asks him, slightly out of breath. Dahlia lifts the bottom of her shirt, using it to wipe sweat from her face, breeze skimming the bare skin of her stomach.

“What the hell has you sweating, Rook?” The older deputy chews his lip, avoiding eye contact for a moment.

“I was working out.”

“With a head injury? Seriously?”

“The fuck else am I suppose to do?”

“Figured you’d be bored out of your mind, reason I’m here,” he grins, “throw some clothes on and we can head out.”

“You mind if I shower first?” She asks, while she’s not sure where he plans on dragging her but she’d rather not stink like sweat while she’s there.

“Uh, yeah, sure that’s fine.”

“You wanna wait in here?”

He nods and Dahlia steps aside to let Pratt into her trailer, it’s not the most tidy of place because, well, she’s not the most tidy of people. She can feel the judgement starting to build up as Pratt looks around her messy living room. A pillow and blanket haphazardly on the couch; her duffle bag on the ground with clothes falling out of it. Her table has her sketchbook, thankfully closed, and the Book of Joseph is tucked under it. It’s a messy little nest, but it’s hers.

“Are you sleeping on your couch?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s just, I prefer it,” she explains with a shrug, not really sure how to elaborate on her weird feeling about sleeping in a bed.

“You have a bed, right?”

“Yes, I have a bed, I just, shut up. I don’t barge into your house and start judging how you live,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, “just sit down, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Dahlia grabs a change of clothes, hearing the couch springs creak as Pratt sits down. It’s weird seeing someone in her trailer. The closest she’s had to visitors have stayed on her porch. Pratt is the first person to be in her actual trailer, he looks immensely out of place and judging by his eyes glancing around, he seems to feel that way too. She tries not to think too hard about it, making a beeline to her bathroom.

She tries to keep her shower short, not wanting to make Pratt wait too long and not wanting him to snoop while he’s left alone. That doesn’t stop her from playing music as she showers, just limiting herself to two songs before she jumps out. A quick dry off and she tugs on her clothes, towel still on her damp hair as she walks back out to her living room.

Pratt, sure enough, has found something to snoop through. Dahlia grimaces at the sight of him picking through her little jewelry box of photos. Was he rifling through her dufflebag? She clears her throat, smirking when he jumps up.

“I was just-”

“Snooping,” she cuts him off, ruffling the towel over her hair.

“It fell out of your bag.”

“No it didn’t.”

“It did...after I kicked it a little, but it did fall out.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she snatches the little wooden box off the table, Lloyd and Caroline’s photo booklet was on top, so at least she probably avoided him seeing baby photos.

“You, uh, don’t look much like your parents. You adopted or something?”

She can’t help but chuckle as she puts it away; she can’t blame him for thinking Lloyd and Caroline must be her parents. The pair are both about Whitehorse’s age and why else would she have so many photos with a couple that age. But, the couple absolutely look nothing like her. Both fairer skinned and blue eyed; Lloyd with dark strawberry blonde hair and Caroline with light honey blonde locks. Short of some shenanigans the chance of them producing an olive skinned, brown eyed brunette is slim. And while the couple have their share of adopted children; Dahlia isn’t one of them.

“No.”

“Oh, uh…” She can nearly see the gears turning in Pratt’s head,  her usual one word style of answering has put Caroline’s devotion in question and Dahlia won’t have that.

“They’re not my parents; legally or biologically.”

“Oh, you just hang out with old couples?”

“Maybe, maybe not, ain’t really any of your business,” she shrugs, “more importantly, where the hell are we supposed to be going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t trust your surprises.”

“Would you rather sit here and twiddle your thumbs all day?”

“Fuck  no.”

“That’s what I thought, you ready to go then?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she throws the damp towel onto her laundry chair before shoving her feet into her boots, “lets get going.”

She locks up behind Pratt then follows him out to his car. Compared to the last time she was in his car, this is infinitely more relaxing. She hums along to the radio, resisting the urge to sing along. He probably already heard her yelling along to her music in the shower, she doesn’t need to blast his eardrums at close range. After one song ends and another shittier one begins she starts to fiddle with the radio setting.

“The driver is supposed to pick the music,” Pratt tells her as she flips through stations, trying to find a station playing something other than country.

“The driver needs to worry about the road, while I find something worth listening to.”

“Yeah, ‘cause your taste in music is so good.”

“I have excellent taste in music,” she turns to one station and it sounds like a choir.

Help me, Faith

Help me, Faith

Shield me from sorrow

From fear of tomorrow

“Turn that crap off, right now.”

“The hell is that?” It’s not a bad song like technically speaking, but it’s definitely a bit much.

“Peggie station, it's all crap, Eden’s Gate runs it. It’s all their choir music and sermons.”

“Gross, but the song ain’t that bad.”

“You might wanna have your head checked again.”

“Piss off.”

She finds something better, even if she doesn’t necessarily mind Eden’s Gate music, she’d rather listen to something without fear of a sermon coming up after. At the very least, Pratt doesn’t complain about her choice, a few more songs playing before they cross into Holland Valley.

“How’s your impromptu vacation been going?”

“Boring.”

“That’s what I thought,” he laughs, “figured you’d be going stir crazy by now.”

“So, you decided to come end my boredom?”

“No need to sound so excited,” Pratt rolls his eyes, not appreciating her lackluster response.

“Sorry, I, uh, do appreciate it,” she admits, looking out the windows, cheeks warming at it. It’s embarrassing to say that she is genuinely thankful. Hell she nearly jumped up and ran to the door like a dog when he knocked. Boredom is hell.

“Oh, it’s fine, I was bored too.”

They pull into the police station parking lot and she raises an eyebrow at him as he parks. He’s taken her to work? What on earth is he planning?

“Don’t look at me like that, you’re gonna enjoy this, c’mon.”

She follows him out and around the building to the helipad she noticed before, a black police grade helicopter on it.  He doesn’t hesitate to climb into the pilot's seat, telling her to get in. She listens, climbing into the seat next to him. It looks like a mess of buttons and controls to her, none of them making sense. But Pratt confidently starts turning switches, lights coming to life in front of her.  They’re going for a helicopter ride, holy shit.

“Pffft,” Pratt huffs out a laugh, “we’re not even in the air yet and you’re already grinning.”

“This is okay, right? Like, no one will mind.”

“I’m the only person at the station who can fly, so if they needed it, they’d be calling me anyway. Don’t worry.”

“I’m fine, I just wanted to know I can enjoy this guilt free.”

“And lift off,” Pratt says as he brings the chopper up off of the ground. The station grows smaller and smaller as they ascend up into the air.

“Wow…” Is all as can seem to say at first as the chopper kisses the sky.

They’re surrounded by a bright blue sky and puffy white clouds as Pratt flies across the county. Lush green forests and farms beneath them, mountains along the edges of the county. A top down view of animals running through, specks in their vision. She oohs and awes, unable to help acting like an excited child over the view. They fly along the county, Pratt is kind enough to answer her stupid questions about flying, what buttons and switches mean. She’s certain to a seasoned pilot her naïve question must be frustrating, but he grins with every answer. Before she knows it the sky around them has shifted to an awash of pinks and purples, the sun setting, before a midnight sky takes it place. Brilliant stars twinkling around them, feeling so close, like she could reach out and touch Andromeda.

Once it gets too late, Pratt lands back at the station, her cheeks ache from all the time smiling. He drives her back to the trailer park, the pair in comfortable silence as she hums along to the radio.  Her thoughts drifting off as they are so quick to do. Pratt and her butted heads a bit when they first met, but he’s quickly become her closest friend in the county. Their light-hearted bickering and shenanigans have become her favorite part of her days in Hope County.

He walks with her to her trailer, shoulders brushing occasionally as they move. She turns to look at him when they reach her door. Dahlia clenches and unclenches her hands searching for what she wants to say.

“Thanks, a lot, really.”

“You like flying that much?”

“Not just for that, not to be all mushy and crap, but coming out here, keeping me from going nuts, being my friend. It, uh, means a lot, seriously.”

“Eh,” he scratches at the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes, “just watching out for you, probie.”

“Well, I appreciate it, I, uh, know I’m not the easiest person to get along with.”

“No one in this county is.”

“Good to know I fit in, I guess.”

“Uhh, you’re getting there, once you start stinking like beer all day and have a house full of deer heads, we’ll call it good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she grins, “night.”

“Night.” She waves Pratt off before going back to her trailer to settle in for the night.

Monday is spent showing up to the station just to play with Petunia behind the building; just laying on the ground while the fluffy opossum crawls on her. She scratches along the marsupial’s back as they nuzzle into her neck.

“Aren’t you supposed to be home relaxing or something?” Beau asks and Dahlia shifts her head back to look at him.

“I am relaxing, what are you doing?”

“Well, everyone asked me to go see what that weirdo deputy was doing, so here I am.”

“Oh no, you hear that Petunia,” she looks at her opossum friend, “people think I’m weird.”

“Yeah, talk to the ‘possum, that’ll really show ‘em.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and he just rolls his eyes, leaving her alone for the moment. Pratt and Hudson invite her out to The Spread Eagle once the sun starts to set, but a steady throbbing ache has built in her head, she skipped pain meds. And the idea of the jukebox booming in her skull makes her turn it down for the night, once she’s back to work she’ll treat them to a meal there, she decides on the quiet ride home.

Dahlia wakes up the next day and decides to finally take that hike, wanting to explore some of the mountains and woods that surround the county. The brunt of the trails seem to be within the Whitetail Mountain area up north, the mountains in the Henbane are mostly around that statue and as much as she likes Joseph more than before; the statue is still creepy.

She tucks her sketchpad, pencils, water, and her pain meds in the storage under her motorcycle seat before she drives up to the mountains; the north section of the county is colder, a chill from the air as she rides up. She stops in at an Old Sun Outfitters, buying a little black backpack to carry her stuff in when she hikes.

The woods around her get thicker and thicker as rides further into the mountains, land growing steeper with every minute, civilization sparser and sparser; buildings harder to find, just peeks of wood or cement through trees. The trees clear on her right as a turn of the road leads her to a large parking lot with little hutch and a sign that says, ‘rest area’. The hutch says Valley View Overlook. It’s built at the top of a plateaued piece of land, not as towering as the mountains in the distance, but higher than the meager hills of the valley or river. She parks her motorcycle and packs the bag before taking in the view.

A small navel high fence, she imagines waist high for others, keep animals or children from just running off the side of the mountain. It’s a beautiful sight; she can see why the lot is named after it. She takes a deep breath of fresh mountain air looking out at the soft blue sky that meets the mountains in the horizon; the deep green forests further down. Air so clean and refreshing, but for some reason she finds herself pulling out a cigarette, to fill her lungs with smoke. Too much good needs a bad, she supposes. She watches the white clouds and birds flying through, as she lets smoke settle heavy in her lungs, only parting from the sight when her cigarette threatens to burn her fingers.

She follows along a little beaten trail through the woods, kicking up rocks and crushing grass underfoot as she lets the trees surround her. Grass rustles around where animals sneak through; deer running through, other hikers crossing her path, and hunters packing bucks back home with dogs sniffing along after them.

It doesn’t take long for her to go off the path, just walking in any direction that catches her interest. Deeper and deeper into the woods, following divots and drop offs, walking along the occasional stream of water that passes through the area.  Her feet and head start to ache as hours pass, the cool air no longer able to chill her body as exertion coats her skin in sweat.

A hunting stand, one of many, is within the woods. Gray metal built around a tree with a ladder leading up. It’s empty, but if a hunter really needs it, she’ll move along. She climbs up curling her legs under her on the stand as she pulls off her back pack and red flannel, the sleeves now sweaty after her walk. Dahlia ties it around her waist, feeling the cool air on her skin as she takes a deep breath.

She takes a deep swig of water and one of the pain killers. There’s a crush of grass and she looks up to see a group of deer a short distance from the stand. A fawn and what may be younger deer, with a buck among them. The buck’s fur grayer in color than the richer warmer brown of the others. Dahlia gets out her sketchpad and pencils, balancing them on her knee as she takes the drawing the creatures. A calm energy and flow falls over her as she draws, the only sound the animals rustling within the woods. She’s better at drawing people than animals, she realizes, when she can’t quite get the right slope of the buck’s muzzle, but she doesn’t stress herself over it. No one will ever see her wonky deer. She looks up; the buck has gotten much closer, shuffling near the stand.

Dahlia puts her sketchbook aside, half finished wonky deer abandoned, as she moves to lay on her belly over the edge of the hunter’s stand. She stretches her hand out, his antlers high enough for her fingers to just brush the velvety texture. But that’s not what she’s after, wanting to pet the stags head. Dahlia shifts to a knee and a foot, she forces the fingers of one hand into the grating to keep a solid grip on the stand. She leverages herself to lean further and further out, stretching a hand out and nearly hanging completely off the stand. Her fingers just centimeters away from touching the stag’s head.

The fuzz of fur brushes across her fingers and the soft brown eyes looking up at her go blank; blood spraying from the side of the buck’s head as it’s body goes limp to the ground. She can’t help but jump back and fall on her ass; gasping at the now dead deer in front of the stand, the rest of them have scattered at the sight.

Maybe she should have expected it, being in hunter territory, but the closeness of it still startles her. There’s a heavy thud of boots, steady consistent footfalls crushing branches and grass beneath them. Ginger hair with shaved down sides and an army jacket; Jacob Seed.

This is likely the only time she’ll ever be taller than him, watching him from the stand as he shifts a bright red rifle from his hands to on his back. It seems so vivid and ostentatious compared to his utilitarian style of dress.  There’s a childish urge to jump on his back and scare him. But, they don’t know each other well and he’s a veteran, so she can’t know how he’d react to the sort of thing. Maybe a boo would be okay, just something small?

“You enjoying the show, honey?”

Dahlia jolts, taken aback by the sudden acknowledgment. She tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear and chews her lip watching as he starts to gather up the slain deer; then he looks up at her, blue eyes sharp and harsh. All the masculine Seeds have blue eyes and intense stares; but Jacob’s gaze is colder than Joseph’s and more steady than John’s. Something almost predatory to it. 

“I was drawing him,” she says after a moment, looking down at the stag. 

“And I was hunting him.” 

“Still would have appreciated another minute or two,” she says as she grabs her bag, throwing the sketchbook back inside before she jumps off the stand. 

“So, you could flail around and try to pet him for another five minutes.” 

“Hey,” she pouts, she was caught hanging from a hunting stand like the child she is, but, “wait, you saw me?”

He gives a vague grumble of agreeance, more preoccupied with tying up the hooves of his latest hunt to make it easier to carry. 

“And you still shot? You could have shot my hand off.” Has this man never taken a gun safety course, she catches a glimpse of the scope on his rifle, there’s no way he didn’t see how close his shot was to her hand. He chuckles, dry and deep, mocking her. 

“Relax, if I wanted to shoot you, you’d be dead by now.” 

“Wow, that’s not comforting.” 

“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, standing up and packing the giant deer over his shoulder, like it’s nothing.  

Dahlia reaches out to touch it, fingers brushing through soft fur, no warmth beneath it. She might as well be petting a rug. Jacob starts to walk off and she doesn’t know why, but she follows him. Hands clasped behind her back and walking heel to toe after him. Maybe it’s just because she’s curious about him. He’s the only one of the Seeds not to take a strange interest in her for whatever reason. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, allowing her to follow along after him. Leaves and grass crush under foot as she follows along behind him, curious as to where he’s going or doing. She’s not sure what she expects, but it’s something to do if nothing else. 

“You got somewhere to be?” 

“Not really, no.” She tries to crane her head around, trying to get a better look at his face to gauge his reaction, but their height difference is too big to truly do so. The man has to be around a foot and a half taller than her; he seems even taller than the sheriff.

“Well, I do, so get out of here.” Her smirk drops, she was hoping to see him get more agitated like the youngest Seed brother, but his voice doesn’t rise. Staying the same steady deep timbre.

“Where are you going?” 

“Nowhere you need to be, sweetheart.”

“The nicknames aren’t really necessary.” She can’t help but say, wrinkling her nose in annoyance, the condescending way he calls her sweetheart and honey make her nauseous.

 “Neither is following me like a lost puppy dog; but here you are.” 

“I’m bored.”

“Not my problem.”

“You killed my only entertainment, so it is now.”

He comes to a sudden stop and Dahlia has to stop herself from running into his back; she doesn’t particularly want deer corpse on her face. He turns to face her; expression still the same stern look he usually carries, and she misses his grin when he was talking to kids at the barbecue.

“Look here, deputy, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and irritating me isn’t a habit you want to form. Get out of here.”

“Oh no,” she rolls her eyes, “I’m really scared.”

“Keep pushing, sweetheart, won’t get you anywhere.”

“God, you’re no fun.”

“Wasn’t trying to be.”

“Jacob is something wrong,” a voice cuts through their conversation, rough and masculine. And Dahlia see the long-haired man and short haired girl from the barbecue; the ones who shot her dirty looks when she talked back to Jacob.

“Nothing you need to concern yourselves with.”

“What are you doing here?” The woman asks Dahlia directly.

“Standing.”

“Fallon,” Jacob says the woman’s name, stern tone making her posture snap straighter, “I said it’s none of your concern. Let’s go.”

The three of them start to leave down a path; Fallon and the long-haired man have heavy bucks they pack as well. A hunting trip for Jacob and his…friends? Are they friends? That didn’t seem like friendship, but Dahlia is far from an expert on the matter. She offers a goodbye wave; but Fallon just rolls her eyes. Their steady footfalls leaving the deputy behind.

Well, it staved off the boredom for a while she supposes.

Dahlia lets out a huffy sigh, blowing loose strands of hair from her face as she begins back down the path she came. The sun is setting by the time she’s back to the parking lot and climbing on top of her bike.

Her stomach is growling by the time she’s driving down a main road, she sees the sign for The Grill Steak as she reaches the intersection. Dahlia pulls in, letting her stomach guide her actions, as she’s one to do.

It’s a small restaurant packed with groups of people from friends to families; she can feel the heat of the grill radiating through, the smell of her making her stomach growl. She settles into a booth by herself, when she reads through it the menu is full of gamey meat burgers and steaks. No signs of beef or pork; it’s all bison and deer. She wonders if the cook hunts everything himself, it wouldn’t surprise her, given what she’s seen of the county. He can hear the cook yelling something she can’t understand from the kitchen. Dahlia settles on ordering a cola and a deer burger; thinking about the hunted stag she saw Jacob kill.  

As she waits on her food, the chatter of a group catches her ear. They’re not from Hope County; the different cadences of how they speak mingled with fancy latin technical terms tells her as much. Trying to be discreet; she glances at them over her shoulder. A group of four; two women and two men all around the same age. Dahlia’s not the brightest bulb in the pack by her own admission, but when she hears the words corvids and lupine, she realizes they’re talking about animals. It doesn’t shock her, given the abundance of wildlife in the county, certainly people would come to research them. 

The door to the restaurant swings open and a man comes walking in, shoulders back and footfalls confident. It reminds her clearly of Jacob, the walk of a soldier, though this man isn’t quite as intimidating a figure. Older than Dahlia, though most people are, with a full dark beard and long scraggly dark hair. He doesn’t bother to take a seat at a booth or look at a menu, only giving a single wave to the cook in the back as he makes a beeline to the group. Dahlia shifts a little further down into her booth, not that anyone could truly tell she’s eavesdropping, but it gives a little more secrecy to it. 

 “You the conservationists?” 

 “Yeah, we’re studying the wildlife here… And you are?” 

“Eli, not here to ‘cause trouble or anything like that, just wanted to give some friendly advice.” 

“Friendly advice?” 

“You need to watch yourselves out in those woods.”

“Pffft.” 

“We’re well aware of how dangerous the wildlife out here can be. You-” 

“No, you aren’t. There’s wolves-”

“And bears and mountain lions, oh my,” one of them jokes, “look, we know what we’re doing.” 

“You’re not listening, they’re not regular wolves. They’ve been trained to kill and hunt people down on sight. Even if you avoid ‘em, you get on the cult’s bad side and they’ll send ‘em after you. You gotta be careful out here.” 

“Okay, sure,” the eyeroll is nearly audible, “we’ll keep an eye out for killer cult wolves, don’t worry.” 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, alright.” 

The man, Eli walks away, and Dahlia considers stopping him. Admitting her nosiness and ask him some of the million questions going through her mind. Surely by cult, he means Eden’s Gate, right? Dahlia can’t imagine who else he could mean. They’re small and close knit, but they’re not a cult, right? Cults imply something more out there or intense; they’re just a little Christian church. Joseph may have his own book, but they still follow Christian ideas of sins and scripture.

And wolves? How could they possibly be training wolves? It’s all so ridiculous and asinine, making gears spin and churn in her head until they overheat, but it was said with such conviction. By the time she brings herself to make a noise, Eli has already left, and it’s probably for the best. It’s too crazy to be true. Maybe he’s a tinfoil hat wearing type of guy, a conspiracy theorist like the Zip guy who leaves a newsletter in every damn corner of the county, screaming about chemtrails and baby farms.

She fills her stomach, deciding to leave that as it is, finally returning to her trailer late that night. A restless night of sleep with images of wolves and deer creeping around through her brain, nothing concrete enough to latch onto, but enough to unsettle.

A boring morning leads into a boring afternoon, time blurring before the sun has set and Dahlia’s finding herself pulling up to The Spread Eagle to catch her coworkers after their shift. She’s popped enough pain killers that the throb of music and noise is welcomed instead of irritating. A smile already gracing her lips when she catches Pratt and Hudson shooting the shit in the bar’s lowlight. As she sneaks up closer to them, their conversation starts to be audible over the tunes playing through the bar.

“I bet you break before then,” Hudson says, a teasing grin directed at Pratt.

“Hey, it’s only six months.”

“Please, you’re weak and you know it.”

“How much you wanna bet?”

Dahlia strikes, throwing her arms over Pratt’s shoulders, effectively hugging him from behind and leaning her weight into him. He’s warm and Dahlia can’t fight the impulse to squeeze him a little tighter. She breathes in the faint smell of coffee and cologne that still cling to him; comforting after so much time spent around him.

“Jesus fuck, when’d you get here?” Pratt blusters and at this close of a range Dahlia can see his cheeks pinkening under the scruff of his beard. Does this bother him?

“Right now.”

“You decided to come hang out again?” Hudson asks, grinning at the flustered Pratt.

“Mmhmm,” Dahlia hums into Pratt’s shoulder, pressing her face into him, “bored.”

“Get off me,” he grumbles and reaches back to swat at her hip.

“Ugh, buzzkill,” she bitches as she detaches from Pratt and climbs onto a bar stool, “so what the hell are you guys making bets about?”

Pratt coughs, trying to dislodge something from his throat, and Hudson laughs, “yeah, Pratt why don’t you tell her about our bet?”

“Don’t worry about it, Rook.”

“We still need to set an amount.”

“Fifty,” Pratt suggests and Dahlia wants to know even more what the hell they’re making bets about.

“Mmm, hundred.”

“Fine, if you’re comfortable losing that much.”

“Anyone gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“Nope.”

“Well, that’s gonna drive me crazy now, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She sticks her tongue out at him and orders food, stuffing her face as she listens to her coworkers fill her in on anything of interest she’s missed during her off time. It’s not much, as usual, the workload in Hope County is pretty low stakes. Hunting violations, speeding tickets, and the like. Seems like her assault is about the most interesting case in a while. Dahlia’s tempted to ask if they know anything about wolf attacks but bites her tongue before she does. Hope County is filled with wildlife, wolf attacks have no doubt occurred to some degree and if she mentions the idea of trained cult wolves, they might start to think she’s buying into the conspiracy shit.

“Stop,” Pratt says suddenly, putting hand on Dahlia’s knee, “you’re shaking the whole damn bar.”

Her leg she realizes has been bouncing the whole time, the hike helped, workouts help, but she’s still breaming with pent up energy. There’s a rustle of movement and Dahlia is drawn to the open floor near the jukebox, she’s seen a few people dance here and there, a couple now and again swaying to softer tunes while she’s been here. But, it’s more crowded tonight, people laughing and dancing together.

“People are dancing,” she states the obvious.

“It’s ladies’ night, women drink free, so everyone’s extra, uh, energetic tonight,” Hudson tells her.

An upbeat song starts and Dahlia’s up in the next breath, she needs to move, burn off excess energy. And while her favorite club in Lake Charles isn’t exactly available to her anymore, she’ll jump at the chance to lose herself in a song.

You should be wilder, you're no fun at all.

Dahlia’s singing along as she sways and shifts through the crowd, body moving instinctually to the beat. There’s a woman about Dahlia’s age, long blonde hair and brown eyes, dancing as well and the deputy finds herself gravitating towards her.

Yeah, thanks for the input.

Thanks for the call.

She asks low into the woman’s ear, so she can be heard over the music, if she can dance with her. The response is a smile, lighting up the girl’s face, a nod of her head and then she’s pulling Dahlia in by the hips.

With dull knives and white hands

The blood of a stone

Cold to the touch, right

Right down to the bone

And then she loses herself in it. In the music that fills the bar, the feeling of a stranger touching her, the slide of her feet as she moves,  the way hips knock together, the scratch in her throat as she sings lyrics in the woman’s ear, their grins as they laugh and bump noses together. It’s fun and it’s silly, a reason to move and forget life for a moment.

Cause you give me the electric twist and it kicks and it kicks like a pony.

And true, you might run away with it, it's a risk it's a risk yeah.

Because it kicks yeah.

It really kicks yeah.

Dahlia spins the woman with a laugh, before pulling the woman close against her again, wide smiles and bright eyes as their foreheads touch. There’s sweat sticking to their skin as the song winds down. Panted breaths ghosting over each other’s faces as they come down from exertion.

And the touch of your lips it's a shock not a kiss

It's electric twist, it's electric twist

“How much I gotta pay to see you kiss?!” A loud voice booms out, making Dahlia and her dance partner of the night separate. There’s a man, couldn’t be older than his mid twenties, sitting at the bar with his legs sprawled open drinking a beer at the table between the bar and the dance area. His eyes linger and look over both women’s bodies

“Can I help you?” Dahlia asks and furrows her brows, glowering at the man as she draws closer.

“Oh just enjoying the show, sweetheart.”

“Not your sweetheart and I’m not a damn show.”

“Pfff, don’t get your panties in a twist,” he turns back to his table and rolls his eyes, as if Dahlia’s the problem, “fucking dykes.”

The junior deputy grits her teeth and she sees from her peripheral the woman rubbing the back of her neck, letting her bangs fall into her face looking like she’d rather disappear.

“The fuck did you call us?” She can’t stop herself from speaking, barely managing to reign her anger in enough not do something worse.

“You heard me.”

“Fuck you!”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Pratt’s voice cuts through as the man starts to turn to retort, the warmth of her coworker’s hand wraps around the clenched fist she didn’t realize she had raised.

“Is something wrong?” Mary May calls out, starting to walk out from behind the bar.

“Everything’s fine,” Pratt responds before Dahlia can say anything and when she starts to speak, he looks at her to whisper, “you’re barely three weeks into your job, you really wanna be getting into bar fights?”

“He ca-”

“I heard what he said, Rook, but it ain’t worth your job.”

“You’re right,” she gnaws on her lip and looks down on the ground, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I get it, I just don’t want you doing anything stupid.”

“I need some fresh air.”

Dahlia leaves The Spread Eagle, noticing the woman she danced with has already vanished, unwilling to deal with the bullshit. A cool breezes ghosts over her sweaty skin as she sits down on the porch steps at the front of the bar; running her hands through her hair as she fights to ease her nerves. She digs a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket

There’s a crush of footsteps as she lights one, bringing it to her lips, shiny black leather boots entering her vision.

“Dep-yoo-tee.”

“You Seeds can just smell when I’m sad, can’t you?” She teases looking up to see John, the neon bar sign setting his face aglow in the night as he chuckles at her.

“Not my intention, but if you’re in need of a talk, I’d be happy to oblige.”

“You weren’t coming out here to harass Mary May again, were you?”

“Deputy,” he puts his hand to his chest cartoonishly dramatic in his hurt, “h-harassment? That’s ridiculous. am I not allowed to visit with Ms. Fairgrave and just discuss our difference of opinions.”

His voice is ramping up in pitch as he defends himself and Dahlia can’t help but smile, appreciating the distraction from her own troubles.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure Mary May would have a different of opinion about that one. We still gotta talk about members stealing booze.”

“Our members would do no such thing; and I assure you, if there’s any harassment here, we’re the victims. We’ve been insulted, had our sermons interrupted, our practices mocked, Mary May herself once showed up our church simply to cause trouble.”

“Okay, okay, it’s a two-way street, I get it. Sit, we can chat for a bit,” she pats the section of porch step beside her and reluctantly after a beat of silence, he sits down, “so, Mary May caused trouble for you guys?”

“Yes, yes, she has and she’s not the only one; the people of this county have persecuted me and my family since we’ve been here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, no one should mistreat you that way,” she looks him in the eye as she speaks, “and if it ever happens again, I want you to call down to the station, ask for me, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Well, it’s certainly nice to know you’re on our side.”

“Ah, ah, I’m on everyone’s side. Mary May is owed the same respect as you and your family; and if you cause issues for her, I won’t hesitate to intervene for her sake as well. I’m here to keep everyone safe. Got to treat everyone like you wanna be treated, the whole spiel.”

“I know you’re not preaching biblical principles to me, dep-yoo-tee.”

“Not biblical, just a little maturity.”

“Are you implying I’m immature.“

“You’re a grown man spatting with a woman ten or more years younger than you; throwing a tantrum and pointing fingers when you’re told to behave.”

“First of all, I’m not that old,” Dahlia raises an eyebrow at him, “don’t look at me like that, I’m 32. Secondly, I am not a child. Mary May has-“

“And if she does something again, now that I’m here, let me know and I will help. But her actions don’t justify yours.”

“Fine, I’ll be sure to hold you to that promise, then.”

“I mean it’s less a promise and more so doing my job, but alright.”

She breathes out a plume of smoke, making sure to aim away from John’s face, his blue eyes track the movement and the nicotine fumes that escape into the air. An ex-smoker, she deems as she watches him staring at her lips and the cigarette between her fingers.

“You want a smoke?” She asks, offering her pack of cigarettes.

“Smoking is forbidden in Eden’s Gate.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Tattooed fingers pick out a cigarette and she lights it for him with a grin, watching him take a deep inhale and blowing out the smoke that fills his lungs. The soft rise of his chest and the gray clouds that billow out from parted lips. She notices for the first time the freckles on his neck and chest, shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose them. There’s thin fresh scratches along his hands and forearms, too superficial and fresh to match the deeper worn in scars, they look like cat scratches. And yeah, he seems like a cat guy.

“So, now that you’ve berated and tempted me, deputy,” he speaks after an exhale of smoke, “why were you out here pouting?”

“BREH!” She plops her back down on the porch with a vague animal long groan and throws her arms over her eyes, cigarette still between two fingers, must he remind of her own issues.

“Well that certainly wasn’t immature or dramatic.”

And she laughs, because he’s right, she can preach maturity all she wants to him. But, she’s still a brat herself. She’d justify herself with their massive age difference, because no way he’s thirty-two, but that feels flimsy at best. They’re both just two temper tantrum throwing children, hell they’re even both fibbing about their ages. Though, she suspects his own much more severe than the few months she adds to her own.

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

“You know,” he lays back on the porch, matching her position, “I take the confessions for our church, if there’s anything you need to get off your chest, I’m the man to talk to.”

“Not much to say; guy called me a slur, I nearly throttled him.”

“Someone else’s actions don’t justify your own,” he parrots her words back to her.

“Yeah, someday I’ll follow my own advice.”

“Has that happened before?”

The gears in her brain churn, she’s been called many a thing, but her sexuality has been one of the less insulted facets of who she is.

Her stepfather, as religious as he was, was adamant on his hatred of gay people. But her own disinterest in exploring her sexuality or romance saved her from his scorn in that area, his focus more on the other various things he found deplorable about her.

Her mother’s side is Ashkenazi Jewish, and Dahlia remembers the few people of her stepfather’s church who despite her mother converting were disgusted their preacher would marry a Jewish woman. A handful leaving the church, a few sticking by just to call Dahlia and her mother slurs when their backs were turned.

The nightclub she favored in Louisiana was considered a gay bar, though not exclusive to LGBT folks. Women dancing with women, men dancing with men, men and women dancing; and a healthy amount of people who didn’t quite fit either label. Only one-night sticks out, a car speeding past the line outside the bar just to scream a slur out the window.  

Maybe what bothered her most was the boldness. This wasn’t someone whispering when they thought Dahlia couldn’t hear, and this wasn’t a man just screaming out at the public as he speeds away. Just a man emboldened and willing to hurt her in front of a bar filled with people.

“We’re blocking the door.”Everything else died on her lips; unable to spill her guts.

“And we weren’t while you were lecturing me?”

Her phone buzzes in her jacket as she brings her cigarette back into her mouth, unwilling to justify her evasiveness to a man she barely knows, she answers a number she doesn’t know at all.

“Hello?” She says around her smoke.

“H-hello, is this a deputy?” A soft broken voice, she remembers from the diner,  asks her and Dahlia sits up, tension pricking at the back of her neck.

“That’s me, Cassie?”

“You remember me…”

“What’s going on, are you okay?”

“Yeah, uh, I…” a beat of silence and a choked sob comes next, “no, I’m sorry, I’m, I’m not okay, I-“

“Where are you?” Dahlia’s on her feet, heartbeat in her throat as she waves off John’s furrowed brows and concern, running to her bike.

“I’m at the diner. I didn’t know where else to go…”

“I’m headed your way now, Cassie, are you safe?”

“I…I don’t know…I…”

Her voice breaks out into sobs again as Dahlia starts her engine, slams on her helmet, and switches her phone to the speaker in her helmet. The girl’s cries echoing around her as her wheels kick gravel across the parking lot, speeding out of Falls End.

[coraxaviary]

Sister-in-Arms | CHAPTER 3: Mess

(Part I, Run the Gauntlet)

Summary: June is thrown into the fray, and meets some of the company.

Word Count: 5.1K

AO3 | Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Author’s Note: This chapter is unbeta-ed! I apologize for any gross mistakes.

Warnings: Minor canon-typical profanity and slurs.

Taglist: @keoghans​​ @papercinders​​ @junojelli​​ (ask to be added)

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“So, why?” came a voice behind June. It was Lipton.

“Why did I join the Army, sir?” June stalled, not wanting to have to explain yet again the full-context history of her personal past.

“Yeah, why? A woman like you – you could marry, settle down, have kids,” he said, boots crunching in the coarse dirt. “Isn’t that nicer than slogging around with a bunch of men?”

June had wondered that at some point, too. Why did she have to be different, so ambitious? Why couldn’t she just have met a nice guy and lived somewhere on the California coast: no job to worry about, maybe just two or three children and a kitchen to cook in. She’d have tea with friends or something, have a content life with a husband, and live quietly. No newspaper articles nationally decrying her and her class as products of the radicalized communist youth. No men calling her names. And certainly no physical pain and pushing her body to the limit.

She was no stranger to inordinate challenges.

Only her and a few others in the class had been less connected to politics, but they’d been top of their classes anyway and somehow worked their way up to get Senatorial nominations after being mutually made aware of the girl’s class that year. She’d seen the article in the San Francisco Sun and applied the following month. June had been working as a secretary assistant at the local district office. It took hounding and convincing. Some other girls from less progressive areas had to pull teeth and do favors to get that nomination. She wasn’t exactly sour about it, though. Anyone who had the grit to withstand the West Point treatment had to have the commitment to get in.

She couldn’t help it. June was just how she was. She had tried to reason with herself the year she went to West Point. Why did she have to make her mother so upset? She was selfish, putting her own astronomical ambitions above her own family’s stability. Financially, they had barely been able to afford West Point for the first year. Thankfully, the Depression didn’t hit them particularly hard, but the real strain had been the conflict between June and her mother.

June tried to organize her thoughts. She’d always been like this, she realized, always reaching for some impossible point far in the distance and getting as close as possible – pulling herself along the broken road of life by her own bootstraps. She got some satisfaction out of doing things. But it had to be alone. She’d broken her high school’s 10,000-meter track record on her own. She’d gotten into West Point on her own merit and by her own networking. West Point itself had sabotaged her efforts by forcing her class to graduate a year early, but June had done as much as she could by herself. It was exhausting sometimes, June knew. The loneliness was almost crushing at times.

But once she wanted to do something, she had to do it. Failure was not an option, or else she’d implode on herself. Failure was not the way June did things. She would not fail now. But she’d give Lipton the simple answer.

“I wanted to be with the best,” she said. “I want to fight for our country.” She left it at that. Is that so offensive? That a woman feels patriotism too? she wanted to say, but that would have been bordering on disrespectful to her new fellow trainee.

Lipton fell silent and the mess hall grew in the distance as they neared the building. The din of men talking loudly overtook the crunching sand. “I suppose not. Why not a nurse?” he persisted.

“If you saw men killing themselves because they were denied health clearance to enlist, wouldn’t you feel at least a little motivated to try and fight if you were able?”

He mulled this over. “I suppose,” he said, not sounding very convinced. June sighed, and the three of them stopped in front of the door, where light spilled out from inside the building and some vague smell of cooking wafted out.

Lipton got in line, then Coates, and then June dropped to the back of the group, already feeling like a burden. With Coates starting to seem very concerned over the reactions June elicited from the other men, June felt like she was being babysat by him. He was constantly looking out in other directions. June would have liked to think he was naturally cautious, but she also had a suspicion that Sink assigned Coates to tour her around base because Sink knew Coates would watch her back.

June took in the crowded mess hall. It was almost overstuffed: absolutely exploding with raucous conversation and occasional bursts of laughter. Men moved between tables and benches, which were sandwiched so close to each other that the walking aisles between tables were about the width of one man. It was a sea of soldier trainees from wall to wall.

A few men roughly pushed by to get out the door or to put their trays to the side when they were done. June reflexively ducked her head down in hopes that no one would specifically notice her. No one did, for the time, and men flowed by June as if she was a rock in a river.

June held onto some futile hope that no one would notice her right away. Things were looking up for the few seconds it took for the chow line to move down, but June didn’t relax. Coates handed her a tray, and she moved down, getting a single serving of whatever they had made that day. June didn’t really pay attention: she’d seen the sign and the information went out the other ear. She was too hyper-focused on her surroundings, looking out into the crowd for potentially hostile faces.

Coates turned around to check on her, and June met his look with a stressed, darting look. Lipton had disappeared, probably to eat with his friends, and June wondered if Coates would leave her too and find his men – HQ Company, she remembered.

He cast a glance around the room, eyes snagging on a certain cluster of tables near the right side. He’d found whoever he was looking for, and June felt a nervous ice-cold feeling wash down her spine. He was leaving now. This was where she forged her independence. In the midst of the ocean of men – taller, menacing, threatening, and hostile – she would have to find a seat and do it on her own.

“You a broad?” came an unfamiliar voice, and the frozen feeling of panic came over June with renewed intensity. Her head swiveled up, back and forth rapidly, trying to find the owner of the voice. “Or just a John wearing lipstick?” June turned around and was met with the close stare of a recruit, leaning in.

A smile grew on his face slowly as his eyes took in June’s unamused poker face.

“I’ll be damned,” someone else said close by, and June felt a nudge on her arm from someone else. She jerked away, and leaned in the opposite direction from them, shoulder touching Coates’s back, who was already turned around. June looked pleadingly at Coates, and he looked to identify who was harassing her.

“What are you doing here?” said the same voice again, and June shrunk back, clutching her tray but unable to leave the scene. She had to eat, find a seat somewhere, but more and more recruits were being alerted to her presence.

June had stayed silent, but it was getting increasingly harder. Like before, the attention spread quickly, and soon she felt the mess hall become quieter and quieter until after another minute, the noise level had been halved. June glanced above the shoulders of the nearest men, and found eyes directed towards the small gathering in front of the mess hall.

Her heart was in her throat, and the press of more and more attention was starting to make her sweat. She bit her lip, being stared down by multiple men. She only had two options: run or eat. She intended to eat, because it seemed that this was the way she’d have to elicit eventual acceptance.

“Shiiiiiiit, out of those ODs you’d be a knockout,” said yet another unfamiliar voice. June cringed. “We could find out–” he was cut off by another voice.

“What’s going on here?” said a new soldier, pushing through the crowd. Apparently he had some authority, because the men yielded slightly more easily when he elbowed men to the side. He was tall, dark-haired. Heavy five-o-clock shadow. June eyed his patches. An officer. She straightened, and so did the men next to her, including Coates.

He directed a long, perplexed look at June. He looked quizzically at a soldier next to him, who shrugged in turn.

“Who are you?” he asked, looking down at June.

She internally sighed. The men were going to have a kick out of this. She couldn’t salute, so she just stood and firmly spoke.

“Diedtrich, June. Private, sir.”

Near-silence had come over the mess hall, save for constant shifting, the sounds of the kitchen – which had also dulled – and the occasional scrape of silverware or glass.

A slightly condescending smile came onto his face as he nodded, looking as if he found the situation entertaining. He looked as if he was going to try to hold back a laugh. June looked at him seriously, never breaking eye contact – her most valuable West Point skill. June felt the eyes of the entire hall on the pair of them, wondering what she was going to do next. It felt as if the room was waiting for something to happen. Clearly this was a man who many of the men knew. They held the staring contest for a couple more seconds, and his mocking expression fell away slightly as he seemed to realize something.

“Damn, Private,” he said, breaking the silence, comprehending some mysterious fact. “Easy Company?”

“Yes, sir,” said June.

The man ran a hand through his hair, exhaling powerfully.

“Well, uh…” he said, clearly at a loss for words. The weird, slightly disoriented half-smile came back. “Welcome to Easy, Diedtrich.” He started to turn away, going back to whatever table he was at, then turned around as if he’d forgotten something.

“I’m uh, Lieutenant Nixon. Lewis Nixon,” he added, looking down at June’s hands holding her tray, evidently not free for a handshake. “See you later,” he said, turning and disappearing for the last time.

“Sir,” June muttered, a beat too late when the crowd had already coalesced where Nixon had been standing a moment before.

The quietness of the room was unnerving. June looked about, taking in the various forms of confusion displayed on the faces around her. There was a great deal of muttering, and the atmosphere of the room took on a slightly louder tone, gaining decibels as June stood awkwardly in the center of the crowd.

June looked down at her food, which was quickly cooling. She didn’t necessarily mind, because it was almost stifling in the mess hall filled with bodies, the kitchen radiating heat, and trapped sun-warmed air. She looked at Coates, who was looking at her. She raised an eyebrow, wondering if he had any comment to offer. He shook his head tiredly.

The exchange drew a few hoots – Coates, you know her? – and June cursed herself for dragging this innocent man along in the wake of her troublemaking presence. Coates nodded to a nearby table where one half was free, and June squeezed through the press of bodies, careful not to get food on anyone, which at this point was a major achievement; with her luck, she’d have already spilled something or dropped the tray. He sat down across from her, and June set her head in her hands, waiting for the attention to fade away.

June did remember one thing, though, as the men whirled around her like a hurricane. She quickly located her napkin and dipped it into her water glass, and scrubbed off her lipstick without checking her appearance in any reflections. Her hands itched for a mirror to hold whenever she touched her face, but she stowed the ingrained desire somewhere out of mind, and got to eating the food, trying to distract herself from the continuous looks being directed her way.

Coates watched her carefully, and picked up his fork. June tried to ignore the feeling of guilt she now felt when she looked at Coates. She pushed the food around on her plate after eating about half, feeling too nervous to try and consume the rest; she hadn’t eaten since that morning, but the nerves of the situation were making her stomach contract. She hoped she didn’t throw up later. She needed the protein.

June remembered the sign telling her to finish everything on the plate, and she tried to swallow a few more bites. After eating calmly for a few minutes, the attention had dispersed except for the stares. She wouldn’t be able to do anything unnoticed, so she waited for Coates to finish his food before following him like a lost child.

On the way to the exit, a passing soldier hit the bottom of her tray upwards with a glancing blow. Luckily, her dishes stayed on the tray, but her fork and knife flew off. June stood without turning around silently, while another quiet lull blanketed the room. An annoying tingle of heat started in her cheeks, and her heart pounded harder than when she’d finished a sprint, picking up speed when it had just calmed down to a sub-normal pace. Her ears heated. She breathed hard for a couple of exhales and bit the side of her mouth.

He’s just tryna get a rise, she told herself. Coates waited nonchalantly by the doorway, watching her to see what she did. June was glad. Him helping her would turn into something worse, and she’d possibly be seen as someone even weaker.

“There you go, babe!” someone yelled from far behind her. Scattered laughter drifted up from the hall.

She bent down and took her time collecting the silverware, trying to conceal the shake in her hands. She turned around, dumped the contents of her tray in the washbin, and without another backward glance, walked out with the eyes of the entire mess hall on her back, again.

“Yeah, go get her, Coates!” someone said from inside. Within a few seconds, he was again by her side.

June grew more furious and upset by the second, walking wherever her feet were taking her – far away from the mess hall, out beyond the paths and between the barracks, passing billet after billet, picking up speed. The evening air cooled her face, and she went faster and faster. She heard feet crunching on the dirt behind her, and she walked even more rapidly, hoping to lose him.

“Private!” called Coates, and June immediately slowed for the NCO. She wiped roughly at her eyes, dragging her fingers under them, stretching out her skin and massaging circles into her temple, hard.

“Yes, sir?” she said, turning around. They were caught between two billets, and she hoped both were empty.

Coates looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he decided against it, rubbing the back of his neck and kicking at the dirt with one boot.

June wondered what he thought of her at this point. Some weak, delusional woman trying to fulfill some fantasy of a man’s world? Maybe. That’s what it seemed most of the men thought. She didn’t fault them. That was almost exactly what she was doing.

“I think this is where we part, Private,” said Coates after a long pause. June knew this was coming, so she took it with a nod. “I’ve served my purpose for the day,” he continued. “I work at Battalion HQ, so you know where to find me.”

“Yes, sir,” June said, overwhelmed by guilt yet again. She needed to say something, apologize maybe, but Coates talked on.

“Make sure you get back to the billet at twenty-two hundred,” he said. “You have free time until then, and then lights out. I don’t think you need guidance on the rest of the schedule. I hear your CO is… particularly demanding.”

June nodded, not wanting to say goodbye even though she was probably being too melodramatic about it. He was, after all, never going to be more than a number of yards away at the Battalion HQ. But to June, it was as good as miles. She’d probably never have a reason to enter HQ soon, unless Sink saw fit to talk to her or release her from base.

“You have an uphill fight, Diedtrich,” he said, leaning back against the billet and looking southwards, towards the rising mountain that arched above the camp, brushing the fault of the skies..

“Thank you,” June said suddenly. Coates looked at her, eyes widening. “Thank you, Sergeant, for sacrificing your day. Without you I would have been alone.”

He nodded, surprised. “It wasn’t any problem, Diedtrich. I got a free day out of it, as far as I’m concerned. Away from Sink and all the top brass, anyway,” he said, cracking a smile. “Brighten up, Diedtrich. You have Sink on your side, even if he doesn’t look it. If he saw something in you, there’s hope yet.”

June pondered the words. “Thanks, sir.”

“Go light on the smoking,” he said in response, easing off the wall and starting to turn back onto the path that would lead to the HQ billet. “Good luck, Private Diedtrich.”

“Goodbye, sir,” June said, wishing she could say more. Her gratitude vastly outstripped the brief words she’d gotten out. But it seemed that the final goodbye was sufficient, so she watched Coates’s retreating back until he disappeared around a corner. Her first ally was gone, and June tried to settle into the familiar loneliness that was her default these days. It fit, much to her relief, like an old, worn jacket.

She checked her watch. It was half-past seven. She looked out onto the empty, darkening field. The track around it was inviting. Her final conversation with Coates had made her rage almost completely dissipate, but she needed the outlet, even more than a smoke.

She set off for the track, intending to go around for an hour or two. When she stopped, though, she’d been going at it for two, walking and running away her thoughts until it was her and the pounding pavement and her blistering feet.

♤

June reported back to her billet thirty minutes before 2200. Light streamed through the crack in the door, and she stopped outside, listening to the voices. It would have been nice, if only her disturbance wasn’t going to destroy whatever peaceful comraderie had been developing before she arrived. Again, June was a burdensome intrusion on the lives of soldiers just trying to learn to fight. She had calmed down after the blissful emptiness of the run, and she opened the top few buttons of her ODs, flapping the chest a little to encourage ventilation. She waited for longer than necessary, then nudged the door open a few inches, watching the small view the door permitted.

Some of the men were having a rather loud conversation about something.

“No, I swear that’s her stuff,” someone protested loudly near the door. “Who else would be joining this billet?”

“Nix says she’s in Easy,” another voice added. “Of course she’s in here.”

“Hey, that’s Lieutenant Nixon to you, Perco.”

“Come on, it could be someone else. Volunteers are coming in each day,” said someone else. “We can’t assume–”

“Let’s ask Lip,” someone said. June stiffened, suddenly alert. “What were you doing in here before she came out–”

June opened the door before Lipton could respond, and looked at the men who had apparently been gossiping about her. The billet fell silent, and thirteen pairs of eyes snapped to June. She’d schooled her face into the customary one, again. When she’d be able to relax around these men who were supposed to have her back, she didn’t know; she didn’t know if it would ever occur. She pushed the discouraging thought of her mind and kept it carefully empty, gathering information quickly; she also quelled her reaction to the smell of the barracks. It should have been expected, but the wood, smoke, and sweat hit June all the same with unpleasant surprise.

Lipton was sitting on a bed to the immediate right of June, in the first row nearest to the doorway, looking rather tired of June already. Some faces she almost recognized from the incident outside the billet that afternoon, but she didn’t know their names. And then there was Guarnere, fifth row down to the left, almost exactly across from June’s empty bed, with an unlit cigarette between his fingers, and a deadly expression daring June to look a little longer.

Almost every bed was filled except for two or three near the center of the billet, and there was a man on or near each taken bed. June’s cheeks heated again under the scrutiny – something she couldn’t help – and she made a beeline towards the bed where she’d laid her things down previously. There was no more privacy, not even a semblance of one. June looked down her nose at the man sitting on the bed nearest to hers, vaguely aware that there was a fine line between making an impression that was unyielding and one that was bitchy.

She figured the men were going to call her one anyway, so she erred on the side of strictness. She said nothing, just lowered her eyelids into a mockery of passive calmness and silently took in one face at a time, praying that they didn’t hear her blood pounding deafeningly, and the miniscule tremor in her muscles as she locked them into place.

She figured she didn’t have to introduce herself. Everyone already knew who she was. As she got halfway to her bed, Lipton cleared his throat pointedly. June turned around.

“You want to uh…” he waved a hand, “introduce yourself, Private?” Lipton asked haltingly.

June cast another gaze over the rest of the billet. She saw no other alternative.

“Uh, hello,” she started, pausing and mentally cursing herself – way to make an awkward introduction even more awkward. “I’m June Diedtrich,” she said without tone.

No one said anything in response. Her statement seemed to echo in the empty air, caught in the energy of unsaid thoughts. June watched a few men exchange glances with each other. With considerable effort, she unglued herself from her stationary position and resumed her walk to her bed: fourth on the right.

When she got there, she sat down on the side next to the empty bed, feeling as if she’d exerted herself more in the five-second journey than her exercise in the past few hours. She felt simultaneously light-headed and heavier burdened, and she sat silently without making eye contact with anyone. Gradually, the men started talking again, but nowhere near as loud as before June had entered.

She waited and waited for the right time, and convinced herself she had to do it. After a few more minutes, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer, and further stalling would only be willful hesitance on her part. Just get it over with, she thought, and she started on the first few buttons, opening her ODs to the PT gear underneath. She tried to muffle the button snaps as best she could, but there was no avoiding the looks.

June fixed a murderous glare somewhere in the distance between two other bunks opposite the room – refusing to look at anyone – and undid the belt, slipping off the OD jacket quickly and setting it on the bed next to her. The conversation in the room had died down again, and she was once again the center of attention. She huffed quietly, and began undoing the buttons on the pants.

Some subtle shifts in her periphery told June that some men were trying to turn away slightly or direct their eyes elsewhere. She knew most of them still wanted to look, maybe if only for the novelty of a woman doing the same routine that they had been going through for about a month or two. She got the pants over her hips and thighs by standing slightly, and sitting back down for the rest, shucking the whole article off after pulling the bottoms out from her boots. She threw the pants down on her bed with probably more force than necessary, feeling the satisfying crinkle of fabric when it hit the jacket.

June stood up to readjust her shorts, fiddling with the tie. She looked up, feeling like she had to at some point. About half the men were openly staring and about half were acting like they weren’t when she knew they had been. She hadn’t even had to strip down to her undergarments and she felt debilitatingly embarrassed.

She packed up the ODs and laid them in her trunk, the amount of air hitting her legs feeling unnaturally inappropriate. She’d never been this unclothed in front of anyone before, other than at the beach or when she’d had to get clothing tailored, very rarely. She had no time to prepare for the unsettling exposure. She’d been thrown into it, and today was a day of firsts.

No one made any comment or whistled, to June’s minor relief. She figured that in a smaller setting, men were less inclined to single themselves out. It was the nameless mob she had to worry about, or at least she hoped.

There was another thing June had to do before bed. She unhooked her rifle from its hook above the bed, and heard more than a few hushed mutters. At least she was confident in this procedure: at West Point, the girls had learned how to disassemble, clean, and reassemble their weapons: essential Academy stuff. They had practiced with something similar to the M-1 Garand, which was what June weighed in her hands.

Someone beside her made a sound, and June turned to find the nearest man looking reasonably nervous at June’s handling of the gun. She scoffed, looking briefly at him, and then turned back to her rifle, sliding the bolt open and checking the chamber before she flipped it over on her bed and set to taking the trigger assembly out. She subsequently laid out all the parts as she deconstructed the gun, little by little. She was a little rusty, but back at the Academy, she’d mastered the skill, and the fine movements were coming back to her. She got up to retrieve some tools and a towel from her trunk, and cleaned the parts before slotting them back together.

There was nothing June could do about the mood of disbelief emanating from most of the nearby men, but she finally snapped the trigger guard back into place and played with the safety a few times to finish. She wiped her hands off and gave the bolt a few satisfied pumps. June knew a clean gun was Army standard, and that they were expected to regularly clean them. She knew no one expected her to already know. She was quietly smug, basking in the brilliance of proving the others wrong. It was a special type of fulfillment.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” came a voice from June’s left. It was the man next to her, sitting cross-legged on his bed, looking at her gun intently.

June gave something that was almost a smile, but then buried it under indifference, remembering her need for respect. Friendliness was not an option.

“West Point,” she said, turning to hang the rifle up again. There was a long silence – something that was growing very frequent in the billet.

“Bullshit,” came a voice from the other side – the second-to-last row on the left. “West Point doesn’t accept girls.”

June shrugged, trying desperately to sell an image of nonchalance. “Guess they decided to.”

“You been living in a hole, Skip?” said her bed neighbor. “It was all over the news. They have girls now,” he said.

Skip scrunched his eyebrows together, taken aback. “The hell. Why?” he said.

Most of the men shrugged. Lipton looked at June without saying anything.

“Where ya from?” asked a new voice from beyond Skip. Why anyone was interested in knowing was beyond June, but she answered.

“San Francisco.”

A few heads turned to a bed near the back. The man on it looked around, annoyed. “What?” he said.

“Lieb, aren’t you from San Francisco?”

“Kinda,” he said, mildly irritated, as if sharing a city of origin would somehow contaminate him with the association of June. “Family moved down to Oakland later.”

There were a few nods. June knew all the men were showing restraint. Normally they’d probably be talking freely.

“I’m Skinny, by the way,” said the man nearest to June. He didn’t offer a handshake, but there was something close to a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. It was there for sympathy. “You already know Lip, I guess, but…” He slapped the shoulder of the guy between him and Lipton. “Introduce yourself. She’s gonna have to know for drills, unless you wanna run an extra mile for her mistakes.”

June did not want to be reminded of the impending marches and group drills, and especially group punishment.

The man rolled his eyes. “I’m Alex Penkala.”

“Carwood Lipton,” said Lipton.

“Martin,” said the man with the thousand-yard stare across from Lipton. And the sequence ran down the left row.

“Grant.”

“Perconte.”

“White.”

Everyone looked at Guarnere. “Come on, Bill,” said Lipton when Guarnere didn’t say anything.

“We’ve met,” he growled.

“Roe,” said the dark-haired man next from Guarnere after an awkwardly long pause.

“Skip,” said the next.

“Malarkey,” said the man who asked her where she was from.

The last man on the right column started after Malarkey. “Tipper.”

“Liebgott.”

“Hanson.”

June looked around, trying hastily to remember all the names. There were too many, and she blinked. She was never great with names. Maybe the quirk of their nicknames would help somewhat.

She sighed. This was already hard, and they hadn’t even gotten physical yet.

“We have a few more minutes, and then lights out,” said Lipton over the billet. “I don’t know about you, but I feel a night march in my bones,” he warned, and the men groaned. Some of them threw malicious glances at June, as if it was her fault.

As June would find out, it was nearly impossible for anything to not be her fault. Their CO was demanding, as Coates had heard. In fact, Sobel was much more than demanding. He was, in June’s eyes, the devil incarnate.

.

[thecrimsonvalley]

RDR Secret Cupid - “Love isn’t real”

Happy valentine’s @jelloandclawsart! Here’s my fic for the @rdrsecretcupid2020 I was so delighted writing this fic because there is nothing that brings me more happiness than these two dorks trying to work out their feelings (+ fun camp interactions, I adore fun camp interactions.).  Please enjoy and have an awsome day!  ~~~

Hosea was angry. Arthur could recall that he had seen this generally mild mannered and well versed man a tad miffed before, even thumbing onto slightly upset but this was different. He was fuming to the degree in which even Susan kept her distance, instead choosing to rushing about pestering John with a heap of scoldings for trying to sneak into the food preserves once more. 

Sitting over by the camp fire, Arthur threw a little glance towards one of the men that had helped in much of his raising. Only Hosea's back was visible but it seemed he was absorbed in whatever task he had taken up, loud mutters and mumbles rising from him in irregular intervals. 

While scratching the back of his neck, Arthur rose to his feet, making sure to pour two mugs of coffee. In his mind he had been debating if he should even approach, perhaps it would be better to allow this storm to blow over on its own. It was the more sympathetic thoughts that had won. Hosea was clearly agitated out of his mind to the point where it seemed to bring him a good bit of dismay. How many times had the older man not been there for him when he had been in a similar state. It was just some overdue return of the same kindness. 

Taking a few steps closer he caught sight of Susan observing him. She had just about caught onto the collar of young John's shirt and was halfway through the gesture of tugging him over towards the washing bin. Their eyes did meet for a split second and Arthur thought he could detect that small warmth in them, the one that indicated to him of how thankful she was for him intervening.

As he got closer, he could finally make out a few words that were uttered on such a low and rumbling tone it almost drowned out towards the surface of the table over which Hosea remained hunched. Sentences such as “I'll show you, you bloody bastard” and “you complete moron” seemed to be just a few which were actually completely audible. Clearing his throat, Arthur took the last steps, raising the mugs as an almost timid gesture of peace. 

He watched as Hosea raised his glance, studying him for a few seconds before grunting out a “sit down”. Doing as he was told, Arthur curiously peeked at what the other man was so deeply entranced by. It did little to clear the situation. 

Spread out between Hosea's arms were several pencils, some of them of the fancy ink variety, along with papers in various shades of red and pink. The entire scene was nothing but peculiar. Whatever it was that was keeping his father figure so occupied, it was a job that the older man didn't take too lightly on. 

“You... doin' a little craft project there?” Arthur asked, trying to add his general sideways grin. 

The reception of his attempt at encouragement was lukewarm, Hosea just moving his hand out to grab the extra cup of coffee and down half of it in a matter of seconds. 

“It's a gift” the older man then answered as he started to rather furiously cut out delicate flower patterns out of an especially deep crimson red paper “a gift for this camp's greatest idiot!” 

A small moment of enlightenment finally came over Arthur as he could not suppress another smile, finding relief in the fact that Hosea was too upset to even notice it. A squabble. That was what got the most collected man of their small gang so up in arms. It hadn't really been a first and he was certain it wouldn't be the last but there were no stopping his own amusement at how a man Hosea's age could get so incredibly worked up because of something Dutch had said. 

Realizing that the word exchange had done little but fuel his mentor's anger further, Arthur cleared his throat, turning his mug between his fingers. Acting as a bringer of peace wasn't really something he had perfected, neither did he expect to ever have to but he knew for a fact that Susan wasn't going to step in between this. More than once she had been the one scolding the two older men for acting like a bunch of scorned teenage lovers. 

“You know Dutch” Arthur said with the best honey voice he could summon “he says more than he means, it's just his fancy words, Hosea.” 

“Oh I'll show him just where he can shove his fancy words!” 

With vigour, Hosea slammed the flowers down onto a small patch of glue, the card before him coming together little by little. Biting the inside of his cheek, Arthur was about to try his second attempt when his eyes settled onto the figure of Dutch, approaching them with the same casual and careless expression as always. In a small act of desperation, he tried to seek the man's gaze only to feel his guts twist in frustration as there only came a cheerful smile onto Dutch's lips. 

“What's this now? Still teaching him how to read?” 

As Dutch's hand made contact with Hosea's shoulder, Arthur could feel how he instinctively moved just a few inches back. He felt certain that he could almost feel Hosea emitting heat, his eyes looking so furious as he rose from his chair. The movement was so quick that the chair he had been seated onto fell over, causing Dutch, despite all his confidence, to take a quick step back. 

“Here!” Hosea hissed out as he shoved the card into Dutch's chest “you moron!” 

Before anyone in camp could get their bearings, Hosea had stormed off, still cursing as he disappeared out of their views. Arthur soon moved his eyes from looking after him and instead back towards Dutch who stood as if frozen, mouth gaping and hands meekly holding onto the card. 

“Well, you gonna open it or not?” Arthur said with a sigh as he rose to his feet. 

He wasn't even certain that Dutch had fully heard him but still obeyed. Finally able to take a gander at this marvellous craft project, Arthur first and foremost took note of what amount of time had been put into it. There were cut out flowers as well as delicately inked birds and hearts. In the middle of it it all, in a cursive handwriting that would have made the highest of noblemen jealous were the words “Love isn't real – Dutch van der Linde”.  

It was as if he could hear the cogs in Dutch's head turn. The older man looked down at the letter, then out into thin air, then back onto the letter: repeating the gesture a good couple of times. When something finally seemed to sink in, the only thing he uttered was a low curse. 

“You told him that?”

Arthur gave a disapproving look towards the man before him. He wasn't well versed in his mentor's love business but even he could figure out that this wasn't a sentiment that would give any romantic sparks.  

Swooping in by their side came Susan who nimbly tugged the card out of Dutch's hands. Reading the words she soon came to give just as much a judgemental look as Arthur himself had. Somewhere he was certain that, had John mastered his reading abilities, even the little half feral kid would have been disappointed. 

“Now listen here” came Dutch's defence “he took it out of context, I was just...” 

“You were just doing what you always do, using your honey words without thinking” Susan huffed. 

For a short moment, it seemed like the older man was about to derail into a speech of defence as if he had been a man in court but the realisation of more dire matters at hand seemed to catch up with him. 

“Yeah, I agree with Miss Grimshaw” Arthur said with a shrug of his shoulders “you really went and screwed yourself over there.” 

“Thank you for the vote of confidence son.” 

Dutch's eyes were staring intently straight ahead, towards the point where Hosea had disappeared. They seemed filled with a regret that made Arthur himself have a small bit of pity for his mentor. 

“Well don't just stand there!' Susan hissed “he's going to be unbearable to be around so you better figure something out to make this up to him.” 

“Like what?” Dutch muttered. 

“You'll come up with something Dutch, you're real good at doing that.” 

Arthur felt unable to repress a snigger at the comment. This granted him a death glare from the other man and a mutter of “Get the horses ready... and not a word”. 

~~~

The ride had not been as giving as Dutch had hoped. His original plan had only involved grabbing Arthur for some damned directions around the place but of course Susan had insisted on them bringing John too: something about how she would not be held responsible for her actions if she were left alone to take care of both the camp and a feral child. This had meant a lot of whining from the child once they were in town, mostly of why he was not allowed to devour the hand picked sweets. 

With their ride starting to come towards its end, he sighed. Had he not grown older and wiser? How badly had he formulated that speech to have Hosea all worked up like that. It was thoughts he kept tightly to himself, of course. Arthur already had enough snark material on his own, there were no need to feed them further.

Arriving back at the camp site, he made sure to tell Arthur to keep John away from his tent, though it seemed his words were taken with a pinch of salt as of now. Hurrying over towards the washing bin, Dutch knew that he would never get to live this down. He wasn't so sure yet if he deserved to live it down or not but that was a matter for another day. For now, all he could wrap his mind around was to fix this, no matter what it would take. 

Tugging his fingers through his hair, he made sure to at least glance at himself in the mirror before grasping the gifts, all quite cliché in nature yet the best he could muster with such a short notice. Taking off down the small trampled paths, he was struck by the thought that this was the first time that he had bought a bouquet of flowers for Hosea. Before that there had been hand picked things but nothing as extravagant as this. It had put a deep dent in his pocket and yet it felt worth it.

He decided to follow the stream. He had learnt one thing through their years together and that was that whenever Hosea was upset or needed a breather it seemed that water was where he would take off to. Moving slowly along the larger stream, Dutch tried to rehearse in his head. It needed to be a good apology this time, that he felt in his bones. 

Stepping into a light clearing, he soon caught sight of Hosea seated on a large rock right by the bank. It appeared that his companion had taken to throwing small twigs into the rushing waters and observing them being carried off. Clearing his throat a tad, he took notice of the other man turning his head barely an inch before turning it back towards the waters. 

“Can we speak?” 

“Oh you do that” came Hosea's answer, his tone dripping with as much anger as hurt “you're real good at that!” 

The line cut deep and Dutch allowed it to do so. A little nudge at the ego builds character. Those had been kinder words from this man whom he had such adoration for yet couldn't always wrap his head around. For most of his life, he was used to having a charismatic power over others but with Hosea it was the opposite. He was quite certain that the other man had no idea just how strong that hold was. 

“It wasn't a good line” Dutch answered as he slowly approached “real clumsy.” 

Hosea just huffed, throwing another stick into the waters. Dutch counted it a small victory that the stick had not been aimed at his face. Gently he put the basket down from his arm as he moved the last few inches between them. 

“I'm sorry, I truly am.” 

“You're good at being sorry...”

Another score was won for Hosea's side and Dutch felt he could do little more than nod in agreement. No matter how he tried, his position as leader of their strange little family of misfits meant many missteps along the road. 

Deciding to rather go out bold and brash than to stand about with his nerves in a bunch, he kneeled down by Hosea's side. Glancing at the other man's eyes he felt his heart pinch, seeing the faint traces of tears upon his cheeks. Softly he reached forward, happy to see his companion not tugging back from his fingers drying what remained of them. 

“I'm sorry” Dutch murmured “think you can forgive me for that?” 

“I don't know where you get those ideas from” Hosea answered on a sigh “you never think further than your own nose length.” 

Silence fell between them, only the sound of the stream keeping them company before the man by his side decided to speak up once more. 

“If love isn't real, then what are we?” 

Hosea's words came to feel like a bullet piercing his skin and without a moment of hesitation, Dutch rose to his feet, grasping the other man's face in his hands before pushing their lips together. Hearing a surprised yet muffled sound from Hosea, he tugged back, showering the other man's cheeks and forehead with kisses, ignoring the light laughter and half hearted beg to “Stop acting like a fool!”. 

“This is not love” Dutch murmured with his fingers gently cupping Hosea's chin “this is so much more, this can't be put into words, this is greater than any love song or poetry ever printed in the time of man.” 

He watched how Hosea's eyes seemed to widen in amazement, at first carrying that same glossy nature but then there came a loud laughter out of the man's lips. Within a few seconds he was engulfed in his companion's warm embrace and, seizing the opportunity, he held on tight, spinning him around in a half circle before letting him down once more. 

“What am I to do with you?” Hosea murmured, his fingers sliding along Dutch's cheek “how can I stay mad when you use your viper words like that?” 

“You think that I am persuasive now” Dutch said, making a sweeping gesture towards the basket “just you wait.” 

With pride he watched how the other man moved over towards it, uttering a “Dutch this is worth a fortune!” yet not protesting any of the gifts further than that. His mind seemed to finally come back from the thousand miles trail of thoughts it had been derailing off into. Hosea was smiling again and that was all that mattered. The coin would come but he would never find company quite as this ever gain, of that he felt certain. 

“Dutch?” 

“Yes love?” 

“Is there any particular reason why you've brought me an empty box of chocolates?” 

The question caught him completely off guard and, his mouth slightly open, he turned towards Hosea who stood there, gently waving the expensive heart shaped box about to show its content had been mercilessly ripped out. 

“John Marston!” Dutch shouted towards the camp's general direction, words that, despite their velocity were almost drowned out in the loud laughter of Hosea.    

~~~  *I wish to add that back in camp: John is desperately shoving chocolates into a surprised Arthur’s mouth in an attempt to hide the evidence*               

[paceywittergayboatman]

Jess is the Gay Subtext Gilmores Gay Meta

Jess within the Gilmores Gay subtext is Rory’s mirror.  He has a lot in common with Rory: a negligent father who left, a mother who relies emotionally on him or isn't able to deal with her trauma and can't express love in an entirely healthy way, who are both into reading as an escape and a career path, both of there parents get remarried and have another kid and there are also legally cousins. He's also gay in the subtext(link at the bottom for my mini post on that.)

I’m gonna talk about episode 6.8. In which Rory and Jess talk and he essentially awakens something in Rory that brings back a part of herself that she lost. He also meets Logan but that for later on.

In the scene Jess and Rory talk after not seeing each other for awhile:

JESS: Yeah, and I didn't think you'd believe it if I didn't show it to you in person. (takes out a book and give it to her)

RORY: Well, colour me curious. A book. (reading the cover) "'The Subsect'...written by Jess Mariano."

JESS: It's no misprint.

RORY: You wrote a book?

JESS: A short novel.

RORY: You wrote a book?!

JESS: And through a fluke, I got it to these guys that have a small press, and they read it. I don't know if they were high or something, but they decided to publish it.

RORY: You wrote a book.

Subsect sounds a lot like subtext huh? By this time in the show he's already kind of admitted he's gay.(ill put a link at the end of this for that) So he does reflect her.

But then he goes to leave and lo and behold they run into Logan. We already know that Logan is gay given other things(link down at the bottom) So we know all the people in this scene are gay so put that into context makes this make sense. I’m gonna link the clip here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QnTsSPKyzG0.  Logan and Jess to put it plainly are eye fucking and Rory looks very umcomfortable:

RORY: No. Hey. When did you get back?

LOGAN: Couple hours ago.

RORY: Oh, I...I thought you were getting back tomorrow.

LOGAN: I thought I'd surprise you, Ace.

RORY: Well, I'm glad you did 'cause you get to meet my old friend, Jess. This is Logan, my boyfriend. Logan, this is Jess. He's in from out of town. (uncomfortable silence) Wow. That sounded so grown-up. We're at the age now where we say things like "in from out of town" and "old friend", 'cause when you're young, all your friends are new, and you have to get old to have old friends. (uncomfortable chuckling from Rory. Logan extends his hand to Jess)

LOGAN: How you doing? (they shake)

JESS: Okay.

RORY: We were just gonna go grab a bite to eat.

LOGAN: Great. Well, how about if we all go together. Is that okay?

JESS: Okay by me.

LOGAN: Good

RORY: All right. Good. We were actually at a loss for where to go, so you actually saved us.

LOGAN: Call me superman. (at Jess) Why don't you follow us.

JESS: Sure. (Logan puts his arm around Rory's shoulders and stears her to the passenger side of his car. Rory is a bit uncomfortable with the gesture)

Two things to note, Rory refers to jess as her friend, and Rory is in the script said to be uncomfortable. Which confirms my earlier theory.

They got to dinner and this shit gets gayer:

GAN: So...what do you do, Jess?

JESS: Oh, this and that.

LOGAN: Describe the "this". Describe the "that".

RORY: He writes.

LOGAN: You write? Impressive. What do you write?

JESS: Nothing important.

RORY: He wrote a book.

LOGAN: Oh, you penned the great American novel, Jess?

JESS: Wasn't quite that ambitious.

LOGAN: So, what are we talking here? Short novel? Kafka length or longer? Dos Passos, Tolstoy? Or longer? Robert Musil? Proust? I'm not throwing you with these names, am I?

JESS: You seem very obsessed with length.

LOGAN: I'm just trying to get a picture in my head, that's all.

RORY: It's a short novel.

The use of length is homoerotic. Despite Logan being classist Jess is still flirting with him.

More:

LOGAN: (at Rory) Any good?

RORY: I haven't read it yet.

LOGAN: Yet? Well, at least you'll have one reader. That's something.

JESS: Yeah.

LOGAN: You know, I should just write down all my random thoughts and stuff that happens to me and conversations I have and just add a bunch of "he said, she said"-'s, and get it published. You got a copy on you?

JESS: No.

LOGAN: You should send me a copy.

JESS: Sure. And where do I send it? The blond dick at Yale?

Ok so again the use of dick is very homoerotic. 

Jess is upset of course:

RORY: Jess, wait. (he stops and turns to look at her) Jess, I'm sorry.

JESS: We shouldn't have done this.

RORY: He's just in a bad way lately.

JESS: He's a jerk.

RORY: He was. In there, definitely. I'm so sorry.

JESS: I read that guy the second I saw him. I should have begged off.

RORY: Well, I didn't want you to.

So he read him, implies that Jess know Logan’s gay. He’s figured him out sexuality wise.

Theres more:

JESS: No, no. I mean with you. What's going on with you?

RORY: What do you mean?

JESS: You know what I mean. I know you better than anyone. This isn't you.

RORY: I don't know.

JESS: What are you doing? Living at your grandparents' place, being in the DAR, no Yale...why did you drop out of Yale?!

RORY: It's complicated.

JESS: It's not! It's not complicated.

RORY: You don't know.

JESS: This isn't you. This, you going out with this jerk, with the Porsche. We made fun of guys like this.

RORY: You caught him on a bad night.

JESS: This isn't about him. Okay, screw him. What's going on with you? This isn't you, Rory. You know it isn't. What's going on?

RORY: I don't know. I don't know.

So Jess being her mirror is acknowledged when he says he's knows her better than anyone.

Jess leaves and Rory and Logan fight:

LOGAN: Look, I'm sorry I came back early. I really messed things up here.

RORY: Jess wrote a book. He wrote a book, and you mocked him.

LOGAN: I did not mock him.

RORY: He's doing something.

LOGAN: Good. Fine. He's doing something. Everybody in the world's doing something. More power to him.

RORY: I'm not. I mean, what am I doing? I'm living with my grandparents.

LOGAN: That's temporary. Have a drink.

RORY: Temporary can turn into forever.

LOGAN: You're not living with the Gilmore’s forever.

RORY: I'm palling with my grandmother and being waited on by a maid. I come home, and my shoes are magically shined. My clothes are magically clean, ironed, and laid out. My bed is magically turned down. I'm in the DAR? I'm going to meetings and teas and cocktail parties?

Rory is having realization about her life because of what jess said to her. The fights not over yet:

LOGAN: Again, temporary. Have a drink.

RORY: And wasting my time partying and drinking, just hanging out doing nothing.

LOGAN: Whoa, whoa, whoa. (he gets up) Don't pull me into this.

RORY: I didn't say anything about you.

LOGAN: Yes, you did. Don't make me feel guilty for your drinking and partying. That's your choice. I'm not forcing you. When I ask you out, you can say no

RORY: It's all we do.

LOGAN: It's not all we do.

RORY: It's all you do.

LOGAN: Well, it's my prerogative, you know. You're damn straight. I'm gonna party. I'm gonna do it while I have the chance because come June, my life is over.

RORY: Oh, yes, your horrible life. Let's hear about it.

LOGAN: Got a week?

RORY: You have every door open to you. You have opportunities that anyone would kill for, including me.

LOGAN: No one's stopping you from making whatever you want happen. Go into journalism. Go into politics. Be a doctor. Be a clown. Do whatever you want.

RORY: It's not as easy when it's not handed to you.

LOGAN: Really? It's all so easy for me? (getting upset) I don't want that life. It's forced on me. You talk about all these doors being open? All I see is one door, and I'm being pushed through it. I have no choice. You try living without options.

Logan is stuck within a heterosexual playboy idea of himself that isn’t him. And so he parties to cope.

RORY: How hard are you fighting it?

LOGAN: I didn't tell you to quit Yale. You did that. I gave you one month, you went beyond that month, and it had nothing to do with me. It was all you. Now, you want to change? Change it, but don't blame me. Don't you dare blame me. You know what? Why don't you go off with John, Jack, whatever his name is?

He's not claiming responsibility because he's an asshole, but also he doesn't know how to be a boyfriend because he's gay. He's uncomfortable with Rory relying on him emotionally because he's viewing it as romantic and the gay guy in him doesn't like that. Rory's comment about him fighting is the text is noting his struggle with compulsory heterosexuality. Rory leaves and as we know she does break up with him and jess comments to her bring her back to herself. 

my other links 

https://jessandroryaregayfightme.tumblr.com/post/635171090892783616/doyle-paris-and-logan-and-the-milk-metaphor

https://jessandroryaregayfightme.tumblr.com/post/634824232687255552/yale-gay-subtext-in-gilmore-girls

https://jessandroryaregayfightme.tumblr.com/post/633010606083112960/logan-huntzberger-isnt-just-a-lazy-straight-man

https://jessandroryaregayfightme.tumblr.com/post/632166174651727872/so-its-time-for-another-homosexual-gilmore-girls

https://lupineluke.tumblr.com/post/634255134572036096/wait-but-youre-forgetting-the-most-important-part

[mittensmorgul]

What do you think about Samwena now? Do you think they can still be endgame?

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The TNT loop has brought me up through 12.21 today, and it’s wild what new canon can do to recontextualize the past.

I’m putting this under a cut, so that saileen shippers won’t have to subject themselves to my rambling about Eileen and Sam in a way I know they’ll dislike... but I’m tired of feeling like I can’t talk about canon how I see it on my own blog.

Back when these episodes originally aired, with the week to week meta cycle in between, a lot of context was left up to us and never explicitly clarified in canon. Many of us were just thrilled at the notion that Sam had made one (1) friend that he seemed as close with as Dean did, if not closer. We were all ready to read way more into their interactions than was actually there, because Sam just gets so few of these sorts of personal relationships, at all, with anyone.

Things have been provided with clarification now in s15-- like the previous nature of Sam’s relationship with Eileen, and Sam’s repeated insistence to Dean’s teasing that they’re “not like that.” Which seems to be urging me to go back and reexamine everything from the past connected to her without the erroneous assumption that they already had a romantic relationship going offscreen. And let me tell you, that puts an entirely different spin on Eileen’s prior purpose in the narrative. As a parallel for Mary. Which is why I suppose I’ve been finding so many weird Mary parallels for her since her resurrection (starting with the fact that the spell that brought her back was designed to resurrect Mary instead and going right on through all the BMoL Free Will Erasure brainwashing plot literally in the episode where Eileen was murdered by Hellhound).

Lady Bevell: Well, not about this illusion of you that you hold on to. The perfect life. Loving husband and kids. But it never really was perfect, was it? All those secrets you kept from your beloved John – that you were a hunter. That you invited Azazel to visit when he spared John's life.Mary: How do you-Lady Bevell: I have sources, Mary. Everywhere. After you died, your beloved John was a man slowly going mad, searching for revenge. What? Your boys didn't tell you? The drunken rages? The weeks of abandonment? Child abuse, really. It's no wonder they're... damaged. So... enough with the fairy tale. We are returning you to a more pure version of yourself – Mary Campbell, natural born killer.

The “illusion” of the perfect life, the illusion of Free Will, in essence (especially now that we know Chuck was also behind the whole BMoL narrative). Not to mention that in this episode, Toni will later heavily imply that Mary was in fact the one who killed Eileen (even if it wasn’t true... Sam and Dean STILL don’t know who actually killed Eileen). I mean, the fact they found Mary in the process of attempting to murder Jody Mills probably sealed the belief that at the very least, it COULD’VE been Mary who’d done the deed. Even Mary wouldn’t know for sure if she had, because brainwashed:

SAM: Why you spying on us? Oh, and what do you know about Eileen Leahy?TONI: Who?DEAN: Did you – did – did your people, did they kill her?TONI: Probably. Rule of thumb – if you think we killed someone, then we probably did. Speaking of, you do realize that by attacking me, you invite the retribution of the entire British Men of Letters? Investigation, no trial. Just punishment and ruin. Possibly at the hands of Mary Winchester.DEAN: The hell is that supposed to mean?TONI: Your mother – she's our permanent guest.SAM: She's your prisoner? Why?TONI: Prisoner? Who said anything about prisoner? No, Mary's joined the team. Even has her own super secret decoder ring.SAM: You're lying.TONI: You're right. There is no ring. Oh, boys and their mums. See, you see her as Mummy. We see her as one of our best killers.

Sam’s main drive during s12 was doing whatever he could to desperately create any sort of relationship with Mary that he could (even willingly working with people who’d TORTURED him), and this is what haunted him into s13, as well, after destroying the BMoL to save Mary, and then almost immediately losing her again to the AU.

Do I think that Sam is considering the possibility of a real relationship with Eileen? Probably, yeah, after Dean’s prodding, especially. But Dean was fundamentally misunderstanding the nature of Sam’s “agreement” with Eileen there. It wasn’t about a romantic arrangement.

Because they aren’t like that.

Eileen propositioned Sam in 15.07 (in the name of doing something “fun”), yes, but I still can’t see Sam’s reaction there as anything but surprise and consternation. He seems almost relieved that Cas showed up when he did to interrupt what would otherwise have been an uncomfortable and probably embarrassing talk.

When Dean asked about Eileen in 15.08, it felt to me like Sam’s comment about them having an agreement was directly about the opening scene... where Sam had secretly followed her out on a hunt, and then nearly getting himself killed both by Eileen AND the vampire, all because he didn’t trust her to handle it or ask for help if she needed it.

Their agreement gets further contextualization via Sue’s comment to Eileen, taunting her about having to “get permission” to come out and help her on a hunt. Because that’s exactly what she had to do. That was the nature of her agreement with Sam-- that she wouldn’t just leave without at least leaving a note (Sam’s exact words to her in that opening scene... “You could’ve left a note.”)

DEAN: Yeah. Eileen did good, right? Getting us back from hell. She doing okay?SAM: Yeah. I guess.DEAN: You guess?SAM: If she needs something from me, she'll tell me. We have an agreement.

It felt like Sam was telling Dean that he didn’t know how Eileen was, because part of their agreement was that Sam... not pester her over this sort of thing. Sam seemed... disappointed over the whole situation. Dean immediately turned this into a relationship thing, though, leaving Sam slightly confused, but probably considering the option, at least.

DEAN: You have an agreement? That's adorable. Look, man, I didn't want to say anything, okay, 'cause I was kind of in... in a bad place, and, uh, yeah, I didn't want to jinx it or whatever, but, you know, I tried the family thing, right?SAM: Yeah, me too. And that's not for us.DEAN: No, not really. But I'm just saying if it was to work, Eileen, you know, she gets it. She gets us. She gets the life. She's hot.SAM: Dean. I mean, I'm not even...DEAN: Look, all I'm saying is you... you could do worse, okay? And she could certainly do better. Like, so much better. I'm happy for you, Sammy.

If only Dean hadn’t framed it as essentially “settling” for someone just because they conveniently ticked off the most basic “someone in the life” box.

And if only this hadn’t come two scenes after Sam found Rowena, dead, in Hell. And literally flinching at the change that he saw in her. Almost as if Dean was trying to give Sam the “it’s not so bad. You couldn’t save Rowena, but at least you have a backup romantic interest, since you can’t resurrect Rowena and make everything okay with her, because you already used Rowena’s own spell to resurrect Eileen...” It felt like a weirdly hearty consolation speech in that context.

And if this hadn’t felt like more of a comment on DEAN’S recent mental turnaround after his experiences in 15.07, and his tentative hope that things between him and Cas aren’t completely kaput, that Cas hadn’t completely written him off, after Rowena’s little Marriage Counselling session with them (again, two scenes earlier).

Now is this to say that Sam’s emotional investment in a relationship with Eileen can’t change going forward? Absolutely not! He might really, truly invest himself in a relationship with her!

I’m extremely interested to see what happens in 15.09, because I think that episode will hopefully give us so many of the answers we’ve been waiting for. Not necessarily about endgame love interests, but about Chuck’s involvement in the first half of the season’s unfolding drama. And I think Rowena will have a continuing part to play after that point.

Does that mean I think Sam’s emotional investment in a potential relationship with Rowena can’t be rekindled? We’ll have to wait and see, but as it stood after 15.08, Sam, at least, seemed to be shaken by the change that had come over her after her sacrifice.

SAM: Rowena, I...ROWENA: Samuel, please. You killing me was one of the best things that ever happened. Yes, there are things I miss about being alive. Flesh-on-flesh sex. Amazon doesn't deliver here... yet. But, lads, I'm queen. My subjects revere me. Well, fear me, which is better. I should have died a long time ago. Samuel, be a dear.SAM: Yeah.

This has to be like a knife to him, you know? He’d been so invested in her redemption, as the Fated Agent of her final demise. And for Sam, who knows what she feared and who she loved (but Sam doesn’t know he’s on that list, she told him flat out he wasn’t right before she told him to kill her), she represents his current biggest failure, you know? He capitulated to Destiny, because he had no other choice. And that is still the worst thing anyone on the show can possibly say.

THIS was the final straw that drove Dean to anger with Cas, too. Rowena’s death was the direct result of Cas’s choice to kill Belphegor rather than let him complete his spell. It’s all interconnected, and it’s all painful, and it’s all a direct result of Chuck’s breaking the story the way he did in 14.20.

So make of this what you will, but I’m tired of not talking about these far bigger themes to avoid upsetting shippers who want saileen to be endgame. We’re not there yet, and until we are, I want to talk about all of this in a nonjudgmental way, because I think it’s all interesting, not because I have some shipping agenda.

I know I have more to say about all of this, but this is a good start, at least.

[hellyeahomeland]

“The English Teacher” | Directed by Michael Cuesta, Cinematography by Giorgio Scali

Sara: Not really related to this image specifically, but this week’s episode was directed by Michael Cuesta, whom you may remember as the directing executive producer for the show’s first two seasons. He directed some of the best episodes of the show: the pilot, “The Weekend,” “Marine One,” “The Choice.” I was really, really happy to see that they brought him back for the penultimate episode. That feels fitting and so, so right. 

Related to this image specifically, opening on an image of Carrie literally split in half in the frame feels symbolic. She’s being pulled in two competing directions, her loyalty to Saul fighting with her desire to prevent a nuclear war. 

Gail: When the episode first started I wondered if she had escaped custody and was standing and waiting to have a passport photo taken like Brody in “The Choice” (again, a Michael Cuesta episode). (My tin foil hat has been all over the place lately!) But then it occurred to me that it’s actually the mirror of the opening shot of Carrie in the first episode this season. The close-ups of Carrie in both scenes have a lot in common, especially that we can only see half of her face. In episode one, the other half of the frame was black and here, the other half is white. I think Sara was right when she pointed out in last week’s Director’s Chair about the transition images at the end of “Designated Driver.” Carrie’s life has always been somewhere in between the black and white. 

Ashley: The way this carefully pans down across her face, only to find that she is actually cuffed to the chair, is pretty well-done. We’ve seen her in cuffs too many times this season, and trapped in other ways more often than that.

Sara: This image of Carrie watching the suicide bomb footage on TV really calls to mind the visuals in the opening credits of a young Carrie watching war and terror play out on a television screen.

Ashley: How many times has Carrie seen something awful and life-altering on television? She was in this position in season five when she saw Quinn in the gas chamber. Shocking and devastating and just kinda the life of Carrie Mathison, tbh.

Gail: I agree with both of you, this is a great callback to Carrie in the credits and Carrie in “New Normal.” Carrie’s unconventional methods often come at a high price and this scene is another reminder of that. (And how amazing is Chris Bauer, who plays Carrie’s lawyer?! Sara, he’s even giving you some sweet ‘stache!)

Sara: Love the mustache. 

Sara: Tag yourself I’m Wellington. 

Ashley: We are all Wellington.

Gail: Pretty sure I’ve been Saul all week trying to get my kids to do their e-learning. I’m tagging my son as Zabel and my daughter as Hayes. My husband is full-on Wellington, knowing I’m right but refusing to get involved.

Ashley: The sharp difference between Zabel’s terrible beard and Saul’s luscious beard is one of the best things this show has offered us.

Gail: I love that Saul’s body language tells a story too. He can hardly bring himself to look at Zabel, let alone face him.

Sara: John Zabel is a real fuckin’ slime ball and Hugh Dancy has been so, so good in this role. You can tell he must relish getting to play this evil character, going up against these actors and actors that he’s known so intimately, though entirely offscreen, the last ten years. 

Sara: I love this detail of Saul moving one of his books back just a millimeter or so. It really emphasizes how meticulous he is and also begs the question if he’s going to realize Carrie had them all splayed out on his living room floor. Does he keep them in a specific order? 

Ashley: I WAS WONDERING THE SAME THING. And I’m surprised he has so many of them — he was looking at one volume specifically, so I initially was wondering if his commie shelf was just to hide that particular book.

Gail: No small detail seems to escape Saul’s attention. Such a small movement, but it says so much about who Saul is. And yes, Ashley, some of those books were just decoys! Carrie figured that out as she was sorting the books, which is also a great detail about who Saul is. Saul’s red book collection of asset communication is also his hobby. As Carrie says, the best lies have to have truth in them.

Sara: Ben Savage as young Mandy Patinkin is some of the most inspired casting ever. I know he’s already played a young Mandy Patinkin, but I am still in awe. The flat bill cap was an excellent detail. #hat

Gail: I love how he is wearing a trademark Saul plaid shirt, too!

Gail: Another shot of a character with only half of their face shown. This time it’s a young Saul who already has his fair share of secrets.

Ashley: Spoiler alert, she doesn’t shoot him.

Sara: IJLTP.

Gail: We don’t get this close-up shot in this scene until Saul drops his facade and asks her if she’s reading between the lines... He wants to pull a fast one on the useful idiots in the Oval Office and wants her help to do it (ugh, Tasneem agrees!). From a distance, we see Saul in his office somewhere in the West Wing, playing the part of National Security Advisor, but as the camera moves in for this close-up, we see Saul as who he really is: the smart and strategic spy.

Sara: There were quite a few extreme close-ups of Saul this week. What does it mean in an episode where we learn more about his heroic past than potentially at any other time this series? For me this really put into perspective how much we don’t know about Saul. Carrie alludes to snippets he’s revealed over the years, but even she--presumably his closest confidante--doesn’t know. Saul is the opposite of an open book, pun intended. 

Ashley: Let’s crack his spine open and see if there’s a note.

Sara: This slow push on Carrie as the judge reads the list of charges against her is devastating, and not just for Carrie. It is for the audience too, because we know the truth. It goes without saying that Claire is magnificent here.

Ashley: Listening to all of the things Carrie Mathison is being charged with — specifically because we know the character, we have known her for a long time — is painful. For Claire, who has lived in Carrie’s skin for so long, it must have been torture. 

Gail: Carrie’s lawyer is dressed in red, white and blue while Carrie is dressed for a funeral. I’m sure neither is a coincidence.

Sara: I do not like the context of this shot, but I love the shot itself. IDNLTCOTSBILTSI.

Sara: Linus being the only one in a room full of military brass and West Wing staff who understands that something’s fishy here is a very “of course” moment. I love how they’re framed in shadows here. In a way, he and Saul have both been running a “shadow” government all season, working in the background, out of sight.

Gail: Saul has his own circle of trust now and Wellington’s circle is only bumping up against it, no Venn diagrams here. Saul is playing his cards close to the vest, knowing he is on borrowed time. (See what I did there?)

Sara: I loved the payoff of the Carrie/Jenna relationship this week. Jenna coming to the realization that Quinn did before--nothing is worth the damage they cause--plays like a terrible déjà vu moment. Carrie just sits there, silent, as Jenna walks out. As staff writer Jonathan Redding said, “She was never going to become another Carrie. She can’t make Carrie’s trades.”

Gail: I think Carrie sits silently as Jenna walks out because she can’t argue with her. Carrie herself came to the same realization back in season four. Interestingly, as Jenna has her realization that nothing is worth the damage they do, Carrie is sitting at a dining room table, just like Quinn was when he had his realization in “Gerontion.” Except this time Carrie is the one who everyone thinks is guilty of a crime she didn’t commit. So. Many. Parallels. 

Ashley: Putting Carrie at the dining room table is interesting — she’s surrounded by empty chairs. You can’t help but think of all the people she’s lost, and yet another person is walking away. She’s completely alone.

Sara: ICONIC MOMENT IN TELEVISION HISTORY. 

Gail: Did Carrie swipe a pair of Saul’s glasses from his house? They look similar to asset Anna’s glasses as well. Not sure if that means anything, but it’s interesting.

Sara: Gail, you can read my tin foil hat theory on that in this week’s TCWTW. 

Sara: I love love love this transition that reveals the teacher in the photo is the Russian translator. It’s inspired. 

Gail: Me too! I also love that she is in focus while everyone else is not, which adds importance to her character as well. The first shot of her mirrors the photo of The English Teacher. We don’t see her full face until she talks to Saul directly in this scene, a small detail that reveals who her character is important to.

Ashley: Her shoulders are squared, head cocked, listening — the contrast from the girl she was in the photo is evident even from behind.

Gail: Usually when a character is having an important moment, you see their face and reaction on camera, not the back of their head. Breaking that rule with Anna over and over again throughout the course of this scene is extremely effective. She’s a faceless, non-threatening fly on the wall and surely not the high-ranking Kremlin (and presumably male) official they are worried about.

Sara: The framing of these characters in this shot is amazing. Anna stands in the camera’s focus, head tilted ever so slightly. The other men don’t even notice. You can see how she’s been such an effective asset. Hidden in plain sight.

Sara: Kusnetsov’s book is Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens. This is the last novel Dickens ever wrote, which is fitting here. 

Gail: According to Wikipedia, the book explores the conflict between doing what society expects and the idea of being true to oneself. When you set that concept against Andrei’s role as a double agent, the theme takes on new meaning.

Ashley: Nerds.

Gail: Saul doesn’t yet know how important Anna is, but Michael Cuesta and Giorgio Scali are giving the audience a subtle clue here. By shooting Anna from a low angle it alludes that her character is powerful and has influence, something Saul will come to realize shortly.

Sara: We all agree that it was 100% intentional to cast an actress to play young Anna that looks just enough like Claire Danes to make you think, right? I don’t mean that Carrie is the lovechild of Saul and Anna (the timelines don’t match!). More that Saul has a type, no?

Sara: ...And in case we had any doubt that they’re drawing a parallel between Anna and Carrie, we have this transition. This episode is filled with loaded transitions.

Gail: Carrie in the center of the frame, caught in between the dark and light, is an ongoing theme this episode. We see it here again as she makes her way toward Saul’s library.

Sara: There are multiple pans over Saul’s giant collection of red books, most of the titles unreadable and blurred. But where do we land at the end? The camera holds on this book, A Woman’s Vengeance by James Payn. There is almost no info about this book on the internet, which leads me to believe it’s fake. Yet it’s in the public domain. Did they just like the title? 

Gail: I read a little about it online. It was published originally in 1872, volume 2 of 3. I read an excerpt of it on Amazon, and the first chapter is titled “A Good Night’s Work.” Having this close-up shot of these books that follow our introduction to young Anna, Saul’s asset who is clearly a woman scorned, makes this book title (and the title to its first chapter) feel very fitting.

Sara: If the Wikipedia entry about The Secret Agent is any indication, this book is a doozy. Basically everyone suffers and dies at the end and an innocent person is accidentally killed. 

Gail: That Wikipedia page is crazy! It also says that Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, loved this book and closely identified himself with the character of the “Professor”... which ties into Saul’s alias, Professor Rabinow. I live for this stuff--always a mark of a good production when the depth of the details matches the intensity of the show.

Sara: The phantom horizontal line on the seven. 

Ashley: That is like the ONE thing that I, Ashley, actually noticed and mentioned first. Give me a shout-out, man, I mean, DAMN.

Sara: Shout out to Ashley, who noticed and mentioned this first! 

Gail: Homeland always gives us the best bokeh. I love its use here. We have a window into Saul’s biggest secret, the details surrounding it are hazy to us at first, and we can’t see the full picture yet--just like this shot.

Sara: IJLTP.

Ashley: I love how old-school Carrie is — she’s so visual, and in her own way, just like Saul. She lays it all out and uses her hands to put it together.

Gail: Her bulletin board, highlighters and thread have been replaced by notecards and old carpet that I’d like to think Mira picked out, but the result is the same as we watch Carrie put all of the pieces together. It’s HIGH RED y’all.

Sara: “High red,” omg. I’m obsessed with the sequence of Carrie assembling the book timeline and figuring out Saul’s method of communication. For me it’s one of the all-time best Homeland scenes. 

Sara: The editing in this scene is exquisite. The use of jump cuts adds to the tension and uncertainty as Carrie herself attempts to splice together these disparate clues into something greater, some sort of truth. 

The scene is almost completely free of dialogue. Claire has to convey Carrie’s journey to the truth here through only her actions. I love the shots at ground level of her literally on hands and knees flipping through the books. There is a sense of desperation and urgency to it that is thrilling.

Sara: The Smile. 

Gail: I see what you did there and I approve. IJLTP.

Ashley: I’m a little surprised that Carrie isn’t a bit more conflicted here.

Sara: Cutting Carrie and Saul together at the moment where their minds finally sync is … quite literal, actually, but it works. In these twin shots of Carrie and Saul I’m struck especially by how Saul is against a light background while Carrie is cloaked in darkness. 

Gail: These back-to-back shots give the impression that Carrie and Saul are on opposite ends of the same book which rings very true to me. The black and white imagery continues here as Sara points out. We see Carrie just barely ahead of the darkness, looking toward the light.

Ashley: Mandy just does things with his face sometimes and it’s amazing to watch.

Sara: Another extreme close-up of Saul as he realizes that Carrie lied to him. 

Gail: Saul’s line from earlier in the season rings in my ears here. “You are vulnerable to him in ways neither of us can imagine.” But to build on my thoughts on his earlier close-up shot, I think it’s an effective tool for us to get a window into what Saul is genuinely thinking and feeling at that moment. The massive implications of Carrie’s involvement in a play being run by Yevgeny are devastating and Saul realizes it in one stunning and heartbreaking moment.

Gail: Anna saving Saul’s life gives so much more weight and importance to who she is to Saul. He owes her his life and, thirty years later, his career, too.

Sara: There is something fantastical about this part of the flashback. The backdrop and extreme lighting looks sort of … fake? It almost looks like they’re on a film set. I’m interpreting this as a reflection of Saul’s memory: we all want to see ourselves as the hero in our movie of our lives.

Sara: Shout out to Gail for realizing this Charlotte Benson character was featured last season with Ivan. 

Gail: I love a good easter egg and a good callback. Details like this and recurring characters like Scott Ryan give their world realism. I stan.

Ashley: This is such a terribly effective moment in the show. We haven’t seen Yevgeny at all in this episode, and yet he’s ever-present; closing on “kill Saul” is so fucking… ugh. Stupid Homeland.

Gail: All of Yevgeny’s shots in this scene are done with a steady camera, which gives the impression (illusion?) of his control of the situation. Have we had a scene where Yevgeny isn’t leaning? My God, he’s even leaning when on Zoom for Spies.

Sara: As Yevgeny reveals the full extent of his play--“Kill Saul”--the camera zooms in on him. Eventually he takes up almost the entire frame. It gives the feeling of stakes being continually raised. And he’s still got that trademark smirk and nonchalance, despite what he’s telling Carrie to do.

Sara: Meanwhile, the camera stays mostly the same distance away from Carrie but pans in semi-circles around her, back and forth, back and forth. It’s an interesting choice as she comes to the realization of what Yevgeny is suggesting. The camera is almost like the wheels spinning in her head as she understands the full scope of the choice she must make.

Gail: As Carrie and Yevgeny go back and forth, each one trying to figure out what the other one knows, the shots start to go back and forth as well, mimicking their dance. In film and television production, there is a term called the 180 degree rule. What it means is that there is an imaginary line running through a scene, from side to side, with respect to the camera. The rule of thumb is that the camera should never cross the line because it causes the viewer to feel disoriented and confused. But when used effectively, we get the powerful effect that it had here in this scene. We (the audience) feel the same disorientation as Carrie, the same unsteadiness that is reflected in the handheld camera that shoots her. As I mentioned above, when we see Yevgeny on the computer screen, he is centered, steady and in control. Quite a contrast between the two.

Ashley: I repeat… stupid Homeland.

Ashley: We’ve seen so much darkness in this episode, mostly related to Saul — Carrie, for her part, has been pretty much in bright spaces. Despite everything that’s happened to her, I believe that this is the darkest point in her life.

Sara: Carrie hurriedly walks out of this vast, empty mansion as the lights dim behind her. The weight and horror of this decision is splayed across her face. The darkness follows her. The question now as we head into this final chapter: can she outrun it? Or will it finally catch up to her? 

Gail: Staying just ahead of the darkness and trying to find the light. Here Carrie is again living somewhere in between.