#wondering to himself how on earth did he manage to find someone to evoke such tender fondness after everything he went through

[ronkeyroo]

I would like soft Ardyn. Like completely breaks character. Just to show he is human.

yes yes YES Anon THANK YOU for requesting this. Soft Ardyn is my favorite Ardyn as MUCH as I love his deliciously wicked, bastard self. I melt into a silly little puddle every time I read fics or see art where he is depicted as gentle and loving...Still retaining the humanity and tenderness he kept in his heart.

📝 Its unfinished, but I wanted to share this sketch for you anyway, Anon ♥

[write-ur-wrongs]

Mother, Mother pt.2

A/N: Finally ready to post part 2 of my dad!Geralt fic!!! Part 2 is loosely based on this prompt Another request with baby!👀🥰 Reader has a newborn and geralt is just watching them thinking about how much have changed and how reader turned his life around...🍪 so I really want to thank that anon for their prompt and their patience! I definitely took some liberties with this story and worry the plot got lost along the way(?) but I really hope you like it nonetheless! Full disclosure I haven’t proof-read this piece so forgive the many typos!!

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“I said, no,” Geralt repeated himself slowly and with great authority, “thank you.”

The village healer looked at the witcher with eyes wide in disbelief, unable to accept that there was anything a witcher wouldn’t do for coin. Especially this witcher – the White Wolf – or so they used to call him. He used to be a force to be reckoned with on the continent, but now it seemed there was rarely a job he’d be willing to take.

“No? B-but who will help us!” they shouted desperately, “you can’t just leave this village to fend for itself! The creature will kill us all, Witcher!”

Geralt closed his eyes and took a deep breath before repeating himself yet again. “Please understand, I can’t help you, but I know people who can. Eskel is highly qualified and will be here by the next full moon. He will help you; I assure you.”

“But you’re here now,” the healer said, still shaking his head, “you could resolve this by nightfall! Why should these people wait a week for peace?”

“Hm.” He growled, lowly, biting down on his cheek to keep himself from giving into his rage and his pride. He wasn’t just living for himself anymore, not just living for the coin or by the witcher’s code; he had a family now.

He knew the world wouldn’t be easy to convince regarding his change in career path. Hell, it had taken most of your pregnancy to convince his brothers at Kaer Morhen of his plans. When he first told them you were pregnant, and it was his, they laughed heartily while sharing quick looks of concern between one another; fearing you’d strayed and were trying to play poor Geralt for a fool.

Yet that reaction was nothing compared to the one they gave him when Geralt admitted that his days of being a witcher were over. He’d be a consultant now. He’d travel the continent only when he heard of monsters through Jaskier’s letters, and once he reached these villages, he’d take stock and refer the case to one of his brothers, who’d pay him a modest commission for the referral. Geralt never took contracts he deemed to be too dangerous (which, so it happened, was most of them). The rule was if he wouldn’t readily bring Cirilla along to help, it was too dangerous for him alone.

Once, he let pride take precedence and he accepted a contract he knew was dangerous. It felt good to be back in the saddle, both literally and figuratively. He and Roach took to the forest like birds on a breeze, and his sword was just an extension of himself as he wielded it fiercely and with grace.

While he did conquer the beast in the end, it did put up quite a fight, and everything he thought made the fight worth it was washed away the instant he limped into your home and saw the look on his pregnant wife’s face and heard the cries of his beloved child surprise. To this day, he still feels the panicked sound of Ciri’s fearful shriek and your horrified sob weigh heavily in the pit of his stomach.

He felt this very weight now as he considered this desperate healer’s words. Yes, he’d handled this type of monster many times before, but it wasn’t worth it.

“Listen to me, this type of creature is only a threat during a full moon,” Geralt said, “just educate your people, spread the word, you’re in a position of authority here – use it.”

The healer sighed deeply before muttering to themselves in frustration. They pulled their cloak tighter around their body and made a scene of grabbing the coin-filled sac from the table. Geralt rolled eyes his at the paranoid healer before gesturing for them to head outside.

“Fine, leave! But if you leave now and anyone dies, their blood will be on your hands!” shouted the healer, as Geralt tended to Roach.

Geralt rolled his eyes before mounting Roach, urging her onto the trail.

This isn’t my fight, he thought, and their people will be fine.

You were having a wonderful morning. Wren slept through the night for the first time in who-knows how long, and Ciri was relaxing as she entered her fifth day without a magical episode; those lessons with her aunt Yennefer were definitely paying off.

Now you were savouring the gentle afternoon breeze, resting your knees in the cool earth of the garden as the sun warmed you from above. You loved harvesting produce and tending to the flowers; this year was especially bountiful thanks to a rainy spring and temperate summer. As you picked tomatoes off the vine, you smiled softly at the sound of Ciri celebrating a successful hit on her target across the yard.

Meanwhile, Wren played happily in the dirt at your side. She’s been sitting up on her own now which was such a thrill. Such a small change, but it granted you freedoms you didn’t know you’d been missing.

“Mama, snek!” Wren squealed, proudly holding an earthworm up at you. You laughed in relief upon seeing what she was holding up – for half a second you thought she’d managed to snag an actual snake.

“Wow my girl,” you cooed, “what a find!”

At the sound of your praise, Wren smiled up at you brightly and closed her little fingers around the earthworm with pride.

“Careful now, love! Don’t harm it,” you said, gently prying open her stubby fingers and releasing the worm back into the soil, “these little guys play an important role in the health of our garden.”

“You know she doesn’t understand you, right mom?” Ciri said a little breathlessly after stabbing her sword into the earth.

“I don’t think we can say that with certainty, Ciri. She is a witcher’s daughter after all, we are in for a lifetime of surprises I’d say.” You replied with a small shake of your head. Ciri rolled her eyes at you before making off towards the house at a run.

“Cirilla,” you warned, “don’t leave your sword in the yard! And wipe it down before you take it in – I don’t want dirt tracked in again.”

“Mom!” she groaned, stomping back to get her sword. “Witchers don’t need to do these ridiculous chores…” she said under her breath.

“They don’t get warm meals or comfortable beds either!” you replied in a sing-song, knowing it would drive Ciri crazy – you hated when she grumbled at you. Ciri had great respect for her father but would sometimes treat you like you were nothing more than a headmistress at school. Having spent time with witchers and sorceresses alike, scolding didn’t command respect; at least when you played it light it got her attention.

“Yeah – I know! I’ve lived those lives!” Ciri shouted, storming back towards the house, sword in hand.

Fuck. You forgot she was there when Cintra fell. How could you forget?! She was alone and, on the run, and oh gods if Geralt had been here and heard this he’d –

“Ciri, wait, I’m so sorry. I’m –”

“Sounds like someone could use some help.”

You stopped cold at the sound of the strangers’ voice. It ran through you like mead – ice cold but left a strange burning sensation in its place. Ciri also stopped in her tracks, dropping her hand from the door but keeping a firm grip on the helm of her sword. Ciri cast a quick glance at the stranger standing on the edge of your property before settling her nervous eyes on you.

You did your best to evoke confidence before turning to see this stranger for yourself.

It was Visenna.

Again, you did your best to seem confident as you addressed your eldest. “Ciri,” you said, not taking your eyes off the druid, “take Wren into the house, quickly!”  

“Mom?”

“Cirilla please, take her and go into the house,” you said, impressed at your ability to keep your voice level. “And take your sword with you,” you added, turning to give her what you hopped was a look that encouraged her to stay calm and be careful.

Ciri said nothing but scooped her sister up and onto her hip with one arm while keeping her sword steadily by her side.

Once you heard the door close, you cast a quick glance to make sure your girls were safe before turning your attention back to the woman standing at the gate.

“Why are you here, Visenna?” you asked, holding your head high despite the fact your heart was pounding in your ears.

“Oh child,” her words dripped with condescension, “I never expected my son to write me back, but I had hoped he’d share the contents of my letter with his wife.”

“He told me about the letter,” you said, giving her a tight close-lipped smile, “in fact he told me all about you. So, I’m going to ask you again, why are you here?”

“If you know about the letter, then you know why I’m here.”  

“Could you be so cold as to have you forgotten your history with your son? The way you left him to be tested on like a rat? You have no right to be here.” Your voice cracked as you finished your last sentence, and Visenna tilted her head at your sign of weakness.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, dear. You weren’t there -”

“Neither were you!” you spat; with a harshness you didn’t think you had in you.

“Hm.” Visenna crossed her arms and watched you closely through narrowed eyes. You hated that she reminded you of Geralt as she seized you up – the had the same mannerisms, the same affinity for the non-verbal. Geralt could never know.

The druid’s scrutinizing glare made you squirm, and when you broke eye contact with her for a moment of reprieve, she moved to open your gate. For the briefest moment, your panic left you paralyzed as you watched the woman begin a confident stride towards the house.

“Stop!”

You whipped your head around as you heard Ciri come bursting out of the front door. She was wielding her sword up in front of her with one hand while the other hugged Wren onto her side.

“Do not come any closer, I am warning you!” she shrieked, her light eyes wild as her mousey hair blew behind her.

“Ciri-” you tried, holding one hand out to calm her.

“No!” she yelled, keeping her eyes and her sword fixed on Visenna, who was now standing stock-still at the gate.

“Stop trying to tame her, dear,” Visenna interjected. “Let the lion cub roar.”

At the sound of her old nickname, you took in a sharp breath and felt your heart drop to your stomach. It felt like the world stopped turning as Ciri reacted to the trigger.

Cirilla could handle discussions about her old life in small doses and only on her terms. Whenever the dreams came to her, it would take you hours to calm her down. More often than not, the episodes left you and Geralt drained and deeply concerned. Yennefer was really the only person Ciri responded to, and while her methods and lessons have helped, sometimes the pain brought on by the memories was simply too great.

Now, as the four of you stood in your garden, you could feel the earth begin to vibrate beneath your feet. Ciri’s jaw was clenched tight and her nostrils were flared. She slowly knelt down and placed Wren onto the ground before standing tall once again.

“Do not call me that.” She seethed, voice dripping with magic.

“Come now, child,” Visenna replied, seemingly unaware of the storm brewing, “I am your grandmother. I can help you; teach you.”

“You are not my grandmother!” Ciri shrieked, pushing a violent wind towards the druid which forced her to take a step back. “Get out of here! Leave!”

“I – I don’t mean any disrespect, Ciri. The Lioness was –”

“Ciri, no, wait –”

Everything happened so quickly. You felt the burning rush of Ciri’s magic roar past you and tried desperately to keep your eyes open so you could see Wren. Though your eyes stung against the harsh blast Ciri was emitting, you saw Wren crying soundlessly behind her sister, her chubby hands reaching out towards you in desperation. You tried to step towards her but an invisible force pushed you to the ground. You pulled yourself up on one elbow and tried to reach towards your baby without luck. Everything was burning and it took all of your strength to stay alert.

Meanwhile, Ciri’s blast of magic shot at Visenna like a bolt of lightening. Out of the tip of her sword and from her outstretched hand came a bright blue flame surrounded by pulses of violent wind. The destructive blast uprooted the gate and surrounding fence, throwing them back into the forest beyond. Burning shrapnel and earth flew towards her at breakneck speed, but the druid reacted quickly, pulling a portal with the help of an amulet and escaped the blast.

The garden in the path of Ciri’s blow burned harshly – leaving nothing behind but ash; except for the pocket where you lay. You tried to call out to Ciri to calm her down but there was no air for you to draw from. You let the force of her magic hold you down for a moment, trying to recuperate your strength, and when you looked up again you saw Wren taking a few wobbly steps toward her sister.

Holy fuck, you thought. These were her first steps.

You watched with wide eyes as Wren took step after step towards her sister, whose magic raged on. You were so drained by the weight of Ciri’s magic that you were convinced your eyes were deceiving you.

You watched in disbelief as Wren took step after step towards Ciri. The moment her little hand reached her sisters leg, the spell broke and Chaos released its hold on Cirilla. Drained from the exertion, she lost consciousness and started to collapse in on herself, her sword falling from her hand and onto the ground with a dull thud.

You scrambled to your feet and raced to Ciri, dropping to your knees once you reached her to catch her in her fall. You smoothed the ashen strands out of her face and rocked her gently from side to side, breathing shakily through your silent tears. You didn’t know when you started to cry, but when Wren waddled her way to you and nestled onto Ciri’s lap to press her face into the crook of your neck, you were sure you’d be crying forever.

“What the fuck,” Geralt growled upon seeing the destruction as he rode up to the house from the trail. In a growing panic, he urged Roach into a canter. When they got to where the gate should have been, he dismounted and ran towards the house at a sprint, his heart pounding in his ears. When he saw you sobbing on the ground with an unconscious Ciri and weeping Wren, he lost all control.

“Y/N! Y/N what happened?! Who did this?” he shouted, panic rising. When he spotted Ciri’s sword on the ground, Geralt fell to his knees beside you and quickly scanned you all for any sign of injury. You were weeping, holding tightly to Ciri, who was unconscious, and Wren, you

“Y/N please talk to me,” he said more harshly than he meant it, while brushing wild strands of hair out of your face gruffly.

“Ciri, she um –” you choked, working to slow your breathing, “she lost control of her magic…”

“Yeah, I can see that, love.” He said with an incredulous laugh, his eyes scanning your ruined garden with disbelief. “What the fuck happened to make her so upset? Did – did she have a nightmare? Did you, hm, say something to her?”

“Geralt – no,” you said quickly, the tears you managed to calm coming back with a vengeance.

“Y/N, I’m sorry I just…” Geralt regretted the insinuation that this might have been your fault but he’d only ever seen Ciri’s magic be this destructive when she was afraid or hurt. He was at a loss.

You shook your head and turned in his arms to look back at him, readjusting Ciri and Wren in your arms to free an arm which you placed onto Geralt’s chest. You held his eyes and took a steadying breath, unsure of how he’d react.

“We – we were in the garden just, just like always and,” you cast a quick glance down at your daughters before bringing your eyes back up to Geralt’s, both to ground yourself and to hopefully remind him of their proximity in order to temper his reaction, “and Visenna appeared at the gate.”

He gasped sharply at your words, and his body around you. You brought your hand up to his face and tried to calm him. His cat-like eyes were wild and unfocused – he looked like a frightened child and it broke your heart to see him like this. Wren seemed to sense this too, as she scrambled up and reached towards her father’s hair.

Wren’s light tugs managed to pull Geralt out of his shock momentarily and his eyes seemed to come back into focus. Seeing this change, you gently redirected his attention back to you.

“Visenna came for Wren… T-to take her or, or to raise her or something? She mentioned the letter…” Geralt clenched his jaw at the reminder.

You hadn’t motioned the letter in months. Geralt wasn’t at all ready to welcome his mother back into his life, and he definitely didn’t want her anywhere near his family.

“What did she do to Ciri? I swear I’ll –” he seethed.

“No, no, Geralt,” you interrupted gently, moving your hand back to his chest, “she didn’t get the chance. I don’t know what she was going to do, but Ciri came out with her sword,” you stopped short to look down at her with pride, “to protect us.”

“She did?” Geralt let out another incredulous breath, shaking his head at his child surprise.

“Yeah, it was like nothing I’ve ever seen. Her magic, it destroyed everything in its path but somehow, she was sheltering me from the blast. Visenna escaped through a portal, I- I think? But Ciri was… unstoppable.”

“Y/N, if Ciri was able to harness Chaos like this at her will, to protect you; this could mean –”

“Oh no, love, I’m sorry I’m not telling this right. She came out of the house with her sword to protect us but she lost control when Visenna called her the Lion Cub.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Oh, I know,” you agreed emphatically before adding, “and then she called herself Ciri’s grandmother…”

“Fuck!”

“Right,” you sighed, shaking your head as a shudder ran through you.

“Da-ee,” Wren said suddenly, pushing her little hands into her father’s face, causing a shocked laugh to escape his lips. Geralt’s face softened in a way he reserved for his youngest daughter and the sight of it was enough to pull you out of whatever was left of your panic.

“Oh, gods!” you exclaimed, “Geralt you won’t believe this.”

“Hm?” he hummed, not taking his eyes off Wren; he was completely enthralled by his baby.

“She took her first steps – and, gods it was incredible Geralt – when she touched Ciri, it pulled her out of the trance!” You gushed breathlessly.

“She did? That’s my girl!” he beamed, earning a proud giggle from the toddler. “Fuck I hate that I missed this, you’re just full of surprises aren’t you, goose?” he said, peppering light kisses across Wren’s little face.

“I know, love.” You said softly, leaning into his arms once more. “I’m so relieved to have you home.”

“Come on, Y/N, let’s get our girls into the house.” Geralt said as handed Wren off to you before picking Ciri up gently as he stood. You took his outstretched hand rose to your feet along-side him. “I’m not leaving you again, I promise.”

“Geralt, you say that every time.” You tease lightly, holding the front door open for him.

 “No, I mean it this time Y/N, really.” He said quietly, as he laid Ciri down in her room. “I can’t keep doing this. When I’m gone, all I do is think of you and the girls…” he trailed off when he noticed Wren had fallen asleep on the couch. You smiled tenderly as you watched him cradle her into his strong arms.

“My love, you know you’d go crazy if you stayed here with us all the time.” You said as you smoothed his hair out of his face.

“I’d go crazy if anything ever happened to you.” he whispered.

“Hey now… we’re fine,” you tired to reassure him, “today was an anomaly. I doubt Visenna would try that stunt again. Ciri will be fine, she just needs to rest, and tomorrow we can send word out to Yen for support. We – “you paused to take a steadying breath, “we can’t let fear rule our lives, Geralt.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, setting Wren down into her bed before wrapping his arms around your frame, “now when did you get to be so wise?”

“A certain witcher taught me a few things,” you said, a small smirk playing on your lips, “always preaching something or other but sometimes the lessons stick.”

“Is that so?” he growled, a fighting back a smirk of his own.”

“Hmm,” you teased, kissing him deeply.

[stereostevie]

‘Exuma’ at 50: How a Bahamian Artist Channeled Island Culture Into a Strange Sonic Ritual by Brenna Ehrlich

The performer known as Exuma channeled his Bahamian heritage into a captivating 1970 debut. Fans and participants look back.

Chances are, you’ve never heard a boast track quite like “Exuma, the Obeah Man,” the opening song off Exuma’s self-titled 1970 album.

A wolf howls, frogs count off a ramshackle symphony, bells jingle, drums palpitate, a zombie exhales, all by way of introducing the one-of-a-kind Bahamian performer, born Tony Mackey: “I came down on a lightning bolt/Nine months in my mama’s belly,” he proclaims. “When I was born, the midwife/Screamed and shout/I had fire and brimstone/Coming out of my mouth/I’m Exuma, the Obeah Man.”

“[Obeah] was with my grandfather, with my father, with my mother, with my uncles who taught me,” Mackey said in a 1970 interview, referring to the spiritual practice he grew up with in the Bahamas. “It has been my religion in the vein that everyone has grown up with some sort of religion, a cult that was taught. Christianity is like good and evil. God is both. He unlocked the secrets to Moses, good and evil, so Moses could help the children of Israel. It’s the same thing, the whole completeness — the Obeah Man, spirits of air.”

The music world is hardly devoid of gimmicks, alter egos, and adopted personas. But Mackey’s Exuma moniker, borrowed from the name of an island district in the Bahamas, was never just that — he lived and breathed his culture, channeling it into a debut album so singularly weird, wonderful, and enchanted that it’s not surprising it’s remembered only by the most industrious of crate-diggers. A cuddly Dr. John dabbling in voodoo Mackey was not; Exuma is a parade, a séance, a condemnation of racist evils.

“The eccentricity of [Dr. John’s 1968 debut] Gris-Gris is, like, ‘Let’s roll a fat joint,'” says Okkervil River frontman and devout Exuma fan Will Sheff. “The eccentricity of Exuma is more like PCP.” Sheff became hip to Exuma when his former bandmate Jonathan Meiburg (singer-guitarist of Shearwater) happened to hear “Obeah Woman,” Nina Simone’s 1974 spin on “Obeah Man.” Sheff was entranced by Exuma’s debut, especially the sincerity of its lyrics and Mackey’s whole-hearted earnestness. “There’s something about when somebody is very devoutly religious, where you trust them not to sell you something,” he tells Rolling Stone. “I mean, they may be trying to sell you their religious beliefs, but their religious beliefs are so vitally important to them that they kind of stop trying to sell themselves.”

“He was unique. He was good,” says Quint Davis, producer of the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, where Exuma became a mainstay later in his career. “He was like a voodoo Richie Havens or something.”

Macfarlane Gregory Anthony Mackey grew up in Nassau, Bahamas, steeped in both Bahamian history and American culture. Each Boxing Day, he witnessed Junkanoo parades — a tradition dating back hundreds of years and commemorating days when slaves finally had time off — replete with music, masks, and folklore. At the movies, accessed with pocket money earned from selling fish on weekends, he saw performances by Sam Cooke and Fats Domino.

“Saying the word ‘Junkanoo’ to most Bahamians gets their hearts beating faster and their breathing gets shorter and faster,” Langston Longley, leader of Bahamas Junkanoo Revue, has said. “It’s hard to express in words because it’s a feeling, a spirit that’s evoked within from the sound of a goatskin drum, a cowbell, or a bugle.”

“I grew up a roots person, someone knowing about the bush and the herbs and the spiritual realm,” Mackey told Wavelength in 1981 of his life back home. “It was inbred into all of us. Just like for people growing up in the lowlands of Delta Country or places like Africa.”

In 1961, when he was 17, Mackey moved to New York’s Greenwich Village to become an architect, according to a 1970 interview, but he abandoned that dream when he ran out of money. He then acquired a junked-up guitar on which he practiced Bahamian calypsos and penned songs about his home. “I started playing around when Bob Dylan, Richie Havens, Peter, Paul, and Mary, Richard Pryor, Hendrix, and Streisand were all down there, too, hanging out and performing at the Cafe Bizarre,” Mackey recalled in 1994. “I’d been singing down there, and we’d all been exchanging ideas and stuff. Then one time a producer came up to me and said he was very interested in recording some of my original songs, but he said that I needed a vehicle. I remembered the Obeah Man from my childhood — he’s the one with the colorful robes who would deal with the elements and the moonrise, the clouds, and the vibrations of the earth. So, I decided to call myself Exuma, the Obeah Man.”

Mackey’s manager, Bob Wyld, helped him form a band to record his debut album, including Wyld’s client Peppy Castro of the Blues Magoos. “It was like acting. Like, ‘OK, I’ll take a little alias, I’ll be Spy Boy,’ and all this kind of stuff,” Castro tells Rolling Stone. All the members of Mackey’s band adopted stage names, which wasn’t that strange to Castro, who originated the role of Berger in the Broadway show Hair.

“Then I met Tony and then I got into the folklore and I started to see what he was about — this history of coming from the [Bahamas],” he adds. “It was great. It was inventive. We would do a little Junkanoo parade from out of the dressing room, right up to the stage. It was about the show of it all. Coming from somebody who wanted to learn music in a more traditional form, that was kind of cool.”

The band recorded Exuma at Bob Liftin’s Regent Sound Studios in New York City — where the Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, and Elton John also laid down tracks — giving the bizarre record a slick sheen. Mackey once said that the music came to him in a dream, and he set the mood in the studio accordingly. “It was so free form. We turned the lights out, we’d put up candles, he’d get on a mic and he’d just start going off and singing crazy stuff and we followed it,” Castro says. “You would go into trances. In those days, I was a little hippie, so yeah, we’d be smoking weed there and getting high. It became a séance almost. It was like, ‘We’re going into this mode and we’re going to see where it takes us.’”

“There were no boundaries with Tony,” he adds. “It was free for him. It’s kind of like what people felt like when they played with Chuck Berry. If you talk to any of the musicians who played with Chuck Berry, you just had to be on your toes because he would change keys in the middle of the song. But there was also the spiritual stuff, you know, just the crazy voodoo-ish stuff. It was just so free for him.”

Everyone Rolling Stone talked with for this story compared Mackey to Richie Havens, but the similarities only really extend to, perhaps, Havens’ role in the Greenwich Village scene and the rich quality of his voice. “You can put on Dr. John and Richie Havens and water the plants. It’s good background music,” Will Sheff says. “But if [Exuma’s] ‘Séance in the Sixth Fret’ comes on shuffle, you’re going to skip it. It’s active listening; it sends a chill down your spine.”

Exuma is a kind of aural movie — fitting, as Mackey went on to write plays — that starts off boastful and proud with “Obeah Man” then descends into darker territory. The second track, “Dambala,” is a melodic damnation of slave owners: “You slavers will know/What it’s like to be a slave,” Mackey wails, “You’ll remain in your graves/With the stench and the smell.”

“It reminds me of Jordan Peele movies — movies that deal with sort of the black experience, a collective trauma,” Sheff says of the song. “He’s cursing a slaver and there’s something so intensely powerful about that.”

Then there’s zombie ode “Mama Loi, Papa Loi,” a frankly terrifying story of men rising from the dead, featuring guttural yelps and groans. “Jingo, Jingo he ain’t dead/He can see from the back of his head,” Mackey sings. That leads into the comparatively peppy “Junkanoo,” an instrumental that recalls the parades of the musician’s youth. Things get dark again with “Séance in the Sixth Fret,” which is just that — a yearning ritual in which the band calls to a litany of spirits. “Hand on quill/Hand on pencil/Hand on pen/Tell me spirit/Tell me when,” Mackey intones. The more accessible “You Don’t Know What’s Going On,” follows, leading into epic prophecy “The Vision,” which foretells the end of the world: “And all the dead walking throughout the land/Whispering, Whispering, it was judgment day.”

The strange, gorgeous record was released on Mercury Records, and at the time, the label had high hopes for its success, as it was apparently getting solid radio play. “The reaction is that of a heavy, big-numbers contemporary album,” Mercury exec Lou Simon said at the time. “As a result, we’re going to give it all the merchandising support we can muster.” But the album apparently failed to break through, and Mackey left Mercury in 1971 after releasing Exuma II. His legacy lived on in the corners of popular culture: Nina Simone covered “Dambala” as well as “Obeah Man,” with both tracks appearing on It Is Finished, a 1974 LP that failed to take off. Mackey himself went on to drop still more albums but mostly operated in a quiet kind of obscurity.

“What he didn’t have was the commercial base, you know, the formula,” Castro says by way of explanation. “Let’s face it, the music business is very fickle and it boxes you in. And if you’re going to join that world, it’s in your best interest to commercialize yourself and to come up with a formula that works. He didn’t have that formula.”

Mackey did find a home, though, at the newly minted New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival in 1978, an atmosphere that seemed more in keeping with his spiritual aesthetic than mainstream radio. “New Orleans is the most receptive place in the world to the artist, this music spirit that flies around in the air all the time waiting to be reborn and reborn,” he told Wavelength in 1981.

“He was a Caribbean Dr. John, so to speak,” festival producer Davis says. “When I heard [his album], I said, ‘Well, that’s us.’ This guy with feathers on his head, his big hat. Everybody loved him and he became part of the festival family.”

“I think he was the first Caribbean act that we had,” Davis adds. “I hesitate to say that he was a trailblazer because there weren’t a lot of people following in his footsteps.”

[raendown]

Pairing: TobiramaKagami Rated: E Chapter: 4/4 Word count: 6250 Summary: It shouldn’t be so surprising that it’s Kagami who makes the opening move, asking for so little when he desires so much. From there their relationship unfolds in a tapestry of firsts they’ve both been waiting to experience.

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Senpō

One night in Tobirama’s bed turned in to two. Two nights in Tobirama’s bed brought him back three days later to stay for another two nights. Rumors flew from one corner of the village to the other as they were wont to do but Kagami knew the truth; it wasn’t the sheets or anything they did between them that kept him coming back, it was the warmth in Tobirama’s eyes as they woke slowly in the rising dawn, the affection bare and open that he knew damn well how lucky he was to have earned. 

So no, it was not the fact that the man possessed hands clever enough to be illegal which had him showing up on a familiar doorstep for the third time this week. It certainly didn’t hurt, though, and he could admit to that. 

Kagami’s smile stretched from one side of his face to the other when the door opened, faltering only because the breath hitched in his chest to find Tobirama in a casual yukata belted loosely at the hips. The man didn’t even seem to properly understand how deadly he was. It was always so effortless for him. 

“I was starting to wonder where you were,” Tobirama said, beckoning him in. “You know you don’t have to knock, right? I keep telling you to just let yourself in.”

“And let your wards burn my head off? No thank you.” Placing his sandals neatly to one side, Kagami straightened only to squeak with surprise when he was immediately pulled in to a kiss. 

“You’ve been keyed in to my wards for years.” 

Tobirama swept away after stealing his breath and dropping a bomb on him as though entirely ignorant of the effect either would have on his guest. It took a minute or so for Kagami to work his way through that, wobbling down the hall and in to the living room on unsteady feet. Even after years of friendship and weeks of dating it still managed to blow him away how much trust this man put in him. What he had done to earn it he wasn’t sure but he was happy for it nonetheless. 

He found his boyfriend in the kitchen with both hands covered in bubbles, clearly only halfway through the night’s dishes. Kagami rubbed at his stomach and wished that he’d had the foresight to bring along something to eat, evening patrol was always boring and boredom usually led to hunger, but it was far from the first time he had gone without food. His stomach wouldn’t be happy with him come morning but it would survive. 

Or such were his thoughts until Tobirama looked over one shoulder with an indulgent smile and nodded to the other end of the counter where a plate sat off to one side with an upturned bowl covering it. Curious, he padded across the room to lift the bowl. Then he clutched at his stomach again to cover the motion of reaching up to touch his heart, almost moaning as the scent of soba noodles washed over him. His favorite. When he peeked over he finally saw there was a place already set for him at the table just waiting for him to bring the food over and enjoy - which he did after pressing himself against Tobirama’s back and showering his gratitude across the man’s shoulders with gentle kisses. 

It only took him a couple of minutes to inhale the delicious meal, quick enough the rest of the dishes weren’t even finished yet. He brought his bowl over to join the rest and snatched up a towel to do his part drying the ones already clean and resting in the second sink. 

“How did you know I hadn’t eaten?” he asked, carefully not moving his gaze away from the bowl he was sliding in to a cupboard. 

“You never eat during patrol,” was the simple answer. 

“I could have stopped to grab something on the way here.”

From the corner of his eye he could see Tobirama giving him an indulgent smile. “And spend more time away from my stellar company? What a suggestion.” 

As much as Kagami wanted to rib the man for being so full of himself he was right, that was the entire reason he had passed on the chance to feed himself. It wasn’t his fault that Tobirama’s company was so compelling. He knew better than to say that, though, lest he suffer through a round of gentle teasing. Most of the people who didn’t know him well would assume that Tobirama and teasing were two words that simply didn’t go together in a sentence but Kagami had learned years ago that he was merciless in having a laugh at his loved ones’ expense. 

Recently he had also discovered the man to be merciless when it came to teasing in bed as well. He still wasn’t sure if he loved it more than he hated it but he wasn’t going to ask for it to stop. It was way too good for that.

“Anyway, the food was still warm which means you didn’t cook it all that long ago. It’s pretty late. What time did you leave the office today without me there to drag you out?”

“Not late enough for the scolding I can see you preparing in your head,” Tobirama murmured.

Kagami eyed him suspiciously. “Mhm and then when you got home I suppose you just relaxed away the whole evening?”

“I may have brought a few documents home with me.”

“Aha! I knew it!”

“Oh yes, do pardon me.” Tobirama set the last dish in the second sink and pulled the plug from under all the bubbles. “How horrible to get more work done today so that I might be free to lie in as long as I like tomorrow and watch the sunrise paint you like a masterpiece.”

“Guh,” was all the intelligent reply he could come up with. 

It just wasn’t fair how easily his partner could pull lines like that out of thin air. More than aware of the amusement that followed him, Kagami abandoned the last few dishes to drip dry themselves and stomped off down the hall with as much ire as he could muster. Which, admittedly, wasn’t exactly much. He could hardly be angry at Tobirama for showering him with all the attention and affections he had long dreamed of, more so than he had even dared to imagine in his own fantasies. 

Despite how recently their relationship had gotten to this level it felt surprisingly natural preparing for bed in a home that wasn’t his own. Already there was a drawer in the dresser filled with spare clothing in his size and the bathroom now sported a proper cup for holding two toothbrushes where Tobirama used to simply lay his down behind the tap. Oddly unhygienic for someone so obsessed with order in every other facet of life. Kagami was smiling to himself as he dropped his dusty work clothes in the hamper and slid on a clean if threadbare yukata to sleep in. Getting used to being here was hardly a bad thing. And he supposed that it hadn’t really been that short of a time since the two of them got together, not really, it only felt that way because he’d been floating around with his head in the clouds ever since their first date. Compared to other couples he supposed they had actually moved a bit slower than most. 

Saru in particular was a big believer that the first date was a perfectly acceptable milestone for a first time. That had always seemed a little fast to Kagami but since he hadn’t actually had any experience until Tobirama unexpectedly returned his feelings he couldn’t exactly say he was an authority on the matter.

With only a few months of dating experience under his belt he crawled in between soft cotton sheets and watched Tobirama wander in to the room, apparently finished setting the kitchen back to rights. He could feel the weight of red eyes watching him. Rather than face whatever thoughts were in that gaze, sure to evoke some kind of embarrassing reaction from him, Kagami chose to burrow underneath the blankets instead and roll over in a mockery of sleepiness. Surely a very convincing act. 

Tobirama’s laugh said otherwise. 

As he listened to the sounds of the other getting changed and popping in to the bathroom for nightly ablutions Kagami told himself to stay calm. When he felt the bed dip and another body fit itself close up against his own, regardless of what he’d just told it to do, his heart skyrocketed off at speeds previously unachieved by humankind. Obviously Tobirama felt it. 

“Is everything alright?” he asked. 

“Just fine! Nothing’s wrong!” To Kagami’s utter mortification his voice came out as little more than a squeak. 

“Your mouth says nothing but the thunder going on between your ribs says something.”

Nervously licking his lips, he squirmed. Then he froze back to stillness when that rubbed certain parts of their anatomy together that he was only too interested in at the moment. “Okay. Um. Maybe I do have something on my mind. That I, er, wanted to suggest?”

“Go on,” Tobirama practically purred in his ear. 

“Sex!?”

If the earth would have opened up and swallowed him whole right then he would have been very grateful. After the lonely hours on patrol he’d spent trying to come up with some kind of suave and casual way to bring up this topic he’d thought he at least had something better than nervously blurting out a single word like that was the entire suggestion. The silence that followed his outburst felt like it weighed on every inch of his skin.

“Would you care to elaborate on that concept?” His partner asked eventually, tone careful and devoid of any inflection negative or positive. 

“Not really,” Kagami said honestly. “Pretty sure I just embarrassed myself enough for one night.”

“And if I happened to mention that you may have piqued my interest?”

“I would still be planning how big of a hole I’m going to dig so I can crawl in to it and disappear forever.” 

Tobirama laughed softly, warm puffs of air skating across the back of his neck, then strong arms were pulling him impossibly closer. “Perhaps I should take the lead on this one, hm? You do seem to enjoy a little...guidance, shall we say, in these matters.”

“Nnnggg.” Kagami covered his face with both hands but the man was right. He did still need a little help navigating the embarrassments of intimacy. 

“Did you wish to ask questions or were you hoping for a practical demonstration?” He was laughing, the bastard. Not outright but there was definitely some amusement in his tone. Considering how ridiculous that outburst had been one couldn’t really blame him but he didn’t have to be so obvious about it. 

Squirming did nothing to break the silence. Neither did squeezing his eyes tightly or counting backwards from ten. Eventually Kagami was forced to admit that he needed to open his mouth and use actual words like a big boy no matter how painful it was. Easier said than done, though, when he could feel Tobirama’s pulse in the wrists holding him so tightly, clear evidence that he wasn’t the only one affected by the current topic of conversation. Was the idea of laying with him really that exciting? 

“If you’ve been waiting for me to say that I’m ready or something,” he mumbled, “this is me saying it.” 

“Ah. You know me so well.”

“You say that like you don’t know me even better.”

His body rolled easily in to the open space when Tobirama shifted away, falling naturally on to his back and biting his lip when six feet of albino muscle shifted in again to cage him from above. No sight on earth would ever be more deadly or more sexy than the feral grin looking down at him. 

“I hope I never stop learning new things about you,” Tobirama murmured. 

Kagami would have replied if he weren’t suddenly robbed of all his breath by the hand skimming up the inside of one leg. He bit down in to his bottom lip and valiantly did his best to hold eye contact as fingers traced senseless patterns higher and higher, a featherlight touch that made his muscles twitch and his blood race with anticipation. Those fingers had already discovered a multitude of ways to drive him over the brink of insanity. Tobirama never seemed to be short of ways to drive him wild with desire, forever touching and tasting and exploring parts of him that he never could have imagined would be so sensitive. Much as he loathed to admit it he really had been enjoying the ‘guidance’ he’d gotten so far. Being the center of all that glorious attention and creativity was an honor many would kill for. 

Certainly many of them would do worse than murder to be him at the moment, to have Tobirama slip a hand under the edge of their sleeping yukata and drag upwards with an aching slowness then pull away to trace a single finger along the crease of Kagami’s groin. He even seemed to delight in the shivers that rewarded his efforts and grinned in response to a half-hearted glare. They were both comfortable enough with each other that there wasn’t much need for either to wear undergarments to bed. Kagami regretted that unnecessity if only for how it exposed his helpless excitement even more. It was fairly hard to misinterpret the large tent in his clothing after all. 

“Today”-with a leer Tobirama rolled to fit one knee between both of his prey’s-“I believe I’d like to learn what sounds you make when I press inside you.”

“You can’t just say things like that!” Kagami cried. 

He would have protested further but for that dastardly knee that slowly pressed upwards in to him, his hips automatically responding by rolling to meet it in a slow grind that was more tease than anything else. Words in general escaped him along with a breathy moan when Tobirama shifted up off the mattress to slide entirely between his open thighs in a way that was rather hard to misinterpret. The hunger in his eyes was also pretty hard to mistake for anything else. He was not a man who found any need to be shy about his desires, something Kagami admired him for. If only he too could find that confidence. 

What he found instead was cool air kissing across the skin of his chest when Tobirama plucked the knot of his yukata open like he was offended by the barrier it made between them. For all the nights they had spent together and all the times they had stripped each other to the skin, sweet exploration always falling headlong in to the sort of mutual heat that leaves no one unsatisfied, his partner had never pushed him to go beyond that imaginary line drawn in the sand which so many people considered powerful somehow. Already getting close to his late twenties, Kagami had dealt with his fair share of teasing for remaining a virgin. He was more than ready to remove that title from his conscience. 

If only his cheeks would stop being so obvious about how embarrassing he still found this sort of thing. Or how embarrassed he was about being embarrassed. 

He expected Tobirama to completely strip him but as soon as his yukata was parted and pressed out of the way it went ignored. For some reason he couldn’t quite explain there was something incredibly erotic about being only mostly undressed, as though his partner simply couldn’t wait to keep touching him. And touch him he did. Kagami arched under the fingers that traced patterns on his skin like they were determined to map out his entire body all over again for the dozenth time. 

“One of these days,” he gasped, “you’re gonna find a way to literally kill me with pleasure.”

“Hm, I do believe I once heard a man refer to an orgasm as ‘a little death’.” Tobirama flashed him a wicked grin full of teeth before leaning down to sink those teeth in to his neck. 

“Ahhh god that’s terrible. Good. Teeth good, words terrible, fuck don’t stop.” 

“I don’t plan to.”

Directly in contrast with his words Tobirama pulled away for a moment to lean over towards the bedside table, tugging open one of the drawers and pulling something out. When he held it up Kagami felt a little silly for not guessing what it was.

“I presume you know what this is for.”

“Lube,” he replied inanely. He did know what that was for. In fact he even had a small tube of it at home, although it was probably expired by now since the one and only time he had attempted to touch himself like that was years ago. He’d been renting an apartment with several other clansmen of an age with him at that point and one of them had nearly walked in on his little experiment. It was such a close call that he’d never tried again even after moving out in to his own home, the idea of it forever connected with the potential for public shame in his mind. 

In a way he was sort of glad now. Watching Tobirama’s hand disappear between his legs and feeling that first touch against his entrance, slick and foreign, pandered to some very specific preferences he hadn’t even known he cared about until Tobirama unknowingly began to fulfil them. There was something special about knowing that only the man he loved had ever touched him in these ways. It was somehow the very opposite of possessiveness but he couldn’t for the life of him think of the word, not with smooth lips taking his own in a deep kiss just as that thin questing finger pressed inside him for the first time. 

Grateful to his partner for stifling the gasp that would have been ripped from his throat, Kagami struggled to bring his thoughts in to order, wanting to respond in some way but unable to think of how. He couldn’t always be the only one receiving some kind of stimulation. That didn’t seem fair, even if Tobirama had repeatedly assured him that seeing him in the throes of pleasure was a treat in itself. He reached out with some vague thought about exploring with his own hands but they only got as far as the soft white hair framing the face above him, gripping and pulling in time with the second finger pressing in to him. Their kiss was broken when he threw his own head back and gave vent to a wordless cry, eyes closed, every nerve ending in his body on fire. 

“W-what happens if I don’t last?” He managed to ask despite the lack of air to breathe. 

“That would depend on whether you feel you can keep going afterwards,” Tobirama answered with the same blunt tone as he did most questions. 

“Keep going!?” 

He cracked his eyes open to see a surprisingly gentle smile looking back. “You’re always allowed to say no. Feeling a little overwhelmed, are we?” 

“It...it feels good,” Kagami admitted. 

“Mn, it’s supposed to.”

A very good point, well punctuated by a twist of fingers. Fear of disappointing his partner gave him the urge to ask more questions but pride, stupid useless pride, reared its head at the worst of moments as it was wont to do. It almost sounded like someone else’s voice boldly declaring, “I can take whatever you throw at me!” 

If they were sparring he had the distinct impression that he would have regretted those words instantly. But they weren’t sparring and he’d already said it - and it wasn’t as though trying to keep up with this man wouldn’t be pleasurable. He trusted his partner to stop if he did become overwhelmed. Well, more so than usual. Generally the second Tobirama laid hands on him he was overwhelmed but it was always in the best possible way and he had yet to come away unsatisfied or with any sort of regret. 

He was just having a little trouble computing the sheer levels of satisfaction waiting for him if two fingers was already threatening a nirvana the likes of which he’d never known. 

Barely half a minute later his thoughts were derailed yet again with the introduction of a third finger. Kagami writhed, unsure how else to deal with all these new sensations, and when Tobirama’s weight began to shuffle down the bed he assumed it was to give him room for whatever contortions he was apparently trying to work himself in to. Then sharp teeth nipped at the inside of his thighs and for a moment he went entirely rigid with surprise. It was followed immediately by a deep shudder, eyes rolling in to the back of his head. 

“Feels very different like that, doesn’t it?” Tobirama’s voice asked smugly from somewhere near his crotch. 

“Nnngggg,” he answered intelligently. Clenching around the very welcome intrusion inside him had indeed felt different. Better. He considered doing it again but he was already in danger of cumming before they actually got to the supposed good part of this so instead he reached blindly downwards until his fingers came in contact with solid broad shoulders. When had he let go of Tobirama’s hair? It was so hard to keep track of anything but those wicked fingers. 

A curious sound greeted him, followed by soft kisses much too close to somewhere that would have ended this in moments. Kagami struggled to remember how to form sentences. 

“I’m - ah god - am I not r-ready yet?” 

“Well that’s hardly a question for me,” Tobirama mused in a teasingly thoughtful voice. “Do you feel ready?”

“Yes!” Kagami wasn’t sure if he was answering the question or responding to the fingers scissoring inside him. Probably both. 

Either way his point seemed to come across well enough for Tobirama to chuckle lightly and gift him with another dusting of light kisses before pulling his hand away. “I suppose I could be convinced to have mercy.”

Strangely enough being empty so suddenly did not feel like a mercy until he saw his partner reaching for the lube again. Even someone with as little experience as him could guess what that was for. He couldn’t even bring himself to care that he was trembling with sheer anticipation as he watched Tobirama rummage around in the nightstand and come out with a condom. Doubtless they were both clean but neither of them had thought to have themselves tested; a condom was definitely the safest way to go. Not to mention he wasn’t sure how he felt about the mess this was supposed to leave behind. How did one clean inside themselves? 

Kagami didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until Tobirama paused and looked down at him, bemused, to say, “Now would be a terrible time to pass out.”

“I’m good,” he wheezed. At the sharp lift of one pale eyebrow he drew in a deep breath and fumbled his way through a shaky grin. “Just nervous. There’s no way to tell if I’m actually going to enjoy this until it happens and that’s kind of wreaking havoc on my instincts to be prepared, you know?” 

“You seemed to enjoy the preparation well enough,” Tobirama pointed out.

“Ah, true. I-I did. A lot. Please stop letting me stall or I will somehow talk myself out of something that I very much do want.”

Getting on with this was definitely worth a little amusement at his own expense. Tobirama was definitely right, he had more than enjoyed the pleasure a few fingers could give. What he was worried about was all the talk he’d heard about how different the next part felt and specifically the ones that said it might hurt. He'd never been sure whether that rumor was just about girls or not. 

Thankfully he wasn’t left waiting any longer. Strong hands traced the inside of his thighs one more time before gripping under both of his knees to lift up and out. It felt natural to wrap them around his partner’s hips and Tobirama seemed to approve so he hooked his ankles together and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. It felt somehow rude to stare while Tobirama lined himself up, though he definitely knew when the man had found his mark, pressure against a now very sensitive area slamming his eyes shut and setting him to trembling again. 

He was grateful for the kisses that tried to distract him but it wasn’t quite enough. Probably nothing on earth could have entirely distracted him from having Tobirama’s cock pressing in to him with agonizing slowness, stretching his entrance to the very limits. By the time the head finally slipped in he was gasping and the sensation of it startled him in to clenching - which of course only made him gasp a little more. Through the wave of pleasure he still found room to feel a little smug, however, when he heard Tobirama let out a low groan in his ear. It was good to know he wasn’t the only one enjoying this.

“I may have miscalculated.” The words came out a little strangled as though Tobirama had struggled to force them out. 

“Ung?” Coherency was a little beyond him at the moment but Kagami did his best to make some sort of noise that sounded vaguely like concern. He really hoped nothing was actually wrong. Stopping when they were finally getting started was definitely not on his agenda no matter how nervous he had been. 

“Gods, you feel so much better than I imagined.” 

If he weren’t already probably about as red as the blood filling his cheeks Kagami just knew that he would have flushed all over again. “Don’t be weird!” he cried. “And m-move! Please?” 

For perhaps three whole seconds he very seriously considered begging just to see if that would get the man to continue. He’d never been all that attached to his pride anyway. As it was, it appeared to be unnecessary. Tobirama seemed to get all he needed from that single ‘please’. When he moved his hips the motion was still as controlled as he ever was and yet from the quiet sound that escaped him again it was clear that such control came at a mighty effort. 

It didn’t matter how many times they laid together or how long this relationship lasted; it would never stop blowing his mind that he was able to test Senju Tobirama’s infamous self-control. 

His mind was maybe also blown by the feeling of that pale cock burying itself deeper and deeper inside of him. Barely a fraction of an inch before it would have pressed up against his prostate his partner stopped and Kagami couldn’t even spare the energy to be ashamed of the wounded groan he made as it pulled away again. 

“Hnnnaaaah do that again!” he demanded mindlessly.

“With pleasure,” Tobirama shot back in a strained voice. 

Then he did it again. And again. Somehow he managed to set a perfectly even rhythm while both of them filled the room with all sorts of lewd noises and half garbled sentences praising each other. It made sense now why so many people lost their good sense in the face of any prospect of experiencing this. Kagami understood now how sex could make people so stupid. It was worth it. This was worth the years he had spent pining and the months it had taken to get to this point, would have been worth any amount of begging or pleading or even murder if it had been asked of him. Right now in the moment it was hard to think of anything he wouldn’t do to make sure this never ended. 

Of course, because the universe was unfair, it did have to end and it only took a minute or so before he could feel it rushing up on him with all the force of his partner’s strongest suiton. Each time Tobirama rolled his hips back the head of his cock pulled at Kagami’s entrance and each time he slid back in was like a religious experience, like feeling complete at the same time as too full in the best possible way. He wasn’t nearly ready for it all to be over. Male hubris had led him, just like every other man before him, to assume that he wouldn’t be like the rumors, that surely he could last longer than a couple of minutes his first time. But as much as he didn’t want it to stop there was no denying the tension building, coiling, roiling inside of him faster than he could process. 

Fingers digging in to whatever bit of his partner he happened to be clutching, Kagami tried to communicate through the sparks bursting behind his eyelids. 

“I’m-! Hah, god, I’m gon- nnh!”

Tobirama mumbled something against his skin that might have been some kind of snarky quip if not for how absolutely wrecked he sounded. Whatever he was trying to say was lost to the sounds of their gasping breaths and the whine building in Kagami’s throat, higher and higher until it cracked in to broken syllables and spilled over his lips like the fire spilling through his veins. 

Obviously he had experienced his fair share of incredible orgasms at the hands of the man above him; none of them could have possibly prepared him for the world-melting sensation of having Tobirama hike both of his legs up just that little bit higher and slide in that last portion of an inch deeper, driving against his prostate for the first time and tearing a garbled shout from his throat as he went crashing over the edge. His entire body clenched and arched, unsure how else to deal with this influx of sensations, and it was all only made better by the distant awareness of how Tobirama himself had gone stiff. Their bodies twitched and jerked together while their cries intermingled until they slowly petered away to become soft helpless noises whispered in to the sweaty skin of each other’s necks. 

Chest heaving for air, every muscle in his body lax in the aftermath, Kagami stared up at the ceiling through cracked eyelids and wondered if this was what nirvana was supposed to feel like. He’d listened to his fair share of horror stories about other people’s first times and for a brief moment he pitied them that they would never have the experience he’d just had. It was only a very brief flash of pity, though. Tobirama was his alone and if he could help it he would not be allowing anyone else to so much as fantasize about the man. 

He’d never been the possessive type before but exceptions could be made. That was just how an Uchiha loved.

Gentle fingers traced the shape of his hips before slipping away to reach up and cup his jaw, neither pulling nor guiding but simply holding him as though he were made of precious glass, stroking along his jawline with a careful thumb. He could feel the tremble in Tobirama’s other arm where it held his weight against the mattress and smiled a dopey little smile. Even completely wrung out the man was solicitous in his quiet way. 

“Thank you.” His voice soft and thoughtful, it took a moment to realize that Tobirama really had spoken. 

“F-for sex?”

His partner let out a single bark of laughter. “No- well, I suppose yes. It is only polite to thank someone for a gift.”

“Don’t be embarrassing!” Kagami shouted, squirming aimlessly.

“Your presence is always a gift; that you trust me with your heart and all your most vulnerable moments is even more so.”

“Gah! You have to stop or I will literally die. At least wait until you’re not- not- you know!” 

He couldn’t bring himself to reference the fact that Tobirama was still buried inside him, softened now but no less perfect. What embarrassed him the most was how much he enjoyed the sensation. Obviously during the act it was a good feeling - to make a massive understatement - but he hadn’t expected how complete it would leave him feeling to enjoy the afterglow like this without moving, locked together like they were one being made whole, unwilling to separate for as long as possible. 

Tobirama seemed to know what he was referring to, genius that the man was, but unfortunately he took that as a cue to slowly pull away. In his absence Kagami felt empty in a way he never had before. It was a strange feeling, although it did give him a bit of insight in to that fabled ‘round two’ that was apparently so popular. 

Letting his partner clean him was incredibly embarrassing; the only thing that stopped him from pushing Tobirama away was the thought of reaching around to clean himself while the other sat there and watched. Or worse the thought of doing a poor job of it because he couldn’t see that area and he’d never had to do this before. His clenched fists and gaze set resolutely on the ceiling seemed to cause some amusement but thankfully nothing was said about either that or the way his face was doing yet another impression of a ripe strawberry. 

As soon as the other man stepped off the bed to go wash his hands Kagami spun and buried himself underneath the covers in the hopes that it would muffle the ridiculous urge building in his chest to squeal like a little girl. That had been everything he had ever hoped it would be and more. He felt like an adolescent mooning over their first crush and honestly the description wasn’t very far off, though he had left his adolescence behind years ago. By the time Tobirama came back in to the room he had managed to compose himself enough that hopefully he didn’t look like some wide-eyed innocent despite the fact that he still felt that way every time they kissed. Seeing the other walk around naked so brazenly certainly was not helping. 

“Feeling alright?” Tobirama asked as he lifted the covers to slide back in to the bed. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Dunno why everyone says you’re always sore after.”

“If they are sore then it’s because they were not stretched properly and their partner is either selfish or ignorant.” 

Rolling inwards to curl up against all that pale muscular heat, Kagami smiled. “You are neither.”

“Mn. Arguments could be made.” 

True as that was, he chose not to say anything. Arguments could be made against all shinobi for being ignorant or selfish in their own ways but he wasn’t much up for a philosophical debate at the moment. His brain still resembled mush just a little too much for that. 

“What I meant to say earlier”-Tobirama’s fingers combed through his hair, a soothing touch-“was thank you for challenging me. Thank you for having the courage even if you didn't believe it was a real date. You took a chance that even I dared not take and I admire that. I’m grateful. If you hadn’t we might never have had what we do now.” 

“Didn’t I tell you to stop saying embarrassing things?” Kagami mumbled. 

“Perhaps you did, I can’t seem to remember.” Tobirama hummed as though in deep thought.

Lightly slapping him on the chest did nothing more than make him chuckle. Luckily for him he did have a very nice laugh, hard earned as it usually was. And he did have a point. Even now Kagami wasn’t sure where he’d plucked up the courage to issue that challenge, one date in exchange for winning a game against the smartest man in the village, but he was glad that he’d done it. 

“So what you’re saying,” he mused teasingly, “is that between the two of us I currently hold the record for most romantic gesture. You should really put in a little more effort or I might start feeling unappreciated.”

“Oh I'll show you some appreciation alright.” 

With an almost feral grin Tobirama rolled them over, kissing him through the laughter that bubbled out, and Kagami decided he really had no problem with wherever this was headed. Now and in the future. He would never have a first time again but the two of them still had many firsts left to experience together and he couldn’t even imagine making these memories with anyone else. Everything in him would always belong to this man, wholly and completely. 

As his partner had said, it took a lot of courage for him to issue the challenge that so drastically changed their lives, but he was glad that he’d done it. Tobirama was the first and only man he had ever considered going to so much effort for and if their relationship continued along the paths it had been going down there would never be another.

Kagami smiled, holding tightly to the one he could still hardly believe was his own. He was more than alright with having this - and only this - for the rest of his life. 

[ryanmeft]

Ryan’s Favorite Films of 2019

A stuttering detective,

A top hat-wearing vamp

A forced-perspective war,

A bit of Blaxploitation camp

Prisoners on a space ship

Having sex with bears

A writer goes remembering

Whenever his pain flares

  A prancing, dancing Hitler

A gambler high on strife

Here will go cavorting with

A mom who becomes a wife

A family plot with many threads

Three men against their own

A stuntman and his actor

A mobster now quite alone

Doubles under the earth

Two men in a tall house

Are here to watch a woman who

Is battling with her spouse

A family’s plans for their strong son

Go awry one night

A man rejects his country

Which is spoiling for a fight

 A house built by his grandpa

(Maybe; we’re not sure)

Looks out upon three prisoners

Whose passions are a lure

  All these are on my list this year

It’s longer than before

Because picking only ten this time

Was too great of a chore

  What are limits anyway?

They’re just things we invented

I don’t really find them useful

So, this year, I’ve dissented

  You may have noticed this time out

That numbers, I did grant

Promise they’ll stay in this order, though?

Now that, I just can’t

  I’m always changing my mind

Because, after all, you see

Good film is about the heart

And mine’s rather finicky

  There are a lot more I could name

(And I’ll change my mind at any time)

For now, though, consider these

The ones I found sublime

 20. Motherless Brooklyn

I’ve got a (hard-boiled) soft spot for 90’s neo-noirs like L.A. Confidential, Red Rock West and Seven, and Edward Norton’s ‘50’s take on Jonathan Lethem’s 90’s -set novel can stand firmly in that company.

19. Doctor Sleep

There’s something about Stephen King’s best writing that transcends mere popularity; his work may not be fine literature, but it is immune to the fads of the moment. So, too, are the best movies based on that work. This one, an engaging adventure-horror, deserved better than it got from audiences.

18. Jojo Rabbit

There was a time when the anything-goes satire of Mel Brooks could produce a major box office hit.  Disney’s prudish refusal to market the film coupled with the dominance of franchises means that’s no longer the case. If you bothered to give Jojo a shot, though, you got the strange-but-rewarding experience of guffawing one moment and being horrified the next.

17. By The Grace of God

I’d venture this is the least-seen film on my list; even among us brie-eating, wine-sniffing art house snobs, I rarely hear it mentioned. Focusing on the perspectives of three men dealing with a particularly heinous and unrepentant abusive priest and the hierarchy that protects him, it’s every bit as disquieting and infuriating as 2015’s Oscar-winning Spotlight.

16. Waves

You think Trey Edward Shultz’s Waves will be one thing---a domestic drama about an affluent African-American family (and that in and of itself is a rarity). Then it becomes something else entirely. It addresses something movies often avoid: that as life goes on, the person telling the story will always change.

15. Transit

You’re better off not questioning exactly where and when the film is set (it is based on a book about Nazi Germany but has been changed to be a more generalized Fascist state). The central theme here is identity, as three people change theirs back and forth based on need and desire.

14. American Woman

Movies about regular, working class, small-town American usually focus on men. This one is about a much-too-young mother and grandmother, played brilliantly by Sierra Miller, dealing with unexpected loss and the attendant responsibilities she isn’t ready for. 

13. Marriage Story

There is an argument between a married couple in here that is as true a human moment as ever was on screen---free of trumped-up screenplay drama and accurate to how angry people really argue. The entire movie strives to be about the kind of realistic divorce you don’t see on-screen. It is oddly refreshing.

12. Once Upon a Time in Hollywood

Quentin Tarantino’s love letter to 70’s Tinseltown is essentially a question: What if the murder that changed the industry forever had gone down differently? Along the way, it also manages to be a clever and insightful study of fame and fulfillment, or lack thereof.

11. High Life

Claire Denis is damned determined not to be boring. Your reaction to her latest film will probably depend on how receptive you are to that as the driving force of a film. Myself, I’m very receptive. I want to see the personal struggles of convicts unwittingly shipped into space, told without Action-Adventure tropes, in a movie that sometimes misfires but is never dull.

 10. Dolemite Is My Name

And fuckin’ up motherfuckers is my game! Look, if you don’t like naughty words, you probably shouldn’t be reading my columns---and you definitely shouldn’t be watching this movie. Eddie Murphy plays Rudy Ray Moore, the ambitious, irrepressible and endlessly optimistic creator of Blaxpoitation character Dolemite. Have you seen the 1975 film? It’s either terrible and wonderful, or wonderful and terrible, and the jury’s still out. Either way, Moore in the film is a self-made comic who establishes himself by talking in a unique rhyming style that speaks to black Americans at a time when black pop culture (and not just the white rendition of it) was finally beginning to pierce the American consciousness. What The Disaster Artist did for The Room, this movie does for Dolemite---with the difference being I felt like I learned something I didn’t know here.

 9. 1917

Breathless, nerve-wracking and somehow intensely personal even though it almost never takes time to slow down, it is fair to call Sam Mendes’s film a thrill ride---but it’s one that enlightens us on a fading historical time, rather than simply being empty calories. Filmed in such a way as to make it seem like one continuous, two-hour take, for which some critics dismissed it as a gimmick, the technique is used to lock us in with the soldiers whose mission it is to save an entire division from disaster. We are given no information or perspective that the two central soldiers---merely two, in a countless multitude---do not have, and so we are with them at every moment, deprived of the relief of omniscience. I freely admit I tend to give anything about World War I the benefit of the doubt, but there’s no doubt that the movie earns my trust.

8. Ash Is Purest White

Known by the much less cool-sounding name Sons and Daughters of Jianghu in China, here is a story that starts off ostensibly about crime---a young woman and her boyfriend are powerful in the small-potatoes mob scene of a dying industrial town---but after the surprising first act becomes a meditation on life, perseverance and exactly how much power is worth, anyway, when it is so fleeting and so easily lost. What do you do when everything that defined you is gone? You go on living. This is my first exposure to writer-director Jia Zhangke, an oversight I must strive hard to correct in future.

7. Knives Out

The whodunit is a lost art, a standard genre belonging to a time when mass audiences could appreciate a picture even if someone didn’t run, yell or explode while running and yelling every ten minutes. Rian Johnson and an all-star cast rescued it from the brink of cinematic extinction and gave it just enough of a modern injection to keep it relevant. Every second of the film is engaging; Johnson even manages to have a character whose central trait is throwing up when asked to lie, and he makes it seem sympathetic rather than juvenile. The fantastic cast of characters is backed up with all the qualities of “true” cinema: perfect camerawork, an effective score, mesmerizing production design. As someone who didn’t much care for Johnson’s Star Wars outing, I’m honestly put out this didn’t do better at the box office than it did.

6. A Hidden Life

After a few questionable efforts and completely losing the thread with the execrable vanity project Song to Song, Terence Malick returns to his bread and butter: meditative dramas on the nature of faith, family, and being on the outside looking in, which encompass a healthy dose of nature, philosophy and people talking without moving their lips. That last is a little dig, but it’s true: Malick does Malick, and if you don’t like his thing, this true story about a German dissenter in World War II will not change your mind. For me, what Malick has done is that rarest of things: he had made a movie about faith, and about a character who is faithful, without proselytizing. That the closeness and repressiveness of the Nazi regime is characterized against Malick’s typical soaring backdrops is a masterstroke, and the best-ever use of his visual style.

5. The Lighthouse

Robert Eggers is a different kind of horror filmmaker. After redefining what was possible with traditional horror monsters in The Witch, he returned with something that couldn’t be more different: an exploration of madness more in the vein of European film than American. Robert Pattinson and Willem Dafoe are two men stranded in a lighthouse together slowly losing their minds, or what is left of them. The haunting score and stark, black-and-white photography evoke a nightmare caught on tape, something we’re not supposed to be seeing. It’s not satisfying in a traditional way, but for those craving something more cerebral from horror, Eggers has it covered.

4. Us

I have become slightly notorious in my own little circle for not thinking Get Out was the greatest film ever made, and now I’ve become rather known for thinking Us just might be. Ok, so that’s definite hyperbole: “greatest” is a tall claim for almost any horror movie. Yet here Jordan Peele shows that he can command an audience’s attention even when not benefiting from a popular cultural zeitgeist in terms of subject matter. It’s a movie with no easy or clear message, one that specializes in simply unsettling us with the idea that the world is fundamentally Not Right. I firmly believe that if Peele becomes a force in the genre, 50 years from now when he and all of us are gone, his first film will be remembered as a competent start, while this will be remembered as the beginning of his greatness.

3. The Last Black Man in San Francisco

Ostensibly about urban gentrification, this story of a young black man trying to save his ancestral home from the grasping reach of white encroachment is a flower with many petals to reveal. Don’t let my political-sounding description turn you off: the movie is not a polemic in the slightest, but rather a wry, sensitive look at people, their personalities and how those personalities are intertwined with the places they call home. Though the movie is the directorial debut of Joe Talbot, it is based loosely on the memories and feelings of his friend Jimmie Falls, who also plays one of the two central characters. If you’ve ever watched a place you love fall to the ravages of time and change, this movie may strike quite a chord with you.

2. Uncut Gems

When asked why this movie is great, I usually say that it was unbelievably stressful and caused me great anxiety. This description is not usually successful in selling it. The Safdie Brothers have essentially filmed chaos: a man self-destructing in slow-motion, if you can call it slow. Howard Ratner has probably been gradually exploding all his life; he strikes you as someone who came out of the womb throwing punches. He’s an addictive gambler who loves the risk much more than the reward, and can’t gain anything good in life without risking it on a proverbial roll of the dice. His behavior is destructive. His attitude is toxic. Why do we root for him? Perhaps because, as played by Adam Sandler, he never has any doubt as to who he is---something few of us can say. He’s an asshole, but he’s a genuine asshole, and somehow that’s appealing even when you’re in his line of fire.

1. Pain and Glory

When I realized I would, for the first time, have the chance to see a Pedro Almodovar film on the screen, I was overjoyed. His movies aren’t always great, but that was of little concern: he’s one of the handful of directors on the planet who can fairly call back to the avant-garde traditions of Bergman or Truffaut, making the movies he wants to make about the things he want to make them about, and I’d never seen one of his films when it was new and fresh, only months or years later on DVD.

It seems I picked right, as his latest has been almost universally hailed as one of the best of his long career. An aging, aching filmmaker spends his days in his apartment, ignoring the fans of his original hit film and most of his own acquaintances, alive or dead---he tries hard to put his memories away. Throughout the course of the movie, he re-engages with most of them in one way or another, coming to terms with who he is and where he’s been, though not in a Hallmark-movie-of-the-week way. Antonio Banderas plays him in the role that was always denied him by his stud status in Hollywood. It isn’t simply him, though: every person we meet is engaging and, we sense, has their own story outside of how they intersect with his. Most engaging is that of his deceased mother, who in her youth was played vivaciously by a sun-toughened Penelope Cruz. Perhaps Almodovar will tell us some of their stories some day. Perhaps not. I would read an entire book of short fiction all about them. This is the year’s best film.

[theliterateape]

Commie Puke-Faced Panty-Waisted Girly Man

by Don Hall

New comment from Ed Parker on They Learned it from the Wolverines:

It's hard to believe that one author can be so twisted, so wrong, and so proud of it in one article. "Soyboy" doesn't describe him well enough. Don Hall is what GenXers would call a MANGINA. But we Boomers used to call guys like this Commie Puke-Faced Panty-Waisted Girly Men. I suppose it would be pointless to argue that the frame-up on Kavanaugh had nothing to do with any reality outside of Whoopi Goldberg's psychosis, or that the obvious fraud of the recent election was nothing more than the installation of a Chinese puppet by a Chinese-owned Congress, or even that the remake of Red Dawn was censored by the Chinese, as it originally portrayed them as the invaders. Facts don't matter to thong-wearing pajama boys. As a spew, this article was a decent attempt to be obnoxious without being factual, but Donny's efforts were all in vain anyway, as his target audience doesn't read, can't think, and functions primarily on "feewings" manipulated so well in his Public Fool System edumakayshun. I'm sure he's very proud of himself, as any hocker that manages to crawl all the way up the side of a toilet bowl would be, but the intelligent reading public will just flush him down the swirly of irrelevance from whence he came, and where he should have stayed. All you've got is snark, Donny boy, and you're not even very good at that.

Dear Ed—

We at LiterateApe.com don't get too many comments on our articles despite our impressive (at least to us) average 98K unique reads per year, so yours stood out. It also stood out because, in terms of kind of brilliant takedowns, yours is quite the feat.

In 236 words, you manage to include some excellent Trumpian putdowns (soyboy, MANGINA, thong-wearing pajama boy, hocker that manages to crawl all the way up the side of a toilet bowl, and the classic Commie Puke-Faced Panty-Waisted Girly Man), you also adhere to some fantastic (but erroneous) GOP talking points like a champ! "Kavanaugh was framed." "Biden is an illegitimate president because Trump really won." "The Chinese are defrauding our elections (as opposed to the Russians)."

All unleashed due to my observation that guys like you have been pining away for your "Wolverine" moment since we all were in high school, desperately clinging to the possibility that we, too, could avenge Harry Dean Stanton while looking like a teen heartthrob.

I could simply ignore your comment. I could answer it in the comments section. But, no, Ed. You deserve better. You deserve more.

Throughout history, humans have not handled new technologies well. Gutenberg's printing press has been implicated in the Reformation, the Renaissance and the Scientific Revolution, all of which had profound effects on their eras. The shift from an earth-centered to a sun-centered universe were unintended consequences in the printing press era. This influx of books, pamphlets, and ideas destroyed the existing paradigm and those in power at the time did not respond well. Excommunications, torture, executions followed the spread of information previously gated from the rabble.

436 years later, Bell received his patent for the telephone. Give or take fifty years or so and a large percentage of American households contained a phone. All of a sudden, when tempers flared and your neighbor needed to be insulted or wrangled, you no longer had to leave your home, walk to his house, and confront him face-to-face. Now, sans the brief time to diffuse the rage, you could pick up the phone, call him, and tell him what a MANGINA he was in an instant.

In the onslaught of the Information Age, we now have the internet. No longer even required to know the neighbor you get to insult, everyone is a neighbor by proximity to a computer screen and some broadband. Instantaneous outrage, immediate written bitchslapping.

This, like the fallout from every invention of new technology in communication indicates, is not the end of all things. It is us getting used to new ways to engage and, because we are humans, fucking it up for a while until the newness wears out.

In the nascent days of digital communication, I found some fun in trolling some people. I recall creating a fake character—Kaufman—and trolling the Chicago Improv Message Board. It was pointless, it was antagonistic, it was a series of namecalling and juvenile bullshit. On the other hand, I was in my twenties and, like all people in their twenties, a bit stupid.

I am, however, curious about grown people who continue to engage with online communication in the same manner.

Specific to your comment, Ed, I can say that the insults are like throwing a basketball at an armless kid. Just bounces off and I stare at you wondering what else you have for me. I've been called a Nazi and a racist by some on the Extreme Left ("The Woke") and that doesn't bother me because it isn't any different than calling me a Unicorn or a Bowl of Potatoes. I'm obviously not those things so why would it bother me?

I can't speak for being a "soyboy" as I'm not entirely certain what that means but I can say I dig meat. Not sure what a MANGINA is but I applaud the creation of the word. I might very well be a MANGINA.

I'm definitely not a Commie. I'm no more in favor of the "Oppressor/Oppressed" binary of Marxist thought than I am a racist. Binary is too simplistic in my opinion. I may be Puke-Faced (subjective), I wear boxer shorts so no panty-waist, and I'm thinking that you see "Girly Man" as a derogatory but I see it as being feminist (which I am).

Still, pretty creative stuff and you managed to evoke "libtard" without using it so my hat goes off to you.

You, by your choices of real info, present yourself as a member of the Alt-Right Tribe and so your insults are pointless and juvenile (like mine were when I was a 22-year old "Kaufman").

The meat of your comment centers on three issues we can disagree about but could use a bit of genuine conversation.

I understand how someone would see the Kavanaugh accusations as merely a "He Said/She Said" situation. The Whoopi Goldberg thing misses me but I can see how someone might disagree that Brett is a rapist. While I don't believe all women in these cases, I believe these women so we'll just have to leave it at that.

As for your contention that the presidential election was fraudulent ("that the obvious fraud of the recent election was nothing more than the installation of a Chinese puppet by a Chinese-owned Congress"), man, there's so much actual data available that disputes everything in that excerpt it's hard to take you seriously. You seem to be a True Believer and I've found that talking to you and your type is more like beating my forehead up against a building or giant rock than dialogue.

Keep in mind, the fact that your comment sort proves the point of my article doesn't mean I dismiss you entirely. I have friends and family who believe in the concept of Christianity and I don't relegate them to idiot status due to the fairy tale to which they ascribe.

As for the remake of Red Dawn I have no opinion on it either way so you may very well be correct that it was censored by the Chinese government. They tend to do that on the regular with Western film so it would not be a big surprise.

My curiosity comes back to why you would feel it necessary or worth your valuable time to write those 236 words?

I suppose one could also ask what pragmatic purpose I had in writing the article in question and my response would be for entertainment purposes in general. I found the idea of men my age being slowly indoctrinated by the pop culture of our youth fascinating. I remembered that the Milius version of Red Dawn was in line with the "Trust the Military/Distrust the Government" propaganda of the Reagan years. In terms of pragmatics, I suppose I thought this was interesting enough to pen and publish. I could be wrong.

What pragmatic purpose would you, Ed, say justifies your response in writing? You don't know me. I don't know you. You decided that the article was so enraging that you needed to respond, not on your own social platforms, but on mine so there must be a reason other than sheer spite?

The landscape of our current version of the same culture wars we Americans have been fighting since the founding of the country aren't that different from the days of incendiary pamphlets distributed by Patrick Henry. The difference, I think, comes into play in the immediacy of response (which eliminates the time to calm your "feewings" and focus your thoughts) and the vast reach the internet provides.

I can't make too many assumptions about you, Ed. I could assume that working IT at Sears for years (which, these days resembles working at a Blockbuster Video as a tech support guy) left you feeling cheated by life. I could assume you sat there in your Sears polo shirt imagining the coming Red Dawn and how you could be a Wolverine yourself—fighting for the freedoms of "real Americans" against the Commie Puke-Faced Panty Waisted Girly Men. I could assume your sad existence led you to open your own firearms school and wear t-shirts that declare your fealty to "Beer & Guns & Bacon & Freedom".

I could but I won't.

I find that kind of assuming makes an ass out of you. You might be a great guy. Or not. I can guarantee you are far more than your online vitriol. Most people are more than what we can see on the surface.

Ask yourself, Ed—why? Why even bother when you know how meaningless and empty your screed will be? Is it a sort of bragging for your friends to see and applaud? “You sure told that pussy what’s what, Ed!”

Is this the person you hoped you’d be when you became the age you’re at now? If not, what went wrong and is it too late to change course?

[neverendingparable]

Tack!

….

Clatter!

Jon furrowed his brows. The insistent smack of something against the window slowly roused him from his sleep, but just barely.

“Ry, why are you making noises,” He murmured drowsily. “Please stop.”

His older brother, Ryan, usually slept in another room, but since he had accidently set his mattress on fire previously that day, their parents made them both sleep in Jon’s room.

Jon insisted on not sharing a bed with his gross, but more importantly mean sibling who enjoyed tormenting Jon for his amusement. When Maelle wasn’t around to beat him up, at least.

Certain Ryan was trying to make him suffer for something he actually did to himself, Jonathan once again, asked him to stop.

But all he got as response was a sleepy mutter that if he didn’t shut up, Ryan would come over there and strangle him.

“….”

Tack!

Jonathan sat up now, eyes glowing brightly in the dark with fear. Someone or something else must be in the room then, since the noise seemed to be coming from-

Again, a smack but Jonathan caught the source of it now as something dark hit the window and clattered back onto the ground.

He held his breath.

Sure enough, there it was again. Someone was throwing objects from outside at his window, and rather impatiently too.

Since they lived in an isolated area and not many pranksters are dumb enough to venture out near the forest at this time of night, it could only be one person.

Jonathan got out of bed quietly and stepped over the nest of blankets and couch cushions his older bro slept on.

He looked out the window.

In the dark, he could make out his best friend standing in the grass, her eyes glowing brightly with annoyance. At least, he suspected it was annoyance, until he saw Maelle turn, to search the empty fields behind her before signaling Jon to hurry up and come down.

Her behavior was rather odd, unusual even for Maelle and something about her disturbed him even more, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

Jonathan disabled the anti teleporting barrier on the window the Von Sales kept in their house for privacy, security and order and opened it quietly. He jumped out, making barely a thump in the thick layer of grass.

“Maelle?”

She was beside him in an instant.

Up close, he could tell what had disturbed him. Her hair was frazzled; being rather short it usually stuck in all kinds of directions when she didn’t brush it, which is why she always made sure to pin or straighten it.

He could shrug it off as excitement, but her eyes were glowing a startling strong blue and she seemed nervously eager, glancing around like she was expecting someone to show up.

Maelle dug her fingers into Jonathan’s arm and teleported both of them into the woods, far beyond shouting distance from his house, where it was nearly too thick to see the stars.

Frightened, Jonathan didn't resist. He clung to her even as she let go, their eyes bright pin pricks in the darkness.

“What? What?” He whispered frantically.

Maelle rolled her eyes. “Calm down, we’re not being chased…I think.”

“You think? Mae, what did you do?”

“Nothing!” She pried his hands from her arm and then did the unthinkable. She slipped hers into his and simply held it.

Jonathan would’ve yanked away and teleported the hell back home just to get away from whoever this was, if he hadn’t noticed the sudden air of vulnerability surrounding her.

It was odd, because usually Maelle acted like she could fight everything and anything; she wasn't someone who showed affections. Jon concluded that his secret suspicions must've been right. She was capable of feeling loneliness and fear and tonight she needed some comfort from him.

"Are you sure?" He asked, tone gentler now. Maelle knew what was going through his mind and barely kept herself from rolling her eyes again. Tonight she didn’t mind it, though.

"Yes- well....alright. Maybe I did. ...come on." She tugged him along and they both walked through the quiet forest, stepping in patches of the moons’ lights.

“I’m kind of scared, Jon. I did something selfish.” She whispered to him after a pause, voice full of excitement.

“Something I wanted to do my entire life but now, now I finally had the guts to do it in the spur of the moment and I’ve never regretted and not regretted something so hard before.”

“What did you do?” Jonathan whispered back.

“I can’t tell you. But- I had to tell someone that it happened. You understand, right?”

He nodded, not really knowing what she was talking about.

It was fine, though. Maelle didn’t need anyone smart to talk to, just naïve enough to pass out affection and trust for someone who doesn’t deserve it.

Another reason why she liked hanging around him, secretly she enjoyed his friendship. It was fake, manipulative and one sided but Jon was so eager to love another person, to prove his goodness that he latched onto her, making her feel smarter and braver than she actually felt.

But after today, she knew that their friendship didn’t mean anything anymore. She was, in an indirect way, saying goodbye to him, and to his puppy eyed affections.

“It’s not something dangerous, is it?” Jonathan asked.

“No, not really.” She said, lying straight into his face and not feeling bad about it. “It was something that had to happen. And it taught me things about myself, Jon. Important things. I don't need anyone fucking else to teach me that I'm special. I don't need anyone to give me the life I want. I deserve it, always have since the beginning and there is no one who's going to stop me from getting what I want."

Her friend nodded. “Sure! Everyone deserves to be happy. You’re very smart, Maelle and I’m sure you’ll go far in life!”

“Yes.” His praise rolled straight off her shoulders. “I am a fucking goddess. I will be. And no one is going to have a chance against me. I’ll take what I want and I’ll step over the consequences like they don’t affect me, because they won’t.”

Her voice gained a sinister twinge to it, dripping with a pure hateful glee Jonathan couldn’t quite comprehend.

He squeezed her hand. “Um…well, you shouldn’t hurt anyone, Maelle. Not only does that have consequences you can’t avoid, but it’s….it’s not nice. You can be a gentle goddess too, right?”

“Of course,” Maelle replied snarkily. “I think I’ll do that.”

Unsure whether or not she was joking, but not wanting to evoke wrath in this frightening new Maelle he was witnessing, Jon nodded.

“Good…”

“But, whatever. I just wanted to spend some time with you tonight.” Her tone changed slightly and he recognized his friend again. “I have a feeling that change is on its way. So…we should enjoy one more simple night. Go on. Tell me how your English lessons are going.”

Jonathan’s eyes lit up.

They spent the night walking through the woods while he animatedly told her about English and its different accents, managing to make her laugh a few times while he imitated a British one.

They talked about Earth and its life forms, about oceans and deserts and domesticated cats until the suns started to rise.

Maelle brought him back to his house and helped him climb up into his window. He waved goodbye to her and watched her walk off, wondering sleepily what great thing she must’ve done to make her so happy as he climbed into bed.

Later that day, Maelle’s neighbor came by and talked to his parents while Jon and his father were preparing food.

Over the meal, Alexandra explained to them that something had happened in the Von Cannes’ house and Mr Von Cannes was hospitalized. Apparently he had suffered a rather nasty fall and would’ve bled to death if a neighbor hadn’t found him in time.

He survived, but his neck and spine were fractured, leaving him to rely on either a walking stick or wheelchair for a while, until they could perform the operation on him.

Jonathan canceled his dancing lessons that day and tried to find Maelle, but she seemed to have disappeared.

She didn't show up for a long time, almost prompting the Missing Children Search Party into action until she returned one day like nothing had happened, picked her father up from the hospital and went home.

She barely hung out with Jonathan anymore, much to his dismay and whenever he tried to mention the accident or her disappearance, or even the night they had spent in the woods, she brushed it off and changed the subject.

He never truly found out what happened and they began to drift apart, until one day, Maelle told him of her plans to travel to Earth.

[allyinthekeyofx]

Fading Light -Part 3- 6/6

PART ONE  -  Chapters 1-6

PART TWO  -  Chapters 1/6

PART THREE  - Prologue   Chapter one   Chapter two   Chapter three

                         Chapter four   Chapter five

PART THREE

CHAPTER SIX

I’m not relishing the drive home. Flying is decidedly out of the question because although Mulder would probably be absolutely fine at high altitude, there is a small chance he wouldn’t be and frankly, it’s not a risk I’m prepared to take. He argued his case of course. Mulder hates admitting weakness but he quickly had the good sense to realise that I wasn’t kidding on this. In fact all it took from me was one look, just one look and he simply threw me a goofy grin and shrugged apologetically in accession.

He looks horrendous, tired and used up which, now I think about it, probably has less to do with his head injury and more to do with what he’s gone through over the last seven months or so. And to be fair, there is nothing I would like more than to hop on a plane with him and get the hell home as quickly as I can, but like I say, I’m not prepared to take the risk.

The prospect of an eleven hour drive across three states, almost seven hundred miles in a rental car that will probably have dubious air conditioning and even more dubious upholstery fills me with exhaustion. But unless we are prepared to sit around enjoying the sights of Tennessee for the next seven days, our options are pretty limited. I’m hoping to make the drive in one chunk, with a few necessary stops on the way. Eleven hours which will no doubt wind up being closer to thirteen by the time we’ve stopped for food and restroom breaks. I can’t remember when I have been faced with such a daunting drive.

But the pull of home is strong and so I will dig deep as always and plough right ahead.

I left him in the hospital last night. The first time in three days I have allowed myself to leave his side for more than a few minutes, finally accepting of the fact that he was okay; that no lasting damage has been done. He slept a lot. His body needing to recuperate from his injury and I have discovered over the years that, with injuries such as these, that there is no amount of medication that can ever work the same magic sleep can bring.

He’s the lucky one though because I have barely slept at all and when I have, I have dreamed of him.

Fitful dreams where I imagine his hands soft on my body, his lips caressing, teasing me in my most intimate places. The feel of his breath on me and the sweat that sheens our skin as our bodies meld in to one. And the feeling, the most intense feelings I think I have ever experienced that this is what love actually feels like.

Absolute, all encompassing, fathomless love that has no beginning or end; love that transcends anything that can be found on any plane that I have previously known. And there are no words to describe how it makes me feel. Only that it evokes such a strong reaction from me that I wake up breathless, heart pounding against my chest in perfect synchronisation with the pulse that beats incessantly at my very core.

It’s an almost panicked feeling – waking up like this and seeing him on the hospital bed in front of me, knowing I almost lost him again – a heightened sense of consciousness that refuses to be quietened even as I feel such uncertainty as to whether what I am feeling is a memory or simply a dream. But it feels so real to me and even as I snap back in to reality, the memories, the physical reactions are still at the very forefront of my mind; insistent and ever present, refusing to be buried as I have buried so much in the past where this man is concerned.

I don’t think he has any recollection of the kiss we shared right here in this room, a gentle, affirming kiss that awakened something in me I thought was lost, a truth that I am beginning to fear he has hidden from me. Or at least that’s how it feels. But he hasn’t mentioned it since and so, with a quiet disavowal so typical of me, I haven’t mentioned it either.

But on several occasions I have felt his eyes on me when he thinks I am sleeping, head awkwardly pillowed on my arms, turned away from him as I hover on the fringes of a sweet oblivion that seems hard to come by at the moment. And a couple of times I have awoken with a start to feel his fingers in my hair, teasing softly, stroking me back to sleep. Knowing he is watching me, fearful somehow of allowing me to put thought in to substance. Because he knows something is going on with me. Oh yeah he knows because I can’t hide what is surely showing on my face when I bolt awake time after time in front of him.

But more and more there is a voice that keeps whispering to me, insistent and unrelenting that in recent history Mulder and I shared something that transcended mere friendship and whether it were just a mere moment in time or something much bigger, more meaningful, I am finding myself more and more desperate to know exactly what. Because I don’t think I can hide it from him for very much longer without completely breaking down because as hard and as emotionally exhausting as the last few weeks have been, what is happening to me now is far more so and I am starting to feel drained, tearful even with the fear that there is something he isn’t telling me.

The flip side to all this of course is an equally insistent voice that taunts me with the potential that I am wrong. That this is nothing more than a product of my imagination – my heart desperate to fill the gaps in my memory with something real, something I desperately want and have wanted for so many years and that all this is no more substantial than a wisp of smoke that curls lazily upwards, visible for just a heartbeat before disappearing in to the ether.

The blindingly simple solution, as I very well know is to just ask him. And if it were only so simple I would no doubt do just that; but how to even broach such a thing? How to find adequate words to even ask a question that could broker an answer that has the power to change everything, to alter my perceptions of our relationship, that it just blows my mind.

I can just imagine it.

So Mulder; just to clarify, did we happen to fuck whilst I was dying again? And if we did, was it a pity fuck or did it actually mean something?

And even though I can’t find a whole lot of humour in this situation, the thought of Mulder's expression should he ever be faced with me asking him something in such a coarse and inelegant way, briefly brings a smile to my face. The moment is quickly gone though as he walks in to the room. Fully dressed and waving discharge paperwork at me.

“I’m a free man Scully. Sound in body if a little unsteady in mind....”

He looks like shit and not for the first time I wonder if he is being discharged too early.

“Are you sure you’re okay to do this Mulder? One more day isn’t going to hurt.”

But he just smiles at me, a smile that belies the paleness of his complexion, the livid bruise that still stands out sharply against his pallid skin and drops a warm hand to rest in the small of my back. It’s an action he has performed hundreds of times throughout our partnership and one that initially caused me a certain amount of irritation stemming from the fact that it seemed wholly territorial on his part, as though he had taken ownership of me. But I soon came to realise and appreciate that it was simply his way of keeping himself connected to me, affirming to himself that he was no longer alone; that he had someone to rely on for probably the first time in his life. That finally, someone had his back. And over the years the feeling has become as familiar and comfortable to me in that only an action born out of a deep abiding friendship could ever hope to do. It stopped feeling territorial a very long time ago.

“I’m fine Scully. Let’s get out of here.”

XXXX

The drive as it turned out, was a nightmare right from the start. It came as no surprise that my fears regarding the air con had in no way been groundless and we quickly found that we had two options – suffocating heat or bone chilling, frigid air – unless of course we opted for the good old fashioned fall back of opening the windows to allow the cooler air inside. That would have been okay if it weren’t for the fact that in doing so, the car rapidly filled with a combination of diesel and exhaust fumes from the never ending traffic that clogged the interstate and which swiftly rendered Mulder a not very fetching and extremely sickly shade of green.

Which brought me neatly around to the fact that in actuality, my misgivings about my partner being well enough to make the long journey by road had also been in no way groundless. Because clearly, he was in no shape to be doing this and while he could deny it all he wanted, I only had to glance at his feverish face and half-closed eyes to know that there was no way on this earth that he was going to last the distance; or even half the distance for that matter.

I had already started scanning the motel signs that periodically flashed passed us on the roadside for one that looked like it might be a decent place to check in to for the night to enable Mulder to rest sufficiently to continue the journey tomorrow. We had made reasonably decent time, with a little under 300 miles covered, but more and more it was becoming obvious that it was time to stop. That to carry on for no real reason was both foolhardy and potentially damaging to him because out of danger he might very well be, but fully out of the woods he certainly wasn’t and I just couldn’t see the sense in pushing too hard.

He hadn’t really been fully with me for the last half an hour or so, ever since he had suddenly and urgently directed me to pull over, when, as soon as we came to a stand he had stumbled his way out of the passenger door and lost whatever precarious hold he had managed to maintain on the meagre contents of his stomach during the journey so far. By the time I reached him he was on his hands and knees, breathing heavily with his eyes tightly closed against the glare from the mid afternoon sun that bounced up from the road surface; deathly pale and shaky, despite the sweat that beaded his forehead and darkened his hair.

And he hadn’t said a single fucking thing about it in the car. In fact I��d thought he was sleeping.

Damn it; why hadn’t he told me how bad he was feeling? And in truth at times like these I could quite cheerfully murder him.

“Tell me” I ordered sharply.

“Headache. Bad. Really bad.” His answer hissed painfully through clenched teeth.

“Oh Mulder.”

The words came out of my mouth on the back of a sigh because I knew if he were prepared to actually voice the severity, that the headache must be very bad indeed.

“I’m going to find somewhere for us to stop for the night.”

And even more worryingly, he hadn’t made any attempt to argue and my concern for him began to creep steadily upwards.

XXXX

I’d left Mulder sleeping in the large and seemingly extremely comfortable bed that dominated the sparsely furnished but scrupulously clean room I had booked us in to when finally, we had found our way off the interstate to this small but well appointed campsite-come-lakeside retreat. It seemed just slightly more upmarket than many of the places we usually found ourselves in – the grounds were well maintained, as was the cabin itself, the bed linens clean and crisp and the shower seemed to have an unlimited supply of hot water that actually had enough pressure behind it to pleasantly pummel the kinks out of my neck and shoulders that driving for so many hours had evoked. And even better it was set up as a ‘family’ room. One large bed and a smaller single that was tucked away behind a small curtained alcove just to the left of the room; a little cramped maybe but I had slept in much smaller spaces and to be honest, I was so tired I think I could probably have slept on a clothesline.

In fairness I would have preferred connecting rooms, but they didn’t have such a thing and given Mulders current condition, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him completely alone. So the family room had seemed like the next best thing.

Immediately we had checked in he had collapsed on the bed and despite the fact I wanted nothing more than for him to get some rest, to sleep off the headache that had clearly worsened, rendering him a sweating, shaking mess, I knew that he needed checking out first. His temperature of 100.2 was elevated but not significantly so and was probably more in response to his headache than anything else. His pulse though was a little rapid and his breathing a little shallow and was a slightly more worrying reaction to the pain but even so I was pretty sure it wasn’t due to anything more sinister than that. His pupils when I checked were equally responsive to light and he tracked the end of my finger with no apparent problems. So I had watched him swallow two vicodin capsules before I pushed him gently backwards on to the soft pillows and laid a damp washcloth across his forehead, marvelling that for once he didn’t argue with me.

“Will I live?”

And I couldn’t help but smile because when he is sick he has a strangely endearing quality that reminds me of a little kid.

“You’ll live Mulder. I’m pretty sure at least. Now go to sleep.”

His eyes are closing though even before I’ve finished speaking and I’m reminded once again that the last few days have been physically draining for him. I should have insisted we delayed the trip home for a day or two. I don’t know why I didn’t; and I think it’s a combination of guilt and relief that makes me lift his hand and press my lips to his palm, causing him to open his eyes momentarily in surprise. It’s a look that once may have made me feel embarrassed, embarrassed that he had found a chink in my armour but now it just feels natural; normal even.

“Go to sleep” I repeat and this time his eyes close and remain that way.

XXXX

By the time I had showered, changed clothes and taken a trip to the small homely diner that is attached to the site where I stocked up on a few provisions for us since food had been pretty scarce so far today, I was fully awake once more and the nap I had promised myself earlier was fast losing its appeal. It’s a beautiful late April evening and after checking Mulder was still sleeping, I paused only to re-apply the damp washcloth to his forehead before I grabbed one of the sandwiches I had bought and headed outside. Every cabin had a small lawned area just in front and a wooden picnic table for al fresco dining and since the cabins were set out in a horseshoe formation, individually bordered by a low hedge, each one felt private and separate from the other. They also afforded an unrestricted view over the lake and I was more than content to just sit here and let myself drift because despite the conflicts that had crowded my mind over the last few days, sitting here watching the sun setting on the horizon as it tinged the tree tops a beautiful, vibrant orange, I felt more relaxed than I had in days; maybe even weeks. And suddenly I am tired, so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. I should probably go back inside and go to bed, but it just seems like too much effort to move so instead I cross my arms on to the smooth wooden surface of the picnic table and lower my head on to them.

I’m not sure how long I slept, but the first conscious thought I have upon waking is that the temperature has dropped significantly and that I am cold, but even as a shiver works its way up my spine, something heavy and warm is draped around my shoulders and a warm hand rests gently on the back of my neck.

Mulder.

I immediately sit upright and twist around to get a better look at him, concern for him overriding my need to just close my eyes again and drift back to sleep. He smiles at me and it’s clear without needing to scrutinise him that he is feeling better. His eyes are clear in the moonlight and it seems he has showered and changed while I have been sleeping. His hair is slightly damp and I know I should admonish him for not drying it but I suddenly find that I am so pleased to see him looking so normal that I just haven’t the heart.

“How are you feeling?”

He sits beside me then and faces me, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear and adjusting the blanket back in to position from where it has fallen off one shoulder due to my sudden movement.

“Better. Much. I’ve eaten and everything.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after ten o’clock”

And I am a little shocked that I have slept out here for so long although it certainly explains why my neck and shoulders feel so stiff. I hadn’t realised when I first woke up but now, I find to my dismay that moving my head too far to the right causes stiff shooting pains to slice down my back. Driving tomorrow is going to be even more miserable than it was today it would seem. Mulder frowns at me as I bring an arm out from the warm blanket he has wrapped around me and tentatively probe the length of my neck, searching for the knot that is causing the stiffness, wincing as I locate it right where my shoulders curve upwards and it’s position makes it a little awkward to get to, the angle my hand needs to be in just a little too acute.

Mulder doesn’t speak; he just straddles one long leg over the bench seat so that his body as now facing sideways and indicates I do the same, and I almost refuse, with typical reticence I almost refuse. But almost without thinking, I turn away, my position mirroring his and even though I’m expecting it, the feeling of his long fingers brushing over my skin, kneading gently as he works on the knots that have bunched up my muscles is so exquisite I have to force myself to not start purring like a cat.

Because the feel of him is so damn good I’m in danger of unravelling right there in front of him and I know that this level of expertise is no happy accident, that this man knows my body; knows it in the most intimate way. And this sudden revelation finally gives me a courage I have been lacking for days.

“Mulder?”

“Yeah? What’s wrong? Should I stop?”

Jesus no. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop

“What happened between us when I was sick?”

Just for a moment, his movement stills making me wish I could pull the words back in and my heart is suddenly beating so hard that I feel like I’m about to pass out; until his arms slide over my shoulders, crossing over and resting comfortably beneath my breasts as he pulls me backwards to rest against his chest, dropping his face in to my hair, breathing me in and when he answers, is voice is a soft as a summer breeze.

“You know what happened Scully. We happened. I think maybe we still are.”

And a wave of emotion, of a realisation so intense it takes my breath away comes crashing over me, rendering me frozen in his embrace, because for all the times I have dreamed of this moment, never daring that it might ever come to life, I feel an intense, painful sadness that so much more was taken from us than I had ever suspected. And I don’t know how I will bear it.

Continued Part Four

[elapego]

“American Bitch”.

   Okay, so I was literally stepping my foot into my bed when my friend texts me like, “you really, really, need to watch the last episode of Girls”. Happens to be the same friend that recommended me to watch the whole show in the first place, “it's totally your kind of show”, she told me (which led me to wonder if she saw me somehow projected in Hannah Horvard's character, which of course scared me to death). However, I then proceeded to watch the whole Girls thing, which I literally did in one and a half week, but didn't feel the show was making such an impact on me, nor was I astonished or, as most people, fascinated about it. I somehow didn't see it as such a feminist show as it is claimed to be and I didn't feel I was laughing that much with it.

  Nevertheless, the fact that I could watch five or six episodes in a row, made me realise I was actually starting to really enjoy the show. I was debating about it with friends, and it was really making me re-consider and re-think stuff I would normally not think about so much.

  However, as my friend predicted, this last episode totally overwhelmed me for the way it addresses such a difficult topic as consent is and totally changed my opinion of how the show works.

  I find it's never easy to talk about consent, to begin with because no one does, so it's difficult to know where to start, what point to make or which could be the best way to make an impact about it in people's minds. The magnificence of this episode (“American Bitch”, the third episode of what will be the last season of Girls, its sixth one) is precisely the way in which it addresses the delicate issue that consent represents and how it manages to make such a point that rests for a while in the spectator's mind and will surely create him or her an internal debate about it.

  I find it to be an absolute masterpiece. It consists of half an hour of basically just two characters, a man and a woman. The woman and main character of the show, Hannah, is invited to a famous novelist's home, Chuck Palmer, whom she has totally dissed in a “niche feminist blog”, because he has allegedly had not-that-really-consented-sex with a few college girls who have told their stories about him on “something called Tumblr, without an e”, as he himself claims. From the very first moment of the episode, you can tell it's going to be absolutely wonderful, when he goes: “How exactly does one give a non-consensual blowjob?”. Like, that phrase is absolutely BRILLIANT because, can't you not picture so many men wondering that? Like, how exactly does one do that? And he says it all calmly, like there’s nothing THAT bad about him wondering that because, really, how the fuck does one do that? Well, unfortunately, it happens, it has happened and it will continue happening because it's not that difficult (“it would be something very chokey…”, Hannah answers). But there you have the very first important point that the episode makes about consent: How are you to believe all these girls that claim to have been forced into having sex with someone when it's really not that easy and of course not that possible, physically speaking? Starting from there, all these kind of testimonies are easy to be doubted because, really, this sort of situations are much more difficult to happen that one might think. Or at least that's what lots of men seem to think.

  The brilliance of all of it comes when you actually start kind of liking the guy. He has a point, he of course is not the kind of guy who would force anyone into sex with him and he even makes Hannah begin to wonder if maybe she has been too harsh on him, dissing him in such a way before knowing the details of the stories. He's an interesting guy, they have an actual intellectual debate about the topic and you really not hate the guy at all (until you cannot like him anymore at the end of the episode). The thing is, he is a NORMAL guy, he is not a terrible monster that eats human being's fingers as chips with his steak. He's totally not the type of guy who would force anyone into having sex with him. He's totally not that type of guy. He's just not that guy.

  This part, where the viewer will totally start to like him, is so interesting, as one thought may also be evoked: he's not that kind of guy, BECAUSE HE DOESN'T NEED TO BE THAT KIND OF GUY. I mean, it's impossible for him to have any difficulties to fuck with any girl so, why would he force anyone? He has so many admirers over the globe, so many of them are so willing to go back with him to his hotel that, really, why on earth would he ever force anyone into sex? He doesn't need to! I find this idea to be so essential: no one needs to be that kind of guy to actually BE that kind of guy, also, because non-consented sexual relations have sometimes such subtle aspects that not always consist at all of some rude big man physically forcing a petite woman into doing things she would never want to, because power relationships have so many times so much to do in these non-consented situations, which is precisely one of the points that this episode so perfectly addresses and communicates to those watching it.

  However, the absolute magic of the episode comes when, just at the point when you are totally liking the guy at your most and indeed Hannah is also liking him after all and sharing with him views about Philip Roth, he asks Hannah to lie down with him “just to feel close to someone”. And Hannah does it, I think because she just doesn't find reasons at that point not to, although it's clear it feels weird to her. And, all of a sudden, here it comes, he takes out his penis. Just like that. Takes out his penis, puts it on top of Hannah's thigh, without saying a word. And Hannah, walking that thin line that separates consent from what is not consent, grabs it. She just grabs his penis, not even in a sexual way (there's in fact nothing that sexual about the scene, but there's no need to). She grabs it, just for a moment. She quickly stands up, freaking out, not understanding what the fuck has just happened or how it did happen. And there he is, with an indescribable expression that goes between satisfaction and a huge feeling of power, that kind of power only a penis can give you and, therefore, that kind of power only a man can feel. He really hasn't forced Hannah to grab his penis, but she absolutely hasn't done something she wanted to voluntarily do. And he has gotten no sexual pleasure from it, but just that feeling of superiority that clearly makes him feel so good about himself, and that allows him to then go to listen to his daughter play some flute, in the astonished company of Hannah, who can't believe that such a creepy and indecent guy can take out his penis, without anyone asking him to, and then five minutes later play the role of the father of the day so naturally.

  Not to mention of course, the final scene, where a multitude of girls keep entering his building, representing those many girls that aren't actually so lucky to escape sexual assault.

[msdoctorwho]

Fire Meet Gasoline, Ch. 2

https://archiveofourown.org/works/13461255/chapters/32152734

The silence stretched a breath longer than comfort, well into awkwardness, but Bulma was both very invested in the outcome of this conversationand fairly certain she was going to bungle it.

He finished the last of the food, feigning disinterest, ignoring her.

The only way out was through, so with a fortifying breath she began, in Saiyan.

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but try not to get angry until I get to the end?” Her tone was even, neutral.

“Don’t hold your breath,” he said, but uncrossed his arms and leaned back a bit, making an effort.

His initial wave fury had receded. In spite of himself, Vegeta was impressed by how much she’d managed to learn, given that there was absolutely fucking no one in the entire universe she could have practiced with.

Her accent was almost flawless. She spoke with the tone and cadence of aristocracy, which wasn’t as out of place to his ear as it should have been. Probably because her wealth, fame, and self-assurance made her the closest thing to royalty found on this mudball forgotten by the rest of space.

What was out of place was her masculine inflection and choice of pronouns, and the vulgar vocabulary of a common soldier.

Actually, never mind that last bit. Coarse language had always suited her just fine.

She looked nervous. It was strange on her face -- an expression he hadn’t seen since Namek. Back when she was afraid of him. He missed that. A wisp of blue hair flexed against her throat as she swallowed.

“Get on with it already!” He still wanted to go to bed.

Bulma figured this was either her greatest triumph or her biggest mistake -- the difference being whether or not she lived through the aftermath. He was looking at her like a snake that might still bite him, so she tried to speak as placatingly as possible.

“Soooooo…” She didn’t have the fluency to express herself in his language anymore with enough nuance, so she switched back and forth and hoped his implant could keep up. “The last time I upgraded the gravity room, I accidentally left it in debug mode.”

His eyebrows were raised, so she could only imagine what kind of word salad was being projected into his brain. She tried to stick to one language per sentence. “It collects all relevant data possible, to make finding and fixing problems more efficient.”

She paused, and he nodded impatiently.

“It also records sound and video.”

His tapping foot stilled. She was pretty sure his face looked like that just before planets died.

She had to look away before continuing. “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. I’m sorry. I was just curious, and…”

She could feel his ki swirling around her, cold along the floor, and she was as ki-insensitive as they came.

She looked up at him again. “...you were incredible to watch,” she said honestly.

It shut off like a switch. Or did it? Maybe she’d been imagining it in the first place.

Was he blushing ?

She hurried on, starting to babble. “You talk a lot, while you train. I was surprised, because you’re normally so quiet.”

The floor was freezing again.

“I realized I have been a terrible host.”

By the expression on his face, whatever he’d been expecting her to say, it wasn’t that.

“I haven’t tried to ease your transition to life on this planet in any useful way.”

“I don’t need your help,” he huffed.

“No, but I should have offered it anyway,” she said, and he had no ready response to that.

“It also made me sad that such a beautiful language would die with you.”

He was fairly certain that no outsider before her had ever called the language of Saiyans beautiful. Most wouldn’t have dared.

It was too much.

“Let me get this straight. You decided to learn my language for your amusement, by spying on me while I train?” His voice was low and violent, and each phrase cracked like a whip.

That was the voice of the alien who’d first arrived on Earth, with the aim to kill everyone on it. She’d forgotten it could be so cold -- but the guttural syllables of the foreign tongue struck something in her belly like a match, smoldering.

“No! I mean, yes, but--” A sigh. “I wanted to save it for you, Vegeta.” She ran her fingers through her hair in agitation, sending the pencil flying.

He clenched his fists to keep them away from her throat. “I have killed, for so much less.” And yet, his name on her lips in his own language was intoxicating, a drug he wanted again, and again, and didn’t know why.

She ignored the coiled violence in his tension, exposing her back to him as she faced the wall of glass between the kitchen and the deck. He was torn between irritation at being dismissed as a threat, and some other feeling evoked by the display of trust. Doesn’t she know what she has invited into her home?

She carried on. “Goku is a lost cause, but Gohan is a really good student. I think he’d love to learn the language of his ancestors, to teach his kids someday. It doesn’t have to die.”

The swirling chill intensified, flaring up until her skin felt the sting of frostbite. She stood her ground, waiting on him. A few seconds stretched into eternity; her breath fogged the glass once, twice. She’d never felt more alive.

He vanished without a word.

She was utterly unafraid of him. She wasn’t stupid, so that only left crazy.

Not entirely crazy. She knew he still needed her alive to achieve what he wanted most.

His name pronounced properly, in a feminine voice, made him remember his long-forgotten mother with an unwelcome jolt of emotion.

He hadn’t let himself think about how much he missed having a conversation in his first language until right this moment, because what was the point? But of all the people in the universe, why would he want to share it with her? An outsider. It made him feel even more keenly the weight of being the last true Saiyan in the universe.

It made him feel even more alone.

Somewhere he knew the well-meaning idiot was trying to do something kind for him, even if it also served her selfish obsession for knowledge. Part of him felt bad for not being able to accept it, and that realization pissed him off beyond all reason. He owed her nothing.

She sat a long time in the kitchen trying to figure out if this had been a good idea, or a terrible one.

She was still alive, so there was that.

When she finally came upstairs, she hesitated on the landing, wondering if he were asleep, wondering if she should apologize.

A loud crash from his room decided for her. “Vegeta?” She knocked, to no answer.

She cracked the door and peeked inside, but he was nowhere to be seen. A dresser was toppled over, contents strewn about like carnage. No lights were on, but the curtains blew in from the open balcony doors.

He sat against the exterior wall of the house, wearing only shorts, impervious to the icy wind. His eyes gleamed at her from the shadows like a nocturnal predator.

She sat as close as she thought he would tolerate. His narrowed gaze never left her. “I’m sorry,” she started, and he blinked.

She was sticking to her language until if and when he decided he was okay with otherwise. “I let my greed for knowledge convince me you’d find the end result worth the invasion of privacy. I knew better.” She met his glare without flinching. “I should have asked you.”

He understood the concept of apologizing. He’d seen it used for political machination. He’d had the words forced from his own mouth, on his knees, countless times.

He couldn’t recall ever being on the receiving end of a real one. His anger leaked away, slipping through his grasp when he tried to grab it back.

Who was this human, to offer him that?

“Why did you really do it?” He asked, in spite of himself.

“Everything I said before was true. I couldn’t stand to see something lost when I could save it. But also,” she paused, considering. “I wanted to be your friend.”

He jerked. “I don’t need your friendship ,” he spat. Why would she say such a ridiculous thing?

“Of course you don’t need it,” she agreed, a smooth parry. “But would it be so bad?” Riposte .

“Hn. How exactly was this supposed to make us friends ?” His tone was still surly.

She made an impatient sound. “Clearly, this all went a lot better in my head. But...part of being friends is knowing someone, and being known.

She moved closer, too close. “You’ve had to learn about me and my world whether you wanted to or not. I wanted to learn your language to learn more about you.”

He leaned in. “And did you, little human?” His voice was unreadable, dangerous.

She continued on, blithely blowing past caution. In for a penny, in for a pound. “A bit, yeah.”

Leaning back against the wall, she elaborated, “Not so much you, specifically, but a lot of the differences in culture that seemed so jarring at first are sort of built into your language. I’d say I understand Saiyans a little more, at least.”

Something eased in him, hearing that. Some invisible tension lessened, at the idea that he might not always have to explain himself, to conform, that he could just be what he was, and that would be acceptable.

She went on, ignorant of his seismic internal shift. “And...it’s a failsafe.”

He shook his head. “What?”

She looked directly at him again, utterly serious. “What if your translator chip suddenly fails? I can’t imagine that shitbag lizard splurged on top of the line wetware.”

No, we were too expendable for that.

She shrugged. “I’m a genius, but I don’t do cybernetics. I’m not fucking around with your brain. You need to be able to communicate with at least one of us without relying on tech.”

That was terrifying, actually, the thought of being stuck on this backwater hellhole without being able to make himself understood. How had that never occurred to him before?

But all he said was, “I’d have just left.”

“And I don’t want you to leave.” She smiled. “Because you’re my friend.”

He felt an unfamiliar stab. “No, I’m not,” he growled.

She waved that aside, then frowned. “I don’t want the androids to kill us all, either. We need you.”

She fell silent and he could only watch her, words having left him. The loose tangle of her hair was a halo of blue, backlit by a sliver of moon that left everything else in darkness. She was ethereal, unreal, and certainly didn't belong out here freezing her ass off with him.

Had anyone ever claimed to need him before? Certainly he’d been reminded often of how disposable he was, should he fail to comply.

He studied her profile, this infuriating creature, and wondered at the warmth that flooded him at the idea of being needed.

He hated it. He craved it.

Without looking at him, she placed her hand over his, and it was a small eternity before he pulled away.