#I am so tempted to retreat back into obscurity but at the same time I’m tempted to fully put myself out there

[whenimaunicorn]

Pretty Boy

Fandom: The Last Kingdom Characters: Uhtred x Reader Rating: Explicit

This is a request for @tephi101​ - Happy Yule!!! I took a stab at enemies to lovers in 3000 words... ok 3059... I don’t think you’ll begrudge me the final 59 words though ;)

 Your camp for the journey’s first night is secluded, in a small ravine far enough from the road that your warriors are not likely to be noticed by any passers-by. You are not yet in Earl Alfheim’s territory, but even here it would be better not to be seen; anyone might carry tales of armed men, and wonder where they are going. You sit now around a modest fire with your most loyal men: Burki, Thurgild, and Sigurd. A small goatskin full of ale, courtesy of Thurgild’s provisions, is passing around the group before you settle in for the night.

Raucous laughs drift up to your ears. “Curse them for fools,” you hiss.

The disturbance is coming from another fire, a separate camp set up just about a hundred yards away. Uhtred’s men.

Burki turns and spits in their general direction. “I don’t like working with Saxons.”

“Working for Saxons,” Thurgild corrects. “Most of the men he brought are as Dane as the rest of us. Funny how Alfred is getting so many of his enemies to do his bidding.”

You swallow a warm mouthful of ale, then pass the canteen along. “He gave us no choice,” you remind your crew. “And I’d much rather be smelling this cool night air than the stink of a Wessex dungeon.”

Sigurd tips the mouthpiece of the bag toward you in silent agreement before taking a drink.

A sour twist remains on Burki’s mouth. “Still, adds insult to injury to be partnered with the very man that tied you up and brought you in, don’t you think Y/N?”

You growl at the reminder. “Uhtred got lucky when he caught me, that was all. We’ll give him the slip just as soon as this promise is fulfilled. Then go somewhere far from the reach of Alfred and his hirelings.”

Sigurd finishes his lengthy swallow, then with a satisfied sigh and tosses the visibly lightened skin at Thurgild. “That’s the end of it.” He stands, ignoring the group’s groans of disappointment at such an early depletion of the ale. “I’m turning in. A lot of ground to cover tomorrow, before we can set to spying.”

Your other men stand too, with grunts of begrudging agreement. Only you remain seated, your mood blackened. You nod them off and scowl into the fire.

A moment later you whirl at the crunch of leaves to your right.

Firelight gleams off the fair face of Uhtred Ragnarsson, the traitor who now calls himself Uhtred of Bebbanburg. He tries a winsome grin as he approaches the seat beside you, so recently vacated by Sigurd.

“Watch it, pretty boy,” you say. Thurgild is still close enough to hear you, pausing on the way to his tent to look back. You wave him off and glare up at Uhtred. “What makes you think you are welcome by my fire?”

Uhtred tosses his twisted hair and sits down anyway. At least he still dresses as a Dane. “Since you called me pretty,” he smirks. He lifts a goatskin. “And because I have ale to share.”

You refuse to allow his sparkling eyes to soften your own scowl, but you reach out for the peace offering. He keeps a hold of it, sliding closer to you along the log, his expression playful and what some women might consider tempting. You huff and snatch the skin away from him.

The calculation in Uhtred’s eyes changes as he watches you drink and stare back at him flatly. He looks toward your warriors, disappearing into their tents. “Which one of them is your man?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as a better retort comes to mind. “They all are,” you deadpan, watching surprise make his cheeky confidence falter. “I sleep in Sigurd’s tent on Thor’s day, Burki’s on Freya’s day…” you trail off as Uhtred’s eyebrows climb. “You are surprised? What, do you not handle it this way with your men? Don’t tell me you all hump together, at the same time…” You scowl and give up the ruse as Uhtred’s brows crease in offense. “None of them is ‘my man,’ fool. I don’t need to share a bed with them to have their loyalty. They follow me because they respect me, as I am certain your men do too.”

Uhtred leans back, palms lifting. “I meant to imply no such thing.”

“You only wanted to know how I could possibly resist your charms, then.”

“Perhaps,” is all he says staring now into the fire. You definitely seem to have taken the wind out of his sails.

“We should make plans for how we will approach the fort tomorrow.”

 *

 Alone with Uhtred, scooting up a ridge on your bellies, you peer down at the fort to inspect its defenses. Apparently he, like you, would rather take the risk to see things for himself than try to piece together a plan from information reported by his men. Absently, you wonder how your two groups are getting along as they wait for their commanders to return.

A little checkpoint has been set up on the road below, and the guards change as you watch.

Uhtred leans closer than he needs to, making sure his voice won’t carry. His breath tickles your ear as he speaks with the barest rumble of vocalization. “Did you see the signal the man flashed as he approached?”

You made the same gesture with your hand. “They must not always know the faces of their replacements. We could use that.”

Uhtred seems likely to say something else, but you hear a crunching in the brush somewhere behind your position. It could be an animal, but better to be sure. Without wasting time on saying anything, you shove at Uhtred’s shoulder, rolling him under the cover of the bushes off to the right.

You wind up on top of him, pressed together from chest to knee as you share the tiny hiding space. His breath is warm on your cheek as you peer out from under obscuring twigs.

Uhtred chuckles, creating very interesting movements in the warm body beneath yours. “Y/N, if you wanted to roll around with me—”

You cut him off with a hiss and a glare. A dry branch snaps not too far away and Uhtred’s face goes serious too. He looks out toward the source of the sound and then neither of you move another muscle, other than the soft rise and fall of your chests, pressed together, breathing in sync as you listen.

Someone is stomping in your direction. You feel the flex of Uhtred’s pectoral muscle as he moves his arm carefully, quietly. A moment later he presses the hilt of a weapon into your hand.

The footfalls grow closer. Uhtred tries to signal something to you with his eyes, but you aren’t certain of his meaning. Only that he intends you to be ready to strike. You can see your opponent’s feet now, and they stop suspiciously near.

You hear the sound of steel clearing a scabbard. Uhtred’s arm whips up, and a stone clatters several paces away. He’s made a distraction, surely intending for you to roll out of the bushes and strike.

You launch yourself out from under the cover and make a sweep for the man’s legs. A single cry escapes his throat as he goes down, but you’re sure to silence him the instant his throat is within reach.

Uhtred remains in a crouch after crawling out behind you. He looks around warily, then flashes you a warm smile. “I knew you would make quick work of that.”

“I told you before, pretty boy, I’m better than you.” You wipe blood from the blade on the warrior’s coat and then toss Uhtred’s dagger back to him. “You only got lucky the day that you caught me.”

“I am beginning to believe it,” he answers, surprisingly humble. “I am glad that we are now on the same side.”

You force a small smile. Don’t be so certain of that. You kick at the body. “We’d better hide this and move on.”

 *

 Luck runs out as the day progresses. The next patrol that runs into you is dispatched too, but with much more effort, and you both take wounds in the process. That, and one of the horses spooks, so you are now left sharing a saddle as your remaining mount carries you both back to your hidden base. Still, Uhtred seems inexplicably cheerful. The music of laughter touches his voice as he speaks behind you. “Earl Alfheim will surely notice three of his patrolmen missing from his hall tonight.”

“So we’ve lost the element of surprise,” you grumble.

Uhtred’s arms squeeze once against your sides. He insisted he needed to lean against you for balance, holding on to the front of the saddle between your legs, but you suspect his wound is not actually that bad. “That is what he will think, yes. He will draw in his men, and lock his fort up tight, believing we made a mistake.”

“Didn’t we?”

You don’t have to turn to know that Uhtred is grinning. “Not necessarily.” His hair brushes your cheek, bringing with it the musky scent of a vigorous man. “He will retreat into his hole, expecting us to try to attack him there. Meanwhile, we will be stealing his cattle. Perhaps we’ll take the town, as well.”

You frown. “Do we have enough men to do that?”

“We don’t,” Uhtred says cheerfully. You feel like smacking the insufferable man. “Not to hold any of it. But if we annoy him enough, he will send his men out to take these things back, and in the streets of the town, or out driving cattle, each one of our warriors is worth three of his.”

“We barely took three of his today,” you remind him.

Uhtred waves his hand. The gesture is so close to your body that you are surprised with an involuntary thrill, a sudden wish that that hand had actually brushed up against you. “Only because we were trying to be quiet. They would be no match at all in open combat.”

“You plan to get lucky again, then.”

“Always.”

 The rest of the ride back is excruciating, not because of the pain in your side, but because you keep expecting Uhtred to lay his hands on you and it never comes. His voice is sweet in your ear, his body warm and intriguing at your back, and the sway of the horse creates a friction of your haunches against his hips that you imagine has to be driving him mad. But not once do his hands creep to your thighs, nor do his lips brush along your neck, nor any of the other number of things you wait with baited breath for him to try on you. He had been so interested in flirting with you before. What had changed?

And so the ride is painful for you not physically, but in your soul. Because as Uhtred continues to not touch you, you are forced to realize how desperately you want him to. Working together today, with the respect he showed for your skill, and the ease with which you both took to coordinating in battle, it was as if you had danced together already. A glimpse that gave you confidence in how well your bodies would slide and fit together under the furs, as well…

You might have caught something in his eye just as you are dismounting, after returning to the camp. But his men are fussing over the injury in his leg, and Thurgild is ushering you off in the other direction so he can examine the gash across your stomach.

 *

It’s nothing, really. A shallow strike, the bleeding easily stopped. But when Uhtred appears hours later with the offer of some magic ointment to soothe your wound, you don’t send him away. You beckon him closer, nestling back into your furs, and draw your tunic up and show him your bandage without a word.

There’s something heavy in his eyes as he kneels down beside you. You know how you must look, laying flat on your back with your trousers loose and belt-less for sleep, holding the hem of your tunic up just beneath your breasts. It’s hard not to flinch, to go rigid and ready for action, as this warrior who so recently hunted you down now looms over you. But it’s exciting, too. To expose your soft belly to him, to force yourself to remain completely vulnerable under his gaze.

There’s a sting as Uhtred removes the cloth bandaging your wound. You give no sign of the sensation other than holding your breath. He gives a satisfied nod at the state of your wound. “Not deep.”

“Not deep,” you agree. Thurgild only had to sew it together with a few stitches in the middle. You’ve had worse.

Uhtred opens his jar, scoops out a jellied paste with two fingertips. “This has a bite at first, but once it soaks in it will numb everything.”

“Good. That ache was starting to get annoying.”

He starts at one edge of your wound, working it in gently. The sting is immediate and your body twitches. Uhtred’s other hand comes down on your flank, steadying, soothing, and he makes a low humming sound under his breath. “Trust me.”

And you realize that you do. Somewhere during the wild engagement that got you this wound, Uhtred had earned your respect.

The fingers of his left hand continue to play over your skin, bared between hip and ribs, in silent distraction as he spreads the stinging ointment with his right. The edge of the wound he had started with is already sinking into blissful silence.

You arch your back just a little, not enough to disturb his work, only hoping to encourage that left hand. Uhtred’s calloused palm feels as good as you’d hoped, warm and strong as it conforms to your curves.

He finishes with the ointment, and wipes his right hand dry. He does not stop touching you with his left. You stare up at him from your pillow of furs, not saying anything, hoping the look in your eyes is enough. Your pride won’t let you admit out loud to this man what you want from him.

His thumb strokes your side once, twice more. He examines your face, his own expression unreadable, though his perfect lips are softly parted like they are readying for a kiss. Then he looks down at your belly, turns, and sets to work applying a fresh bandage.

He does not look back up at your face. But as you watch his eyelashes flutter, it feels that he is memorizing the sight of your curves under his hands. And when the bandaging is done, he does not rise, does not lift his hands from your body, does not utter a single word.

Uhtred leans in, long hair brushing against your flank, and presses a single kiss just below your navel. The sensation sends ripples through your entire being. The whiskers on his chin tickle your lower belly as he tips his face up to regard you with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “I can think of one other way to soothe your pain.” Cheeky fingers curl around the top of your trousers.

You groan a little at the way your body responds, a flash of heat stabbing through your core, but the look of triumph that passes across Uhtred’s face annoys you. “Humping seems likely to break open fresh wounds,” you point out. “Thurgild would have your head.”

“Not humping,” Uhtred responds with a grin. “We’ll save that until you have healed.” Then he starts drawing the fabric down.

He removes your trousers slowly, pausing to kiss each new inch of bared skin. Every press of his lips kills any protest trying to formulate itself in your mind. You will just have to trust that he’s up to something you won’t regret.

When he has your lower half completely bare, his lips do not cease their work, kissing your thighs soft and slow, melting the tension out of your legs with massaging hands. He settles his body between your knees, spreading you more and more open, until you feel the air against your cunt, wet and waiting.

His kisses travel in that direction, along your inner thighs, and you inhale slowly in anticipation. You had not expected Uhtred to be so generous a lover as this. But if he is this intent on proving why you should yield to him, you are wholly ready to lay back and enjoy it.

His finger slides along your slit, just before his tongue follows. He emits a soft growl as he presses your legs apart wider, almost impatiently, and then his hot mouth closes over the little bud of pleasure just above your opening.

You suck in air, fingers curling through the furs at your sides, as Uhtred takes you on the ride of your life. He wields his tongue even better than his blade, and you praise whatever woman must have taught this to him, so he has such skill to share with you now. You start to moan, desperate little sounds, as an answering pressure rises inside you; hot, liquid pleasure that feels likely to drown. And when Uhtred pushes two long fingers inside you, beneath his still-sucking mouth, you arch your back and choke off a scream.

His hand finds yours, fingers curling together, anchoring you as that pleasure explodes into something about to overwhelm your sanity. You feel no shame in sobbing his name as you climax, all pride vanished under this wicked tongue.

He licks you steadily as you shudder and unwind, holding your hand firmly, not relenting until you push him off and shut your knees against the sensitivity. Uhtred laughs and slides up to lay beside you, arm scooping in around your chest, mindful of your belly wound. The one you can’t feel at all anymore.

“I like the way you call my name,” he murmurs pridefully into your ear. He nips it playfully. “And surely your men must have heard that.”

You give him a lazy swat, already feeling too sleepy to engage him properly. “Surely, that was your plan all along.”

“Perhaps.”

Read more fics from the Let’s Be Danes For Yule event!

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#let's be danes for yule #uhtred of bebbanburg #uhtred ragnarson #uhtred x reader #uhtred imagine

[cuddlytogas]

[ficlet] Again, and Again (The Magnus Archives)

have some jonmartin fluff in this trying time

EDIT: now new and improved and on Ao3!

Everything happens in a rush, once they get out of the Lonely. Jon and Martin make the long and arduous trek back through the tunnels, with – blissfully – no sign of Elias (Jonah), though the walls are spattered with blood, and Basira, when she meets them at the trapdoor in Jon’s office, seems bodily exhausted. She asks peremptory questions, and takes their answers with little in the way of visible responses: Martin? Returned safe, by Jon’s hand (a tight mouth); Lukas? Dead, by Jon’s powers (a satisfied nod); Jonah? Missing (one clenched fist). When they ask for updates on her end, she says nothing for a long moment, which neither Jon nor Martin has the strength to interrupt.

“They're all gone,” she eventually says, pushing past the crack in her voice. “Daisy – Daisy’s not herself anymore. I don’t know if she’s coming back.”

“Is anyone else hurt?” asks Jon. “The rest of the Institute, are they –”

“Yes,” says Basira, and gives no more details. “I think you two should leave. It’s not safe for you here.” She hands them a key, and a slip of paper with an address written on it – somewhere near an obscure Scottish village, by the name – and holds Jon’s hand for the briefest moment, tight and secure. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

With most of Jon’s things living in boxes in the archives, it isn’t hard for him to pack some toiletries and changes of clothes into a bag, and they’re out of the way before the police arrive. When they leave, Jon stubbornly keeps one hand always on Martin's elbow, or the back of his shoulder, or reaching to keep their fingers entangled as they navigate the teeming, bloodied crowd outside the Institute, and the Tube to Stockwell, because of course, in all of this, Martin never could afford to move house. He packs his own rucksack, digging through messy piles of clothes and sorting through the washed and unwashed with ease despite having left no visible distinctions. They book seats on the next train to Edinburgh as they head back towards London, checking their phones over and over again for news of the Institute, and by the time they arrive at King's Cross, they have just enough time to wolf down a couple of sandwiches and board the train, checking over their shoulders the whole way.

Jon and Martin barely talk as they travel, too afraid of being overheard, and don't stop when they reach Edinburgh, just before midnight. An overnight bus takes them to the nearest town to their destination, where they manage to find a taxi to take them to a nearby village, from which they walk, in the chill, dawning light, to the even smaller village further along, heels dragging and hands twined between them as they huddle close for warmth. From there, they find a map that leads them to the right field, and while the first farmhouse they try is occupied by some very baffled cattle breeders, the second one – a tiny little cottage in a dip behind the next hill – matches Basira’s description. There are planters full of miserable-looking daisies under the front windowsills.

“This is it,” Jon breathes, with the conviction of knowledge he shouldn’t quite have. “We made it.”

“Are we going to be safe?” Martin returns, just as quietly. It's the most either of them have spoken in many dreary, exhausted hours.

“As safe as we can be,” Jon answers. His voice is soft and hoarse. “Come on.”

They check all the doors and windows before they can relax, of course; test the taps, and wipe the dust off a number of surfaces. There is one, fairly large, bed piled with blankets, and Martin shakes the dust from the uppermost quilt as Jon lights a fire in the front room, and boils a saucepan of water for the dusty tea. They drink it while perched on stools in the kitchen, changed into t-shirts, jumpers, and tracksuits against the cold. Jon’s naked toes rest curled against the wooden strut of his seat; only Martin had the sense to pack thick socks, and then to put them on.

Finally, as the sun once more begins its descent from noon, Jon sets his half-finished mug on the counter behind them, and takes Martin's empty left hand between both of his own, a motion so steady it can only have been heavily planned.

“I realise,” he starts, haltingly, as Martin watches where they're connected. “That – that is, I feel I should say – Martin, I – it's no coincidence that we made it out of the Lonely, we – I –” At last, he raises his eyes, and Martin follows, gazing back at him, nonplussed, as Jon finally gives a little sigh, and says: “Martin, I love you.”

It pulls at one corner of Martin's mouth, tugging his dry lips into a smile. He forgot to bring a chapstick.

“I figured,” he says; then sobers, and swallows, before the warmth of happiness can bloom in Jon's chest. “But,” he adds – “how do you know?”

“What?”

“I'm not –” Martin sighs through his nose, and puts his mug down behind them, turning away from Jon but not extracting his hand. “I don't mean to sound morbid, but I'm not who you think I am,” he explains to the floor, and the crackling fire. “I'm not the same person you used to know. How can you be sure that you – that you love me, if – if you don't even know me anymore?” He raises his head again, just enough to meet Jon's eye, an apology behind his gaze. “I don't mean to sound morbid,” he says again, in a half-miserable, half-resigned mumble – “but it's true.”

For a moment, the only thing that moves is the fire, crackling low in the hearth, and each of their breaths, pushing and pulling at their chests, one sharp and skinny, the other broad and round. Then Jon smiles, with a small huff of laughter and a glimpse of stained teeth.

“Martin,” he croaks, almost pityingly, and swallows, glancing away. When he speaks again, it is steady, but slow, like every word is being chosen with utmost precision. “I have fallen in love with you,” he goes on – “over, and over again. For... two years now, I suppose, including the coma.” He looks almost embarrassed to admit it. “After Prentiss, and the tunnels, and Leitner, and when you believed in me, and – and your plan with Elias –”

“Jonah,” Martin mutters; a rote reminder. Jon nods.

“Well,” he says, in recognition. “The point is, when I woke up and you weren't around... I fell in love with you then, too. And no, you're not the same person you once were – but God knows, neither am I.” He says it with half a smile, rueful and forgiving, eyes back on Martin's face. “But Peter was wrong. Maybe we do create an image of the people we love, but that's not the end of it. It's just the beginning. Every time you make me adjust that image, I fall in love with you, and – well. You're seriously underestimating me if you think I won't be able to manage it again. And again, and again – for as long as you'll have me.”

Martin stares at him, at the open honesty on his face, gentling the lines and softening the eyes. It's one thing to feel love, to have it offered in a desolate place, to know that of course Jon loves him, or how did they ever escape? But it's quite another thing to hear it in so many words – to know that, while he was hopelessly crushing on his boss, maybe the process wasn't entirely one-way – and in that soft, quiet voice Jon seems to have reserved for a privileged few, tired but contented, and so very, very gentle. Martin can't find a response, for so long that Jon glances between his eyes, and falters, sitting back without unclasping their hands.

“Sorry,” he breathes out in a rush, looking away, “I'm sorry – that was too much, too fast. You only just got out of the Lonely, Peter was working on you f–”

He cuts off with a muffled sound as Martin places his free hand around his jaw and kisses him, the wood of their stools creaking, leaning a little awkwardly around to reach him. Martin doesn't push for anything, but his palm is warm and solid, and the pressure of his mouth is easy and insistent, two full lips slanted across his own, the space between them damp, and warm, and tempting with the promise of the taste of tea. Another strained, muted sound escapes Jon's throat, as his breath stutters through his nose and his brain tries to catch up; until, finally, he closes his eyes and sinks into the kiss, moving and pursing his lips so that they catch against the soft-dry and smooth-wet contradictions of Martin's mouth.

When Martin pulls away – far enough to breathe, but not so far that he has to remove his hand from where it is cupped around Jon's cheek – Jon finds himself following with open mouth and closed eyes, twisting in his seat to face him better. He blinks, and meets Martin's gaze, scrunched up a little by cheeks pushed up by a smile, and close enough that he's barely unfocused.

“Sorry,” Martin whispers into the space between them, Jon immediately breathing in the words. “Too much too fast?”

Jon shakes his head, then finally finds his voice to say, “Not at all.” He plucks one hand from the pile between them to trace his fingers along Martin's jaw, but they are both already leaning back in, meeting with a hush of clothing and breath. Jon's glasses are pressed into an angle, wedging into the bridge of his nose and his cheekbone on one side, but all that really matters is the stretch of his neck as he tries to reach for Martin's height this time, rather than let him bow to meet him, and Martin's loose, threadbare jumper collar under his fingers, tightening and loosening in turns according to the movements of Martin's lips, or pressing flat to the swell of his chest, yielding against him. The hands between them grip tighter, clinging to each other, as Jon awkwardly tries to mimic the parting of Martin's lips, and even more awkwardly yelps, eyes blinking open and closed, when he tastes Martin's tongue, wet and sour, as it smooths over the edge of his lower lip.

Martin doesn't withdraw from Jon, but his mouth retreats, and there's the start of a real apology in his teeth, so Jon silences him by pulling on his hand and lunging blindly forwards, with an urgent tongue that is soon gentled into languid pleasure. Martin pushes his hand into the waves of Jon's greying, greasy hair, too long untrimmed, and the pressure of his fingers against the base of his skull, carding through his hair, makes Jon want to purr.

The kissing doesn't go anywhere. Eventually, they nearly fall off their stools, Martin catching them both against the counter, and they laugh softly, surprised and out of breath. Half-delirious, Jon settles his glasses and tries to explain, tries to say that things could get complicated from here, that he's not really – he doesn't really –

But Martin just smooths back his travel-soiled hair, and breathes “I know,” and “We'll talk about it later,” and “Let's just go to bed,” as Jon nods his relieved agreement. They stumble past the fire, happy to let it wear itself out, and through to the cramped bedroom, to crawl in under the mountain of quilts and hold hands between them as they get comfortable, and the sun goes down, and they finally drift off to sleep. They'll have to see to the generator, in the morning, and figure out how to contact Basira, and deal with... everything. For now, however, they curl against each other on the surprisingly soft mattress, sharing warmth and breath, with Martin's head tucked into the crook of Jon's neck, and Jon's hand on his back, steady and sure in their closeness. The end of the world may be coming; but they have this. At least they have had this.

#The Magnus Archives #TMA #MagnusPod #jonmartin #fanfiction #ficlet #Jonathan Sims #Martin Blackwood #TMA spoilers // #MAG159 #MAG159 spoilers // #MAG160 #MAG160 spoilers // #not really but just in case #Togas Writes Things #unproofread! unedited!! #i've had that 'again and again' conversation stuck in my head for about two and a half weeks now and i'm finally getting it out #as some gap-filler now that the canon has been decided #i am EMOTIONAL about these TWO #(i'll come back to it later and maybe decide to put it on ao3 but for now that's too much committment) #(I AM LONELY AND SAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

[a-memory-of]

The midday sun beat hot against the sand-weathered stones of Ul'dah's streets. But the heat never stopped the desert city's routines, especially in the marketplace: deliverymen pulled their carts, merchants at colorful stalls battled for attention with shouts of amazing deals and extraordinary wares, and adventurers and buyers of all shapes and sizes perused such goods with either awe or incredulity. In his own way, Emerlain Moreau wanted little to do with the crowd. Not because he didn't care about the lively energy that being surrounded by people offered (on the contrary, he loved that about Ul'dah), but because he was busy with other matters. Sitting against the wall, beneath an awning that shielded him from the sun's rays, he sketched on his parchment. His pale blue eyes then peered up, past the crowd, and to the impressive, ornate building that sat on the other side of the street. Architecture was the subject of the day, and he made certain to note the length of each column and flow of each flag that was caught the hot breeze. As ever, his expression was calm, if not pleasant, and despite his concentration on the building beyond, he gaze occasionally strayed along the streets. His concern wasn't with the crowd, but he certainly didn't mind watching it from his almost-decently cool spot.

The heat was something so entirely different than she was used to. Josephine Gallier found it odd she was missing Ishgard of all places, but she was. Her hair had been tied up in a bun, offering some escape from the warmth and it was an attempt to look more presentable even when she felt as frazzled as she did. Carefully clutching the same leather-bound file to her chest, she hurriedly made her way through the market, dodging the crowd and carts alike. Josephine stopped a moment, looking around and giving an exasperated sigh. How she was supposed to find anyone here, was quite beyond her. Pulling the file back a bit, she looked down to a parchment resting between it and her chest. It had a hastily drawn map and directions upon it. Someone bumped her shoulder as she looked down at it, and then up at the street. Scrunching up her nose, the Elezen stepped off to the side, looking at it and fanning her face with her free hand.

Emerlain wiped locks of hair that had stuck to his forehead in the heat, leaving behind a light smudge of charcoal across his skin. His steel gray tunic was dusty, just like everything in Ul'dah, but otherwise quite well-kept. A few strokes later, and he glanced back up. Then, his head tilted, and a clever smile spanned.

Not far, off to the side, stood Josephine. Their last meeting had not ended well, at least not to her (he presumed), and he was half-tempted to simply pack up his book and slip away. But...that brooch, her name, and a long-distant memory compelled him to act once more. 

Briskly, he tore a piece of parchment from the book and began to fold. It was a simple design, and he worked with nimble fingers, occasionally glancing her direction to make sure she didn't leave yet. Then, he popped to his feet and swept over to the woman, the contents of his hands hidden behind his back. He simply...stood beside her, nonchalantly. Wondering how long until she would notice.

Josephine had been too lost in the scribbled directions to notice the other had all but slid up beside her. Still frustrated and fanning herself, she mumbled something about Halone under her breath before she turned sharply, making to walk back the way she had come. Perhaps she had gone too far down--- 

As she turned, she very nearly walked right into Emerlain's chest, but stopped herself, scrambling for her file to keep it in her arms and an apology already forming on her lips, "Ah, forgive me sir, I didn't--- you!" 

Blinking, she stood there looking at him. It was most certainly the artist from the bar the other night. Clearing her throat, putting a stray hair behind an ear, and standing straight as if she had never had such an undignified moment at all, she pursed her lips at him, "If you'll excuse me, I'm in a hurry."

Emerlain quite positively beamed. “Of course,” he replied in a smooth but chipper tone. “I’m certain you have much better things to do than talk to me. However, I noticed you look like you’re still adjusting to the heat. Especially today, as the sun seems particularly unkind.”

In a swift movement, Emerlain presented her with the parchment he had torn free prior. It was a delicately folded fan, and on one side was a sketch of a mountainous landscape he had done during one session or another. He offered it was a smile and a slight bow of his lanky elezen shoulders. "It isn't much, but perhaps more useful than your bare hand, hm?"

Josephine almost commented on the nerve of his implication, how dare he assume she was anything other than perfectly refined in this Twelve-damned heat? But she thought better of it, it was a waste of time and she was already lacking that. Clamping her mouth shut, she half-turned as if to move away when a folded paper was forced into her line of vision. 

Stepping back and blinking, she studied it. A fan. Her eyes caught on the sketch a moment, taking it from his fingers and into her own, one arm still curled around the folders at her chest. "Is this... why would you ruin a perfectly good drawing like that? How absurd," she clicked her tongue, squinting her eyes at him a moment. 

But it was rather hot. She pursed her lips. Would using it show too much weakness? She could always use it once she was out of sight. To start sweating would be improper, however... and so she gave it a few test flicks.

Emerlain shrugged, lofting a brow in her direction. "Ruined? Now 'tis a beautiful fan, instead of a parchment. One can be both beautiful and highly functional." He grinned, perhaps intending his words to mean something else, perhaps not. As she looked at the fan to test it, he looked at her. And then to that little brooch on her chest. 

"'Tis a fine brooch. But aged." He spoke casually, smiling kindly. "It must be important to you."

The fan helped, she supposed. But she was not about to admit it so readily. Josephine couldn't help but give him a wary look at his words. Had he not been speaking of a simple fan then? 

His next words stilled her hand, before her olive eyes settled back on his face. "One usually finds importance in gifts," she muttered, tilting the papers she had in her free hand his way, "If you must insist on conversation, at least make yourself useful. Do you know where this is?" A gesture of her chin pointed to a neatly written name, likely a merchant stall.

Emerlain merely smiled, a look that often accompanied a mischievous glint in his eyes, as if he knew a secret. His keen ice-blue eyes then peered down at the papers, studying the location. His brows went aloft. “The name certainly looks familiar. I could lead you, of course, but on one condition.” He peeked up toward her. There was that smile again.

Josephine could not help give a wary look at the other, immediately regretting having asked for his aid at all. Not with a look like that. There were countless other's she could have asked on the street for directions. She had no need for his games. Blowing a breath out her nose, she deadpanned, "And the condition?"

Emerlain's expression somehow brightened, realizing that she was going to entertain his offer, at least. He rummaged through the pocket of his trousers and procured an item, obscured by his hand as he offered it to her, looking amused all the while. "You simply must keep this." 

If or when she offered a palm, he would drop the item into her possession. It was small, about the size of the pad of her thumb, and green. The Thanalan sun glimmered off the shimmering sheen of jade, and it had been intricately carved into a creature: a skulking fox.

She found she immediately regretted her answer, frowning at his own suspicious looking smile. Josephine watched his every move as he dug around in his pockets. With hesitance, she raised her hand in turn to collect the offered item. She was not sure what she had been expecting, but she certainly had not expected something like that. 

Josephine studied the little carving, she could not tell it's purpose, but she recognized easily enough it probably not had come without a considerable amount of gil. "But I..." her face fell a moment, the lines of agitation fading in that passing thought, "What am I to do with this? Why are you giving it to me?" When in Halone's name was the last time she had received any sort of gift?

“So many questions. Do you not receive trinkets often? ’Tis surprising. Place it somewhere nice to commemorate our meeting, or keep it out of sight for the same reason, whatever you like. Just do not sell or toss it away, t’would be rude,” Emerlain nearly laughed. Then he stood a little straighter. “Now, the merchant you’re looking for isn’t on this street. I daresay it was in the direction you came from, but you missed the the turn. Come with me, hm?” He motioned to the street behind her, then spun on his heel, tucking the pad of parchment under his arm and moving to lead the way.

Josephine stared down at the little carving for a moment longer, before she carefully tucked it away in a breast pocket. For some reason she felt more agitated about the gift than the heat, being lost, or being late combined. But she carefully trained herself back with a deep breath. 

Thankfully, at least, several of those problems were remedied once the other led her down the proper street. They parted ways at the stall, she had business to attended to, after all, and he seemed content to be on his way. Josephine gave one last look to his retreating back, before shaking her head as she unfolded the paperwork from her stack before the merchant. A strange man like him was not someone to dwell on.

With @locke-rinannis

#ff14 #ffxiv #rp #roleplay #rp logs #Josephine Gallier #Emerlain Moreau #Memories of the Jaded Dreamer

[literallyjustanerd]

In His Eyes (Chapter 2)

Well, here I am again. Since I’m desperate for validation Since I’ve kept writing this, I thought I may as well post the rest of it so far. So, even though nobody asked for it, here’s chapter two!

Genre: Slow build/eventual romance Word count: 2584 Pairing: Nightcrawler/Angel Rating: T+

After another week of solitude and self-contained angst, Warren's reluctance had begun to wear away. Not through any fault of his own, of course – he had kept up his rough and unwelcoming exterior as much as he ever had. The students at the school were just far too damned persistent with their kindness. Inch by inch, little by little, Warren found himself getting comfortable around a few of the students his age. Admittedly, they all had their irritating quirks, but then, Warren imagined he must not exactly be a delight to be around, either.

It started with simple, little things: meals, mostly. He would come down to breakfast and sit silent and solemn with his bowl of cereal or slice of lukewarm toast, and the group would move to join him. At first he stayed stubbornly silent when they tried to start up a conversation, but as the days wore on, the temptation to throw in a contribution here and there grew too much to bear. He would never say so in so many words, not even to himself, but deep down he knew that he enjoyed their company, found their gossip and their laughter to be a comfort. This morning, Warren fills his bowl with cereal and milk, and sits at a table near to the window, watching the room and picking out the group he has come to count on. Like clockwork, they rise, and Warren quickly suppresses the urge to smile – baby steps, he scolds himself, don't get ahead of yourself.

"Morning, Warren," Jubilee says cheerfully, setting her tray down next to Warren's and sitting down. Warren bobs his head in response. Jean follows suit, then Scott, Ororo, Peter, and finally, Kurt. But unlike the others, Kurt does not join the chorus of greetings, sitting down silently on the edge of the table. His eyes raise, hesitant, and he smiles meekly at Warren, who can only blink back, face neutral. "The Professor says we can try the Danger Room again this afternoon, if we get through everything we have to do today," Jubilee grins, tearing her piece of toast, laden with far too much jam, in half. "Why do you always sound so excited when you say that?" comes Scott's unimpressed reply. "You know it's never as cool as you make it out to be. All they ever make us do is kiddie stuff. It's basically gym class." Jean rolls her eyes, and Warren watches her formulate a reply as she gulps down a mouthful of juice. "They can't exactly let us act out a fight like the one in Egypt straight up," she says dryly. "This is still a school, you know, they have to put our safety first. Work us up to that level." "Then maybe they shouldn't call it something as misleading as 'the Danger Room,'" Ororo counters, and Peter's voice jumps up in agreement. "Yeah. Maybe something more fitting. Like, 'the nursery,' or 'the lame room where nothing cool ever happens.'" Warren rolls his eyes with the others, and plays along with the conversation from the background, as he usually does. His thoughts drift when there is a lull in the chatter, and almost subconsciously, he twitches his wings, tentatively reaching them out and away from his body. Though all too soon, a deep stab of pain in both appendages snaps him back to reality.

For weeks in that infirmary, he'd been completely featherless – they had had no choice but to remove all the razor-sharp metal for how much it was bent, and how much it had already sliced into him in various places. And when finally, his feathers had begun to regrow, he was surprised –pleasantly, he thought, though he wasn't sure– to see the plush, pure white plumage cover his wings once more. Those who had seen him told him they liked it better that way. They said it was more natural, and more fitting of the 'Angel' moniker which Jubilee had insisted on keeping around when she'd heard about it. He had to admit, it was much more comfortable this way. Though that didn't make up for the fact that it still hurt to move them more than a few inches. Hank had said that the pain was normal. Trying to fly, or even to stretch out his wings before they had properly healed was like trying to walk on a broken leg. Which, as he'd seen during Peter's recovery, was not exactly a good idea. Still, the idea of attempting to use what had once been his most prized possession tempted him. The stiffness in his wings, the cramped sensation was akin to what he felt when he sat in one position for far too long, only far, far worse. His heart throbbed with a need to feel wind through his wings; whistling between his feathers and whirling under each swoop and circle. Freedom seemed so close now, so painfully within his reach as it hadn't been for months upon months, and yet every time he ventured to grab it, the pain brought him back down.

When the others leave to get ready for class, Warren takes himself back to his room, wondering how he will waste his time away until lunch, when he can use the excuse of hunger to be among people once more. The same routine takes place in the hours before dinner, and once that too is over, the boy retreats to his room. Kurt watches from just by the door to the dining hall as Warren stands, somewhat reluctantly, from the table. Almost subconsciously he notes that, as usual, Warren is the last one to leave, yet also the quickest to do so. Another student passes in front of Kurt, obscuring his view, and when he cranes his neck to see the table again, Warren has vanished, and Kurt is left staring at his now empty seat. An hour after everyone is asleep and the main lights have been turned out, in a moment of weakness, Warren creeps from his bedroom down the hall and downstairs to the largest living room in the mansion. The ceiling is high: high enough that exposed beams line the space below the roof with enough room in between for someone to fit quite comfortably. Silence surrounds him, the furniture of the living room no more than slightly differing layers of grey upon grey in the dark. Warren takes in a breath, and the sound fills the whole room. His eyes remain trained on the beam directly above him, lit just slightly more than the rest of the room in the weak moonlight from the window. Just one wingbeat, he coaxes himself. Just one, and you'll be up there. Moving slowly, diffidently, Warren forces his wings out, wincing through the searing pain. As much as he pushes himself, he can only manage to extend them halfway, but that, he thinks, might just be enough. Steeling himself, as he knows this part will hurt much more, he clenches his fists, and beats his wings towards the ground. For one, glorious moment, Warren can feel himself lifting, rising, the outline of the beam coming closer. His heart soars, but just as quickly, it plummets through his stomach when he realises he will not make it. Trying to move his wings, he finds that the agony now is far too much to bear, and instead of gliding gracefully to his target as, he scrabbles for the length of timber, just barely managing to get a grip strong enough to pull himself up and prevent himself from falling to what would have been a very unpleasant landing. Panting heavily, with his chest beating furiously after the close call, Warren leans to his side on the support beam that sits perpendicular to his perch and drags a hand through his mess of blond curls. He curses himself, curses his own arrogance and brashness, and tries to push aside the voice asking just how he planned to get his smart ass down, thanking the gods that at least nobody had been present to witness his humiliation. Though halfway through this thought, as he surveys the ceiling space around him, his eyes lock with two glinting yellow orbs in the corner, and he almost falls backwards off the beam before his mind clicks and his shoulders slump even further.

"Kurt," he says simply, the word coming out shakier than he had meant it. "Warren," comes the uncertain reply. Neither boy speaks, and Warren watches the yellow globes flick in and out of existence as Kurt blinks. Finally, Kurt moves, and though Warren squints to see him, he can make out nothing but Kurt's eyes until he settles directly next to Warren. Kurt breathes, and then, so does Warren. "You were trying to fly?" "Yeah." "…That was stupid." "Yeah." Warren thinks he should say more, feels compelled to fill the strange silence, and in the absence of anything fitting, he forces something out. "I thought I could make it up here alright," he says, looking downwards at the 30-foot drop below him. "But Hank said you shouldn't–" "I don't care what Hank said." Kurt pulls his knees to his chest, movements steady and unhesitant. He is at home up here, that much is apparent to Warren, much more than he himself is. "It must be hard, not being able to fly like you used to," the boy muses, keeping his voice low. Warren nods, and for a moment wonders if Kurt can see the gesture in the dark, but just as quickly makes the assumption that, with those eyes, he probably can. "What about you? What are you doing out here?" he asks. "I like to come out here alone sometimes," Kurt answers. "I think better at night." "Yeah, well. Guess it's right there in the name, huh?" Kurt gives a half-hearted laugh, one that leaves Warren unsure if he has just crossed some sort of line. But Kurt speaks on, so he pushes the question from his mind. "Back when I was with the circus," he begins, "I would only leave the camp at night. With my skin, I'm almost invisible in the shadows. It was the only time I could be out and not fear being seen by people outside the circus." "So what if you were seen?" Warren shrugs, though even as the words leave his mouth, he knows the answer. Kurt's breath shakes as he inhales. "They thought I was a demon," he says. "I was hunted."

The word hangs in the air, thickening the tension between the two. Something about the way Kurt speaks hints to Warren that although he has practiced these words many times in his head, he has never before said them out loud. There is a small part of Warren's mind that tells him to say something sympathetic, to apologise. But that part of him is small, and withered, a mere echo in the background of a sullen, hostile cavern. "How long had you been fighting in that cage before our fight?" Warren is grateful to Kurt for changing the subject, and shakes himself back to reality, forcing his throbbing wings shut to they rested flat against his back. "About three months. But while I was there I lost track." "How did you get there?" "I was on vacation with my parents in France. I went out one night after a fight with my dad. I– I just wanted to find a place I could stretch my wings for a while." He falters, the words giving away and his many insecurities flooding back in. He waits for a few seconds for Kurt to tell him to continue, but there is only a calm, patient silence. Given enough time to gather himself, Warren begins to feel the strange compulsion to continue. "I thought I was alone out there, but apparently not. I circled around a field for a while, and the moment I touched back down –bam– I was knocked out. Next time I woke, they were forcing me into the cage." Something is immediately different when he finishes speaking. The air tastes different, feels different in his chest. It surprises him how sudden it is, how refreshing to have the words out of his head. "I'm so sorry," Kurt breathes, heavily. "Those people… they have no morals. No sense of human dignity."

Kurt watches Warren nod vaguely, eyes glazed with tears he would never let out, and feels yet another pang of empathy for this complicated boy. He doesn't expect it when Warren speaks again, addressing him directly this time. "And you? How did you wind up in that hellhole?" Kurt shrugs in self-deprecation, as though any story involving that horrible place could be mundane. "The circus I grew up in treated me well. I was a gymnast." "Which explains all the jumping and swinging." Kurt cracks a droll smile and nods. "Yeah. It was nice there. But then one day, the ringleader was bought out. The new owner was… not so nice. He wanted me to stay on, but only as a… what's the English word… a sideshow. A freak." "And then what happened?" The words are out of Warren's mouth before he can think about them. "When I refused, he decided I was more trouble than I was worth and sold me. That is how I ended up in that cage." The small part of Warren's mind steps forward, presses him, wants him to say the words that have lined up at his lips. When he realises he won't do it, can't do it, a pit opens in his stomach that makes him curl in on himself. Why not now? he demands of himself, digging his fingers into the skin of his chest. There couldn't possibly be a better scenario than this. Then, with more resignation: Why not ever?

"Would you like me to help you down?" Kurt's voice is jarring to Warren, and he almost doesn't hear the question at all. "Hm? Oh, right. I guess I'll have to get down sometime." "Touch me." "What?" Kurt chuckles. "Touch my skin. That way I can teleport us both down." "Oh. Right. Of course." Warren reaches out, but hesitates, hand stuttering to a stop. "It's okay," Kurt assures him. "It might make you feel a little sick, but it's over quickly." His fingers twitch, still resisting, but he forces himself to lay a hand on Kurt's arm. Before he can ask when Kurt is going to do it, Warren is on the ground once more, dizzy, staggering backwards and just barely keeping his feet. The teleporter laughs at this, and despite himself, Warren's lips pull to the sides in a feeble smile. "Wow. That was… that was a trip," he breathes. "You get used to it. It's like blinking, only you move." "I think I'll stick to actually moving for now." Kurt nods, and Warren yawns deeply. "We should go to bed," Kurt says finally, and Warren doesn't fully understand the pang of resistance in his stomach. "Yeah, I guess." "Goodnight, Warren." "Night, Kurt." Warren turns around, takes a step couple of steps, and Kurt, after watching for a moment, is about to teleport himself back to his room when Warren speaks again."

Hey, uh, Kurt?" He ventures. "Yes?" "…Thanks." Kurt smiles. "You, too." The blue-skinned boy disappears, and this time, it's Warren who is left to watch as the wisp of smoke dissipates in the space he had been.

#i know i'm sorry please just humour me #i love these idiots so much #drabble #nightangel #in his eyes #kurt wagner x warren worthington iii #kurt wagner #nightcrawler #angel #archangel #warren worthington #warren worthington iii #x men #x-men #xmen #x-men: apocalypse #fanfiction #fanfic #writing

[ciceroprofacto]

35 or 38 lams!!

38-“You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

35-“You heard me. Take. It. Off.

After the Battle of Monmouth, the boys blow off steam…and other types of blowing.  [EXPLICIT]

Camp teeters somewhere between vigilance and celebration, men still posted at their cannons in case one last round of shots tries us from across the hill where we’d driven the British.  There haven’t been explosions for hours now, but as proof that discipline in camp has tightened, no one tries to celebrate prematurely.

It’s too dark to continue a coordinated battle, but as we stand, Washington should feel confident for the morning.  With Cornwallis whispering in Clinton’s ear, stories of Brandywine and Whitemarsh, we’re all sure he’ll fall to the same hubris as Howe.  He’ll wait to make another attack, thinking his victory is assured.  And if their camp still remains come first light, we’ll be ready to finish this.

“-if he hadn’t occupied me all evening with planning our water distributions for tomorrow, I would’ve helped him draw up the formations.  He probably hasn’t drawn them himself- instead, I bet he’s still raving at Gilbert like the boy can do anything more than he can to see Lee’s punished for this.”

Hamilton had been sulking while I’d raged to him about Lee’s retreat from the field.  It seems, after my considerable goading, he’s finally joined me in my anger, but I’ve exhausted my supply of complaints about General Lee for today.

“I’m sure Gilbert’s returning his fury in equal measure,” I say, squeezing out the cloth we had been washing up with.  The sound of water hitting the basin momentarily drowns out the noise of crickets outside and the voices of the soldiers and the camp, fully awake.  “And, with this heat…cooling the men down will be just as important as removing musket balls and wrapping wounds.”

“It’s not that hot.”

He’s being petulant for having quit the field and I give him an unimpressed look, “Not now,” I agree, “but at midday, we were dropping like flies.  Nearly as fast as they were.  A hundred men died from heat.”

“Because they failed to judge their own limits.”

He must be joking.  I smirk at him, “You fainted…straight into my arms.  You call that judging your own limits?”

“When I felt myself fading, I knew exactly where to go.”

His tone is defensive, but too petty to be genuine- only for show.  I stop my hands wringing and sit back, grin at him fully, and see where he’s teasing- his usual deflection against embarrassment.  I take him where he’s opened it up for me to frisk him with wit, “You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“But, swooning into your arms has made you so much sweeter to me today,” he says and grins back.  As if he doesn’t know why I’ve kept him closer…after the battle we had.

I swat at him with the washrag but he catches it and laughs. “Tell yourself whatever you need to,” I say.  “You fainted.”

He throws the back of his hand up to his head and rolls his eyes back, “Oh, Laurens,” he sighs, arcing dramatically backwards until he falls into our pallet in a heap.  “Help me- I’ve fallen off my horse and it’s hot.”

I stand from the stool I’d perched on to wash up, following him onto the blankets and wrapping an arm around his shoulders- to shove his face into the pallet.  Making light of the dangers this war presents to our lives has become a familiar game with him and one that I think we’ve learned to mutually indulge for our own benefit.  He injects humor into the idea of his own death, a subject that fails to elicit an acceptable response, a dull compliance that would have me furious with him if he expressed it.  And I pretend he’s sparked my temper before he can actually do so with his callousness, so that he can laugh at himself with the full understanding that he’s walking on thin ice.

He kicks a leg up and sweeps mine out from under me, effectively initiating.  And then we wrestle over the pallet for several minutes, knees and elbows knocking on soft spots, already bruised from a hard day’s battle.  We push at each other, grunting and laughing in turn until it hurts too much to ignore those aches and injuries and we make a mutual surrender, more honorable than awaiting a hard-won victory both of our bodies would regret.

After several long minutes of catching our breath, he says, “Remember when we were so impressed that General Arnold was shot and trapped under his horse and fought from the ground?”

I roll onto my side to look at him.  “Are you saying we’ve made ourselves as impressive as Arnold today?”  It’s a vainglorious implication, but I don’t imply I disagree.  When Alex doesn’t answer, just shrugs and stares up at the ceiling of our tent, I say, “When you were in Albany…I watched Joseph Reed fall off his horse, surrounded.  Cadwalder stood and defended him by the sword.  Seeing you trapped under your horse…”

He sits up on one elbow, “I’ve told you- I don’t need protecting.”

I imagine a world where he can read my mind- what a blessing and curse that might be.  “Still…” I say.  By the time I had made it to his side, he’d had three dead redcoats bleeding out on the ground where he’d fallen.  But, “I wanted to run to you and defend you. Give you the time to get up and fight.  I wanted you standing beside me.”

“Where I should be,” he says, smiling easily.  Like it’s devastatingly simple.  Though I know him- and I know what it means for him to align himself with anyone else, that sort of trust and vulnerability.  And he says it like it’s simple.

When my eyes shy away from him, he rolls over to tuck himself at my side and lifts my arm to place it around himself, shimmying until his back’s aligned to my chest.  It’s still too warm for this- the air humid and sticky.  But he’s open and hopeful and honest in this moment.  And God, I’ve always seen the difference between his lies and his truth, but should it really be this easy?  When did we become so weak to each other?

He talks about the battle and compares it to an epoch, dredges up our old stories and poems, the fantasies we’d shared to get through the winter of being ancient heroes or outlaws, in places more free than this.  Places where adventure required less paperwork.

He moves too much when he speaks, and I think he must know this, but with his body so firmly pressed into mine.  I wish he’d heed the effect that it’s having on me.  Just his presence so near is enough to keep my body keyed up, finely tuned to some emotional response just shy of the rush felt in battle, anticipation of the charge, something I can’t bring myself to act on without orders.

When he deliberately leans back into my lap, I push my hips forward against him, let my nose rest in his hair.

What am I doing? I think.

His hips press back more firmly and I know he must be aware of my predicament now, but he moves slightly against me as if to confirm it.  A discrete little dance that presses his arse into my lap just to test me.  I grab his hip and hold him there.  Playing with flame just to feel the singe.  “If you’re intentionally creating a problem, you should offer a solution…”

“…You’re flirting with me, Laurens,” he warns.

“Am I?”  I have been all day.  It’s painfully obvious, even to me.  Maybe it was the rage of the battle, the fury of Lee’s betrayal or the panic to see my friend in so much danger, but I had been shamelessly drawing myself to him, inviting him closer with words and allusions and touches that bordered on frantic.  We’ve had this discussion before, and I’ve been careful not to hurt him with words, tempting things I couldn’t promise.  But, there’s something to be said that he hadn’t stopped me- or complained of it until just now when my words have already transgressed propriety.

And I still am.  Tempting him.  I can see it, fully aware that my grin is teasing- bordering on salacious, I like the way it feels on my face.  Alex seems to war with himself, hesitant to hope even as he leans towards me and starts to mirror my own eagerness, voice barely above a whisper, “Do you…intend to?”

He’s warning me to stop and consider what I’m offering if I plan to turn him away again.  But…“Well, you’ve said I flirt with everyone, so if you chose to feel that what I said was an overture, really you’re doing so at your own discretion with full knowledge of my character.  You ask me, do I intend to flirt with you,” I smirk fully now, feel my teeth exposed, “I’d say you’re a clever man.  Figure it out.”

He stares, then seems to decide his answer.  “Take your pants off.”

So blunt, I baulk, “What?”

“You heard me.”

He tugs off his boots, and begins loosening his belt, and I feel compelled into motion just to keep up with him.  He unbuttons his shirt at the neck, unties his cravat and loosens his clothes for mobility, but undresses no further.  His eyes stay fixed on me, watching my hips shimmying out of my trousers.

I’m still half-hard from his wriggling, growing firmer under the scrutiny when he stares at my cock.  He moves to me as if he can’t help himself, going down to his knees and grabbing my bare thighs, spreading them without ceremony.  I don’t resist when he pulls me forward, laves the length of my cock with his tongue.  I gasp, feel myself stiffen more.

His eyes flick up to me, half-obscured under his lashes at this angle, he kisses the head wetly with an open mouth, alternating between sucking gently and letting his tongue glide along the tip and the notch below the head.

He takes the head into his mouth fully and sucks hard, and I swear without thinking.  My hips buck and he grabs them more firmly, nails digging into my skin.  I think to apologize, but he swallows more of me, pushes his head down, and when I touch his face, I feel the swell of my own cock in his cheek.

It’s surreal.  Too physical and impersonal.  The times we had helped each other with hands and hips, we had always been so…ourselves, talking and laughing, making crude jokes.  This…all I can hear in this is the wet sound of his throat, the words his tongue traces along the underside of my cock.  Beyond the pleasure, I’m reading every twitch of his brow, watching his eyes fall closed in concentration, sure that he’s mapping the flavor and texture of me for his own purposes.  It’s disastrously obvious he’s done this before.  This act reserved for whores.  He’s enjoying it more than he should.  I want to enjoy it too- to stop thinking completely, but I can’t.  I’m panting, breathing thin and forced, trying to quiet myself as the voices outside our tent seem so loud and intrusive.

The only person who’d have reason to disturb us would be Lafayette who’s interrupted such touches before without notice- then invited himself in to share our tent.  But, he’s still with the General.  He won’t disturb this.

Then Alexander pulls off entirely, drops his nose along my length, licks a wet stripe between my balls, and I don’t care about the voices at all.  His hand works my length.  I need to breathe, but I can’t- not quite.  I grab at the back of his head, so he sucks one of my balls into his mouth and I gasp.  He seems to be so far beyond himself, and as he rolls me over his tongue, he draws me further and further from myself.

I finally crack, “Ah…oh god, Alex…”

His eyes open, looking up at me with unrestrained mirth, laughing as he pulls back and touches my hand on his head.  I take that as permission and guide him back onto my cock, press him forward- but he beats me to it and pushes down at his own speed.  I plunge down his throat, torturously slow, and he pulls back, presses his head into my hands like a nuzzle- goes back down in another slow stroke.

This is the quietest he’s been all day.  Spent every conversation interrupting me and my ranting anger to interject his own opinions, but his mouth is thoroughly filled, throat making obscene noises as he swallows me too slow.  I push in, impatient.  He forgives it, moves with me and accommodates.

Easy, teasing slowness gives way to momentum and with a fluid move of his neck, we’re moving in tangent.  I relinquish my control to shift my hips in compliment to the bobbing motion of Alexander’s mouth.  Beside myself, I’m dangerously close to finishing and losing control of my breathing, all wanton sighs and muffled noises of pleasure- a quiet chorus of please and yes and Alex.

I watch his shoulder move and realize he’s palming the front of his breeches; he grabs his kerchief and opens the flap to touch himself.  Then, he’s groaning around my cock, breathing hotly over wet, sensitive skin. It’s all too much and when my friend sucks at me sharply, takes me even deeper, I practically sob, try not to moan aloud.  I move to push him off before I lose myself, but he persists, calms the twitching of my legs, squeezing the muscles of my thigh with one hand and groping at my arse with the other, pushing me forward and deeper into his throat, taking me with unbearable intent.  I jolt, clamp my eyes tightly shut and sob dryly, coming down his throat.

There’s no mess when I open my eyes, Alexander holding my cock up as it softens and licking at it until I’m sticky with only saliva.  He sits back on his feet, chest rising heavily as he catches his breath, and reaches over to grab my pants and hand them back.

He looks at me again, expression uncharacteristically nervous for a moment as he holds out my clothes.

I take them and stare back at him.  His lips are wet and look tender and soft.  A small drop of my release escaped his tongue and sits at the corner of his lip.

I wipe it away from his mouth with my finger.  The motion feels tender with him staring like this.  But he closes his eyes, and before I pull my hand away, he catches it, draws it back to his lips and pulls my finger into his mouth.  He licks it clean and lets go.  “Thank you…” he breathes, and I don’t think he means for wiping his mouth.

I almost dismiss it- ask why in the world he would be thanking me.  But, he looks too relieved to question it.  And, I consider, there’s not many people he might be able to do this with.

So, I smooth his hair and slide my fingers down his back, pulling him close so his face falls into my neck, breath humid and sticky on my skin.  We lie back, and I stroke his hair until he falls asleep.

It’s too warm to stay this close.

#not for Liberty Kids #ficlet #SOA #Song of Alexander #this is weird in first person #Seriously don't read this unless you're of-age #I know a lot of you nasty teenagers are following me but I'd like to sleep in peace thinking I'm not sharing my smut with the youths

[how2to18]

IN HIS 2004 GQ essay “Upon This Rock,” about an excursion to the annual Creation Festival of Christian music and worship in central Pennsylvania, John Jeremiah Sullivan describes his take on the difference between rock music that happens to be made by Christians and “Christian rock” music:

Christian rock is a genre that exists to edify and make money off evangelical Christians. It’s message music for listeners who know the message cold, and, what’s more, it operates under a perceived responsibility — one the artists embrace — to “reach people.” As such, it rewards both obviousness and maximum palatability. […] A Christian band, on the other hand, is just a band that has more than one Christian in it.

Assuming this is accurate and supposing it is applicable to other art forms, what are the implications for Christians looking to make an impact on (or through) popular (or high) culture? For individuals with the talent and gumption to look at an entire pantheon of artists and try to force their way among them, circumscribing their output entirely to a genre that “rewards both obviousness and maximum palatability” is clearly not the best route. According to Sullivan, “Talent tends to come hand in hand with a certain base level of subtlety.”

Denis Johnson, who died earlier this year, called himself a Christian, although he once told David Amsden of New York, “I’m sure you could find any number of Christians who could assure me that I’m going to hell.” To say Denis was a great writer is not controversial. There have been many eulogies and appreciations of his work written in the months since his death, and while many allude, in a cursory way, to the spiritual character of his writing, none that I’ve seen explore the details of the realities he described or questions he posed, much less Denis’s personal beliefs and religious experiences. The closest is Will Blythe’s moving New York Times Book Review essay “A Lot Like Prayer: Remembering Denis Johnson,” and in the course of writing this I encountered Justin Taylor’s insightful “Gonna Try for the Kingdom if I Can” in n+1.

I had the incredible good fortune to be Denis’s friend, and I know some of his beliefs concerning God and religion. I observed him practicing his spiritual disciplines, which included prayer and daily readings of Alcoholics Anonymous, The Bible, and A Course In Miracles. I am a massive fan of his writing. I believe Denis’s faith suffuses his writings, although I could be wrong about the ways the two correlate. While Denis was incredibly, and famously, open and vulnerable among his friends and acquaintances, I suspect this had the unintended effect of pushing the unknowable parts of his identity even deeper. I would hate for any reader to think I were trying to shoehorn Denis’s work into a literary genre akin to Christian rock music, but my hope is that readers will be edified through my sharing, just as I have been by Denis’s life and work.

Denis believed he was personally affected by miracles, that God is supernaturally active in individuals’ lives in profound and unexpected ways. God saved Denis from alcoholism and addiction through Alcoholics Anonymous and the 12 Steps. Denis named his Idaho property “Doce Pasos North” and dedicated two of his novels (Angels and Tree of Smoke) to “H. P.,” which, I assume, stands for “Higher Power.” I’m tempted to say that in the firmament of Denis’s beliefs, faith in a Higher Power at work through AA and the 12 Steps is the fixed star. Substance abuse and addiction figure prominently in Denis’s fiction and plays, and he always extends to his characters the possibility of the same grace that he himself experienced.

Getting clean through AA marks the dividing line in Denis’s life. In his 2000 Paris Review essay “Hippies,” he describes his youth as a “criminal hedonist” followed by growth into “a citizen of life with a belief in eternity.” AA meetings provide ritual, prayer, and fellowship that includes the sharing of struggles, confession, and accountability. Denis, who regularly attended meetings as long as I knew him, told me that he hated small talk and that AA meetings spoiled him in this regard — people there only talked about real, personal issues.

He also read Alcoholics Anonymous, the program’s so-called “Big Book,” throughout his sober life. In it, alcoholics working the steps are encouraged to use whichever religious tradition, if any, works for them — “We think it no concern of ours what religious bodies our members identify themselves with as individuals” — while the foreword to the Second Edition (1955) claims that AA includes “Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Hindus, and a sprinkling of Muslims and Buddhists.”

I believe this perspective colored Denis’s thinking on religion. The last time I visited him, in 2015, something I said reminded him of an Emo Philips comedy bit that illustrates the absurdity of denominational hair-splitting, and he pulled it up on YouTube to share it with me. Viewed from the perspective of AA, doctrinal disagreements and accusations of heresy can seem like narcissism of small differences and thus suitable subjects for ridicule. This perspective dovetails with that of Denis’s hero Walt Whitman, who says in the introduction to Leaves of Grass, “argue not concerning God.” Denis felt that paying attention to or participating in these disagreements obscured the most important thing about God: He is active in one’s life.

Denis did get more specific in his faith, however. I know from many visits with him that he read the Bible regularly and found great, practical solace in it. The first time we met, in 2006, he told me he was a convert to Catholicism and that he had encountered Jesus during a Cursillo retreat. He said he had not been to Mass in years. I asked him if anything had changed in his faith since he wrote his “Bikers for Jesus” essay (from the 2001 collection Seek: Reports From the Edges of America & Beyond), and he said that nothing had.

“Bikers for Jesus” includes the clearest description in Denis’s oeuvre of his relationship to contemporary American evangelical Christianity. Describing his visit to the Eagle Mountain Motorcycle Rally sponsored by televangelist Kenneth Copeland in the 1990s, Denis writes:

In the heart of someone who might have just stumbled onto this rally, the man from Idaho, let’s say, fifteen years a Christian convert, but one of the airy, sophisticated kind, the whole business is a millstone — if he’s going to Heaven, shouldn’t he be more excited? Is he going to Heaven? In his questions, his doubts, his failure to submit unconditionally, hasn’t he been nothing but a cruiser, a shopper? Impressed with the drama of his own conversion — but as drama, rather than conversion — was he ever really broken? And more important, was he ever really healed?

This questioning of his own faith and sincerity is not surprising in the context of his familiarity with Jesus’s teaching that people will be surprised at the Final Judgment regarding whether they are counted among the saved or the damned (Matthew 25:31–46), and Paul’s teaching that Christians are to work out their salvation “with fear and trembling” (Philippians 2:12).

Denis recounts — not uncritically — the messages preached to him and the fellowship he shared with other attendees over the course of three days, and his reaction is one of increasing approval: “The white buckets ride the rows. On the first day the Idaho man put ten dollars in, twenty dollars on the second day. This time it’s a fifty.” The 1992 story collection Jesus’ Son, which is almost universally beloved by worldly literati and was recently hailed as a “modern masterpiece” by John Williams in the New York Times Book Review, was authored by a man who donated money at an event sponsored by the Reverend Kenneth Copeland, one of Earth’s ripest targets for ridicule.

“Bikers for Jesus” also contains details that point to Denis’s willingness to believe in God’s continuing revelation. When Denis encountered people who claimed to be hearing God’s voice, he tried to take them at their word. One particular exchange at Eagle Mountain seems to justify his faith in this approach:

The Idaho man introduces himself to the nearest person in his row, a middle-aged black woman who turns out to be Nancy, from Chicago. “God is saying something,” she says intensely as they shake hands, and won’t let him go, staring into his eyes … “He says you’ve been seeking, and just go ahead, you’re doing fine. He says you got a cross in your back, but that’s healed. And He says be sure and take a pen and a notepad with you, so you can write things down.”

The man turns away, but something about what she’s said strikes him now — more than the coincidence of the pen and the pad and the seeking. “Excuse me,” he says, returning to her. “Nancy, did you say something about my back?”

“You got a cross pinching your right back, down low. But it’s gone now. He fixed it yesterday.”

For four months the Idaho man has been undergoing weekly treatments for a pinched sciatic nerve in his lower right back. It hasn’t occurred to him until this minute that it didn’t bother him last night and hasn’t bothered him all day. “I believe you’re right,” he tells Nancy.

“You didn’t want to ask for healing,” she says, “but He healed you anyway.”

“Do these little incidents happen to you very often?”

“Every day.”

While all believers necessarily employ heuristics to address claims of supernatural revelation, Denis’s stance was skewed, more than anyone I have ever met, toward curiosity and the reservation of judgment. He was drawn to claims of miraculous new revelation just as he was drawn to settings of political collapse and anarchy (in Liberia, Somalia, Afghanistan, and elsewhere). He believed his encounter with Nancy was a miracle from God. Denis also visited the Children of the Light at their Agua Caliente commune and recorded their stories of miracles in his essay, “Three Deserts.” This attitude toward the miraculous, that “[m]iracles are natural. When they do not occur something has gone wrong,” is actually one of the principles listed in the first chapter of A Course in Miracles.

In “Hippies,” Denis references a friend of his, “Mike O,” who at the Rainbow Gathering dispenses “information about the Course in Miracles, a heretic sort of gnostic brand of Christian thinking that doesn’t recognize the existence of evil and whose sacred text is mostly in iambic pentameter.” I met the famous back-to-nature hippie “Barefoot” Mike Oehler of Idaho in 2006, and after I overheard him speaking with Denis about the Course I bought a copy and attempted to read it. When I saw Denis in 2008, I told him I had not been able to make much sense of the book, and he sympathized. He told me he only read the Workbook section, and he gave me a copy of what he called the “Reader’s Digest version” of the Course: a slim paperback with cartoon illustrations called Love is Letting Go of Fear by Gerald G. Jampolsky, MD.

A Course in Miracles, which resembles a Bible, is purportedly a divinely inspired text that failed to fully convince the person who wrote most of it down. Beginning in the mid-1960s and over the course of several years, psychologist Helen Schucman heard an inner voice and transcribed what it said with the help and encouragement of her colleague Bill Thetford. The voice claims to be that of Jesus Christ, who teaches that the world we perceive is an illusion and that the way to return to God is through love and forgiveness.

The Course also refers to a concept called the “holy instant.” I don’t claim to understand it, but to the extent that the concept describes how much import can be packed into a moment of subjective experience, I see a relationship between it and Denis’s writing. Some of the most moving and memorable passages in Denis’s stories deal with radical subjectivity and time slowing down, especially in moments on the border between life and death, and how these moments reorder the characters’ priorities: Bill Houston’s death in the gas chamber in Angels (1983); Grandmother Wright floating endlessly in the sea after fleeing the fall of Saigon in Fiskadoro (1985); Nelson Fairchild Jr. making his way, bleeding, down to the beach of the Lost Coast in Already Dead (1997).

There are other echoes of the Course in Denis’s books. The narrator of The Stars at Noon (1986), a sometime-prostitute who insists that Nicaragua in the year 1984 is Hell itself, states: “Anger is fear. Lust is fear. Grief, excitement, weariness are fear — just feel down far enough, look hard enough.” This thought aligns with the Course, which simplifies all human experience to two reactions or choices: love or fear. There are probably more such examples, but it would be difficult in most cases to determine whether Denis’s use of metaphysical concepts and vocabulary springs from the Course or from orthodox Christianity, as there is substantial overlap.

Did Denis believe in the Course? All I know is that he used it. I think of his use of it in the context of his remark to David Amsden noted earlier — it could be that Denis did not want people categorizing him, boxing him in, from either within or without Christianity, with all the judgment and baggage it carries in our culture. Denis was a storyteller fascinated by the question of who has authority in spiritual matters, but he didn’t want to force a set of answers on his readers. He was not a theologian, but he knew what worked for him.

Denis was a Bob Dylan fan (he was the first person I ever heard suggest that Dylan deserved the Nobel Prize in Literature), and it may be that in living out his faith he was reacting to or mirroring Dylan’s conversion experience. A final point regarding Denis’s use of the Course: it is something I am personally grateful for, because meeting me — a stranger who approached him at a gala — presented him and his wonderful wife Cindy with an occasion to choose either love or fear, and they welcomed me and offered me friendship without reservation. This seems like a miracle to me, looking back.

When I first traveled to Northern Idaho and met with Denis, he was still writing Tree of Smoke. The first night I stayed at Doce Pasos North, I slept on a sofa bed in Denis’s office with a draft of the novel sitting next to me in a cardboard box. I noticed Denis had handwritten notes taped up by his desk. One was from Emerson: “God will not have his work made manifest by cowards — SELF RELIANCE.” Another said this:

If I’m some kind of James Hampton and this is some kind of Throne of the Third Heaven, if it’s two thousand pages and two hundred years, SO BE IT.

A photo of the Throne, Hampton’s midcentury religious art assemblage, was taped up underneath. Readers of Denis’s poetry will not be surprised at this reference to Hampton’s famous work; Denis’s collected poetry was published in 1995 under the title The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millennium General Assembly, and it includes his poem of the same name, which describes a visit Denis made to the Throne with the painter Sam Messer:

Sam and I drove up from Key West, Florida, Visited James Hampton’s birthplace in South Carolina, And saw The Throne At The National Museum of American Art in Washington. It was in a big room. I couldn’t take it all in, And I was a little frightened. I left and came back home to Massachusetts. I’m glad The Throne exists: My days are better for it, and I feel Something that makes me know my life is real To think he died unknown and without a friend, But this feeling isn’t sorrow. I was his friend As I looked at and was looked at by the rushing-together parts Of this vision of someone who was probably insane Growing brighter and brighter like a forest after a rain — And if you look at the leaves of a forest, At its dirt and its heights, the stuttering mystic Replication, the blithering symmetry, You’ll go crazy, too. If you look at the city And its spilled wine And broken glass, its spilled and broken people and hearts, You’ll go crazy. If you stand In the world you’ll go out of your mind. But it’s all right, What happened to him. I can, now That he doesn’t have to, Accept it.

It’s not hard to imagine the Throne as a sort of visual analogue to A Course in Miracles. Both Hampton and Schucman had private conversations with God, and the message imparted to each was “FEAR NOT,” the highest words written on the Throne.

Denis appreciated, sought out, and befriended outsiders, mystics, and misfits, past and present. They included Julian of Norwich, mathematician/philosopher Alfred North Whitehead, and the anonymous author of the 14th-century religious text The Cloud of Unknowing, in addition to Hampton and Schucman. I was blessed to be one of the misfits.

Finally, Denis believed in the power of prayer. In 2007, he told me that he had had an addiction relapse while in Vietnam doing research for Tree of Smoke, and that prayer was what saved him. He and I prayed for one another as we both went through cancer diagnoses and treatments. I was surprised when he died, because he had shared that his treatment for liver cancer was successful. I had thought he was in the clear. I now suspect he was simply adopting a perspective increasingly aligned with the eternal. One of his last emails to me paraphrased the message Julian of Norwich received from God: “All is well, all will be well, all was always going to be well.”

¤

Brian B. Dille recently finished his doctorate in Policy Analysis at Pardee RAND Graduate School in Santa Monica. He now lives in Georgia.

The post Books of Revelation: Christianity and Miracles in the Life and Work of Denis Johnson appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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