#and this one oh man - it is so quiet and private and bereft

[patrice-bergerons]

#torchwood #ianto jones #end of days #gareth david lloyd #absolutely kills it with emotional devastation scenes #and this one oh man - it is so quiet and private and bereft #he is so alone #even in his grief #and he is crying while sniffing Jack's coat #because his connection to jack up until then HAS been so physical #and yet no less valuable not for him

[penny-anna]

a hundred buttons

“It’s this dress,” Yennefer admitted. “It fastens up the back with about a hundred miniature buttons. It’s, not strictly possible for one to remove it on one��s own.”

Jaskier snorted. “Oh? Well, how would usually get it off?”

“Usually I just,” she said, and motioned, trying to convey the general idea of I unfasten them all at once, with magic. “Whoosh.”

His eyes widened as he grasped the problem. “Ahh, I see,” he said. “That does sound very awkward.”

Temporarily bereft of her magic, Yennefer finds herself in a tricky position.

(On Ao3!)

The room was too small for Yennefer’s liking, and she paced it from end to end, keeping her ears pricked up. There could be someone standing right outside the door, waiting for her, and she’d never know. There could be someone lurking outside the window. She lifted a corner of the curtain, peering out at the empty blackness.

She dropped into a crouch, making certain that the knife she kept strapped to her angle was still secure. Standing up, she resumed her pacing. Her corset was beginning to chafe at her, pressing uncomfortably snug around her ribs.

She was itching for this to be over.

Footsteps pounded down the stairs. Geralt’s bard put his head into the room. “Evening,” he said, though it was well after midnight. “Still up?”

“Evidently,” she said. “Any sign of Geralt?”

He pulled a face. “Not a whisper. I take it you haven’t had any luck with the curse, then?”

“For the last time,” she said, “it is not a curse. A curse I could handle. The lingering effects of a magical void are the farthest thing from a curse.”

“If you say so.”

“In fact one might say it’s the precise opposite of a curse.”

Smacking his lips, he said, “it’s all the same to me.”

He, of course, had felt nothing at all, even when he was standing in the void itself. He hadn’t felt its deadening silence, its stomach-churning emptiness. He hadn’t felt anything vital inside himself go dark.

No, he’d just stood there with his hands on his hips and said, “what’s got into your pair, then?”

She was tired. She hadn’t realised how much she’d come to rely on her magic to give herself little boosts, after a long and difficult day. She said, “I can’t imagine where he’s got to.”

“Well, he’s away in a huff, so probably nowhere in particular,” said Jaskier.

“He isn’t in a huff,” said Yennefer.

“Hmm, I really think he is,” the bard said. “You know, because you so unfairly snapped at him that this entire situation was his fault?”

“It wasn’t unfair.”

“Even though this whole mess is quite patently no-one’s fault,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “and there was really no need for any shouting or throwing things or storming off in huffs.”

“Debatable,” she said. “Did you come down here just to irritate me?”

“Ah, no, I came down because I forgot my pack,” he said. “And, I suppose, to say that I’m going to bed.”

“Alright,” she said. “You do that.”

“Are you staying up?” he said. “Because if so I’d appreciate if you could stop rattling about. This house is very creaky.”

“I shall rattle as much as I like,” she said. “I’m waiting for Geralt.”

He tilted his head to the side, and stepped fully into the room. “Much as it doesn’t behove me to express concern for your wellbeing,” he said. “Given how much of a huff he was in there’s every chance he won’t be back before morning, so I wouldn’t bother.”

There were times – not infrequently – when he’d go out of his way to remind her that he’d known Geralt longer and therefore knew him better. Oh, he’d said airily, Geralt can’t stand sheep’s cheese. Oh, Geralt always gets like this after a hunt. Geralt doesn’t like it when people touch his weapons. Geralt won’t like this. Geralt doesn’t do that. It was difficult to gage if that was what he was trying to do now, without being able to look into his mind, but she didn’t think it was. He seemed to be making a sincere attempt to offer her some advice.

She had to admit, privately, that she felt a little better for having him in the house. Unlikely as it was that they’d be attacked by marauders or wild beasts or monsters in the twelve or so hours before the effects of the void wore off, she was painfully aware that she was limited in her ability to defend herself and that if the worst did happen, the bard’s help might be better than no help at all.

But his being aware of that most uncomfortable facet of the situation – the thought of his having the gall to feel protective of her – made her skin crawl.

“It’s fine,” she said curtly. “I’ll wait up for him.”

“Hm,” he said.

“What?”

“Are you alright? Aside from the obvious, I mean. You seem a little – frazzled.”

She was tired. She was sweaty, and itchy. She wanted badly to complain to someone and since Jaskier was the only person around for miles he’d have to do.

“It’s this dress,” she admitted. “It fastens up the back with about a hundred miniature buttons. It’s, not strictly possible for one to remove it on one’s own.”

He snorted. “Oh? Well, how would usually get it off?”

“Usually I just,” she said, and motioned, trying to convey the general idea of I unfasten them all at once, with magic. “Whoosh.”

His eyes widened as he grasped the problem. “Ahh, I see,” he said. “That does sound very awkward.”

He looked her up and down, pursing his lips. She avoided his gaze.

“Well,” he said at length. “Night, then.” Turning, he left her alone.

Yennefer stood in the middle of the room, listening to his footsteps recede up the stairs. After a moment, they faltered and then began to descend.

Leaning back into the room, he said, “would you like some help?”

“From you?”

“I do have,” he waggled his fingers, “some experience removing ladies’ clothing. And very dextrous hands.”

“I’ll wait,” she said.

“All night?”

“If necessary.”

“Are you sure?” he said. “I promise not to tell anyone. Not even Geralt. I, I really do understand how, hm. Uncomfortable this must be.”

Yennefer heaved a sigh. Her corset creaked faintly beneath her dress. Oh, but she ached to have it off. “Fine,” she said.

“Goodness,” he said, upstairs in the bedroom, peering at her back in the flickery lamplight. “They are small, aren’t they? You can barely see them.”

“Just unfasten it,” she said. She felt a gentle tug at her neckline as he began to ease the first button out of its hole. “It’s a very fashionable and elegant design,” she said stiffly. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“It is very nice,” he agreed. “I suppose this is the sort of thing one usually has a ladies’ maid for.”

Or a husband, Yennefer thought.

“So this void business,” he said, working his way down her back, carefully teasing out each button. He was being more delicate about it than she’d expected, trying not to damage the embroidery. More delicate than Geralt would probably have managed to be. Well, she supposed, he’d always had a healthy respect for nice clothes. “Did it – hurt?”

“No,” she said. “It wasn’t pleasant. But no.”

“I see,” he said. “Good to know.”

“Worried about Geralt?” she said.

“Naturally.”

“It’s uncomfortable,” she said. “That’s all. It’ll pass.”

“Let’s hope it passes soon.” He was almost all the way down her back. “I imagine it’s worse for you. Isn’t it?”

Geralt was hampered, by the loss of his signs, but by no means was he rendered powerless. He wasn’t stripped bare, the way she was. She wasn’t entirely sure he understood – that he realised that, although they’d both had something taken from them, his loss wasn’t the same as hers.

She said, “I can handle it.”

“Good grief,” he said. “How far down do these go?”

“Most of the way.”

He reached the small of her back and dropped to his knees to keep going. “Ah,” he said, his face perfectly level with her behind. “Quite a view.”

“Bard,” she said, “if you say one word about my backside my first act when this wears off will be to flay your skin from your body.”

“Understood,” he said, reaching, cautiously, for the buttons. “I shall keep my comments to myself. Although, if I might say, they are all complimentary.”

“I am currently mentally cataloguing all the spells I know to flay a man alive.”

“I’ll be quiet.”

He finished unbuttoning her, in silence and – to his credit – clearly taking care to touch her bottom as little as humanly possible. With a sigh of relief, she pulled the dress down her shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

She stood in her corset and petticoat, her arms and shoulders bare, gooseflesh rising on her skin in the chilly room. It wasn’t a position she’d usually like to be in when alone with a man she didn’t fully trust.

But then, she supposed she must trust Jaskier; there was no way she’d have agreed to this otherwise. Somehow she hadn’t noticed that she had come to trust him.

“Goodness,” he said, rising to his feet. “Laces too?”

“Corsets usually have them,” she said, putting her hands upon her hips. She was very glad she didn’t have to look him in the eye for this.

“Shall I –”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“It would be worse,” he said as he began, cheerfully, to unlace her. “I once had a tryst with a lady who was wearing – five layers of petticoats. We had to put them all back on in rather a hurry, and then I managed to tie myself to her stays and her husband was coming up the stairs so we were both panicking –"

There was the faintest creak on the landing outside. The bedroom door opened.

They froze, Jaskier’s fingers stilling on her laces. Geralt was standing in the doorway, staring at them. Yennefer stared back.

He walked like a cat, in spite of his considerable bulk. Bereft of her magic, Yennefer hadn’t sensed him approaching at all. The look on his face was utterly inscrutable. She hadn’t the slightest idea what to say and evidently Jaskier didn’t either.

At some length, Geralt said, “what are you… doing?”

“I’m undressing your lover,” said Jaskier. “Why, what does it look like I’m doing?”

Geralt said nothing at all. There was no change to his facial expression. Turning upon his heel, he walked back down the stairs.

Jaskier resumed unlacing her corset. “Do you suppose he understand that was a joke?”

Yennefer said, “I wouldn’t count on it.”

#the witcher #yennefer of vengerberg #jaskier #yennskier

[igotathingforvampires]

Marcus x F!Human Reader | A Tug of Fate | Wildest Dreams Taylor Swift Inspo Babble

TRIGGER WARNING: CANONICAL TALK OF WANTING TO UNALIVE DUE TO LOSS

CANON DIVERGENT: DIDYME IS NOT MURDERED BY ARO BUT KILLED IN RAID

It was a rather bleak day, granted every day was bleak if it was Marcus' opinion. He didn't need sleep, hadn't for the last six thousand years, though the last thousand had made him want to close his eyes and not wake up.

If he had his way-- which he wouldn't thank to his blasted-- loving-- albeit pushy brothers and sisters.

Marcus was of the mind that after living as long as he did, once you lost your anchor there was no point in one even being here. And ever since she was gone. Lost to him and the world in an array of violence and diamond dust ash. He hadn't had the ability to even fathom a world without her.

And so, he had trudged, along and quiet, alone and miserable, weighted by the thousands of years of killing, betrayal, ruling, and chaos. But the one thing that had been a constant was the sweetest voice in the world calling his name.

As he stared out at Volterra from his rooms, he exhaled an unneeded breath, it was utterly bleak-- truly so. How was he supposed to keep going, for what another thousand, maybe more if humans didn't obliterate them all with their nuclear nonsense.

Marcus leaned over and placed his head in his hands staring at his feet. There it was again that incessant tug that had been happening for the last three days, pulling out his window into the city.

A chain had formed and he had no concept as to where it would lead, this phantom taunting from his own gift. Ghosts of the past, perhaps he was finally losing it.

But then as he turned his head, a flash of a sound.

A bell like laugh followed by words of humor. "Come on, you can't even look in there? Awe! It's so beautiful! Hm...seems kinda familiar..."

The voice trails off-- and the jerk of the chain is painful.

The voice had sounded so disappointed.

Marcus glared at the silence outside his windows past the gardens he and his love had built to the wall where the voice taunted him. Beckoned him, called him like a sailor to the sea to drown his misery in waters of oblivion.

With more determination than he had in a millennia he strode into his closet and got ready in a flash.

---

---

Your hand traces the walls of the gigantic palace like structure, the stone feels-- hm, it's hard to place, in fact this entire place feels just-- familiar.

You had booked a trip out of sheer randomness, flinging a dart at the board and it had landed in Italy, bringing a bigger map you had flung another dart and here you were-- Volterra.

What were the odds that this place had been in your dreams?

No one knew, none of your tour group, none of the people who jostled you along because it was time to check out the plaza and shops.

"I wonder what was in there..." you mutter softly unaware of the eyes watching you carefully till you turn and see a shadow partially covered by a walkway, sunlight carefully filtering through the greenery and terracotta roofing. "Hello?" You call smiling at the tall figure. "Hi! uh sorry I don't speak Italian but are you needing anything?"

The shadow moves back a few steps. You frown, and shrug, "well okay! Bye-bye!" you wave and prance back to your group.

---

---

Marcus had paused, you were not what he was expecting. Watching you in a sun dress with the setting twilight of Volterra glittering off your bangles and sun kissed skin.

He knew you.

But did you know him?

He followed carefully, watching as your group circled the plaza and fountain. Your head turned and caught sight of him, and you froze. Blinking quickly as if to clear your head. "Hi there!" A beaming smile crossed your face, honey eyes gleaming. Oh he knew those eyes. It was impossible to miss the specks of brown and tawny spindles of circles that would glitter with happiness.

Not your red eyes...oh no...not yet...

But did you remember.... you were not who you were...you were a new person... not weighted down by the sorrows of the past, a second chance to a clean slate of happiness....was that the Gods designs?

Had you come back?

Marcus sees you step forward, "excuse me. Do you live here?"

I thought heaven can't help me now Nothing lasts forever....

But this is gonna take me down

----

----

Your stunned. He's utterly beautiful. A tragic beauty you think, Romanesque features, tall build and so utterly still like a Sentinal posted at the gates of eternity waiting-- what was he waiting for...

The man nods, "yes, I am." His voice is pitched deep enough to rattle in your ear drums, and strike something deep in your soul. You're confused for a moment.

"Oh! how lovely, it's a beautiful city! I was about to go to a tour of the--" you pointed at a lovely lady gathering people but he is suddenly right in front of you.

"That is not a good idea, I hear the tour is quite dull."

"Awe...but it's for the Palazzo..." you pout a bit, "is it really that dull?"

He's watching you, as if trying to figure something out, "that is actually where I work, would you like a private tour?"

You smirk, "You're not a serial killer are you?"

He bows, half at the waist, a elegant-- out of time-- movement as he offers you a hand, one that engulfs your hand entirely as it closes on your fingers. "You shall be in the best care cara mia."

You realize he's freezing, and something clicks, another thought that this feels all too familiar. Those onyx eyes, the soft smile on his lips, the light lingering in his gaze as he looks straight into your soul.

----

----

I can see the end as it begins My one condition is...

Marcus has given you a tour of the entire Palazzo, hanging to keep the guard and you separated, and you away from the throne room away from the screams.

But as he comes to the garden he pauses. You're chattering away asking so many questions and tugging on his sleeve. He smiles at the happiness you have-- the bond is there, the same....the bond he had missed, but it's stronger, it's pure and it isn't weighted by the tainting of sorrow or the ever present torture of wanting to leave immortality.

He couldn't make you happy....you had been so bereft with immortality.

How were any of them to know?

But now? Marcus watched as you perused the gardens smiling at all the flowers. The setting sun sparking off auburn and black in your hair.

You glanced over your shoulder at him and smiled.

Say you'll remember me standing in a nice dress Staring at the sunset, babe Red lips and rosy cheeks Say you'll see me again Even if it's just in your wildest dreams

----

---

"Can I ask you something?" you pause and glance at him.

"As I've said you may ask me anything and I shall answer it for you."

"You're going to think I'm crazy." You watch him pause, this mysterious guardian you've acquired. "D-do...do I know you?"

He raises a brow, but you can see it, the twitch of an emotion that is barely held in check.

"I... I feel like I do...and it's odd. I've never been here, I've never met you before but I--" you swallow feeling a deep welling of pain in your heart. "I missed you...." you don't understand and you feel tears clog your throat as you instinctively reach for him.

But he's caught your hand, a desperate, ecstatic look on his face. "I don't even know your name this time...." He whispers as he presses a cold kiss to your palm.

And his voice is a familiar sound Nothing lasts forever....

but this is getting good now

"it's y/n..." you whisper.

A wide smile. "....little one....Do you remember my name?"

You pause, and the answer floats up to your lips like bubbling champagne from a uncorked bottle.

Sweet, drunken, loving, everything, nothing, the world, and the universe wrapped up in heart strings of red.

"Marcus...."

Suddenly you're embraced, a cold kiss to your lips and the empty ache that had presided your whole life in your heart--

Was suddenly gone.

#wildest dreams #Marcus Volturi #Babble Writing

[alexaplaysgames]

Have Mercy on Me

Pairing: Felix Escellun x GN!MC

Fandom: Fictif (Last Legacy)

Rating: M (swearing, mild sexual content)

Words: ~ 1500

Description: Felix and his barista are a bit less than careful when it comes to concealing their midnight make out sess.

Notes: So Sage suspects that Felix and MC are a thing, but he doesn’t know that they are. Or he didn’t prior to this fic. The last of my Felix writing spree! I’m moving on to some Asra next.

Tags: @margitartist @demon-paradise @themohawkhelmet @cactus-hoodie @aomiyeon @piningmaybeanartist @another-confused-gay

When I imagined travelling with the legendary Starsworn, sitting in the parlour of a run-down inn and getting wasted wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

Sage grabs a bottle from the table at his feet and takes a hearty swig.

“Even this is failing to entertain me now,” he says, cracking his back as he stands, “I’m going to go pass out.”

“Will you kill me if I call it a cat nap?” I singsong.

Safe glares at me in reply, ears pinned flat against his head. “Do you want to find out?”

I opt to stay quiet as he turns towards the stairs that lead to our rented rooms.

“I think I’m going to turn in for the night as well,” Anisa hums, her green eyes glittering in the firelight. “Goodnight, you two!”

Felix and I sit silently as the sound of creaking wood accompanying footsteps retreats up the stairs.

As soon as the parlour is silent, he turns to me, smirking.

“Ah, to be free of Sage’s incessant pestering.”

I too am rather glad to be alone with him. With all that’s gone on lately, I’ve barely had Felix to myself at all these last few days.

The cracking of the fire is soothing, the silence between us strangely comfortable. It’s rather odd, considering Felix isn’t one for quiet contemplation, and it’s very rare that any situation he’s involved in remains free of awkwardness.

I’m distracted from my thoughts as Felix glances down at our hands, still close together being that we have yet to seperate from our previously crowded position on the sofa.

Once again, I feel myself wishing that he would just ask for things when he wanted them, like he so obviously wants to hold my hand now. Am I doing something wrong? Is this some consequence of his relationship with Rime? I know almost nothing about that, I don’t really want to, but if that deer-man did anything to hurt Felix, I guarantee I’ll snap his antlers like Pixy Stix.

Then again, perhaps some of the hurting was consensual. He did have some choice comments about their sexual relationship that I’ve really been trying to forget. Yikes. I can’t imagine the Felix I know in a relationship anything like that.

He’s too precious... too soft. I feel like getting rough with him would break him, shattering his beauty to shards, like stained glass.

But I wouldn’t mind if he were a bit more forward with me.

“Do you want to hold my hand, Felix?”

He starts, then blushes as he meets my gaze. Felix nods, his expression turning resolute as he slowly reaches for my hand, then intertwines my fingers with his.

I reach to delicately tilt his chin up with the index finger of my free hand.

“I do like you, you know,” I tease, but the words still carry meaning. “You don’t have to be so hesitant.”

“O-okay. I know that, I do. It’s just... difficult,” he scoffs, a frustrated sound deep in his throat. His voice goes soft as he continues, “I haven’t- I haven’t done this since...”

“I know.” He doesn’t need to say Rime’s name for me to know who this is about.

I smile, sultry turning soft, then focus my attention back on the fireplace as Felix lays his head on my shoulder with a soft sigh. Progress. His hair tickles my chin, but I don’t really mind. He smells... nice. Like... well, he actually kind of smells like sage. Sage the plant, not the person. Felix would certainly take offence to the latter. I snicker under my breath just thinking of his reaction if I told him so.

I suddenly shiver as Felix turns his face into my neck, trying to stay still. He’s not a huge fan of casual physical contact, and I don’t want to scare him away. He’s kinda like a pet, a cat, in that any time he gets close I stay shock still in hopes that he won’t run off. He’s like a cat in many ways, actually. Grumpy, recluse, adorable. Another description he would despise, knowing his hatred for Stella. I purse my lips to keep from giggling. Man, if only everyone knew how hilarious I really am.

“You realize,” Felix hums, the vibrations creating goosebumps across my skin. “We are completely alone.”

My amusement fades in an instant, my features stretching into a seductive grin.

“Oh? And what, Felix, oh dignified and talented mage, are you suggesting?”

I can almost feel his face heat from where it’s pressed against the soft skin of my neck.

He sighs, then mumbles, “I beg you not to tease me so. We can’t all be as lascivious as Sage, my dear.”

“Felix,” I tease, despite his request, “are you asking for a kiss?”

He pulls away, face flushed red, biting his lip as he refuses to meet my gaze.

“No.” The answer is obviously yes, and although his pout is adorable, he sounds like a stubborn, petulant child.

I place my hands on both of his cheeks, forcing him to meet my gaze.

“Good. Because you don’t need to ask. If you want to kiss me Felix, go ahead.”

It’s a bold challenge. Never does Felix initiate such things, but I want him to. I want him to want to.

He blinks. Then, slowly, tentatively, he shifts closer to me, the sofa creaks beneath him, and I feel the cushions sink as he leans towards me. His breath fans across my face as he gets impossible closer, his eyelashes fluttering against my cheeks.

It’s in moments like these that it truly hits me: how incredibly intoxicating Felix is. I don’t think I could refuse him if I wanted to; my heart yearns to be swept up in the vortex of his stormy eyes, to drown in a sea as black as his fingernails or as red as his bitten lips.

I can just barely feel the brush of his lips against mine, leaving my breath stuttering in my throat. It’s nice- the closeness, the stillness. Intimate even, with our foreheads pressed together and our mouths just barely touching. I could stay like this with him forever.

Then our lips slide together in a familiar, passionate dance, slow and sensual and utterly delicious. I instinctively move my hands to tangle in his hair, pulling just the way I know he likes, while Felix surprises me by moving one hand to cup my face, the other to skim my thigh, and kissing me back hard, hard enough to make me feel like the breath that fills his lungs, and I struggle to refrain from smiling against the softness of his lips.

I pull away, trying not to notice his bereft, breathy little exhale, just long enough to quirk a brow before I place my hands on his chest and push him back into the sofa, chuckling at the noise of shock that he makes.

And while I love to have him near me, holding me, this is where I like Felix best. Pinned under me as I straddle his waist, wide, silvery eyes reflecting the dying firelight.

I lean over him, tantalizing, teasing, trace a path with my tongue from his collarbone to the shell of his ear, then finish by biting down on his earlobe, rolling the stud he wears in his ear with the tip of my tongue.

Felix gasps, hips involuntarily pressing upwards and against mine, a breathy whine building in his throat. I catch his wrists and pin them above his head, leaning back to admire the mess I’ve made of him.

“So pretty,” I murmur, twirling a strand of his hair with my free hand.

“You are quite,” his voice shakes with his ragged exhale, “resplendent yourself.”

I snort, hum, then lean forward to capture his mouth in a sinful, open-mouth kiss, grinding against him once more in a way that has us both panting into each other’s mouths. I’m not sure how long we stay tangled up like that, rocking together, never parting for longer than it takes to catch a breath.

His skin is surprisingly warm to the touch when my fingers flit under the fabric of his shirt, dipping over the soft give of his stomach, a gentle, exploratory touch I can feel mirrored by Felix’s hands on the bare skin of my arms.

I’m just about to suggest we take this somewhere more private when I’m interrupted by a choking noise. A sound not unlike that of a cat, yakking on a hairball.

Felix and I hastily spring apart, and my gaze is immediately drawn to a tall, white-haired figure standing at the base of the stairs.

“Holy fuck.” Sage whispers, his expression a mix of amusement, awe, and confusion. His eyes dart between the look of sheer mortification that paints my features and Felix’s disheveled appearance and half-open shirt.

Shit.

Felix flops back down, burying his burning red face in a pillow.

“Not now, Sage.”

Sage only smirks. “Interrupted something, did I? By all means, don’t stop on my accord. I’m all for watching, or joining. If you’re into that sorta thing.”

I can only manage to stare, slack-jawed. Is he really suggesting...?

“So,” Sage clears his throat, causing Felix to groan at the realization that he has not yet left. “You two really are-“

I nod.

“No,” he grimaces.

“Yes,” I deadpan.

“No,” he repeats, louder, frantic. “I cannot live in a world in which Felix has game. First Rime, now you? Are you sure you’re the one who got teleported to another dimension?”

“That’s not exactly what-“ Felix finally huffs as he raises his head, glaring.

“Whatever, man. This is some fucked up shit. Majorly fucked up, that’s what I say.” Sage crosses the room, retrieving a dagger from the nearby armchair and twirling it dangerously in his leather-clad grip (I assume this is the reason he came back into the parlour at all).

He makes to move up the stairs, but pauses, throwing me a grin over his shoulder, accompanied by a waggle of his eyebrows.

“But if you ever wanna get a taste of the wild side...”

“Sage!” Felix exclaims, eyes flashing a dangerous green, but the former only snickers.

“Goodnight, horny children. Try to keep the noise level to a minimum, if ya know what I mean.”

I have to slap my hand over Felix’s mouth to stifle his angry retort.

This is going to be a long few days.

#Felix Escellun #Felix Iskandar Escellun #Felix x mc #interactive game #interactive fiction #visual novel #Last Legacy Fanfiction #Fictif #Fictif Last Legacy #Last Legacy #last legacy Felix

[pengychan]

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 23

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

Art by @swanpit​.

[All chapters are tagged as ‘mind the gap’ on my blog.]

A/N: Long overdue make-up sex? Long overdue make-up sex. Only the epilogue left before this is all wrapped up!

***

“... I need water.”

“Seconded.”

“Thirded.”

Silence. Some shuffling.

“Well, who’s going?”

“I’m not. I went and got Coco back to sleep when she cried. Did my part.”

“I am not getting off this couch.”

“If you make me go, I’m only getting water for myself.”

“I hate you both.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Uugh. No, I don’t.” Ernesto groans, rubbing his eyes before dropping his head back against the couch’s backrest. He grimaces towards the kitchen. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Three in the morning.”

“What! Where has the evening gone!”

“Where has the entire day gone, we began discussing this over lunch,” Héctor mutters, laying upside-down with his legs over the backrest.

He is not wrong, really: they have quite literally spent half a day and much of the night discussing where to go from there. They talked through lunch, through the afternoon with Coco passing from one set of arms to another whenever she was not napping, talked while Héctor changed her diapers with a frequency Ernesto found frankly concerning given the child’s small size. They took a brief break from talking while walking their dogs - best to be careful with their words outside - and feeding Coco respectively. 

More talking ensued as they put Coco in her playpen to watch a cartoon, as they cooked dinner, as they ate it, as Coco fell asleep cuddled up to Pepita while the dogs watched with envy from outside the playpen, with Dante having finally learned that trying to jump in would spell disaster. 

They discussed everything they could possibly discuss - their arrangement, how it could work going forward, whether to tell Coco, what to tell Coco once she was old enough, how to keep it private business without having to actively hide, what family members could be told and what family members could never - coming to the agreement Imelda’s brothers were probably the only ones who could be trusted, at the moment, to possibly know if it came to it.

“I never thought I’d see the day I had to say they can be trusted over our father,” Imelda said as she disappeared to put a very sleepy Coco in her crib, and Héctor and Ernesto were still snickering at the idea when she came back. They sat on the couch with a drink, resumed talking, and never stopped except for the time Coco began crying and had to be soothed by a very concerned Héctor.

Until, of course, exhaustion and thirst caught up with them at three in the damn morning. 

“So, I’m going to be the waiter from now on,” Ernesto mutters, just a little dramatically, as he finally gets off the couch to fetch everyone some water. He guzzles down a glass, fills two more, and brings them back. Héctor and Imelda drink just as greedily while he flops back down on the couch, exhausted and honestly still absolutely stunned.

“... This is-- is this really happening?” he finds himself asking, very quietly. Part of him fears this is all a dream, that he will wake up alone in his bed to find none of this has really transpired. The other two pause, look back down at him - and maybe Ernesto let something vulnerable show a bit too much, because suddenly they’re both leaning down with the clear intention of giving him a kiss. Exactly at the same time. 

With predictable results. 

Bonk.

“Ow!” Imelda yelps, wincing back.

“Agh! Oh God, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--” Héctor frets. Imelda just slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle laughter, which just comes out of her nose with a honking sound. Ernesto just laughs, his own head unscathed but oddly light. Yes, this is happening. He couldn't have dreamed up something so stupid if he’d tried. 

It is happening, he thinks. We’re giving this a chance, he thinks. For the love of God don’t fuck it up, he tells himself, but says none of those things aloud. He just laughs until he has to catch his breath and it dies down in a snicker. That’s when Imelda leans down to kiss him briefly, this time without bumping her head against Héctor’s.

“I think that means we’re officially too tired to function,” she says. “Let’s go to bed.”

Ah. Right. It is three in the morning. Ernesto clears his throat and sits up. “Of course-- I’ll drop by after lunch, then, so we can go rehearse--”

Imelda pinches his earlobe. “Who said anything about you leaving?” she asks, an eyebrow raised. Ernesto’s words die in his throat. 

Right. Yes. This is happening.

Not that anything physical is going to happen just yet. They are all much too tired to do anything other than shuffling into the bedroom as quietly as they can - “whoever wakes her up has to calm her down”, Imelda threatens - and changing their night clothes - it is odd, finding one of his nightshirts still in their closet, washed and neatly folded - before they flop on the bed. 

At least, Ernesto and Héctor flop down on it. Imelda is decidedly more dignified, and leans down between them. Héctor pulls her close, and immediately holds out the other arm for Ernesto with a grin. Part of him is still wondering if he’s dreaming this, really, but when he slides closer, leaning against Imelda’s body with Héctor’s arm around him, again he knows he will not awaken alone after all. He smiles. 

“Your arms are freakishly long,” he mutters, very romantically, causing Héctor to snort. 

“Oh, thanks, amigo,” he mutters, but his hand keeps resting on Ernesto’s side. “Don’t hear you complain when I give the best hugs ever given.”

“That’s debatable, who decided it is you to give--”

“I said--” Imelda cuts him off, then yawns. Loudly, and without bothering to put up a hand against her mouth. “Sleep,” she mumbled, settling her head back down, forehead against Héctor’s chest and one hand resting on Ernesto’s forearm around her waist. It’s not clear whether it’s an order or just a declaration of what she’s about to do, but they do take it as an order. 

They are, after all, exhausted. There will be time to marvel over getting all of this back in the morning; for now, Ernesto leans down his head, closes his eyes, and sleeps basking in their warmth.

***

***

They get to sleep a grand total of two hours and a half before they awaken to a chorus of wailing, barking, yapping and yowling. It’s hard to tell what started first - Ernesto apparently would put money on the wailing, though Imelda is ready to counter-bet a chihuahua yapped first  - but the fact stays, someone needs to go put an end to it before half the condo is at the door with murderous intentions.

Thankfully, Héctor is out of bed almost immediately. He’s still sleepy and misses the door the first time, hitting the wall before stumbling out with a murmured ‘I’m fine’ to go make sure no horrid monster has attacked Coco in her crib. In his haste he leaves the door open, and two chihuahuas as well as the cat rush in, with the small dogs yapping and trying without success to jump up on the bed. 

The other two as well as Dante clearly decided to stay behind and watch Héctor’s baby-soothing operation. Imelda stifles a yawn, bringing a hand up to her mouth. “Those dogs are not allowed on the bed,” she says the instant Ernesto moves to pick them up, just as Pepita jumps to settle down next to her head.

Ernesto scowls. “That’s favoritism,” he points out, and a little monster yaps as though to agree. One of them whines, clearly trying to move her into relenting. Imelda remains entirely unmoved. 

“Pepita is clean,” she replies, reaching over to scratch Pepita behind the ears. Her green eyes, fixed on Ernesto, narrow. Hard to tell whether it is in pleasure for the ear scratch or in displeasure for the man back on her owners’ bed, but if it’s the latter, she will have to get used to it.

Ernesto makes a face. “I can’t imagine it’s hygienic.”

“She grooms herself for hours on end--” 

“With her it tongue, that’s not cleaning a thing--”

“Well, it’s more than dogs do. I have only ever seen them use their dogs only ever use their tongues to lick--”

“They’re clean! I bathe them every week!“

Imelda blinks. In the next room over, Coco’s wails are quieting down. “... You do?” 

“With a very expensive dog shampoo, too. I advertised it on my Instagram account - I mean, their Instagram account. Didn’t you see?”

Ah. That. “I think I unfollowed both when we-- broke things off,” Imelda admits, causing Ernesto to frown. “It stung,” she adds quickly. “Seeing you.”

“Ah.” He clears his throat. “Well, I-- I haven’t been posting a lot, so you haven’t missed much. Should get back to it. I think the dogs have more followers than I do at this point.”

“Well, they are cute. I suppose,” Imelda concedes. Pepita jumps off the bed, clearly satisfied with her dose of scritches, and is followed outside by both chihuahuas. Imelda props herself up on her elbow. “You should try with shirtless photos,”she adds. It’s mostly meant as a joke, but Ernesto is clearly considering it. 

“I already posted plenty. And a couple where I was only wearing a--”

“I mean, more shirtless photos,” Imelda rectifies, very much aware of what photos he is referring to. Unlike Héctor, whose social media accounts are bereft of any sign of life aside for the occasional photo of a guitar, a music sheet, or Imelda going over his latest work, Ernesto is very much active and not precisely trying to disguise the fact his sexuality is ‘yes’.

“I guess I could take a trip to the beach for a few more shots, after we’re back from Santa Cecilia...” he muses, and Imelda is about to ask if they’re meant to join him for that trip to the beach when Héctor walks back in, a triumphant grin on his face and phone in hand.

“She’s sleeping! Look!” he whisper-exclaims, and gets right back in bed between them before he proceeds to show them thirty identical photos of Coco sleeping. “Isn’t she the most beautiful little girl?”

“She is,” Imelda agrees with a small grin, leaning her chin on Héctor’s shoulder. “Not that I’m biased or anything.”

Ernesto scoffs. “You absolutely are.”

“Not everyone is your mamá, Ernesto,” Héctor snickers, elbowing him. “Telling everyone within earshot how handsome you were going to be once you shed your baby fat.”

“Well she was right, I did turn out-- what! She never said that, pendejo!” He huffs, giving Héctor’s shoulder a shove that almost sends him flying off the bed. He laughs it off, flopping back down. 

“She did too, Ernestito! Heard with my own ears!”

“Mph. Your stupid elephant ears.”

Héctor’s expression turns coy. “Ah, what can I say, it’s my cross to bear. Much like a dick a couple of inches longer than yours…”

“It’s not, Héctor!”

“Is too! We checked with Imelda’s measuring tape, remember?”

“... You did what with my measuring tape now?”

“We had a disagreement to settle, mi amor.”

“And we found it’s-- maybe an inch longer! At most! And mine is thicker, too!”

“Oh no, it was longer than that. Need me to refresh your memory?”

“We can arrange that, if you let me catch another couple of hours of sleep,” Imelda mutters, causing the squabble to die down. There is some grumbling, a few more shoves, but soon enough they’re all settled to sleep again, basking in the warmth and enjoying blissful silence.

For another fifty minutes.

***

“Oh my God!”

“Gah!”

“Wha--??”

Héctor barely catches himself before he falls off the bed, flailing his arms and only narrowly missing Imelda’s face. He reaches to turn on the bedside lamp, and sits up to look over to the other side of the bed where Ernesto is sitting upright, hair tousled, a horrified expression on his face as though he just awakened from the worst nightmare a human mind can conceive. 

“Ernesto? What is it?” Imelda is asking, concern plain in her voice. She puts a hand on Ernesto’s forearm and he looks back at them, eyes wide and skin ashen. 

“Oh my God, ” he repeats. “My mother has seen my Instagram.”

Ah, Héctor thinks. 

“Ah,” he says, mind already wandering to some photos that are probably not meant for the eyes of one’s own mother. 

“Oh,” Imelda repeats, clearly thinking the same. 

They succeed in staying serious for almost five seconds before Héctor cracks, and Imelda is quick to follow. 

“Pffft…”

“Heh…”

“She has been looking up my account for ages-- she even mentioned it, I had forgotten-- what if my father-- stop laughing!” his voice comes out a whine, and it’s what entirely undoes them. “This is serious! Stop laughing! I’ll have to look her in the eye when we go back for Coco’s christening! I-- uuugh!” Ernesto lets himself drop back on the pillow with a groan, covering his face with an arm. “I hate you both.”

“No, you do not.” Héctor grins down at him and, while Ernesto scoffs, he fails to say otherwise. 

“If she brings it up, I will dig myself a grave and crawl in it.”

Imelda snickers, leaning across his chest. “If they’re that terrible I don’t think she’ll want to bring them up.”

He pulls his arm off his eyes, frowning a little. “Not that I’m naked in those photos, I’m not an idiot, but I--” he trails off with a sudden intake of breath when Imelda’s hand slips beneath his nightshirt, across his chest. Héctor sits back a moment, watching them - Imelda’s tousled hair and the strap of the nightgown falling off her shoulder, the way Ernesto arches a little at her touch. 

It’s not the most alluring sight he’s ever laid his eyes on, but it comes pretty close - and it hits him suddenly, the realization that they have this again. It leaves a lump in his throat and a dumb smile spreading on his face while he watches Imelda lean in and kiss Ernesto’s lips. When they break apart, Ernesto’s breathing is quicker and his eyes wide. 

Imelda grins, and tugs at his nightshirt. “Since we clearly are getting no more sleep this morning, would you mind getting this out of the way and let me take your mind off your mother going through embarrassing Instagram photos?”

Ernesto is sitting up and pulling the shirt up over his head before she’s even done speaking, but he doesn’t get to take it off - not before Héctor moves suddenly to pull them both in his arms, and squeeze tight. 

“Agh!”

“What the--”

“Really?”

“And here I was trying to be seductive,” Imelda mutters, face pressed against Héctor’s chest.

“It was a very good effort,” Ernesto informs her, head still tangled in the shirt. 

“Thanks.”

“Unfortunately, you married an idiot.”

“Oh, like you didn’t stick to the idiot long before I got him to put a ring on it.”

“What can I say, I felt bad for him.”

“... You guys realize I can hear you, right?”

“No doubt you can, with those ears,” Ernesto mutters, voice still muffled by the shirt wrapped around his head. “Can you let me go now?”

“Do I have to?”

“If you want us to get anything done before Coco needs breakfast, yes,” Imelda says against his chest. “Now, if you’d let go and fetch the lube and condoms…” she adds, and Héctor is off them and across the room so fast he almost topples on the floor. 

With most of his blood flow already getting redirected in his nether regions, Ernesto’s power of thought may not be at his highest. However, as he gets the shirt off his head and throws it off the side of the bed, he does pause a moment to think. Or try to. Something is definitely different. 

“Condoms? Not on the pill anymore?”

“Not yet. It already failed, anyway, and I really am not ready for another little miracle. At least if the condom breaks we’ll notice right away.” She reaches up to brush back his hair, and leans against him. She is warm against his bare chest, her lips so close to Ernesto’s own. Her nails rake lightly down the back of his neck, and he swallows. “But it shouldn’t happen, if you know how to put one on properly.”

He makes a face. “Well, of course I know how to put on a--” Ernesto begins, and then trails off. The amount of blood going straight to his cock is making it very hard to think about anything else, but he’s not yet so far gone he can’t catch the meaning of her words. He stares at Imelda, mouth hanging open.

There are...few things they did not at least experiment with throughout the relationship, but at no point did Ernesto get to be in her. Not with his cock, anyway. It simply never happened, Ernesto would think, but he knows deep down that was not it. It was a line Imelda did not want to cross, the one that marked the difference between her husband and the annoying-- acquaintance -- friend turned unlikely lover. Something Héctor could have while he could not. Until now.

He should try and play it cool, of course. Get cocky and say he’s glad she changed her mind there, she has no idea what she has missed out on. Instead, he sputters.

“What-- are you-- sure?”

Imelda’s expression turns coy, a finger running down his chest. “Well, if you’re afraid to disappoint…”

What!

“What!” Ernesto huffs, crossing his arms. “For your information, I never disappoint.”

“Sofía told me otherwise.”

“Sofía should mind her own-- wait a moment, since when are the two of you on gossiping terms?” he asks, just a hint of panic making it to his voice as he tries to run the numbers on the amount of ammunition Sofía may have to use against him. Unaware of his worry, or maybe all too aware of it and hiding it very well, Imelda shrugs. 

“She ordered a pair of shoes and we got talking.”

Talking about what, Ernesto wants to ask, but before he can open his mouth Héctor is back on the bed and kissing his shoulder, causing him to trail off and his breath to catch a moment.

“Here,” Héctor smiles against his skin, pressing a condom in his hand. “Put it to good use, we have no others left until we restock.”

Despite the rising heat, his own quickening breath and the by now unbearable friction of underwear on his erection, Ernesto raises an eyebrow. “That busy, even with the baby?”

“Not really. It’s that Dante found the box.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, ah. The vet judged me the entire time. Not that he said anything, but--”

“... Surely we can have this conversation another time?” Imelda intervenes, tapping her fingers against Ernesto’s chest in a motion that is… a little more annoyed than seductive now. Héctor blushes a little, and gives a sheepish grin. 

“Heh. Right,” he says, and without warning he suddenly pushes Ernesto forward, causing him to fall over on top of Imelda. He barely catches himself, hands braced against the mattress, and almost protests - but then he looks down to see Imelda leaning on her back beneath him, head between his arms and hair spread across the pillow. Her skin is flushed, and ah, the way she looks at him. If one could bottle that look to sell it, they’d make billions.

“I can’t help but feel I’m terribly overdressed for the occasion,” she tells him, and starts unbuttoning her nightgown. She barely makes it to half the buttons before Ernesto’s mouth comes down on hers, hard. She melts into the kiss in a way he cannot recall her ever doing before, fingers tangling in his hair and Christ - Christ - it is almost worth the long months without them, waking up in his own bed.

Ah, it’s good to be home.

“Ah--” Imelda sighs and throws back her head while Ernesto’s mouth trails down her throat, to her breasts. He only stops with a startled gasp against her nipple when a pair of familiar hands pull off his boxers, and a very familiar finger begins to probe as him, slick with lube. 

“Oh, don’t mind me back here,” Héctor calls out, and Ernesto can almost feel the grin in his voice when he slides the finger in, slowly but without hesitation, getting another gasp out of Ernesto he barely muffles against Imelda’s skin. “Want me to put on the condom for you while I’m at it? You look busy,” he adds. His other hand closes on Ernesto’s cock in a soft squeeze, and he almost cries out.

“Christ-- don’t do that!” he pants, suddenly terrified he’s going to just come like that, before anything can happen. Héctor chuckles, but does pull back the hand. The other hand pushes in another finger, sending more shivers up his back. God, he’s shaking - this is bliss, never enough and yet too much, how can he possibly hold himself together?

“That horny?” Héctor asks lightly, as though conversing over a glass of wine. Ernesto snarls.

“I’m about to fuck your wife, what do you think?”

“Ah, good point.”

Beneath him Imelda, who somehow managed to unbutton the rest of her nightgown and shrug it off, laughs and forces his head back by the hair to kiss his mouth. He doesn’t resist - how can he resist? - and only lets out a noise of surrender. The finger within him retreats and Héctor is leaning across his back, putting the condom on him with surprisingly delicate fingers. His own cock presses against Ernesto’s thigh, hard and hot and already slick with lube. When he pulls back, Ernesto lets out a whine. 

“Don’t bother with fingers,” he groans. “I can take it-- por favor--”

A kiss on the back of his neck, just as Imelda’s mouth presses on his throat. She has a leg on either side of Ernesto, and his cock brushes against the warm skin on the inside of her thigh. It is only a soft brush, but it’s almost unbearable on heated flesh. He lets out a shuddering breath, and glances down to meet her eyes. 

Are you sure?, he asks without words, and Imelda responds just as wordlessly, pulling his mouth down on hers and arching beneath him. Whatever shred of self-control Ernesto had left is annihilated and he kisses her back, frantic, before pushing his hips forward purely out of instinct and oh--

He slides in so easily and for a long, blissful moment, Ernesto forgets how to breathe or move or think. There is only that tight heat, Imelda’s scent in his nostrils and her breath against the side of his neck as she clenches around him - the soft moan filling his ears and the nails sinking in the skin of his shoulders.

And then Héctor is bearing down on him, mouth on the back of his neck and weight across his back, pushing into him unbearably slowly and all too fast at once. Everything is too much. Nothing is enough. He wants and needs and yearns and yet it’s everything he could possibly ask for, and more. 

As much as he enjoyed the strap-on and Héctor’s ass, this might just be the best variation of Ernesto sandwich he’s ever had.

“Pepita got your tongue?” Héctor chuckles against his ear, settling deep into him, resting his chin on his shoulder and glancing over at Imelda. “You good?” he breathes. Imelda lifts her head to kiss his lips. Her skin is flushed, eyes half-lidded. 

“Oh, yes,” she says, and kisses Ernesto’s neck again. “You are thicker, I’ll give you that,” she whispers, perfectly audible to Héctor, whose chuckling protests are not very believable. Her hand cups Ernesto’s cheek, her fingers calloused from working leather. “Don’t worry about a thing,” she murmurs, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone. “We’ll take good care of you.”

“Christ--” Ernesto pants, and manages to lift himself up on his elbows just enough to get some weight off her, and rest his forehead on hers. He’s so acutely aware of everything - the smoothness of her skin and Héctor’s chest hair against his back, her hand cupping his cheek and his chin on his shoulder, the heat around his cock and the cock in him. “I don’t know-- how long I can last,” he manages to admit. 

“Ah, don’t worry about that, amigo,” Héctor speaks, and tilts his hips, sending a jolt of pleasure up Ernesto’s spine and tearing a gasp out of him. “Wouldn’t be the first time. And we can do this whenever we wish…”

He says something else after that, or Imelda does, but none of their words makes it to Ernesto’s brain. They start moving in tandem, in him and around him and on him and beneath, and it is all that Ernesto can think of or feel. It is all he wants to feel right now. 

The moans that leave him are louder than advisable, with Coco sleeping just a couple of rooms over, but Imelda is quick to muffle any noise he makes with a kiss. Good move, that.

None of them is in the right state of mind to go soothe a cranky baby, after all.

***

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#pixar coco #hector rivera #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #coco #mind the gap

[randomingoftherandomness]

Secrets I Have Held In My Heart

A/N: Modern!AU, Soulmate!AU, Soul Mark!AU, Angst, OT3.

This is quite honestly one of the longest things I’ve ever done in one sitting. I am exhausted. My prose and tenses are probably everywhere and I am so sorry for it. Enjoy x

(Edit 20/1/2021) It has recently come to my attention that lies and slander have been spread about my character amongst persons in this OT3 community. They are malicious lies made with the intent to cast a shadow over my credibility and my good standing in this community. I only ask that you come talk to me first before you believe the horrible things that have been levelled about me.

Please take care of yourselves x

--

Booker smiles placidly when he catches Joe's eye from across the room and let's the pretenses drop the moment he ducks out into hallway, finding a spot of quiet from all the music and chatter of celebration in the living room. He really should be happy but as it is with heartbreaks, happiness is something you can only fake until it feels real.

He opens the door when the doorbell rings and kisses the cheeks of the latecomers in greeting. They awkwardly avoid his eye with shifty smiles as they shuffle past him. Booker doesn't blame them. It's an awkward fucking situation all around.

Joe's warm and happy laughter carries through the air, and Booker just feels his heart twist in his chest. The sight of his head of curls bobbing along in the joy of whatever joke one of their friends was making while his arm was slung intimately low around Nicky's waist was unbearable. Booker has enough self-respect in him to recognise it as jealousy.

He has been in love with his best friend for almost as long as he has known him. It had been ridiculously easy for them; Joe had no soul marks and neither had Booker, so it was the most natural thing to move in together after they'd both hit 33 and when Booker decided to offer his fine art restorer skills up to go freelance, they make plans to spend the rest of their lives together. It made sense and they were happy. Booker had had no intentions of ever letting Joe know how he had truly felt and that was the mistake.

It isn't that he dislikes Nicky. 

The man was beyond perfect and Booker could have never hoped to compare. From the briefest of familiarities, he knows that Nicky was a former theology student who left the seminary and is now deep in his work with a local NGO, well on his way to maybe working for the UN some day. He volunteers at a local shelter, helps at his church's soup kitchen, is handsome and funny, is a fucking Saint personified and looks great next to Joe when Booker looks like a twice drowned rat on his best day. It isn't that he hates the man. It's just that, well, Nicky isn't him.

Booker knew something had changed then. Joe had never looked at him the way he had when his and Nicky's eyes first met. And he knows Joe like he knows his own mind and there won't be any one as trusting or as kind. If he tells him he loves him, Joe would stay and he'd be Booker's, but that's not how love works and so he waits until the day they're both on the sofa watching a game and Joe turns to him to say, "Nicky's my soulmate."

Just like that. And because he could never hurt Joe, he smiles, nodding. "I figured he was. Congratulations man. That's amazing!"

There had been an indescribable look that crossed Joe's face when he said that but he hadn't lingered on it for too long. Joe's soul mark was on his left forearm set in stark, bold lines; a scimitar and a longsword threaded together with roses and thorns. Pretty cool and Booker made sure to tell him so.

That had been three months ago. Three months of waiting for the other shoe to drop, the inevitable moment when Joe says he's gonna move out and into Nicky's unit. For the second it hits his best friend that there really wasn't a place for someone like him in this equation. Two months of sitting around until he wraps up his current contract with the museum in the city and the curator takes him aside to ask him if he would be interested in working for a private collector in Turkey. Two years to work on a team of freelancers. Two years on the other side of the continent. Booker said yes with no hesitation.

"Hey, you good?"

Booker knocks his bottle of beer to Copley's. He is one of the newer persons to join their friend group but it feels like they've know each other for a very long time. His warm smile anchors Booker to the here and now and he is stupidly grateful for his presence. The man was steadfast and calm, and it made sense to Booker that he'd be the only one he told about his leaving. "Yeah. I'm ready to go whenever you are."

He'd snuck a duffle bag of his things out to Copley's house the day before and then two suitcases when Joe was over at Nicky's last night. Right before the party to celebrate Joe's birthday, he had brought his carry on out to Copley's car. His name was still on the lease and he has left instructions to help pay for his part of the rent until the end of the year if Joe would like to continue staying here. Copley will help ship the rest of his things after a month. All that's left to do is leave.

Joe had been looking forward to introducing Nicky to his family and friends, and this party was perfect for it. Booker feels bereft at the thought that this could be the last time he sees him in a long while and he cranes his neck to spy him in the center of the room, accepting a kiss from Nicky as the birthday cake is brought out from the kitchen. He holds that image of Joe, smiling from ear to ear and hopes he won't hate him too much for leaving without saying goodbye.

"Let's go."

--

His Turkish is passable at best but he gets by well enough. The rest of the restoration team were up and coming names mixed with pioneers in the field and despite the lingering heart ache, Booker finds himself pleasantly settled and happy with the work he gets to do. Everyone seems to be equally as excited as he is to be working on their employer's personal collection of paintings and sculptures, in addition to the rare books that Booker has never seen outside of museums and archives.

It's good work and it keeps him busy. It stops him from thinking about Joe too much.

Booker had found thirteen missed calls and twenty texts and ten voicemails when he lands. He hesitates only for a moment before deleting everything that wasn't from Copley or his work.

As if sensing he was being summoned by thought, his phone rings as he basks in the afternoon sunshine whilst reading a book on his off day, Copley's name flashes on his screen.

"You still alive, then?"

"Alive and kicking," Copley says over the line with a laugh. "I swear, Joe is going to eviscerate me one of these days."

Booker shakes his head, marking his page and setting his book aside. The sunlight feels good on his skin and he takes a deep lungful of air. "He won't. He's way too nice."

"You didn't see him glare when I packed the last of your things into the boxes. They're shipped, by the way. Should reach you in a week tops."

"Thanks. I owe you big time."

"Oh, you owe me more than big time. When I come over to visit, I want you pulling out all the stops for me. I want the five star experience, Mr Booker. No expense spared," Copley chuckles.

"Alright, alright," Booker laughs. "I'm sure I can rustle something up. Just let me know when, alright?"

Copley hums and they fall into a comfortable pause. "How are you? Really. Don't lie."

He tightens his grip on his phone, swallowing tightly. "I miss him every day but that's not new. I think I'll keep missing him for a while yet."

"That's normal. I'm not surprised. I think he misses you too, you know?"

"He has Nicky now. He doesn't need me. I'm... I'm just his best friend with a stupid crush that had made plans to spend the rest of my life with him. I don't fit in it any more and he deserves more than I could ever give him," He swallow tightly, licking his lips. "Copley, he'll be okay."

"But will you?"

Booker doesn't have an answer to that. When his things arrive a week and a half later, he accepts it and begins to unpack his books. He's grateful to have his familiar favourites and is eager to fill his shelves when he spots the edges of an envelope peeking out of a battered copy of Neruda. It was a letter and it was addressed to him, though the handwriting is unfamiliar to him.

Dear Sebastien, it starts and this clues him in that this person isn't someone who knows him well. No one outside of his employers and colleagues call him Sebastien.

I hope you don't mind. I'll be slipping this along with the books. I really do hope it finds you well. I don't have your number and judging by the way Joe seems to not receive a reply from you, you might have changed it. I would ask it from Copley but I do not know him well enough and you deserve someone you can speak to without any awkwardness. I write this letter because I want to know you better. It occurred to me that we have never exchanged more than a handful of words whenever we meet and it was always about Joe. I found myself curious about you even if it feels like I know you from all that Joe talks about you. He still talks about you. Even if it is in confusion as to why you left us. I don't write to judge you. I just want to be your friend. If you are amenable, please send your reply to me care of the address on the back of this paper. I hope that you do. I won't tell Joe if you don't want me to.

Sincerely, Nicky.

Booker flips the paper and sees that it's for the church he'd half-remembered being the one that Joe had mentioned off-handedly once. He rereads the words, thrown by the whole thing. He tucks it into his pocket, pushing it to the back of his mind as he focuses on unpacking his life. But the shape of it digs against his skin and he cannot help unfolding it every few minutes to read it all over again.

Each word was carefully pressed and written with intent. He finds his thumb brushing over the looping Joe, but it is the careful He still talks about you that decides things for him.

Scratching his chest absently, he tears out an empty page from his notebook as writes, If we're going to be friends, you'd better call me Booker.

--

The seasons change and his correspondence with Nicky grows from a weekly letter to every few days, to Booker posting a letter only to receive a reply for the one he sent two days ago when he arrives back in his flat. Booker takes to sending a box of baklava over an overnight service and Nicky sends him a handwritten recipe for his Nonna's tomato soup when Booker off-handedly mentions a sniffle.

Eventually it gets easier to talk about Joe and Booker tells Nicky on what he likes and what he doesn't, how to best care for him; he's allergic to a certain brand of detergent, he always forgets his scarf in the depths of winter so always stuff one in his coat pocket, he loves it when you caress his hair, he doesn't support any team in football but he loves watching a game and he always chooses the team that starts on the right side of the pitch, ask his mother for her recipe for lamb stew and make that for him when he's having a busy week.

Nicky never seems to be bothered by him telling him all these things and in turn, Booker learns that Nicky cannot function before his first cup of coffee, that he misses the quiet of his life in the seminary but he is glad he can do more as he is, that he has a few kids that he works with that he is hoping will get into gifted programmes that can help them excel in academia, that if he hadn't done the almost priest route, he would have been a doctor or a medic.

It was ridiculously effortless to be friends with Nicky and he finds himself actually looking forward to his letters and random bits and bobs in the mail. Sometimes Nicky sends Booker Joe’s sketches and he keeps them up on his bedside, keeping them in sight as he falls asleep at night. Other times there’s a picture or two, taken by Nicky, of Joe. Joe on the corner of the sofa, curled up and dozing, Joe eyes crinkling as he laughs at something. Joe with those ridiculous sunglasses they bought on a whim over a very wet Welsh afternoon.

As the first chill of the season sets in, Booker asks about Joe.

He's fine. Missing you. We're heading to his family's beach house. He said you both used to go together?

Booker finds that he can smile a little easier when the memories come or when it is brought up that Joe misses him. It still tastes a little bittersweet but he can be happy about how he had the chance to experience these things with Joe. Even if he hadn't been the one to keep having them. 

Yes. He writes, But you both can do this together now. Make sure you pack extra blankets for yourself. I'm sure you know that he hogs them.

Nicky replies with a box of Marks and Spencer Welsh Cakes which Booker thanks with an assortment of Turkish Delights. 

Their correspondence slows as the weather cools further. Copley, when he tells him about what’s happening over Skype, merely asks him if it i a good idea to be even putting himself in the same sphere as Joe and Nicky when he had moved across the continent just to get away from the heartbreak. 

“I don’t see how it couldn’t be,” Booker says over the sizzling of the butter as he makes the cheese toasties that Joe used to love for breakfasts. He scratches at his chest, eyes watching the way the cheese oozes off its side.

“Mate, I don’t think you’re far removed enough to actually know how catastrophic this could be.”

“O ye, of little faith,” Booker huffs, flipping the toastie. “At some point I would like to be able to exist in the same city as him without melting into a puddle of heartbreak. If being friends with his soulmate helps get me there, I’m all for it.”

“You are a masochist, Mr Booker.”

Booker laughs even as he burns his finger on the pan.

He works harder than ever, learning and improving his own techniques under the tutelage of his colleagues and can appreciate the opportunity. There's already talks of him going to New York after the New Year's to accompany some of the artifacts that are being lent out for display. Booker is climbing the stairs up to his building, head down, free hand rubbing at his chest and reading through the latest methods of restoration on his phone when he bumps into a person rushing down. 

“Oh, sorry--”

“Booker.”

Joe’s eyes are big and wide when their gazes meet. Booker blinks, breathes in deep before looking behind him to see Nicky watching them from his landing, exhaling shakily as he whispers, deep and with feeling, “What the fuck are you guys doing here?”

--

Nicky nurses his cup of tea from his lean against the window and deftly avoids the inquiring glare Booker keeps sending his way from the safety of the kitchen. Joe, on the other hand, is carefully prowling the space of his studio flat he has made home, obviously cataloguing the way his books sit on the shelf and the way he has kept the space marginally clean-ish, how there are pictures and sketches tacked to the wall behind the dining table, the clear signs of a life he has built here.

“Let me get this straight, you picked up Nicky’s mail from the church, saw my handwriting, and decided to come all the way to Turkey. Just to see me,” Booker says, gesturing at their backpacks leaning against his door. “Again, let me ask, why?”

“Why?” Joe laughs, throat clicking when the sound comes out rough and raw. “You ask me why I would fly out to Turkey in the middle of the holiday season just to see my best friend who left me without telling me he got a job in Turkey and was going to leave without even so much as a goodbye, and you are asking me why I would come all the way out here just to chase you down? Are you perhaps short of a marble!”

“And what was I supposed to do! Linger around you when I was dying every single time I looked at you and knew I wasn’t your soulmate? We were going to spend our lives together, Joe! I loved you!”

Booker slaps his hand over his mouth and turns away, focusing on his breathing. “You love me?” Joe says softly in the stillness of the flat.

“I did. I do and I’m sorry,” He sighs, feeling his chest shake with his trembling breath. He presses the heel of his hand to his sternum. “I do. And it’s okay, Joe. I know you don’t love me in that way. It’s okay. I just need some time away to figure out how to love you like you need me to.”

“And what do you know about what I need from you?”

Booker feels Joe come close and allows himself to be turned around to be face to face with him. “Do you know I love you too?”

“Yeah,” He chuckles wetly, rubbing his nose with the back a hand. “I’m your best friend.”

Nicky choose this moment to speak. “Booker, look at him and listen. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you in our letters. “

There’s an insistence in Nicky’s gaze that galvanises Booker to turn to Joe and meet his eyes head on. “I love you, Book. I always did. I still do. Even after the bullshit you’ve put me through.”

“But Nicky--” “Nicky’s my soulmate and I love him too.” Joe smiles, eyes gone liquor soft when Nicky returns his fond look. “But I’ve loved you for the longest time, Book. I still want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

The itch on his chest starts to burn.

“And you’re alright with this?” Booker breathlessly asks Nicky, taking a step back. “This- This whole Love, Actually thing is a situation you’re okay with?”

“Yes,” Nicky says, standing to cross the distance between them. Joe reaches for him then, tenderly touching him by the elbow while Nicky slides a hand to his cheeks and Booker feels immediately overwhelmed. He parts his mouth to speak when he doubles over dropping to his knees when the fire spreading over the skin on his chest sends him to his knees gasping for air. 

Joe keeps a hold on him while Nicky looks him over with clear worry. “Fuck!” Booker groans, trying to arch away. Clawing at his shirt, he tears at it until the buttons plink on the floor as they fall. For a moment, he does not register the dark lines that spread over his sternum. Running shaking fingers over his raw skin, Booker barely holds back the awed gasp at the scimitar and longsword twined together with thorns and roses. 

“Well,” Nicky laughs softly, cupping him by the side of the head, sweeping him into a gentle kiss. In that second that their lips touch, Booker feels his heartbeat skip a notch. “I guess this answers things, doesn’t it?”

-- Epilogue --

“That’s the last of the boxes.”

Joe kicks the door shut behind him, dropping the bags in his hands to the floor, ignoring the evil eye sent his way by Nicky who had warned them against scuffing up the hardwood floors. Booker throws himself onto the sofa with a sigh and Joe, grinning like a maniac, does a running start before launching himself onto Booker. 

“Oof!” And then after a beat and a wiggle. “Joe, you’re suffocating me and I can feel your dick against my ass.”

They’ve finally moved into their first home together. It had taken a bit more effort after Turkey to keep their fledgling relationship going but all’s well, ends well and Booker is back with them after finishing up his contract with glowing recommendations and growing his contact list. Joe was ridiculously proud and he knows Nicky feels the same too. 

They’ll need to work hard over the next two days to spruce the place up in time for their housewarming. Their friends and families will be here and Joe cannot wait to show off his loves. Wrapping his arms around Nicky and pulling him along back to the sofa where Booker is, he basks in the happy warmth of feeling whole with his heart in one piece.

#joe x booker x nicky #booker x joe x nicky #joe x nicky x booker #the old guard fic #gab writes stuff #please dear god give me wisdom to never do this again #this was too long and i am FUCKING EXHAUSTED #I am going to bed

[foretoldblood]

five times kissed 💕

y'shtola is sharp as a tack, one of the most intelligent people he'd ever had the fortune to meet, and he's utterly captivated by her. they get along like fire and oil, catching from the very second they're left alone in the room together.

but urianger is quiet and speaks in riddles and y'shtola is loud and speaks with action. he composes unwritten symphonies of words and she manifests results with her own might. they spend hours upon hours together, arguing, debating, researching, and it all feels like mere moments.

the day after he receives the mark, near to the end of their time in sharlayan, he walks into louisoix's foyer, his head and eyes uncovered as his face is still far too tender to wear his usual attire. his heart soaring with accomplishment, a smile breaking through his stoic demeanor. she's the only one there, and so it seems little surprise that she takes his face in her hands and presses a kiss right to the sore skin.

"so you would be beautiful were it that you were not so secretive, urianger," she says, tapping the tip of his nose with the pad of her finger. there's mirth in her eyes, mingled with pride and affection. and she lingers a moment longer, the opportunity is there.

he wants to kiss her, but he doesn't. just as he wants to kiss moenbryda but doesn't. urianger freezes instead, stiff as a board, and she lets go with an understanding that somehow makes him feel worse.

they don't talk about it afterwards.

-

the next time is years later, days after prophecy comes to life. they've hunted through the battlefield for hours now, trying to find bodies but there's nothing. simply nothing. nothing but bahamut's rage, frozen flame twisting around the landscape and the memory of a man haunting them.

louisoix is gone.

they are lost.

but there is still a mission to accomplish. the world does not stop because the greatest among them are gone.

urianger allows himself this moment to mourn - but only that moment, remembering all that is still left to do. the empire is on the borders of a broken realm and the threat of primal summoning upon them.

y'shtola finds him sitting against one of the frozen spires, his head in his hands. he looks up as she kneels, and she bends and presses her forehead to his, their grief unspoken and shared.

butterfly kisses he thinks as damp eyelashes brush together.

they rebuild.

-

but perhaps the foundation is cracked.

their methodologies had always differed - that was why they had been brought together, but louisoix had been the cement that bridged their gaps.

urianger retreats further into himself. he keeps secrets and she knows. the rift is subtle at first. y'shtola goes from nearly always at his side, reading over his shoulder, to across the room.

they don't acknowledge it. they feign normalcy, trying oh so hard to pretend like everything is fine.

in the quiet moments after he's rescued, all goes back to normal. she sits at his bedside and calls him a fool, how worried she was. he smiles ever so faintly and lifts her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her palm where her nails have worried the skin.

-

loss ruins their victory.

they're all gone in one fell swoop. urianger regrets being reclusive, regrets staying behind for if he'd gone perhaps he could have changed it. the warrior and alphinaud seek to solve ishgard's problems and he throws himself into finding them.

they pull her from the lifestream and he sits at her bedside, trading shifts with y'mitra until she wakes.

and oh, the price she's paid.

y'mitra tells him when she wakes, of her condition, and he feels ill with guilt.

she can't see the tearstains on his face. can't see the bags underneath his eyes. the toll that this has taken on him. the cowl and goggles are abandoned and he is simply exhausted.

but relieved beyond measure.

his fingers entwine tightly with her own.

"do not," he rasps softly, "frighten me like that again."

this time she presses lips to his knuckles, a laugh on her lips.

"i don't think i've ever heard you use so few words. have i lost the favor of your verbosity?"

"thine most recent reckless stunt hath left mine soul bereft of poem," he folds his free arm under his chin, letting his eyes shut. their hands stay entertwined. "when we see the dawn of peace once more, 'tis thine duty and thine alone to see it replenished."

she laughs. and he decides he would die a happy man should that be the last thing he ever heard.

-

it happens in the crystarium. after years of avoiding each other, months of travelling together and pretending all is well in front of others.

but it isn't.

she's furious at him for keeping secret after secret. for minfilia before this, for siding with the exarch after that, for the warrior of light now. they argue in private where they can't be overheard.

"do we mean nothing to you?" she spits. "have you so little trust in us?"

"this is not about trust or meaning," he says, his voice scarcely raising but the fire is burning. his lack of reaction always infuriates her more than were he to give a human reaction, to crack and yell.

she knows he's capable of it. she better than most.

"no, no i suppose not. it's about your godsdadmned need for control," she hisses.

"nor is it about control," his voices rises. a theory is confirmed.

"it is, urianger, and no one else is willing to take you to task. you've spent so much time in the shadows you shrink from the light even now," she snarls. "and yet you throw yourself upon the sword the moment it presents itself! you blame yourself for things beyond your control, and you think cartineau would have been different if you had kept a tighter grip on -"

"y'shtola."

she's wrong, but not wrong. her words strike home and lay him bare. the words hang between them, regret so thick in the air it has them both choking. he looks away from her, towards the gift of the night sky given back to this world.

slowly he turns back to her. to the silver glow of her eyes that he blames himself for. to the grief they've both wrapped themselves with. to the mark fewer and fewer of them still wear.

he crosses the room.

gathers her hands in his. his head lowers - his eyes burning. it's killing him that they fight like this, that he has this secret. all he can do is squeeze her hands gently in his.

"this is the last time," he says, his voice terribly raw. "i do not expect forgiveness for this, nor do i deserve it. but i believe i have earned enough goodwill for you to trust my judgement."

his leans down, pressing his lips to her forehead. lingering for a moment, feeling himself tremble ever so slightly. trying to convey all he can.

"regardless of what follows, i shall not keep anything more from you... should you still find yourself willing to have me."

-

they wake in mor duna, losing years in the span of seconds. their muscles are weak and their bodies tired from the act of simply opening their eyes, but they are delighted to be alive and that's all that matters.

she sits on his bed. a vision of loveliness even in the darkness of the rising stones.

he telegraphs his intent. she reads him like a book. he wants her to know his heart, his secrets lain bare. no more, no more, and she trusts him enough to allow that chance, leaning against him.

he touches a hand to her chin and tips it up, her eyes flutter shut.

their lips meet in the middle.

#ask answered. #oh no that was LONG

[elesianne]

A Silmarillion fanfic for @legendariumladiesapril

Story summary: Findis talks with Lalwen before her departure from Tirion; and an age later, Findis talks to Lalwen's broken memorial.

Wordcount: ~2,100 words; Rating: Teenage audiences

Some keywords: sister-sister relationship, some angst, flight of the Noldor, war of wrath

A/N: What is 'canonical': Findis, Finwë and Indis' oldest child, stayed in Valinor after the Darkening, going to live with the Vanyar with Indis. Her younger sister Lalwen (Quenya names Írimë Lalwendë) was close to Fingolfin and went to Beleriand with him. The rest is made up by me. Laurefindil is Glorfindel’s Quenya name.

Warning for major character death (’offscreen’), mentions of blood and discussion of death

AO3 LINK

*

Sister of mine

Tirion, after Fëanáro's oath but before the Noldor's departure

Findis sits on Írimë's bed and watches as her sister packs. Findis herself packed for her departure to Valinor days ago, but Írimë did always tend to leave things almost too late.

Írimë pulls an astounding number of blades of different lengths from a chest. She stows some of them in her pack and one long sword and two daggers in the sword-belt which lies on a table, waiting.

'That one for my ankle', Írimë mutters as she adds another short blade on the table and surveys the weapons.

Findis has sat in silence for a long time, staring at her sister and memorising the way she moves, swift and decisive, and the tone of her voice as she speaks to herself, low but melodious. Írimë inherited their mother's gift for song as much as Indis did, though unlike Findis she never cared much to use it.

Findis hopes she will never forget the exact colour of her sister's voice, no matter how long they are apart.

That voice shakes her from her thoughts. 'You can still change your mind, you know', Írimë says. 'And come with us.'

She must have misinterpreted Findis' bereft expression.

'My decision is as steadfast as yours', Findis replies. 'I am staying. Antaro and I will take mother to Valinor, and with luck and time and the help of the Valar we shall all heal from our losses.'

Írimë's expression tightens, and Findis knows that she is restraining herself. 'That is one way to react to father's death and the slaying of the Trees', she says.

'We believe it the wisest', says Findis with equal restraint.

Írimë sighs and sits on the bed beside Findis, her riding breeches dark against Findis' cream-coloured dress. 'I am going, Nolofinwë is going, and so is Arafinwë, and all of their children, not to mention our half-brother.'

Findis looks away from Írimë. 'Best indeed not mention him', she says.

Along with all the other things Findis mourns for, she still mourns the loss of the playful big brother that she once had, long ago for a short while when it was only the two of them born of Finwë's children. It is silly to mourn for something that existed only for a scant few years, and might not have had she been a boy, she knows; but it had sent chills down Findis's spine to watch and listen from afar Fëanáro agitating the Noldor, lighting a fire in their hearts that would lead them to folly. Or so Findis believes.

There had been no trace left then in Fëanáro of the long-limbed boy that he once was, holding his sister's sticky hand and dragging her behind him all around the palace, speaking to her of everything that he was interested in which was almost everything.

Írimë never knew that boy, but she is following Fëanáro anyway, though she goes out of love and loyalty for another brother.

They are all following Fëanáro, everyone in the family but Indis and Findis and her Vanyarin husband and two of their children.

'Your son is going', reminds Írimë, and oh, that may be the greatest grief of all for Findis, almost greater than her father's death at the hands of the fallen Vala.

'Laurefindil is a man grown', Findis says with a heavy heart. 'He makes his own decisions, as did all my children. He has sworn himself to Turukáno's service, and it did not surprise me. He always admired Turukáno most of all of his older cousins.'

Írimë lays a hand on Findis' knee. She is fire-hearted, not heartless, Findis knows, though her speech can be harsh.

'I spoke to your daughter', Írimë confesses. 'Tried to convince her to come, but she laughed at me and said that she is her mother's daughter at heart though I may not be mine.'

'That was not very kindly said of her, nor kindly done of you', Findis says. She is relieved that Malwafindë had not changed her mind. It is enough – too much – that one of her three children is leaving.

Írimë laughs, though her laughter holds little joy these days. 'I have always appreciated her sharp tongue, Findis, sister of mine. She says things as they are. I tried talking to her because she made, after all, a sword for herself as well as me and many others. I thought that she might have been wanting to go but too loyal to you by first instinct.'

'She is a smith. I think forging swords was as much professional curiosity as wanting to arm herself and her family and friends.' Findis tries not to care about Írimë's half-hurtful words, and her trying to make Findis's daughter leave. There has been enough discord in their family already. Findis does not want her possibly last private conversation with her sister to turn to an argument.

'Did you try talking to Tárion too?' Findis must ask. Her younger son, her late-born joy.

Írimë shakes her head. 'He is not quite of age yet: your child still, more than the others. I would not rip him from you even if he wanted to come –'

'He does not', says Findis.

They talk for long hours until the candles in the room burn low and Írimë has to light new ones. She does it hastily, before they are left without light. Though the darkness that these days fills all rooms and streets without candles, lamps or torches is not as suffocating as the darkness that filled their land after the Trees died, Findis and Írimë are both uneasy with lack of light now.

They speak, and they embrace, and they reminisce about some things that are not too hurtful, that do not rip open any fresh wounds. There are not many such things. They cry a little.

But after many hours comes a time when Findis has to leave lest her husband and son begin worrying about her.

In the doorway of Írimë's room, the light of the single candle in Findis' hands between them, she says, 'There will be no public goodbye between us, Írimë. I will leave Tirion before you do.'

'You, leaving me behind?' Írimë's eyes are bright. 'I would not have thought it.'

'Mother has decided she prefers to leave first.' Findis swallows. 'Wherever your road takes you, sister, may the stars light your way and the winds blow behind you.'

Írimë gives a little laugh, but it is a wavering laugh, halfway to weeping. 'Thank you', she says, and embraces Findis, not very careful with the candle. 'For you, I know that they will', she says.

*

During the War of Wrath      

At the end of the next Age, Findis finds her sister's grave after a battle in Hithlum.

The grave was once handsomely marked, she can see. But the great statue that once stood there on a plinth must have been broken years ago, for moss grows on the pieces of it that lie scattered on the ground and a layer of ash covers them. And though Findis tries, she cannot find her sister's visage in the weather-worn stone face with the nose broken off.

She kneels before the plinth and wipes dirt off the worn words that are carved into the stone. But her dirty glove only adds another layer of soot and half-dried black blood, and she cannot make out the words apart from a few that she recognises as Sindarin. That much she can tell – that Írimë Lalwendë, daughter of Finwë king of the Noldor when they were still one united people, was honoured in death in the language of the grey-elves of the land where she fought her last battle.

'They told me that you fought bravely until your end', Findis says. Speaking is difficult, and not only because of the ash swirling in the air. 'In many battles by our brother's side. As valiant as any of the house of Fingolfin, as they called him here. I heard that he and his children were the most feared by Morgoth. I have so much reason to be proud of them, and you.'

Findis bows her head. 'Námo is going to give my son back to us soon', she tells her sister's grave. 'I hope and pray that the rest of you will be forgiven, too. You too gave your lives in the battle against the enemy, and you defended these lands, and you and your swords – your too many swords and daggers, I once thought, Írimë, but you must have needed them all over the centuries.'

She breathes deep the foul-smelling air. There were two Balrogs in the battle today. The air is always especially foul after Balrogs have been vanquished.

'I was saying – you and your blades protected many here. Firstborn and Secondborn both, and even Naugrim; and they fought alongside you, people who our half-brother railed against.'

Findis will not cry, she will not. Her gloves and hands are too dirty to wipe away tears.

'This is the first time that you have ever been quiet when I talked to you', Findis says. 'No interruptions, no comments. How I miss your voice.'

She takes a dagger from her belt. 'You left this at home so I brought it to you. I thought for a long time that you must have left it by accident because it was your favourite, your favourite to throw and to unnerve our father by playing with at the dinner table. Flipping it in your hands.' Findis smiles at the memory. The smile pulls at the wound on her cheek, and turns to a pained grimace.

'It didn't take many battles of my own for me to realise that you left it because it was too small and light. A plaything rather than a weapon. But I brought it to you anyway because I thought it a better thing to leave at your grave than flowers.' Another painful smile. 'You never cared much for flowers, you weren't that kind of princess. And I never thought that I was this kind of princess, one that wears armour and bloodstains and the taste of her own blood in her mouth. But I found my courage and followed in your footsteps in the end, little sister.'

Findis stabs the dagger into the muddy ground before Írimë's broken memorial. She wishes her gloves weren't so dirty because the pearl-handled little dagger made in the days of treelight and bliss would be prettier without dark smudges. Even with them, it is beautiful, a whole thing in a broken landscape.

'In any case.' Findis takes another deep breath. 'This land will be destroyed by the time we are victorious. Or on the way to destruction, at the very least. The sea will come and cover all of this, all the graves of all the Noldor who fought till they lost the impossible battle. Did you know it was hopeless, Írimë?'

Findis looks around. There are other memorials, gravestones and statues here. All are broken and dirtied, all have lost the glory they no doubt possessed when they were erected. They speak only of defeat and desecration now.

'It is better, I think, for all of this to be washed clean', Findis says with her heart in her throat. 'Your grave, and Findekáno's, and everyone else's whose bones lie here and elsewhere in Beleriand. The land is lost, though the war will be won by the might of the Valar.'

There is only one thing left to say.

'I do not regret my choice, Írimë, though I came here to help end the war you started.' With a last gentle touch to the plinth that once bore her sister's statue, Findis says, 'I hope that you did not regret your choice either. It pains me to think that you might have, and died for it anyway.'

She rises, her knees stiff from kneeling in armour and from the long day of battle. She whistles for her horse and the grey mare comes, as lovely and valiant as she was when Findis brought her over from Valinor three decades ago though her coat is made greyer by the ever-present ash that makes the battles against Morgoth's forces even grimmer.

Ignoring her stiff knees Findis mounts her steed and spurs her to a steady canter, returning to where she left her troops. They will have to find a safe place to camp for the night, and tomorrow they will ride back to Sirion and rejoin the battle there. The last of the orcs and Balrogs that had sneaked into Hithlum have been defeated.

Findis looks forward to reuniting with Arafinwë at Sirion. When the ever-raging battle allows, she will tell him of their sister's grave.

#tbqh I am pretty damn proud of this lil fic and how quickly I put it together #silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #findis #lalwen #legendarium ladies april #silmarillion #sister of mine #my fics #elesianne's fics

[imagine-loki]

Return

TITLE: Return CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter Six AUTHOR: theterrifyingtermite ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine that, at the end of Endgame, Loki comes back. Only one problem: this isn’t your Loki. RATING: T NOTES/WARNINGS: Nothing too dramatic here. Four more to go!

Chapter Six:

I’m sorry, he had whispered once to her, suddenly, and with a misery she had not heard in weeks.

She had paused mid step, pulling him back when he tried to move away from her and led him off to the side of bridge, out of the way of other travelers.

What on Asgard did he mean?

There was hesitation in his posture as he leaned against the railing, reluctant in his tone.

Sorry because she was hidden away. Tucked out of the way, like a forbidden fruit incapable of being brought forth into the light. Like she meant nothing more to him than some private escape, or a fantasy-

He was always more dramatic the more melancholic he felt.

Lifting a hand, she worked her fingers through his hair, hoping her smile was comforting.

She knew she was more than a castaway toy. In time, they would know what to do about it and how to change it.

Until then…

She wrapped her arms around his waist, feeling the automatic rise of his own to return the embrace.

Until then, they could have this peace.

___

They were sitting at her table.

She and the God of Thunder.

“Hi, I’m Thor. Doctor Strange told me about you and explained everything,” he had said immediately after the door had opened. “Thank you,” was also blithely offered as he swept past her, setting down the large axe that had been dangling from his belt and hanging the hammer on a hook concurrently.

Her brow had furrowed. “I’m not sure he would be the best source,” she had muttered, following him as he meandered down the hallway. “What are you doing here?”

Thor had merely exclaimed, “Ah, here it is!” as he turned a corner and found her kitchen. “Light! And chairs! Precisely what we need.

“Oh, where are my manners?” He had pulled out a chair, waved a hand theatrically towards it as she trailed him into the room. “Do sit down. Do you need to put your feet up? Can I get you anything?”

Reeling, she had dropped into the offered seat, and then had watched as he went digging through her cabinets, chirping things such as “cups!” and “fizzy water!” until he was satisfied and had returned to the table.

He had set down three glasses – “Not sure which one is your favorite! Don’t people have favorites?” – and several of the afore-mentioned bottles – “Do you ever mix kinds for different flavors?” – before dropping into a chair across from her, folding his arms, and beaming at her.

And thus, they were sitting at her table.

She and the God of Wonder, blunder, hunger? her mind supplied rather unhelpfully, as she could do little else but blink at him in a mixture of bemusement and, if she were honest, annoyance, as he procured a package of cookies he had whisked out of nowhere.

“I have to say, I’m not sure I understand everything, and I was honestly overly excited and not listening entirely, but I am so happy to finally meet you.”

He was like a puppy.

A bouncing, energetic, full-blooded Golden Retriever.

Meanwhile, all she wanted to do was play the Snapping Turtle in the face of his unbridled enthusiasm.

Maybe it was the look on her face.

Maybe it was the fact that she had yet to really answer him.

Several more seconds of awkward silence, and the bubble of cheer that Thor had brought with him deflated rapidly.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” was the question, offered in a much lower tone as he drooped in his seat.

Did she?

Oh, there were so many things she had wanted to say. Things of the past; things that had haunted Loki every step he took. She had always wanted to take Thor and shake him into sense.

And yet, staring into the eyes of an elder, grieving brother, she could sense he had been doing what she had for the past five months.

Grieving.

Coping.

Though for him, it had been over five years.

Sighing, she reached out across the table, a hesitant smile quirking up her mouth as Thor’s face brightened immediately once more.

He quickly latched onto her hand, thumbing the back of it over and over and over again in a gentle, sweeping motion.

Watching his movements, feeling his grip tight and unyielding, she finally, really looked at him.

“Hi,” she breathed.

“Hi,” he grinned back.

___

But what if you just told him? She had asked him one day, as they sat in front of a fountain, eating ice cream.

Well, she had been eating hers, cup quickly emptying while her sober companion had been brooding instead of partaking, leaving his to puddle in the fading summer light.

A shrug. An incoherent mumble.

Loki, she had half-sung his name, nudging his shoulder with her own. If he was actually honest for once, why wouldn’t Thor forgive him? Why wouldn’t he understand?

But, no, it was far too complicated for that, apparently.

There was too much to get past.

He never would.

Never.

She had stared straight ahead at the dancing water, scraping her bowl clean of any chocolate-peanut butter remnants.

Silence. Then:

Would he not?

Setting aside her trash, and removing his from his hand, she had tucked herself under his arm as it wound absently around her shoulders. Well, he wouldn’t know unless he tried, would he?

There had been a sigh, and then his head had tilted to rest against her own. If he did, it would mean the end of the way things were. Things would have to change. They couldn’t stay the same.

Everything would have to come into the light or nothing at all.

There had been an opportunity for her to be hurt; to be angry that it seemed he wanted to hide her and keep her tucked away, out of sight.

But she knew it was because he was safe here. Things would change, but if it meant he was no longer hiding, then, well…

Still, she had persisted in return to his bemoaning, wouldn’t it be worth it? It meant no longer having to hide. To be whom he was.

Because, she had added after a quiet moment, reaching up to turn his face gently until he was looking her in the eye, he was worth loving just as he was.

___

They had talked the rest of the morning and all afternoon.

She had shared what she could; pouring everything Loki had told her out to Thor.

At first, she had a keen sense of betrayal, but she tamped down on that.

All she could do was tell him of her Loki.

Whether or not it applied to the one who had fallen into their universe was up to him.

They weren’t the same man.

Even if she wanted them to be.

In turn, Thor told her stories of Loki as a child, filling in the blanks of his perspective when one had been something her Loki had told her.

They laughed.

She cried.

Thor denied that he did, even if he sniffled once or twice and rubbed at his face.

In the end, she found herself eased into a pleasant state of forgiveness. Thor was willing to recognize where he had gone wrong, and she was already well aware of Loki’s own failings in communication.

It wasn’t difficult to see the depth of Thor’s hurt, and the pain his past judgments now caused him.

He had asked her of her pregnancy; quizzed her on things of which he was unsure, stared; eyes wide when she recounted the earlier months. Glowered, brows drawn as she hunched her shoulders and told him of the first few meetings with Loki.

But, as she made sure to point out, it had been drastically different after the brothers had spoken with each other.

Plus, she didn’t honestly think Loki would ever really hurt her. Panicking after a traumatic experience was only natural. She had come to realize the last time that he had been checking up on her – not the baby, but her.

As far as apologies went, it wasn’t all that great.

As far as all was concerned, she would take what she could get.

Cheered once more, Thor promised to come and visit her when he could, had made her promise to keep him updated through, surprisingly, e-mail.

When he admitted he had needed one to make accounts for video games, she laughed harder than she had since the Blip, the child wiggling in response.

When he asked rather sheepishly if he could rub her stomach before he left, she tried to roll her eyes.

Instead, she found herself nearly melting as he instantly dropped to a knee after her assent, placing a hand on the center of her stomach. He whispered for a moment in an otherworldly language, delight flashing across his face as he felt the infant kick.

His family.

As she was now, apparently.

Then there came an announcement that it was time for him to leave. She looped her arm through his proffered one as they made their way outside once more, Thor promising to look after her as best as he could.

“Make no mistake,” was what he finished with, turning back to face her – smile fading in brightness to something a touch more melancholic, “if you need anything at all, I will do whatever I can in his stead. I know it is not the same, but…” A shrug. “Please let me know. And if I see Loki again, I will try to get him to come check in on you more often. I believe in his heart he is a good man.”

A nod, and a smile. “I know.”

Waving, she watched as Thor spun his axe around, one more toothy grin flashing her way.

Definitelyagoldenretriever.

Gasping, she shielded her eyes at the explosion of light as the Bifrost opened up once more and swept him back to the place from where he had come.

Come to think about it, he never did say.

Not that it was any of her business.

Suddenly feeling oddly bereft and utterly alone, she crossed her arms tightly over the swell of her stomach, glowered briefly at the intricate design burned into her grass, and went back inside.

She was not going to start feeling sorry for herself now.

The rest of the evening passed by much more quietly.

Too quietly, almost.

Before the blustery entrance of her child’s Uncle! that had suddenly struck her, she had never noticed how quiet it was before.

Music, then, and she would carry on.

Five months and four days left.

She could make it.

She would.

___

What do you do when I’m not here? he had mused one night, flashing a teasing smile to her.

Twilight was approaching; the glow of the sun had long since faded.

A hand passed over her arm resting on the table between them.

Fingers entwined with her own.

Miss you, she had dimpled in response, earning a rare peal of laughter.

#Loki #Lover #Angst #Father #Others #Submitted fic #submission #theterrifyingtermite #chapter 6 #return

[mamahanu]

8, 14, 20, 23?

Thanks @darksidekelz for the lovely ask! :-) By the way, it took so long to answer this because I was searching through 3 of my stories (and then 3 or 4 chapters of the last one) to find what I wanted to use. 

8.  Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Oh wow. I was not expecting this. I’m a dialogue fanatic, too. I could probably answer this more than once, to be honest. I’m going to choose a scene from Chapter 23 of Omertà. Sorry, it’s not a short one. I’ll try to edit. If you want to skim, my reasoning is after the second set of asterisks. 

***

“I messed up,” he said, sniffling and closing his eyes. “Oh God, I messed up so badly.”

“So what do you do now?”

Peter’s eyes snapped open and he looked around, but there was no one present that he could see.

“Hello?” he called. There was no response. Peter let out a quiet sob, closing his eyes against the fresh wave of tears trying to escape him.

“What do you do when you mess up, bud?”

Peter opened his eyes again with a gasp and he looked around. That voice—who—why was it so familiar? “Who—where are you? I can’t see you?”

“Come on, you know this. When you fall down, what do you do?”

Peter heard it. He heard it clear as day, but when he focused his senses, he knew he was the only person here. Peter took a careful breath and thought hard about what he was hearing.

“You… you get back up?” he asked, tentatively.

“That’s right, bud. The thing about Parkers is no matter how much people knock us down, we always get back up, right? We get back up until we can’t anymore.” Peter shivered, sniffling slightly. He knew that voice.

“Ben?”

“Who else?” Peter felt his eyes drift shut. Strong calloused fingers were combing through his hair. His eyes opened again and the feeling disappeared.

“Ben,” he whispered, closing his eyes. The fingers returned, calming him. “Ben I’m so scared. I’m stuck.”

“I know buddy, I know,” Ben said, soothingly. “I wish I could carry this for you.” Peter’s shoulders shook from his crying and exertion. He was so tired. “All this power you have—well it’s a bit much, isn’t it? Too much, sometimes.” Peter nodded. “But Pete, I know you. I know you and I know what you can do. Trust me when I say you can do this.”

“I can’t, Ben, I can’t. I’m not strong enough.”

Peter heard Ben’s low, smokey chuckle. He could practically see the man’s brown eyes staring at him, twinkling. “You think your strength comes from you arms? From your muscles and these fancy powers?” Peter nodded. The fingers left his hair and he whined, bereft at the loss of contact. He kept his eyes shut. 

“Peter, your power has always come from here,” Peter felt warm fingertips pressing against his forehead, “and here.” The large palm of a hand was pressed against his chest over his heart. Peter sniffled.

“But Ben—”

“You’ve always, always had such a mind, Peter. The only thing bigger is your heart. That’s where your power comes from,” Ben said resolutely. “You know what’s right, and what you have to do.” Peter broke down and wept, body shaking with each little sob. The hand returned to his hair, another touching the tear trails on his cheeks. “I don’t anymore. I don’t do good things anymore, Ben. I’m—I’m not—” I’m not good, he thought. “Peter, you listen to me,” Ben said sternly. “You are good. You are so, so good. The best of all of us. Rich and Mary are so proud of you. I’m proud of you. How could you possibly think you’re anything but good?” Peter sniffled. “I’ve done—I’ve done bad things,” he cried. “I—I knew they were bad. I knew it, but I did them anyway. I did it to protect May and Ned and MJ, but people got hurt because of me. People died because of me.” Peter heard Ben sigh. “Peter, I’m not gonna say what you did was right.” Peter trembled, new cries trying to make their way out of his throat. “But your heart was in the right place, hmm? We all lose our way, sometimes.” “We do?” “Of course,” Ben chuckled. “We’re human. We’re not infallible. Life is full of twists and turns, and we have to react to the situation with what we’re given. The important thing is finding your way back, right?” “I’m sorry,” Peter said, crying. “I’m sorry that I let that guy go—” “Stop right there, bud,” Ben said, stern again. “That was not your fault. That could never be your fault.” “But if I just—” “No,” Ben sighed again, letting his hand still on the back of Peter’s head. “You can’t live this way, buddy. You can’t live your life through what-ifs. It’ll eat you alive. Okay, yeah, what if you stopped that guy? I’d be alive. But what if he pulled a gun on you for stopping him? Would you still be here?” “I—” Peter had never thought of that. “I don’t know.” “Exactly,” Ben replied. “May taught you to keep yourself safe when you don’t know all the ins and outs of a situation. I taught you that when you’re strong enough to protect yourself and others, it’s your responsibility to do so. At the time, you were doing exactly what we would have wanted. What happened wasn’t your fault. Okay?” Peter sniffled. “Benny,” he whispered. “I didn’t say I love you, when you—I love you—” Ben sighed again, petting Peter’s hair. “Oh, Pete. I know. I knew it then and I know it now.” Peter’s heart ached. Ben couldn’t be there, but he felt so very real. He could even smell him now—cedar wood and old spice deodorant and dust and sweat all mingled together, covered by that old cologne Ben always put on. “And I love you. I’ll never stop loving you, no matter what.” “I miss you. I miss you so much,” Peter whispered. “I miss you too, bud,” Ben said in a watery voice. “But to be honest, I would much rather you stay right here.” Peter laughed, almost hysterically. “I can’t. I can’t get out.” “Okay,” Ben said, gently. “If you can’t, if you really can’t and you want to stop, I’ll stay with you.” Peter sighed, relieved. “But I know you, son. I know you, and if I remember rightly, you’ve never, ever wanted to stop, and you’ve always been able to shake off anything life tried to throw at you.” Peter felt a warmth fill him at his uncle’s words. “You—you think I can do it?” Peter asked, hesitantly. A bright light burned red behind his eyelids, and even though his eyes were still closed, for a moment, a brief, shining moment, Peter could see his uncle clear as day. Peter saw his long, silvering brown hair that was always pulled back in a ponytail. He saw his uncle’s weathered face, tanned from working outside so much, freckles spread across his nose. He saw Ben’s warm brown eyes, and warmer smile. “Of course you can, Pete,” his uncle said, looking at him with such pride—a look Peter hadn’t realized how much he missed until now. “How can you not? You’re Spider-Man.”

***

I’m proud of this for a couple of reasons. The main reason I like that dialogue so much is because it comes from a very personal place for me. My mom passed away when I was 19, and I often wonder what she would think of me and my life. There are many times (especially lately) where I’ve really wished I could have a conversation with her and get her advice. Peter in this sequence is going through some heavy stuff, and Ben was his father-figure, and all the source material implies that he loved and supported Peter very much. I think sometimes, Peter gets lost, and with all this stuff from MCU, Ben gets forgotten or shuffled off to the side, but he is essentially the catalyst for Peter becoming Spider-Man. Whether it’s real or in Peter’s head is open to interpretation, but the conversation came from a very honest place, and I think it’s something that many people who have lost a loved one can relate to. 

14.  What’s the worst writing advice you’ve ever come across?

Well, I don’t think any writing advice is bad, per se. I think the pieces we take and leave behind are helpful to our own individual styles. For me, I I don’t like when people say, “Don’t use italics for emphasis.” I like italics. I like reading italics, and I like putting emphasis on words with it. That’s my writing style, though. For someone else, that may be wonderful writing advice. 

20.  Describe your perfect writing conditions.

Whenever my kid is asleep and I’m in a private room, preferably my living room, Spotify playing whatever playlist I need to get me in the right mood. I’ll write anywhere, but that is ideal. 

23.  If you were to revise one of your older fics from start to finish, which would it be and why?

Oh dear. To be honest, I think I would revise all of them, even the ones I’m writing right now lol. For the older fics, it’s a toss up between Hear me, which is a Diabolo fic that takes place during the crazy epic fight at the end and is told from Rai’s perspective, and Leave the Dead to Rest, which is a Weiss Kreuz fic that is told from Omi’s perspective. A kind of, “this is after,” confrontation type piece. Hear me is really muddled, and while that was partly the point, now I think I have the skill of telling the story while also keeping it disjointed and weird. Leave the Dead to Rest feels a little out of character, looking back on it. I could have given Omi a better voice. 

#asks #friends #fanfics #hanuko writes #hanuko answers #thanks!

[justavengeit]

i wrote some tony-being-deaged-to-IM-era but i didn’t get very far with it but check it

Tony wakes up not knowing where he is. This is unfortunately not an unfamiliar sensation, although he's pretty sure he and his handlers - his team - had mostly trained him out of this. He hasn't lapsed in a year and a half now, always finding his way back to Happy or Pepper so they can make sure he gets home safely.

He already knows he's not home. The sheets aren't right. The weight of the mattress. The temperature of the room and the way it smells, clean, blank, impersonal. Tony's not huge on having particular scents in his home. Scents are dangerous. They key into the emotional parts of the brain that connect strongly to memory.

There's only so much drinking he can do to forget before it starts to damage his body permanently.

It doesn't feel like he's been drinking, though, which begs the question of what the hell he's doing away from home. Tony cautiously pries his eyes open and takes in the room. It's transparently a recovery room, soft and pale and comfortable. No windows, but the lamps are casting a gentle frequency that mimics natural light. A clock on the wall. No monitors. An IV stand hooked into his arm.

His chest aches heavily, and before trying to sit up, Tony cranes his head and looks down. He's been dressed patient scrubs. His shirt opens at a diagonal in the front, meant to fall open like a maternity gown, held shut with velcro. Although he can already see the protrusion, he fumbles it open to see that the Arc Reactor has been taped over, gauze held around the seal. It's spotted red with blood and it's stiff with plasma. Peeling the tape back, he checks one more time - sees that this is a good reactor, still bright and vibrant. It doesn't appear to be tampered with.

(mobile readers: beware of cut)

Getting upright is awful. Tony still tries to sit upright out of habit and gets two inches before the pain cuts through his chest and everything compresses. His insides thump weirdly, and a crushing sense of doom sweeps through him - his heart being compressed by the casing. Falling back, he takes a few moments to catch his breath, nervously eyeing the door. No visible monitoring equipment, but Tony knew how little that mattered when he installed JARVIS in his house. He pulls the IV carefully, fairly certain it was feeding him nothing but saline. His head isn't fuzzy and his mouth isn't unnaturally dry.

This time, Tony carefully leverages himself into something of a sideways plank position, slinging his legs out of the bed and getting upright. There's no unusual muscle trembling, no weird weakness in his limbs like he's been unconscious and still for a long time.

It's at this point that he realizes that he can't remember what he was doing before this. Pausing with one hand still braced on the bed, Tony takes a moment to try to remember - anything. He can't remember what he had for breakfast last. He can't remember what the last paper that Pepper had him sign was. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Pepper. It was like trying to remember specific tiny details from a year ago.

The pressure of the casing against his heart makes Tony painfully aware of the speed at which it's beating. God, he was going to have to design a better, less invasive case - well, if the palladium didn't kill him first. That was always a possibility. Tony is just too damned good at what he does, so when he designs a weapon to kill people, the best anyone is able to do so far, himself included, is extend his expiration date.

But until then, Tony Stark will be damned if he lets the Arc Reactor fall into the wrong hands.

Straightening, he ignores the way the tape he'd pulled loose fails, the bloody gauze hanging out of the open shirt. Making it to the hallway is only a bit chancy - his stomach feels empty, but not enough to really count as being starved. More like barely enough gruel to handle pounding metal for hours over several days.

He's not going to be kicking anyone's ass, though - not without the Iron Man suit. Tony pauses carefully at the door, and when he hears silence, cracks it open and peeks out, ducking back in. When nothing happens - no shouts, no alarms, and he doesn't recall seeing anything more sinister than an empty hallway decorated in the same soft, comforting hues of his room, Tony looks again. Then he steps out of the room on the rubber bottomed socks, and carefully closes the door behind him with barely a click.

Cutting a look up and down the hallway, he makes his way toward the double doors at the end of the hallway to the left. There are a few huge windows that lead into dimmed and darkened ICU rooms, and a surgery theater. Despite it's unused and unprepared state, Tony pauses, shutting his eyes tightly and grasping at the Arc Reactor. He taps it gently, reminding himself that it's there. The tiny impacts sting both more and less than the standard level of aching it does, like tonguing an empty gap in his mouth where a tooth used to be. Only, you know. Ribs.

It's only when he nears the double doors that Tony hears quiet voices. Some kind of argument is going on - not the threatening or mean kind, but the sort when people are searching for a solution and no one can agree what counts as one. He doesn't recognize any of the voices, but - they're English. American. Which, really, means absolutely nothing. The man that had kept trying to kill him for a year was American. Trusted. Loved.

Banking on the fact that he's not drugged, nor restrained, Tony carefully puts his hands to the doors and pushes.

At least half of the people notice him immediately, none of them the ones arguing the loudest. Tony feels caught and penned under their eyes, their sudden, sharp attention. No one seems alarmed to see him, so that's. You know. Something. He steps into the lobby. This is clearly a private facility. Despite the surgery theater and the ICU behind him, there's no nurses' station for anyone to check in at, and at a guess, Tony doesn't think any of these people standing around being stressed about - whatever - have medical doctorates.

They are all, to a one, astoundingly good looking though. Perhaps some kind of alternate universe of crime fighting models have kidnapped him.

"It's polite to ask people before you kidnap them into a harem," Tony points out, because he's incredibly into consent and it's just his luck that the one time interdimensional harems kidnap him, they don't care about it.

"Tony," one of the men says, "you shouldn't be up." He's wearing glasses, and he has curly hair that's going salt-and-pepper, and he has very nervous, self-contained body language. He takes one step toward Tony.

Only the one. Tony absolutely doesn't mean to, but he takes an equal step backwards and bumps into the closed doors. His heart continues to pound unpleasantly in his chest. He can feel it through his entire skeleton. Everyone goes a little quiet and stares at him, and that's. Not. That's not great. Tony really doesn't like being stared at by a room full of very athletic, very on edge people, who look like they're well studied in violence. He presses his shoulder blades into the door, and casually slips a little sideways.

"Well, I was feeling better," Tony says. There's a tight, painstakingly light edge to it. His eyes skirt over them. There's not a single person he he could take one-on-one without the suit. Maybe even with it. Obadiah certainly schooled him when he'd thought he'd be able to take on more than the mundane terrorist. "So I thought I'd take a stroll around and check things out." He favors all of them with his best kissing-up-to-the-press smile.

For some reason, it just seems to really weird these people out. The guy who'd taken a step to him says, "Oh, no," very soft, smiling with incredible dismay. Taking off his glasses, he shuffles a few steps clear of everyone else, polishing them and looking one word away from a hysterical giggle. The tall, blond beefcake he'd been arguing with looks at Tony like he's somehow defective, which - you know. Fuck him.

"Tony," another one says. He's standing off a bit separate from the others and has looked oddly bereft this entire time - until now, when he's suddenly sharpened up and watching Tony narrowly. Tony notices that he has an arm that's made out of metal. So that's terrifying. "Do you recognize any of us?"

That's a really fucking odd question, or would be - but it means they're expecting him to recognize them. Tony, conveniently, has already determined he's lost a lot of time, somehow. At least a year's worth. "You know," Tony says glibly, "you do have one of those faces."

The man with the metal arm doesn't bother responding, looking to the graying man in glasses and the tall beefcake. Honestly, they're all kind of beefcakes, for all that Nervous Glasses Guy has been doing his best to make himself small and unnoticed. "What's Rhodes' ETA?"

The red headed woman standing to the other side of Blond Beefcake and Nervous Glasses Guy finally looks away from Tony. "He's in a meeting and unlikely to be out for a few hours, still."

"Update him. He'll want to get his ass down here," Metal Arm says.

Would he really, Tony wonders. He hasn't been a great friend to Rhodey lately. The past few years at least. His drinking had gotten especially bad - and then after the sudden turn around that he did about the weapons. That hadn't made Rhodey's life pleasant. Tony knows all levels of the brass had been after Rhodey to change Tony's mind. And now this whole vigilante superhero thing. That doesn't sit well with Rhodey, either. Dealing with - whatever this situation is, kidnapping or just Tony being amnesia, right after dealing with the brass is - that's a little much, probably. They've been. Drifting apart.

Which is. You know. Fine. Tony's expiration date is unnervingly close. He doesn't want it to hurt Rhodey or Pepper more than it strictly has to.

"The rest of you," Metal Arm says, making a military-sharp gesture. "Clear out."

Blond Beefcake shifts uncomfortably. "You know we can't do that, Buck," he says. "Amnesia or not, you don't know what he's capable of." Alright, so hotstuff is also a giant asshole. Tony is at least a little bit flattered by the fact that Beefcake acknowledges that Tony is dangerous, but all this talking about him like he's not in the room is - actually giving Tony plenty of time to navigate toward the painting and the small table that houses a potted plant and something attached to a power cord.

Metal Arm - Buck - looks at the only man in the room larger than him like he's something small and dirty and pathetic. "You think I don't know how to handle a dangerous amnesiac?"

Beefcake clearly thinks this is unfair and undeserved. "I didn't say that," he says, and dropping his voice further into an undertone, he says, "think rationally about this. Please. You're letting your feelings get in the way of your judgment."

"Steve, I'm gonna sock you in your goddamned nose if you don't shut up and clear out."

Red, who has been watching Tony this entire time, gives him an arch look. Tony supposes a potted plant is a rather pathetic weapon. On the other hand, even if she sees it coming, she'll have to dodge it if he throws it. He winks at her, indication that he knows she knows that he knows that she knows. Red looks decidedly unimpressed.

"Okay," she says and turns to face Beefcake Steve. "Actually, I agree with Bucky. Come on, Steve. We'll leave Bucky and Bruce with him until Rhodes gets here." She reaches out, laying her hand on Beefcake Steve's arm just so, urging him to give ground.

"Um," Nervous Glasses Guy says, shifting and navigating out of the others' way as they moved. "I'm not sure that's a good idea? Sm - small lobby. Soft. Breakable humans."

"I'm sure you'll have to go through Bucky first," Red says dryly.

"I take protection detail seriously, Doc," Bucky of the Metal Arm agrees. "I have seven escape plans. Only three will work with the Hulk, but I'm very fast and very hard to kill."

"Right," Bruce says with a thin, unhappy smile.

They're all very thoughtful and confusing and cute, Tony thinks, as he casually locates the device mostly tucked behind the plant that connects to the power cord. If he's very lucky, he can rip it right out of the cute little - sound emitter? - that it's connected to. He won't bank on Bucky's metal arm being very conductive, but it does sound like it runs at least a little bit on power. It probably won't be a fun time if Tony connects him to the building's power supply.

Going back through the double doors is a last resort. He can't be entirely sure that there's a fire exit that way, since this is a private facility. If these goons have any intelligence at all, they know that you can only give Tony Stark one exit, and then you'd better guard it and die trying, because that's the kind of effort he's putting into getting out.

He watches as Red and Steve leave, taking the cute guy with the smart facial hair with them, down the wide hallway and the sliding glass doors that Tony figures make some kind of airlock. Wide enough for a gurney and a team of nurses, he notices.

"Um," Bruce says, "I am - my name is Doctor Bruce Banner." He finally finishes toying with his glasses and slides them back on his face. They're either a very low prescription or a prop, Tony notices. "You might want to, um." He gestures at Tony.

No, at Tony's chest. Tony glances down and notes that the gauze is still hanging half off the reactor. Ripping it off, he sticks the crumpled, bloodstained gauze into his pocket, his other hand quickly pressing the flap of the shirt to the velcro that would hold it shut and hide most of the Arc reactor. Then -

"Wait, Banner?" Tony cocks his head. "That's familiar. Why's that familiar?" He studies Bruce narrowly, but there's nothing about his face or his posture or mannerism that are in the least bit familiar. "I don't know you. I know Bruce Banner. I think I know Bruce Banner." He shifts and tilts his head the other way. "What do you do? For a living. When you're not kidnapping billionaires, I mean."

"Uh - what. What year is it for you?" Bruce asks. He looks a little pleased, though.

That doesn't answer Tony's question at all, and he's run into too many assholes in the Arms Dealing world to think that it's necessarily a good thing that people like their name being recognized. On the other hand, Tony now discovers that he doesn't know what year it is. Again, he just vaguely knows that he's lost time.

"It's some time after oh-eight," Tony says, sharp and sarcastic. "Now do you want to tell me why I recognize your name?"

"The year is kind of twenty-eighteen," Bucky says wryly. It's a lot more polite and patient than he'd been with Beefcake Steve, but Beefcake Steve had implied he's somehow emotionally invested in the situation. "Why you would have recognized the name kind of depends on how much you know that's happened."

"Point," Tony acknowledges, and then: "Two thousand eighteen?" He stares at the two of them because - well, he's pretty sure he's maybe six months to a year out from the whole Iron Man reveal. Not. A whole decade later.

That's distressing enough on it's own that he doesn't worry about it much when Bucky suddenly moves, fetching a chair from the other side of the room. He sets it in the middle of the lobby, which is closer to Tony than the others had been, and gives it a shove that sends it sliding closer to Tony.

It takes Tony a precious moment to realize what the chair is for, that it's not a warning or a threat. While Bucky retreats back to Bruce's side, Tony reaches out and grabs the back of the chair for a moment to steady himself.

"That's," he says, and raises a shaking hand to rub over his face, down his jaw and his neck. He blinks at the two of them, looking cautious and concerned - Bucky's actually giving him doe-eyes, what the fuck, like he's seen this kind of reaction before or something - and finally gingerly moves around the chair to drop into it. "What," Tony says with a mouth numb with shock. "Did we finally figure out human-safe cryogenics or something?"

"Um." Bruce glances at the man standing next to him. "No. Not quite."

"Alright," Tony says, blinking rapidly, "Not cryogenics. What then? Some kind of suspended animation? It can't be a coma, I feel too good to have been in a coma, I don’t have any muscular atrophy. You shut my entire body down somehow, Doc." He smiles widely, with all his teeth, and angry. He's not actually sure he believes any of this - that he's actually in 2018, that these people know him, that he knows them, that they aren't just after the Arc Reactor.

"You have it backwards, Tony," Bucky says. "Although I get why you'd think that. You didn't come forward. You've gone backwards."

It's not enough to cool the hot pops going off in his chest, like a chemical in his heart is heating and it's just fractions of a degree away from explosion. "Sorry, what?"

"Um, well," Bruce says. "Tony. You've been - ah, regressed in age. Physically and mentally. Apparently."

Okay - "What?"

#my stuff

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Family.

For as long as he could remember, he had been at war with the House of Saincourant. From the days of Lord Laurentin, selfish and cold, to those of Lord Aleaume, who was those as well as stupid, anyone who proudly bore that name was his enemy, and anyone who bore it reluctantly was still not anyone with whom he'd waste his time. The patriarchs were loathsome -- the ladies, morally bankrupt -- the scions, well-trained out of all common sense and virtue by their parents, molded into perfect highborn boys and girls. The moment he had the power to rid himself of their company, he did so, and not once in the decades hence had a reunion with any of them given him cause to change his opinion.

There was but one exception; it was from that dark time twelve years ago, a time that otherwise doubled, tripled his hatred for that greedy House, when the Lord de Saincourant stood gloating over his insensate body, dispatching representatives to every corner of Coerthas to appropriate and sell every piece of his carefully nurtured investments. It came in the form of an intercession, a request for a concession -- that rather than keep him in the manor while waiting for him to succumb and die, that he might be more comfortable in his private apartments, his home of many years. It was, to Lord Aleaume, a little thing, a small expense in comparison to the riches he'd just won through his unmarried brother’s misfortune -- and it came from his lady wife, a woman so meek and modest she never criticized and hardly ever asked for aught, making it easy for him to oblige her.

For that, Rosaire was grateful, and though his feelings were not so warm that he'd consent to spend a moment in his brother's presence in order to speak with her, Charlinne de Saincourant was the one member of that House he would consider welcoming in, if she came to call.

And that was, of course, why it was she who did so, and why he felt, as he instructed his housekeeper to let her in, a tinge of grief, for that one, tenuous relationship he knew he was about to lose.

She was dressed in black velvet, the furs of winter exchanged for a silken scarf and a hat in a modern style, though it still carried a veil to mark her as a lady of high and ancient bloodlines, chaste and, if not quite cloistered, divided from the base and vulgar world. At seven-and-forty -- an age that would perhaps have made her better suited as a bride for him than for the brother eleven years his senior -- she was not yet old, and indeed, ought perhaps to have still been young and full of life. But there had long been a weight on those slim shoulders, and she swayed under it, weary. It had grown worse in the years since he'd seen her, and when she stooped low in a deep, low curtsey, he feared somewhat that she might not be able to rise.

But she did rise, and she greeted him: "Lord Rosaire, dear brother, it is so good to see you well."

Her eyes were downturned in a gesture of humility, but that look and her turn of phrase made him self-conscious of the cane on which he leaned, and he gripped its handle. "And you, Lady Charlinne."

"We would have liked to care for you at home, but you must be happiest returned here again, I imagine."

"Yes… I heard," heard about his brother's incessant attempts to wrest him from the company of House Pepin and confine him to the Manor Saincourant so that, this time, he'd be guaranteed not to recover, inconveniently, from his stroke -- "and yes, 'tis good to be home. Tell me, are you able to stay long? May I offer you tea?"

She hesitated to answer. He imagined that perhaps it was guilt at the thought of accepting hospitality when she's come on a mission of war; he granted her that much. "I would be honored, brother."

He steeled himself and murmured, "Then come with me."

He was confident, as he took the first step of the stairs, that his face revealed to her neither fear nor embarrassment. Yet he was also confident that by the time he reached the landing, his movements would have slowed, his breath begun to grow short. And he also knew that though she preceded him, she turned an eye back to watch, to measure and judge the difficulty. His cheeks flushed, but he granted no more than that, and continued at a steady pace to the top, where he lifted his head to look at her impassively, clamping down on the tired tremor threatening in his limbs. With a tense gesture, he indicated the table; "Pray, sit."

She did so, delicately arranging her skirts. "Your home is very beautiful. It strikes me each time I see it."

"Thank you," he grunted, allowing himself the blessed reprieve of a seat. "Helenne shall be along shortly with tea."

She hesitated. "Your nurse," she began, but after a pause, she shook her head. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, turning her gaze down. She was quiet; he let her be. And when she spoke up again, her voice was small. "-- You must know how much I wish, Lord Rosaire, to talk naught but pleasantries with you. And you must also know that -- I cannot do as I wish."

"Yes."

"If I proceed at once to the topic at hand, not out of discourtesy but respect for you, my lord, will you be very angry?"

"Not at you, my dear lady, but I make no promise as regards your lord husband." 

She bit her lip; it was plain on her face that his words did not console her. Still, she continued, after wringing her hands: "... Certain rumors have reached us at the Manor Saincourant."

"Pray elaborate."

"They concern you, my lord."

"And…?"

"I… cannot believe them true, of course, so out of line with your lordship's character are the things alleged --"

"And? Specify, so that I may refute them or not."

She sat, frozen and silent, for several more seconds. He was forced to confess before Halone that to see such discomfort in the expression and posture of a person seated across from him did, at times, bring him a delicious sort of pleasure, and that it was the messenger of House Saincourant now so suffering gave him a bit of satisfaction -- but that it was Lady Charlinne, that poor, unfortunate wretch, gave him a concurrent pang of guilt. Until -- "It concerns a woman."

"A woman."

"It is said," she swallowed, "that you have taken a mistress."

Despite himself, he smiled. "Ah."

"A Hyuran mistress."

"Ah."

She pressed her hands together; beneath her veil, she blushed. "The thought is... as unlike my brother-in-law as any could be. And yet people are convinced of it. Not only that it has been moons since, but that she was living with you while you were…"

"While I was what?" 

… She shook her head. "It cannot be true, though. You are the most continent, abstemious man I know -- that Ishgard knows, even if it has forgotten! The last man to sin so flagrantly and with such... vulgarity." She leaned forward, a discomposed look in her eyes -- an unladylike look -- that made her anguish seem genuine. "'Tis unfounded, is it not? 'Tis only the latest disgraceful slander."

He exhaled; he again failed to stop himself smiling. "... It is untrue, of course, Lady Saincourant. There is no mistress." 

"Oh," she sighed.

"There is, however, a young woman whom I have courted and, just this sennight, asked to marry me."

And, as unconstructive as he acknowledged such sentiments to be, the look on her face gave him immense satisfaction.

Finally, she spoke, in a tone now fully bereft of ladylike poise: "You can't."

"Can I not? Which of Halone's laws prevents me?"

"The laws," and she stood straight up, striking her hands to the table, "against marriage with Hyur!"

And he sat up to his full height, pressing his good hand to the armrest of his chair in equally aggressive emphasis. "Those laws," he boomed from his chest, "are not Halone's laws. They are the laws of degenerate highborn who worship bloodline o'er the Fury and Her every commandment. And who, do you propose, will enforce their laws, now that we must all swear before Parliament that our Lord Flavien fathered a quarter of the lowborn, else be denied representation? Which bishop -- in this age of impiety, imported barbarism, and surrender of our values to appease the sensibilities of the foreigners who despoil and mock our city -- do you propose will stand up and say, 'This pious man of Ishgard, this son of Halone, who serves and worships Halone with unwavering ardor, may not wed his equal in faith, this pious woman of Ishgard, this daughter of Halone?'"

"But you can't," she cried, "as a man of Saincourant. You are not free to do as you alone please! Think of your family -- the cost we must bear -- the effect on us --!"

"Cost. What cost will be borne by the House of Saincourant if a coal-black karakul of an uncle contravenes its traditions a little more? What does he have to do with the reputation of that House known for... hm," he mocked, "descent from Fortemps and… what else? Who thinks of Inquisitor Ledigne in connection to it, or it in connection to Inquisitor Ledigne? -- And what else could my marrying have to do with Lord Aleaume and his brood? What am I, now -- eighth in line for the headship?"

"Eighth!" she exclaimed. "As if the Houses have never before seen the eighth, ninth, tenth succeed to a title! 'Twould be one thing if you were considering marriage to a widow of your own age -- even if she were Hyur, 'twould be forgivable. But they say -- you say! -- she is young, young enough to bear -- and what children she would bear! Halfbreeds," she choked, "mongrels, in line for the headship of the House of Saincourant!"

"Mongrels," he replied, voice quiet though he felt his anger now burn twice as hot, "trueborn, raised in devout, lawful, loving marriage, educated in the faith, inculcated with honor and duty. Would they truly be inferior to whatever inbred highborn offspring come of money-matches arranged to suit the current patriarch's whims?"

She gaped back at him with shock and, he supposed, hurt -- since he had just described her own grandchildren, perhaps children -- but he had no room for sympathy next to the offense he felt on behalf of his. "I beg you, my lord--"

"No."

"Do not do this to your nephews."

"Deny your children the inheritance of my wealth?"

"Bring disgrace," she cried, also offended, "to their name!"

"My nephews may govern themselves as they see fit, in obedience to the laws of Halone -- and so shall I."

"Then," she begged, "pray -- think of your own reputation -- it too shall be ruined irrevocably."

"In the eyes of those whose unworthy esteem I desire not."

"Unworthy or not, they could destroy you!" She shook her head incredulously. "No... woman," said with a passionate distaste that made the silent baseborn, Hyur, slattern audible, "is worth such a sacrifice -- your sacrifice -- Rosaire --"

He cut her off with a violent gesture. "Such a sacrifice would be mine to measure and make, milady de Saincourant."

And she was, of course, enormously, egregiously, comically mistaken. Such a woman did exist.

They then stared at one another in silence, a silence he broke first: "Does your lord husband intend to stand in my way?"

She looked down. They both knew that he surely would, on hearing the news. And they also both knew that, howbeit, precious few means existed for him to do so, and all of those means were weak. And so she said nothing.

"Then I ask for neither consent nor blessing, for I know I shan't receive either -- only for a graceful acknowledgment that he has lost, and to be left, along with my intended, in peace."

Her brow creased, and she shook her head -- but as she did so, her shoulders fell.

"If you've naught else, you'd best return to him."

She stepped away from the table, wavering, as if stepping back into the tight and tiny shoes of the Lady de Saincourant left her a little dizzied and pained. But in a second, it was gone, and she curtseyed to him once more, very low. "... You have the right of it, my lord. I beg your pardon, and I pray you'll excuse me."

"Go," he answered -- and then, with less coldness, he added, "May the Fury be with you."

She bowed her head, then turned, and picked up her skirts to traverse the stairs alone. He remained seated, listening as her footfalls receded, then passed out into the unseasonable cool of this Third Umbral Moon, the heavy door closing behind her.

Only after she was gone did Helenne -- the 'half-blood', Helenne -- bring the tray of tea, with a single teacup.

And only long after that, after the tea had been drunk, after Helenne had helped him, much more slowly and unselfconsciously, back down the stairs, after he'd written two quick letters at his new desk, did it occur to him what she might have meant when she protested, her outrage and despair burning bright, that no woman deserved his sacrifice.

He was angry, still, and he imagined he'd be angry decades hence. The thin thread of esteem that had bound the two of them was burned to cinders, just as he knew it would be.

But he thought back to a year long-past -- thirty-one summers ago, if his recollection was correct, though perhaps it was thirty, perhaps thirty-two. At that time he was a young man, a junior inquisitor, busy in and 'round the city hunting heresy and building the foundations of his career, having naught to do with his family that he could possibly avoid. But he did, at times, receive news by letter, of commissions, births, and deaths in the extended Fortemps sphere. By this means did he receive news of his brother's betrothal, then wedding, an event he did not attend -- and he remembered far more to do with his parents' anger at this decision than any detail concerning the bride.

But he knew that she was a girl of prestigious breeding, surely raised in the strictest and most traditional style, cloistered, bullied, sheltered from knowledge, trained only to trust in Halone and submit. And he knew what such a girl, such a young girl, must have surely felt, wed to the one highborn man he personally knew showed all of the vices and none of the virtues of lords of his reprehensible class. He did not know her, not for many years, but long before that, he knew her suffering.

And -- though mayhap nothing would have come of the attempt, and there was no acquaintance, nevermind ardor, to motivate him -- he did nothing to help her.

And so though his anger did not come close to cooling entirely, as he sat there in his chair, recollecting, he once more felt, when he thought of Charlinne de Saincourant, a twinge, small and tender, of pity.

#ffxiv rp #rosaire ledigne #gwenneth gilrouis #charlinne de saincourant #aleaume de saincourant #margie faonbeau #Ishgardian family values #S.S. Inquisibun #a little teapot #terrible in-laws #stories #slices of life #stroke // #racism // #child marriage // #Ishgardian patriarchy

[letterfromtrenwith]

Inheritance

George/Elizabeth & some ghosts from the past

~

Ursula Chynoweth breathed her last on a quiet Saturday afternoon in July. Her daughter was not at home, having taken Geoffrey Charles and Morwenna shopping while George met with an investor at the bank. Their journey home had been happy enough - Geoffrey Charles telling his affectionately amused stepfather about how tiresome the visit to the dressmaker’s had been - until they were met at the front door of Trenwith by Mrs Tabb and Ursula’s nurse, both wearing grim expressions. Elizabeth seized her husband’s hand, knowing immediately what had happened.

She sat with her mother until the undertakers came. The nurse had washed and dressed Ursula, and she looked more peaceful than Elizabeth had ever seen her. Her perpetual pinched, sour expression had been replaced by a distressing slack-jawed emptiness after the apoplexy, but now she looked almost content. Elizabeth pushed a lock of hair off her mother’s face, the cold skin shocking. Behind her, the door creaked slowly open.

“My dear?” George’s quiet step, and a hand placed gently on her shoulder. She reached up and covered it with her own.

“Just a few more moments.”

“Of course.”

~

The funeral took place the following Tuesday, the summer heat making time of the essence. It was not especially well attended – of the few of Ursula’s society “friends” who had not seemed to forget her existence once she fell ill most were in London for the season and unable to return in time, even in the unlikely event they wished to. George and Elizabeth had only remained at home themselves due to the fairly recent birth of their son, and the bank placing heavy demands on George’s time.

Aside from her daughter, son-in-law, grandson and niece, Ursula’s only mourners were Verity and Andrew Blamey, Cary Warleggan, Lady Whitworth and Dr Choake. Elizabeth was entirely aware that her mother was not a beloved woman, but sitting in the near-empty church, she felt it somehow wrong that a person could pass from the world and so few show any care at all.

Lady Whitworth, Cary and the doctor all excused themselves after the service, so the wake consisted only of Ursula’s immediate family, and the Blameys. Elizabeth knew Verity had only come out of affection for her - like Francis, Verity had never had much fondness for Mrs Chynoweth – but she appreciated her sister-in-law’s presence nonetheless.

“Oh, my dear, it is a great heartache to lose one’s mother, no matter one’s age.” Verity took her hand gently as they sat on the sofa in the drawing room. By the fireplace – unlit, of course – Captain Blamey was telling an enraptured Geoffrey Charles a tale of the high seas, while George listened politely nearby. He looked tired, Elizabeth noted absently. He had made all the arrangements for Ursula’s burial, on top of all of his usual business with the bank and estate. It seemed his workload was taking its toll at last.

“Elizabeth?” She started, realising that in her contemplation of her husband, she had been ignoring Verity.

“Oh, Verity, I am sorry, I am just…I am a little out of sorts.”

“It is all right, my dear. I quite understand.” Of course she did.  Verity understood only too well what it was to lose a loved one. Elizabeth returned the squeeze of her hand.

~

George actually started when he saw Elizabeth sitting in his bed as he entered his chamber late that evening. As he often did, he had stayed up late to work, and it was almost midnight. At any other time, Elizabeth might have enjoyed being able to coax such obvious surprise out of him.

“Do you – do you mind if I spend the night here?...I find that I do not wish to be alone.” His face softened, in that way it only ever seemed to do when he looked at her.

“Of course, my dear. You are always welcome here.” He prepared for bed a little stiffly, perhaps overly conscious of her presence. Before slipping in beside her, he extinguished the lights, ending with the taper at his bedside. The moon shone brightly through the window, however, bathing the room in soft silvery light.

“George?”  He turned to look at her, the moonlight on his pale skin and fair hair casting an ethereal glow over him. Elizabeth hesitated, but continued eventually, prompted by the gentle encouragement in his eyes. “Would you – would you tell me about your parents?”

He looked up at the canopy, saying nothing for what seemed like an eternity, and she was frightened she had offended him somehow. She did not know what exactly had prompted her to ask him this, but she had spent a great deal of time these last few days thinking about her own mother and father, and found that she had a strong desire to know about his. There was a lot about him she did not know; despite all of the years they had been friends before their marriage. Perhaps it was just grief eroding her restraint and sense of delicacy.

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry – “

“Ssshh, Elizabeth, please do not distress yourself. I am not offended. It is just – “ he paused, “no one has ever asked me that before.”

This astonished Elizabeth momentarily, and yet it made perfect sense. Who did George know who would ask? His uncle had already known his parents. Francis had been his only friend for many years, and her first husband had not been a man for discussing such personal matters. Not with anyone other than her at least. Francis and George had that in common. George was silent again for a moment, his eyes still fixed above him.

“I was younger than Geoffrey  Charles when my mother died. I do not have much to tell.” “You do not remember her?” She imagined him as a small boy, left suddenly without a mother, and her heart ached for him, the sadness he must have felt piled upon that which she felt now.

“I used to think that I did, that I could remember what she looked like, but I am sure that I don’t remember anything that was not in her portrait. Not now, at least.” Elizabeth had seen the portrait to which he referred – it hung in a rarely used room at Cardew. Mary Warleggan, previously Lashbrook, had been a very pretty woman; whose elegant features and light colouring were predominant in her child. Elizabeth had heard some women, including her own mother, speak of the long dead Mistress Warleggan as a common miller’s daughter, but Elizabeth had never seen any such in that portrait.

“I remember the sound of her voice, a little,” George continued, his own voice very quiet, “but that is all.”

Elizabeth heard him take a shaky breath, and almost reached out to touch him, but suspected he would not appreciate any indication that she knew he was upset. She chose to divert him instead.

“And your father?” She had seen his picture also. A very serious looking man, Nicholas Warleggan did not greatly resemble his son, save for his piercing blue eyes, which had seemed to examine her closely even while rendered in oil. There was also something of him in the set of George’s jaw and the wrinkle of his brow when he was concerned or cross.

“My father…I do not have a great deal to say about him either, in truth. After my mother’s death, I saw little of him; he was always occupied with his business. She suffered from an illness – fits – and my birth made them worse, until they eventually killed her…..He – he never quite forgave me for that, I think.”

“Oh, George….” Elizabeth could not keep her words back, at the thought of a little boy taking the weight of his father’s grief. Instinctively, she reached out and took George’s hand in her own, moving closer still until she rested her head on his shoulder. In response, he touched his cheek to her hair. He was generally not quite so openly affectionate with her, save when they were alone like this, in the private world of their bedroom.  

“It was a very long time ago, my dear. It is almost twenty years since he died.” He made a small sound of amusement. “Oh dear, I am getting very old.”

Elizabeth smiled softly into the material of his nightshirt, even as tears pricked her eyes.

“My father…,” she began, feeling as if she should give something return for what George had shared with her “He was very…obliging.”

“I remember.” Of course, George had known her father. How could she have forgotten? Elizabeth had been only sixteen when she met George and almost nineteen when Jonathan Chynoweth had died. She appreciated George agreeing with her delicate phrasing, when what she really meant was that her father, although a kind men, had been weak-willed, and cowed by Ursula’s domineering personality.

“I almost think that it is better he died than see my mother as she was at the end.” Her father had been so dependent on her mother to lead him that Elizabeth thought he would have been entirely lost without Ursula. Set completely adrift. In truth, Elizabeth herself had felt oddly bereft without her mother’s presence – so potent had it been in her life.

“You should remember her as she was, my dear. It is what she would have wished.” Elizabeth knew this – her mother would have loathed to be seen and thought of in that helpless, undignified state. George’s words touched her. He had always professed fondness for Ursula, although Elizabeth had never been sure how much was simply for her benefit.

“She – That is, we –“ she stuttered to a halt, stumbling over feelings she had been struggling with ever since her mother’s death. A great deal longer than that, in fact, but they had only truly made themselves known these last few days. She took a slow breath.

“I cannot remember her ever holding me when I cried, or singing to me as I went to sleep, or taking me for a walk in the gardens. That was always my nurse, or my governess, or my father. Her only words to me were of how I must sit up straight, and smile, and not do this or that because it was unbecoming or unladylike or men did not like it. I am not sure that she ever saw me as her child, but as…..”

“….a means to an end.” George finished softly, somehow exactly completing her thought before she had fully formed it.  

“How – “

“Uncle Cary was quite distraught to learn that my father had given me control over my inheritance at eighteen, and not twenty-one.”

Elizabeth understood. Cary Warleggan had been dependent upon his brother, and then his nephew for his position in life. She knew that part of the reason the old man did not like her was because he had wanted to acquire a rich, titled young beauty for a niece – not a penniless widow who could offer no prestige and no distinguished connexions.

“I – I remember Francis telling me that he was relieved when Charles died, because he could not live with his scrutiny any longer.”

“I am not surprised to hear that.”

“Although I felt dreadful for doing so, I wondered if I would feel the same when my mother died – but, but I – “ she broke off, her voice catching.

“But she was your mother.” These words, so gently spoken, broke Elizabeth’s barriers, and hot tears flowed freely, wetting George’s shoulder. He said nothing, but pressed a soft kiss to her hair as she wept. Wept for the mother George had loved, but never known, and the mother she had known, but was not sure had ever loved her; for their fathers, both tied forever to their wives by entirely different bonds; and for two lonely children who lay here in the dark – together.    

#george warleggan #elizabeth warleggan #elizabeth poldark #george x elizabeth #fic #m: fic #f: ge

[modernart2012]

Day Three- Future

“Uhhhh… yessss… Beka, keep going, I’ll love you forever.” The words were slurred and muffled, Yuri laid out prone across their bed like a feast of toned flesh, all cream and gold.

“I thought you already promised to love me forever.” Fingers ran down Yuri’s scalp, dragged through damp flaxen hair, onto to warm skin.

“MmmmmmmMMMMM… right there… then I’ll love you forever twice over, this life and the one after.”

“Just those two?” Otabek murmured, amused, lips moving softly against Yuri’s bare skin. He barely suppressed a shiver.

“If there are more after that … ohhh, yeahhhh, oh God …. We’ll renegotiate then.” Yuri panted, words mewled and whimpered into the quiet dusk.

“Renegotiate?” Warms hands spread over, across skin, in languid movements, palms traversing the same length in slow, firm, drugging repetition.

“Ah, nnngh, Christ Beka your hands….” The words were outright moaned, the muscles in Yuri’s hips tensing as Otabek pressed knuckles into Yuri’s muscle.

“Renegotiate,” Otabek prompted again, increasing the pressure of his hands fractionally, fingers pressing just that much more in.

Yuri’s breathing stuttered, ragged, unsettled and loud, and Otabek slowed down; it’d do no good to end things now. “If, if I got to keep you for two lifetimes, two forevers, might as well make it eternity.” A slight squeeze, and as Yuri’s breathing slowed, “Infinite lifetimes.”

Otabek’s hands still, and before Yuri can stop it a bereft noise spills out of his throat, trying to make Otabek’s hand move again. Otabek only flexes his fingers, quiet against the background hum of their home. “Infinite forevers.”

Yuri nods his head against the blankets, glad that no one can see how red he is. “Every forever, with you.”

Those hands, previously simply flexing on his hips tighten and Yuri finds himself on his back, blushing, startled and pinned in place by his husband’s body and fierce gaze. “Beka?!”

Anything more he might have been planning on saying was quickly cut off via liberal application of a hungry, yet unhurried exploration of his mouth via Otabek’s. It wasn’t worth fighting the man when he kissed like that, and Yuri relaxed into the familiar-yet-thrilling sensations.

His fingers grasped at the fine hairs Otabek had tied back, pulling the man closer and bringing that delicious, bruising pressure to his hips. He let his eyes drift shut and gave over to giving as good as he got.

It seemed like an eternity later when Otabek disengaged from Yuri, chest heaving and thumb sweeping across Yuri’s kiss-bruised lips. His chocolate gaze softened, eyes crinkling in that subtly ecstatic expression he wore, it seemed, every time he got Yuri in private, alone for the quiet ways he expressed his careful adoration. The one that screamed what did I ever do to deserve you? to whomever cared to look.

Yuri stroked down through Otabek’s newly mused hair, drawing him swayingly closer so that their noses brushed and their breaths mingled. He pressed a quick fleeting kiss to Otabek’s lips, then let his overwhelmed husband bury his face in the crook of his neck. It was nice to feel their hearts racing in tandem, and nothing was ever going to be better than this. Except ….

“You know this doesn’t get you out of finishing my backrub right?”

Cross posted on ao3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9921461

#otayuri week #otayuri week 2017 #otayuri #this is the sappiest sap i have ever written #omg #this is totally a t rating btw #get your mind out of the gutter you sinner #turning innocent things dirty #for shame #for shameee

[roseisread]

Top 25 Movies of 2016

I saw 51 of the many more films released in 2016, so naturally this list suffers from the usual incompleteness. But of those 51, the movies listed below are the ones that really stuck with me, entertained me, moved me, or made me see the world through a different lens after the credits rolled. Some of them are deeply personal and hold great meaning; others are just a great excuse to laugh or shudder or sob about something that doesn’t matter so you don’t have to think about the things in real life that might evoke that reaction for a couple hours. 

If you saw something amazing that didn’t make the list, be sure to let me know so I can add it to my watchlist (or defend my choice to leave it off the list of faves). 

25. Zootopia (Netflix) At a time when the world was finding reasons to divide itself into fractious subgroups, along came a winsome little animated film about tolerance and eschewing stereotypes. The animation is top notch, the story is funny and action-packed, and any scene featuring the sloth from the DMV threatened my ability to breathe because I was laughing so hard. If you missed it in theaters, be sure to catch up with it on Netflix. It’s a real gem. 

24. The Conjuring 2 (Amazon/iTunes rental) The first Conjuring got a ton of acclaim but I wasn’t that enamored with it. This one, on the other hand, totally delivers. Once again, Vera Farmiga and Patrick Wilson star as paranormal investigators who are plagued by dark forces. This time, the action centers on a family in England (inspired by the somewhat infamous Enfield Poltergeist) with an unwanted apparition who interacts with them in all kinds of upsetting ways. Rather than relying solely on jump scares, there’s a lot of great suspenseful sequences and practical effects that use the atmosphere and physical space to masterful effect. Plus, the characters are likable and we are rooting for them which goes a long way toward making this a better than average horror movie. 

23. The Edge of Seventeen (Theaters) Hailee Steinfeld plus Woody Harrelson equals brilliance. Add to the mix the savvy direction of first timer Kelly Fremon Craig and the charming supporting cast (particularly Hayden Szeto) and you have a winning combo that leaves other teen dramedies in the dust. The story is relatable for anyone who experienced high school: Nadine feels alienated at school and at home, partly because high school sucks and parents just don’t understand but also partly because she sees herself as just a little bit superior to her peers and family members. She’s a classic Holden Caulfield type, really. When her best friend starts dating Nadine’s brother and mortal enemy, she takes it as a personal betrayal. Between this, her crush on a bad boy type, and her tentative steps toward romance with a nerdy but sweet classmate, she’s got a lot on her plate. Naturally, she takes solace by venting to her favorite teacher, the bemused Harrelson who takes all of her abuse and whining with stoic aplomb. 

22. Jackie (Theaters) I was born in 1981, which means I don’t have any personal connection to Jackie O. the way people of my parents generation did. I don’t have recollections of seeing her on TV or experiencing the Kennedy assassination, but I’ve been hearing about it all my life and thus feel like I know the story. This movie took me by surprise by showing me something new, something I’d never considered: The personal grief of a tremendously public loss. Natalie Portman embodies the carefully manicured public persona as well as the private devastation of Jackie Kennedy in the days surrounding JFK’s death. It’s not a traditional biopic, and not a traditional historical drama. That makes sense coming from Chilean director Pablo Larrain, who also gave us the excellent political thriller/comedy No a few years ago. He captures pivotal moments and edits them together into a kind of fractured consciousness befitting the recently bereft Jackie. 

21. 10 Cloverfield Lane (Amazon/GooglePlay rental) I’ve still never seen the original Cloverfield (I know, I know), but I do love me some John Goodman being a possible creeper so I had to see this movie. The title really was an afterthought; the story was written independent of the horror franchise and marketing decided a built-in audience and some name recognition would boost ticket sales. All of this to say, you don’t need to know or love Cloverfield to know and love 10 Cloverfield Lane. Essentially it’s a chamber piece, modeled on some of Hitchcock’s techniques (Lifeboat/Rope/Dial M for Murder).  Oh and also the original script got a once-over by a certain Damien Chazelle, who was once slated to direct it as well until Whiplash got greenlit and then he got a little busy making a movie called La La Land which may or may not be definitely coming up later in this list so... yeah. But anyways. It’s got that breathlessness and intensity Chazelle brought to life in his other movies, but this time in an actual horror/suspense setting. Mary Elizabeth Winstead and John Gallagher, Jr. play Goodman’s reluctant houseguests in his underground bunker. Goodman claims to be protecting them from something horrible outside; they’re not sure whether to believe him or to trust their instinct that the something horrible is Goodman himself. All three performances are excellent, and your nerves will be frayed little bundles by the time 103 minutes is up. 

20. Certain Women (Theaters) Just watching this movie made me feel physically cold. It takes place in Montana, and is essentially a triptych that follows three different women in the same small town. The first, played by Laura Dern, is an attorney with a particularly high maintenance client (Jared Harris). The second is a woman (Michelle Williams) who feels alienated from her husband and their teenage daughter, even as the family is working on building a house together. The final story, and by far my favorite, focuses on a farmhand (the glorious Lily Gladstone in a breakout role) who chances upon a night class taught by Kristen Stewart and becomes transfixed. This is a quiet film, about women who yearn for more than their lives so far have given them. Each one deals with the small injustices and tiny victories that ordinary events bestow, but one senses beneath the surface a lingering question of “Is this all there is?” In that way, it’s totally relatable. There aren’t a lot of major plot arcs here, but that’s exactly the point of the film. In watching this movie, you realize that Henry David Thoreau’s quote about the masses leading lives of quiet desperation might well be answered by Simone de Beauvoir: “I think that where you go wrong is that you imagine that your reasons for living ought to fall on you, ready-made from heaven, whereas we have to find them for ourselves.” 

19. Don’t Think Twice (YouTube/GooglePlay rental) If you listen to podcasts at all (especially This American Life, WTF, or You Made It Weird), you should know the name Mike Birbiglia by now. He’s a comic turned actor/writer/director and this is his latest original work. This time, he enlisted fellow talented comics to join him onscreen: Chris Gethard, Gillian Jacobs, Keegan Michael Key, Kate Micucci, and Tami Sagher play his friends and fellow members of an improv troupe. They’re all people you know or have been--starving artist types who are holding onto a dream that comedy will one day pay the bills and take them to the next level. When that actually happens to one of them, the group dynamic shifts considerably. As Morrissey so accurately sings, “We hate it when our friends become successful.” But really, the truth is we hate ourselves when our friends become successful. It makes us question whether it’s a matter of deserving it or working hard or random chance.  The great thing about this movie is the blend of truly hilarious comedic moments and stirring emotional honesty. It’s about friendship, it’s about surviving your thirties, it’s about figuring out if the dreams you’ve had your whole life are the dreams you still actually want to come true. If you can get through Gillian Jacobs’ incredible solo improv performance toward the end of this movie without tears, you get to be the new Clear Eyes spokesperson instead of Ben Stein. 

18. Love and Friendship (Amazon Prime) This movie features one of the funniest characters of the year, an immensely clueless rich dolt named Sir James Martin (Tom Bennett), who marvels at the existence of peas and struggles to arrive at the correct number of commandments. Who could be responsible for such a creation? Well, who else but the writer whose best work pokes fun at social climbers and wealthy nitwits: Jane Austen. Whit Stillman adapted her little known work Lady Susan into this charming and hilarious period piece starring Kate Beckinsale, Chloe Sevigny, Stephen Fry, and Xavier Samuel. Beckinsale does her absolute greatest work in this movie--I had no idea she was capable of this kind of performance, and she absolutely slays. As far as Austen adaptations go, this one is my favorite since Clueless--and that’s about the highest praise I could offer. 

17. Don’t Breathe (YouTube/Amazon/Vudu Rental) The premise of Fede Alvarez’s sophomore thriller is simple: A trio of young Detroit opportunists break into the home of a blind veteran (Stephen Lang) after hearing he’s got a lot of cash in the house, figuring it’ll be an easy score. But they underestimate this particular blind man and his ability to protect his home and property. The result is a fast-paced cat and mouse game that will definitely have you holding your breath for long chunks of time. I had a blast watching this movie, even if it should have ended a few scenes earlier than it did. 

16. Hell or High Water (Amazon/iTunes/GooglePlay Rental) One of my favorite pieces of music, classical or otherwise, is Aaron Copeland’s Fanfare for the Common Man. This composition was directly inspired by a speech delivered by Henry Wallace in 1942, which outlined the cause of freedom and the stakes of World War II while also setting a tone for the whole century as one in which ordinary people--the common man--would share the same standard of living, of educational and economic opportunity, of scientific discovery.  An excerpt of this speech reads thusly: “When the freedom-loving people march; when the farmers have an opportunity to buy land at reasonable prices and to sell the produce of their land through their own organizations, when workers have the opportunity to form unions and bargain through them collectively, and when the children of all the people have an opportunity to attend schools which teach them truths of the real world in which they live — when these opportunities are open to everyone, then the world moves straight ahead.” Well, the world has continued moving since those words were spoken, but those opportunities are certainly not yet open to everyone despite promises all around that anyone in America should be able to succeed on grit and good will alone. When grit and good will fail to deliver, some people give up and some people become outlaws. That’s where we find our protagonists in this movie, Toby and Tanner Howard (Chris Pine and Ben Foster, respectively), as it opens. They’re robbing banks out of perceived necessity, and also out of a sense of Karma not acting quite fast enough for their liking. Meanwhile, a pair of Texas Rangers (Jeff Bridges and Gil Birmingham) get assigned to the case and aim to catch up with whoever’s responsible and give ‘em hell.  The film is beautifully shot by cinematographer Giles Nuttgens, and the screenplay contains scintillating dialogue and the kind of characters you might find in a classic Western, plus a final showdown for the ages. On the performance side, there’s not a weak one in the bunch. Chris Pine proves he’s more than just a pretty face and Jeff Bridges sheds his Dude persona to give an even better performance here than in his Oscar-winning turn in Crazy Heart. If you need a movie to watch with your Dad that you can both enjoy, this is that movie. 

15. De Palma (Amazon Prime) Sisters. Carrie. Dressed to Kill. Blow Out. Mission Impossible. Body Double. Scarface. The Untouchables. Casualties of War. About 20 other films--all directed by Brian De Palma, the subject of this documentary. For some, he’s alienating. For me, this guy is legendary. His films pick up where Hitchcock left off and go running off in their own bonkers directions, oozing style and excess and delivering tawdry and thrilling twists along the way. I’m convinced that one day he’ll be revered by film students and not just genre lovers, and at that point this doc will serve as a Hitchcock/Truffaut type text.  The doc is really just De Palma going through his filmography chronologically, shots of him talking edited together with clips from every one of his movies and archival behind the scenes footage. That might sound boring but I promise you it is not. He tells lots of stories, does not shy away from pointing out the flaws and issues in his movies, and reflects on the reception his movies have received from critics and cultural scholars over the years. He also tells some fascinating stories from his youth that shed light on the types of movies he grew up to make. He also talks a lot about his techniques and the way his shooting style developed. If you are interested in filmmaking or De Palma or both, this movie will have you riveted from start to finish.

14. Manchester by the Sea (Theaters) For a meditation on grief and loss, this movie made me laugh a lot. That might sound inappropriate, but if you’ve ever experienced loss yourself, you know it’s not linear and doesn’t follow rules or codes of conduct. Sometimes you laugh at inopportune times. Sometimes you want to cry and can’t. Sometimes you melt down at the sight of frozen food (see what I did there? Melt/frozen! Ahh I kill me sometimes).  Casey Affleck and Lucas Hedges make a great onscreen team, with Affleck playing Lee Chandler and Hedges playing Patrick, Lee’s teenage nephew. They’ve both lost someone important to them, but neither is great at opening up on the subject. Lee does his best to take care of his nephew, but he feels ill-equipped to be the stable parental figure Patrick needs. For his part, Patrick would prefer to keep things the way they are. “I have two girlfriends and I’m in a band!” he points out, and who is Lee to argue with that kind of logic? 

Of course I can’t finish discussing this movie without highlighting the luminous presence of Michelle Williams, who owns every second she’s onscreen (which isn’t very long). Her final scene with Affleck broke me right in two. 

13. Born to be Blue (Digital Purchase) Every year springs new musical biopics upon us, to varying degrees of creativity and critical acclaim or derision. My favorite one from 2016 was Robert Budreau’s nonlinear narrative inspired by incidents from the life of Chet Baker as portrayed by Ethan Hawke, who gives his best performance outside a movie with “Before” in the title. For the unfamiliar, Chet Baker is best known as the singer of “My Funny Valentine” today, but he was also a prominent jazz trumpet player and part of the West Coast jazz scene in the 1950s and 60s. As so many artist types, his genius was often threatened by his dalliances with substances and people whose momentary glamor gave way to decay and destruction. 

Hawke captures Baker’s charming qualities as well as his tendencies toward self-sabotage, and the movie does not feel like a typical biopic as it incorporates a more meditative approach than a chronological one. There’s also a movie-within-the-movie which adds to the novel feel and keeps this from just hitting all the major events in Baker’s life in order. Carmen Ejogo is excellent as Baker’s primary love interest, a complex and well-drawn foil for the troubled musician. Her character is an amalgam of real life people, but she stands out as more than just your typical long-suffering wife/lover trope. 

12. Fences (Theaters) August Wilson’s intimate play gets the cinematic treatment at the hands of Denzel Washington, who both directed and stars here. Troy (Washington) is a garbage man who drinks a lot and talks a lot more to his wife Rose (Viola Davis), his friend Bono (Stephen Henderson), his son Cory (Jovan Adeppo), and others who show up at his doorstep.  The story is simple, but the characters are anything but. This may be my favorite ever Denzel performance, and certainly my pick for Best Actor in a Leading Role of 2016. Davis is phenomenal too, in a quiet but steady way. And not as many people are talking about Stephen Henderson, who played Bono in the play as well as the movie, but he’s excellent.  If you want to hear beautifully written dialogue (and monologues), see some of the year’s best performances, and be moved by a family drama that feels relevant even though it was written and set in a bygone era, go see Fences. 

11. Midnight Special (On Demand) In the first of two Jeff Nichols-directed movies that came out in 2016, Michael Shannon (a frequent Nichols collaborator) is a father trying to protect his son. The boy has some unique abilities, to say the least, and everyone from cult leaders to government agencies wants to exploit those abilities. It’s part superhero origin story, part Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and all about the joy, terror, and unbridled love that come with being a parent.  The movie features memorable visuals as well as supporting performances from Joel Edgerton, Kirsten Dunst, and Adam Driver. The ending may leave you with more questions than answers, but the emotions it evokes are unmistakable.

10. Tower (iTunes) In 1966, a lone gunman stood atop a tower on the University of Texas campus and opened fire on the unsuspecting people below. For the next 96 minutes, chaos and carnage took over the scene as law enforcement and campus officials tried to devise a way to stop the shooter without endangering more lives. This documentary tells the story of that day from the perspective of people who were there, using interviews and re-staging events using rotoscoping animation.  The result is one of the most powerful documentaries in recent memory (outside of Joshua Oppenheimer’s The Act of Killing and The Look of Silence). Hearing from victims, bystanders, police officers, journalists, and students who experienced this firsthand reveals so much about the nature of trauma, the way we react in extreme circumstances, and the contrast between what was then a first-of-its kind incident and what is now an all too frequent occurrence: The campus shooting spree. It’s never preachy, just lets each person tell their own story. Always, the focus is on the people on the ground rather than the person behind the violence. It’s a must-see film.

9. Arrival (Theaters) Denis Villeneuve has become one of my favorite directors of recent years, and it’s great to see a film of his get embraced so widely by audiences as well as critics. In case you haven’t yet seen it, this movie features Amy Adams as a linguist and Jeremy Renner as a scientist. Both of them have been recruited to help the government communicate with the aliens who have recently parked giant pods all over the world.  The movie opens with a much more human story, and if you cried at the beginning of Up you will certainly shed tears here too. I won’t give more away than that, but what happens informs the emotions and decisions made throughout the film in interesting ways.  I love the visuals of this film, and the emotional arc of the story. I also adored all the technical linguistic things that were going on, and I don’t know enough about science or language to know whether they were plausible so I’m just going to assume ignorance is bliss and aids in suspension of disbelief. There is one scene that seems to create a divide in audiences between loving and hating this movie. I won’t explain beyond saying it involves a phone call, so if you’ve seen it you know what I’m talking about. I can understand the criticism, but for me it was not enough to derail all that came before and after.  If you haven’t seen this yet and you like your science fiction with a few tugs on the heartstrings, this is definitely worth your time. 

8. The Lobster (Amazon/iTunes/GooglePlay Rental) I adore this movie, but that does not mean you will. I have to put that caveat right up front. In fact, at least one person I recommended this movie to absolutely hated it. So, take my opinion with a grain of salt but I will try to convey truth in advertising.  Yorgos Lanthimos, whose previous films were Dogtooth and Alps, makes his English language debut with this dystopian romantic comedy. Colin Farrell, John C. Reilly, Rachel Weisz, Ben Wishaw, Lea Seydoux, and Olivia Colman are the human subjects who populate the story. In their world, if you find yourself without a partner, you go to a hotel where you have 45 days to pair up with someone. If you do not find a suitable match, then at the end of 45 days you get turned into the animal of your choice. You can extend the time of your matchmaking opportunities by going out to the forest and hunting “loners,” people who have escaped from the hotel in the past and choose to live lives of solitude.  It’s a wacky premise, but leads to numerous laugh out loud scenarios in addition to the more plaintive moments. I should warn you that there is a scene or two of violence involving an animal, which may be tough to watch for some. That may be one of the reasons people hate it. But as a critique of human behavior and society’s obsessions, it’s quite an effective parable. 

The latter half of the film takes a different turn, and while I don’t want to give away what happens, that’s why I called this a “romantic” comedy. You may not want to watch it with your date on Valentine’s Day, but if you do it should certainly give you much to discuss afterward.

7. April and the Extraordinary World (YouTube/Vudu/GooglePlay/Amazon Rental) This animated steampunk French film features a talking cat and a whipsmart girl and an underground lair and a bunch of other wondrous things that I don’t dare attempt to describe. It’s an alternative history film, it features the voice of the marvelous Marion Cotillard, and it should’ve been nominated for Best Animated Feature at the Oscars. Alas, it was not. But if you want to watch a gorgeous, funny, charming film that might inspire a generation of girls to go into STEM careers, watch this. 

6. The Neon Demon (Amazon Prime) I feel intoxicated every time I even recall this sumptuous film. If you missed my review of it earlier this year, go check it out and then go watch this film... if you dare.

5. Sing Street (Netflix) This is, hands down, the feel good movie of the year. Written and directed by John Carney, who gave us Once and Begin Again, this film is set in Ireland in the early 1980s. The premise is simple, really: A boy starts a band to impress a girl that’s out of reach. Not only does he hope to impress her with the music, but he convinces her to star in their music videos since she’s seeking a career as a model. Then he has to actually form the band, and learn how to play instruments and write songs. Along the way, his older and cooler brother educates him on the cool musicians of the day: The Smiths, Duran Duran, The Clash, The Jam, Hall & Oates, The Cure, Spandau Ballet.  The original songs in this film are super catchy and fun, and serve as homages to the great bands referenced above. If you’re a sucker for the films of John Hughes, the music of the 80s, and stories about brothers and coming of age and following your dreams, this is the movie for you. 

4. The Handmaiden (Theaters) Take a novel  set in Victorian England about pickpockets, conmen, and insane asylums that’s been referred to as “lesbian Dickens” (Sarah Waters’ Fingersmith), and set it in colonial South Korea, and make sure it’s directed by the guy who made Oldboy. This is a recipe for the most gorgeously photographed, erotically charged, bonkers in the best way movie of the year.  I don’t want to get too far into the story which has so many delicious surprises, but the quick version is that an orphan pickpocket goes to live with a rich but possibly mentally ill young woman to serve as her handmaiden. This is all in an attempt to con said rich young woman into a marriage plot with a smooth talking ne’er do well man. And there’s also the added wrinkle of the rich girl’s creepy uncle, who collects banned erotic books and holds readings in his library for men who pass through. It’s a very unsettling atmosphere for two young ladies, and they form a bond with one another in spite of themselves.  There are moments of horror, laughter, and blush-inducing romance in this unrated film (don’t watch it with Grandma unless she has a very open mind and you have a very comfortable relationship). Its runtime is 145 minutes but I wanted to stay in this world forever. 

3. Green Room (Amazon/iTunes/GooglePlay Rental) We lost too many good people last year, and Anton Yelchin was one of the losses that hurt the most. In this movie, he gives arguably his best performance as a member of a punk band that gets in way over its head when they take a gig for gas money that takes place in a remote area where most of the audience is neo-Nazi skinheads. They get through the performance, uncomfortable as it is, but the real trouble happens later when one of them witnesses something their hosts really don’t want them to see. From there, it’s a tense stalemate as the band members have to improvise and evaluate who can be trusted. The movie is directed by Jeremy Saulnier, who gave us the excellent and underrated Blue Ruin a few years ago. This one has a similar blend of regular people in irregular situations, with plenty of blood and gore but also a fair bit of humor and a whole lot of real raw punk rock, both on the soundtrack and in the aesthetic. It helps that Saulnier was in a band himself back in the day, so he brings a real authenticity to the characters in the movie.  This stayed atop my “best of the year” list all the way into December, when I finally saw the last two films on my list. I’ve watched it multiple times and would watch it many more. If you took delight in a video of a Nazi getting punched a few weeks back, you should definitely watch this movie. And if you didn’t, well, you should still watch this movie. 

2. Moonlight (Theaters/Digital Purchase) Barry Jenkins (director/co-writer) and Tarell Alvin McCraney (co-writer) have created a moving, timeless piece of visual poetry in this film that captures three significant chapters in the life of a young man named Chiron. When we first meet him, he’s maybe six or seven years old and people call him “Little.” He hides out in an abandoned house to escape from neighborhood bullies, and is discovered by Juan (Mahershala Ali), a local drug dealer with a complicated moral compass. Juan and his wife Teresa (Janelle Monae) become de facto surrogate parents to Little, whose mom (Naomie Harris) works late and brings random men home and sells their belongings off piece by piece to afford the drugs she craves.  In the second chapter, Little is now “Chiron,” in high school and life hasn’t gotten easier. He’s still quiet, still has a troubled relationship with his mom, and feels pretty alone in his peer group with the exception of his friend Kevin. He and Kevin share an unexpected but life-changing evening on the beach that is intimate and believable and raw. The next day at school, however, another life-changing exchange takes place between the two young men and this one is even more visceral in its immediate and long lasting impact on Chiron’s future. Finally, we see him as “Black,” a little older and transformed from the skinny vulnerable teen into a muscular, physically intimidating presence. He’s clearly fighting against his past by embracing everything he can to seem larger than life and untouchable, in both his physical appearance and his lifestyle. He gets a phone call one night that reconnects him with a part of his past he could never quite shake. I won’t spoil what happens next, but the final twenty minutes of this movie are a perfect encapsulation of long-suppressed feelings finally forcing their way out into the open. It’s such a personal story, but the specifics make it so relatable that it feels universal in its specificity.  The performances in this movie are wonderful, the cinematography is gorgeous, the score is amazing--I could go on for years. To me, this movie showed a story I’ve never seen on screen before, from a perspective that’s completely underrepresented in pop culture. It never feels manipulative or stereotypical or preachy--just real and achingly human. Some moments in this movie have replayed themselves over and over in my mind hundreds of times, and even having seen it twice in the theater I can’t wait to study every frame of it on multiple viewings once it’s available on Blu-Ray. I want it to seep into my bones the way it seeped into my heart. 1. La La Land (Theaters) “This is the kind of movie that just fills your heart up,” I texted a friend the second I exited the theater after seeing La La Land the first of three times (and counting). And every time I watch it, my heart overflows a little more. Here’s a film that will resonate differently depending on your frame of mind when you watch it, the same way Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind can feel funny or sweet or tragic or dark or romantic depending on your current relationship status.  At first glance, Damien Chazelle may seem to be showing off in his follow up to Whiplash, tapping into an easy sentimentality that short circuits our center of reason by throwing in references to Singin’ in the Rain, Casablanca, West Side Story, and an LA that probably only ever existed in the imaginations of the people who never actually visited the City of Stars but fell in love with its many portrayals on the silver screen. And yes, Hollywood does love stories about itself and yes, the novelty of an original movie musical does scream “anachronistic film school prodigy.” So I get the skepticism, I truly do. I can’t promise this movie will live up to the hype of a record-tying number of Oscar nominations for you, but I can tell you that it means so much more than that to me. It’s not just another charming but forgettable throwback (I’m looking at you, The Artist).  In case you haven’t yet experienced this movie, a quick breakdown: Sebastian and Mia, portrayed by Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, are both in LA chasing their dreams of artistic success. He’s a jazz pianist; she’s an actress. Neither has quite made it, and “making it” to them means doing something authentic on their own terms which makes success even more elusive. Compromise may be part of real life but neither of them is quite ready to give up the fantasy yet. Their relationship starts off adversarial, then tentative, then before you know it they’re literally floating into space so carried away are they with love and visions of a future together. The stages of their lives and the story are divided up by seasons, and sure as summer follows spring, you can’t get through the year without the fall. Fall in this movie has a double meaning, and the cute flirty interludes give way to frustrated sighs and changing priorities. Other seasons follow, which I will not spoil, but I will say that the final five or ten minutes of this movie could stand on their own and still be my favorite film of 2016. People compared Whiplash to The Red Shoes, and I would make the same comparison to this film although for different reasons. The ballet sequence of The Red Shoes and the final sequence of La La Land share an artistic splendor the can induce wonder and catharsis in equal measure. I’m prone to quoting Charles Bukowski, so I’m going to close by quoting him again. I think the following poems explain the core of this film, and why it resonates so much with me: “the area dividing the brain and the soul is affected in many ways by experience – some lose all mind and become soul: insane. some lose all soul and become mind: intellectual. some lose both and become: accepted.” --You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense “if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. if you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. if you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was.” --So You Want To Be a Writer?

#best films of 2016 #lists #movie reviews #la la land #moonlight #arrival #sing street #green room #the handmaiden

[sudsybear]

A walk along the seashore

Do you remember friends from your adolescence? That group of pals with whom you shared life’s lessons? You stayed up past curfew because you were having so much fun. Maybe one of your group was ill or injured and you all learned a valuable early lesson. Maybe two of you married a little sooner than the others because of a date that neither wanted to end. Maybe you didn’t marry because the “consequence” was taken care of privately in a doctor’s office. There are millions of those stories from twentieth century suburbia. This is mine.

 For a time, Ross was my best friend. But, we grew up and away from each other. Ross and I never reunited, and his departure left an emptiness I tried to fill with words. But words don’t replace a hug or a warm, “Hello.” I still miss him, as do many.

 A year after Ross’ funeral, I needed to talk to Moj - the friend to whom Ross turned all those years ago. In my absence, the two developed a deep and mutual connection that best friends have for each other. I knew Moj wouldn’t talk on his own. He is a private thoughtful sort – distrusting and cynical by nature. Once comfortable in a situation, he is a gentle giant with a dry, wry sense of humor. Slow to trust, but once garnered, it is for life. I know him well enough to know he doesn’t trust me. I needed an intermediary - David.

 But how was I going to do this? I’m a married woman with three children. What husband sends his wife across the country to visit with a man she hasn’t seen in seventeen years? Along with another man she once knew intimately? Truly insane. And yet, I would have been crazier to not go. I needed to ask the questions, or I would not be able to move forward. This project was a compulsion, not a fun hobby, not an interesting exercise to pass the time, but a project that consumed me day and night. I needed to write as much as I needed to breathe. My husband recognized that, even as he didn’t understand it, and we made the arrangements.

 With my husband’s blessing, I turned to David. I needed him in a way I’ve ever needed anyone. I begged, I wheedled, I pleaded, and wore him down. He agreed, I bought his plane ticket and prayed he would get on board. We would meet at the San Francisco airport on a Friday evening in August.

 Moj met me in the sterile hallways of the airport. It took a few moments for my ears to adjust pressure. I was tired and nervous; butterflies tickled. I planned the trip, but not the conversations. It never occurred to me to think about what to say to him upon our meeting. We’d last seen each other a year and a half previous – but circumstances didn’t provide us the opportunity to visit. I asked inane questions and he acted ever the calm gentleman.

 Airport restaurants were closed, and we were forced to hike the corridors to find a place to eat. We stopped at an information booth run by volunteers. She tried to solicit a donation, but Moj refused, objecting to the God-talk included in the advertising material. The exchange reminded me of my former vehemence against organized religion. I snorted privately with the memory. Moj would be disappointed to know I attend services these days, and am but a senior year away from a bachelor’s degree in religious studies. No, I’m not born again, but I learned the appeal of organized religious practice, and developed a tolerance and acceptance for such faith. I challenge it daily in my own way, and find one religion to be too confining. Oh, I only need one to participate, but I know it’s not the only answer. Why else would so many choices be available? There is wisdom in all faiths. Ross might have been intrigued I think. Certainly we’d have talked about it.

 We found a restaurant and dined; I enjoyed a salad and babbled inanely about my children and life since we last saw each other. He pulled out his cell phone and called his girlfriend to let her know our status. Dinner finished, we wandered back to the terminal and waited for David’s plane to arrive.

 It was good to see David. I always get a flutter in my stomach when I see him. He’s so comfortable, so accepting, so warm and fuzzy. I loved him once in a teenage romantic way. Now I just love him. After we hugged our hello, he reached up to clasp Moj around the shoulders in the masculine half-hug that happens in public. We retrieved luggage and set out to find the car.

 Moj drove a non-descript late-model sedan; practical, comfortable, probably an import. It had all the jim-cracks and whizz-bangs; electric windows and locks, electric adjustable seats, a reasonable factory installed stereo system with CD player. Ever the gentleman, David deferred and let me sit in the passenger seat, my seat, almost always when we were together. He and Moj exchanged more masculine banter while I relaxed and watched the cars around us on the freeway. David was hungry, so Moj pulled up in front of a Thai restaurant for David to order something. I wasn’t hungry, and don’t care for Thai food anyway, so passed on the offer of more comestibles.

 David’s dinner in hand, Moj drove the remaining blocks to his house. He and his girlfriend just bought it in the months previous. Moj seemed pleased to show off his new living quarters. David and I got out of the car while Moj parked it in the garage. I asked him to open the trunk to retrieve my offerings for my hosts. We climbed the narrow stairs and met David’s significant other, Nancy, and the dog, Cerberus; a vicious name for a mild-tempered dog well-matched to his gentle owner.

 Nancy started the party without us. Slightly tipsy, she was in a jovial mood. I offered my gifts, hoping David hadn’t steered me wrong in some misguided attempt to be cute. The wine was my own choice – a unique dessert wine from the New York Fingerlakes. Sure, this was California wine country, but they can’t do ice wines. The collector’s spoon was indeed a dud. I was duped. David, what have you done to me? I owe them another gift. They laughed at my gullibility. Even after all these years, still they laugh at how easy it is to play a joke. I swallowed pride and laughed with them.

 Moj offered drinks, I took him up on his offer of whiskey – a fine smooth sort from a trip to Scotland. We made small talk, and discussed our timing and activities for the next day. Moj was kind enough to drop me at my hotel downtown, amazed at my price for a downtown hotel. (I married a man who is frugal, a deal-getter. He likes to save money. What can I say? It means we get to do more things.)  I checked in, got to my room, unpacked and lay in the bed, restless with excitement. Eventually, finally, sleep came. It had been a long day.

 The next day we toured San Francisco Moj-style. I saw a much different San Francisco than what I knew as a student some fifteen years previous. Billboards with Vargas Girls advertising different liquors were long since replaced with billboards advertising the latest computer platforms. Different than even just six months previous when I visited as a tourist with my brother and sister-in-law – riding the ferry across the bay and taking the streetcars to Chinatown. Instead, Moj picked me up in his sedan and we drove to the farmer’s market where we bought food for our next day’s planned sailboat excursion. He then drove us to Coit tower, we paid for the tour, enjoying the views of the bay and having our picture taken at the top. We stopped at City Lights bookstore where I bought souvenir books for my family, and David fell asleep in a quiet corner of the poetry section. Once Nancy found him and woke him up, we enjoyed lunch in an Italian restaurant. Throughout the day I enjoyed Nancy’s company, despite, or perhaps because of, her apologetic hangover from her private party the night before.

 We returned to Moj’s home in the afternoon and while Nancy slept I dragged out these letters, and with them, hit a raw nerve. Instead of laughing and reminiscing and sharing joyful memories these evoked for me, Moj was incensed. Unwittingly, I hurt him deeply. I lanced a boil, rubbed salt in an open wound, twisted the knife in his back. Eighteen months since Ross’ death, Moj’s grief was still fresh, his anger and self-doubt still on the forefront. The conversation became heated. Sitting across from me in his living room, he asked, “This was years ago. Why are you re-hashing a high school crush?”

 Clearly Moj was agitated. He spoke of his and Ross’ friendship. The camaraderie they shared; the intimacies of male companionship. The challenges they offered each other, the support and advice they traded. All of that was gone from Moj’s life, and Moj was bereft. While Moj spoke, tears rolled down David’s face, he began to cry audibly. That confused me. What was going on? All I wanted to do was ask a couple of things about some old letters Ross wrote. Moj is angry and David is crying? Clearly, I was out of my element.

 Moj suggested going to the beach where the memorial service was held for Ross. While Moj retrieved an old sweater for me to wear, I hugged David and asked the source of his tears. David confided that the love Moj described between he and Ross, was what David felt with Moj. For David, Moj was a peer to whom he looked for solace when sad, inspiration when low, and advice when necessary. To lose that would be unthinkable. David dried his tears, Moj returned from the privacy of his bedroom, we left his companion to sleep off the rest of her hangover, got in the car and left.

 We enjoyed a beautiful drive down the coast; we drove against traffic returning from a day at the beach. The three of us spoke of other differences between us; my role as a spouse and more significantly, as a parent, and how different that experience is from their childless bachelorhood, the relative merits of small sedans versus mini-vans or SUVs, Moj’s daily backward commute from San Francisco to San Jose. Finally, arriving at the beach just toward sunset, Moj parked in the paved parking lot and got out of the car. The three of us walked over to the water, and I asked a series of questions. “How many people were at the service?”

 “About 40, I guess.”

 “What music was played?”

 “We didn’t have any.”

 That surprised me. “Why not? How could you have a memorial service for Ross without music?”

 “I don’t know, we weren’t in a partying mood I guess. There wasn’t any music at the service in Cincinnati.”

 “Oh yes there was Moj, Scott put together a mix CD. Worked his tail off picking out what would be most appropriate.”

 “He did?”

 “Yes, Moj. He did.”

 “Oh.”

 I took my sandals off, and carried them as we walked along the shore. Moj took us into one of the caves, and we wrinkled our noses at the smell of old piss and years of cigarettes. We laughed at the party potential of that particular locale, remembering our own youth, and surmising that the local teens had similar escapades in the wee hours of the morning.

 We left the cave and returned to the beach, continuing to talk as we walked. The conversation took a more challenging tone and the chemistry between the three of us got too complicated for me. This chain needed to lose a link, and I asked David to give Moj and I time to chat privately. There were private things that Moj and I both knew, but Moj would be furious if I mentioned them in front of David. David graciously excused himself to play in the waves.

 Moj grilled me – how much did I know, how did I come by certain information, did I share it with anyone else? Why did I care so much? What was it to me? Why hadn’t I gotten over this years ago? I needed to burn those letters, he told me. “They were written by a child.”

 “Of course they were.” I had no illusions that Ross stagnated. I grew up, why shouldn’t he? On the defensive, I answered as much as I could and tried to justify my behavior.

 I got the information from Scott. I asked, he told me. He swore me to secrecy, so I’m not allowed to mention it within 100 miles of Cincinnati. I knew you would know, and I needed to ask about it. So, I’m asking. Have I shared it with anyone else? No.

 “Moj, did you know I had gotten back in touch with Ross?” I explained the nature of the exchanges, provided a few pertinent private details to demonstrate that the trust Ross and I had for each other so many years ago was still there. We weren’t involved in each other’s daily lives, but certainly we were on our way to renewing friendship. I wanted to know that Ross was happy and wanted to share in his life again in some way. Not as a lover, but as a friend. Is that so wrong?

 Moj was skeptical. While he ruminated on the facts I revealed, I needed a trump card, so I played it. “Moj, after Ross and I broke up, I got wrapped up with this son-of-a-bitch who raped me.”

 Silence.

 I took a deep breath. “Does that make you happy, Moj? I’ve suffered. Is that what you wanted, to know that I hurt all these years? Well, I have. And here’s why: Ross left me and I was raped.”

 We paused. This time, the silence was welcome. He considered his memories and emotions, while I considered mine. Where did all that come from? Ross left me? Because Ross left me, I got raped? It was Ross’ fault I was raped? That’s not right. Is that what I believed? Is that what I’ve been doing all these years, blaming Ross for what happened with Jim? No wonder I can’t get over this.

 And then Moj apologized. Softly, with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the ocean breeze, he looked me square in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry for that.”

 I crumpled inside. Moj was sorry? For me? Why? No one else ever expressed such sympathies, at least not that I heard. I’ve been challenged, quizzed, analyzed, disbelieved (“Does she even really know what rape is?”), supported, mollified, ignored, “there-there”d and told, “Get on with it.” Moj’s was the first apology I ever really heard. Not even my husband, who supported me through my healing process, suffering indignities no human should endure; physical, verbal and emotional abuse, all inflicted by me as reactions against what happened after Ross and I parted. But for him to ever say, “I’m sorry”? Or my parents? Or peers? Not that I ever remember.

 Our conversation paused and Moj and I continued our walk along the beach. Both tense, we contemplated our next words, each lost in our own memories. Walking and talking was good for us both. I trembled as the waves lapped at my ankles. Finally Moj indicated we needed to turn around and walk back. We talked quietly. The details are lost, swept away with the wind and tide. In the end, we agreed to disagree. Moj is not comfortable with my writing. He disagrees with my investigations. Let sleeping dogs lie. But I can’t do that. Old wounds need to be reopened so they can heal properly. I can change techniques. I can focus on other aspects of my retrospection. But I cannot and will not put it away and forget about it again. I did that once, and lost myself. I will not do that again.

 Over the years a pervasive sense of unease permeated my daily life, I accept it as a part of my being. It’s an acceptance, not a peace. I live with anxiety. I don’t like perpetual nervousness, but I live with it. What choice do I have? I take medication when it gets too challenging. I seek counseling when necessary. I fight the impulses to end my life prematurely. I doubt those feelings will ever go away completely.

 Since I’ve been agitated and uncomfortable all these years, I suspect Ross was too. I’ll wager he lived with an underlying sense of “what if” and “what happened.” I wonder, too, if Ross’ subsequent lovers ever understood and embraced his internal vulnerabilities and self-doubt. Did they make light of Ross’ insecurities, believing them trivial when so much else seemed to be going well for him? I’m sure they enjoyed his attractive physical presence and sense of humor, his projected self-confidence and outward bravado. But did they discover how challenging it could be to live with someone who is not completely comfortable in his own skin? I wonder whether Ross ever accepted those feelings in himself. Did he ever find his own peace? Is it wrong of me to doubt that he ever did? I am forbidden to ask big questions. I’m told it’s not my place to ever know.

 Instead of ever knowing the man he became, I’m left with old letters, music and corroborative stories. These patch together a tale of adolescence and first true love. But as that ended, I fell into a deep depression that took years to recognize and even more years to finally treat. Truthfully, my battle against depression never ends. Every day is a challenge to maintain a positive outlook, a challenge to stay away from the proverbial pit of despair, a challenge to maintain a perspective that allows me to be grateful for the life I have with the man I married, and the children we created together. I have hope for the future, but I need to look back to go forward. Ross is gone, and I miss the possibility of adult companionship; friends reunited, able to enjoy each other’s company, to share familial joys and sadnesses. It will not happen.

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