#i listened to glamour child on repeat writing this

[highsviolets]

waterfall inquiry: javier peña x reader

pairing: javier peña x young analyst!reader

summary: words should not make you feel so much.

warnings: age gap. kissing. and - the worst of all - f e e l i n g s. (soft ones)

a/n: [edited 10 June ‘21] this was supposed to be three parts...and now there’s more. I regret nothing :) 

[next] [series masterlist] [main masterlist] * gif: @anakin-skywalker​

“Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name”

 “as kingfishers catch fire” | gerard manley hopkins

Neither of you should be here. Strictly speaking, at least.

The Embassy maintains regulations about these sorts of things, you’ve heard in jagged claims that coat the walls in a sickly iridescent sheen. Not the pretty kind that makes glitter sparkle. No, it’s the perverse shine — pyrite and oil spills on tepid water and those cheap kaleidoscopes they sell at county fairs.

Everything, it seems, is whispered here. Here at the Embassy, anyway; Colombia itself is a messy, irreverent place. A dreamlike people, an altered state where God acts as the intermediary between man and demons, not angels.

Perhaps that is why the Embassy is always quiet. The shrill clang of a phone ringing makes everyone start, fearful of keeping demons at bay. Even the PR reps speak in hushed tones, the words soft and soothing like cotton balls dipped in baby oil gliding across skin — crafting press releases each word slotted for a specific purpose, hand-picked with evolutionary precision.

It harasses you, stinging pricks drawing blood from beneath the surface of your bronze skin. Words should move freely, you believe. Like the way the Mississippi runs in during the spring melt: coarse, unimpeded, roiling in caught light, caressing the riverbanks as it soaks up all the world gives it — thrusting forward after a winter fraught in immobility, reveling in flinty purpose.

There’s a difference between words of fabrication and phrases of culled authenticity — the ones that stream from bleeding hearts, bound tightly by shoves and glares and hands that can’t keep still. Hands that grasp for something tangible. Anfractuous reminders of why they must be so careful, why they must keep the truth of themselves limited to brief instances of throwing back light or heat.

There is one man, you know, who thinks like you do — and he laughs at the fact that your jobs depend upon other people being careless with their words. Bandying about locations, codenames, numerals, what to buy at the grocery store. You can almost hear him, that marmalade voice spreading over you, eyes gleaming in smoke and fervor: yeah, carelessness gives us both a job. But it hurts, too.

Tonight, though. When you both are here when you really shouldn’t, you really fucking shouldn’t, not when you’ve been dreaming about him for…for how long? How long have you been in this country that makes a mockery of verisimilitude? Long enough, apparently, for everything else to blur when you look at him, for you to have memorized the way his shirts pull tight over his back when he’s leaned over his desk.

Eyes climb up the length of his torso, the slope of it heightened by the way he’s bracing his weight on his hands. His palms are spread wide and god as much as you think you want to stop the way your mouth runs dry at the sight his large palm, you can’t.

A sigh leaks out. The man in question spares a glance your way, matching the twist of his neck to the cigarette he brings to his lips. “You alright?” he mumbles around the thing, and you grip the desk’s edge a little harder at the sound, at the sight, of him in his element. His exhale — a finely tuned purse of the lips, discreetly directed away from your work — should feel the same as your sigh, but it doesn’t. It washes over you instead, and you rock in the way his existence ebbs and flows in and out of your person. Easy. Like breathing. Like all you have to do is breathe, and he’ll be there.

There are stories about him. When you had been sent down to Columbia as a junior analyst after the death of Escobar, you had quickly dived into the mythos the man. How could you not, when he was everywhere, the scent and swagger of him drawing eyes from every corner of the barricaded building?

The others — the replacements, someone had once termed the batch of new personnel flooding the country to fight Cali — had told you the stories; where they had heard them, you weren’t sure. Huddled over tepid drinks in the bar after work, blazers shrugged off and shirtsleeves rolled up, you had let them regale you of how he fought for years to bring down Escobar, only to be in Miami when his partner did the deed. How he fucks his informants; although, one of them admitted with a sigh, he hadn’t been known to do that in a while. How he was ruthless in the pursuit of justice. A fucking legend, man, someone had crowed about the older man, tongue loose with overpriced alcohol.

And through it all, there was you, eyeing the man himself across the bar. The embrace of his hands against the whiskey glass, the way he barely shuddered at the consuming burn of the stuff when he tossed it back in a behavioral gesture. He seems sad, is what you had thought. Whatever opposite of sad existed in this opulent measure of time by which you both abided — that’s what you wanted to do for him. To make him not-sad. He is aged, perhaps, but not old, rather like someone who could be young if they could shed the pallid skin of responsibility.

But you can’t play God in this country of fallen beings. Being consumes you instead, devolving into an obsession, hanging onto the ledge of yourself — gripping humanity and slicing rocks and graphite that stains your skin even as it slides away, too smooth to be held in hands that ache, swollen, from typing up reports detailing the tumbled-gravel sins of humanity.

He likes you. You think he might, anyway. He consults you before any of the others, and once or twice he’s dragged some Columbian officer into your tiny workspace, asking you to confirm the intelligence on whatever operation he’s desperate to get approved so he can do something. He asks with words that curl up and over themselves like whitecaps, one hand resting on his hip as he nods along to your recitation.

But it’s really his eyes you watch in these moments, aching in fluttering hope whenever they rest on yours. Javier Peña’s eyes when he visits you in your workspace are pleading thermoses of life under sterile fluorescent lights. He likes to send you a half-smile and a nod when you’re finished, tossing them over his shoulder as he escorts the man back to the Ambassador’s office. You are both too good at your job not to love it in some sick & twisted way, and he knows.

Other times he simply drops by. Leaning against your cubicle, he fiddles with a cigarette and chats with you as you work, asking questions that he knows he’s the only one examining.

Talk to me about the families of la cartel de Cali, he mutters, the hoarse sound deep and aching in your gut. About their mothers, daughters, sons, cousins, in-laws. Is anyone sick? Do they want to go on vacation? What’s the drama of the week, no, don’t laugh, — he smiles, here, barely, the delicate minutiae of the expression an external revelation of his magnetism — there always is in families. They’re human just like us. And that’s when he sighs, and looks across the hall, where in his office there’s a diagram of the Cali bosses splayed over the wall. Yeah...they’re like us.

Javier makes a slowly forms a habit of it, of stopping by your cubical and wrapping you in currents of charisma and truth. He does you a solid, too, bringing you to the attention of your superiors when he mentions your diligence. And you repay him in kind, taking care to slip into his office with new intelligence before the brass gets word. You tell yourself it’s simple mentorship. Mere patronage. He’s paying it forward, helping the young analyst get ahead in their career. These meetings are nothing to him, and they ought to be equally as empty to yourself. It’s just exchanges of information. Conversation between colleagues.

Of course, that doesn’t explain why you look forward to his fingers touching yours when you lend him a pen, or, when he makes some half-whispered joke in Spanish, it makes you shiver. Or the pride that blossoms in your chest, embracing you all soft and balmy, when he considers your words. He handles them like he does his favorite cigarettes, rolling them between his fingers, palming their weight, letting the texture seep into his skin before he lights them on fire.

You drop your pen a lot; he brings a finger to his mouth in thought. You don’t see the way he smiles when you do that, grinning at the muttered curse and roll of your eyes. And he decides that he likes the way you laugh about it; poking fun at your own mistakes, the skin that matches his own gleaming in the warm sun.

He can never do that. Perhaps he should? But he doesn’t make mistakes like that, toss-away interruptions of intended action. The mistakes he makes get people killed. All the more reason to keep checking with you, he reasons, to double-insure the intelligence. Can’t have another mess. And he likes to hear your laugh. Nothing wrong with that, he says. Nothing wrong with something that makes his heart stir and entices the eyes hidden behind yellow aviators to trace the length of your neck a little longer than strictly necessary when you throw your head back in unmarked joy.

And tonight, in his office? Tonight he seems melancholic again, like the first time you saw him across the bar. He keeps shifting his weight, one hand on his hip, and then on the table, and then shrugging off both his jacket and his tie and tossing them unceremoniously onto the couch, limbs extending listlessly. It’s as close to careless as he gets.

Or maybe it’s just the exhaustion fusing into you both. You feel slow and hazy, torn between staring at him and bleary eyes glaring at the map beneath his fingers. if you just look at it longer, you think, you can will it all to fall into place. and maybe if you did he would kiss you, and maybe he would kiss you the way he has always wanted to live.

Maybe if you traced your tongue along his exposed collarbone, penning of licks of hope in the space where his words seem to get caught, where his perpetually open collar leaves him defenseless to an onslaught of physical impressions…maybe then, he’d exhale in blessed adoration, taken outside of himself for just one moment.

He’s asking you a question. You alright? He does that a lot, you realize. Checks in with you. When you answer, he laughs — those delightful eyes seeping warmth into your weary bones as they crinkle in a smile — and he reminds you to call him Javier. He — Javier — has rebuked you at least three times tonight alone, but you’ve yet to oblige his request. If you do, if you let your tongue caress his sacred name and rest in its life-sodden weight, you fear…

you do not know what you fear. you do not know how saying his name will shift the tides in your life. but you know that you will remain forever anchored to him, tethered to his lunar opacity.

“What’s this?” you ask instead, shifting to rest against the desk. You’re beside him now, hip adjacent to his as you look up at him. Latent smoke hovers overhead, and locks of his hair have come undone after the long hours of work and now rest over his forehead small waves. It looks like it aches, being so out of place, and yet so distinctly him. Caught. Destined to arch over his tanned skin, all the while lingering in a place where it should not. Not here, anyway. Not tonight, in his office, far after everyone else has gone home.

“What’s what?” Javier rejoins, distracted, still bent over the desk, still bracing his weight on those fingers.

Rustling papers catch his attention, and he twists to meet your gaze. “This.” You point to the unfamiliar word, stamped out in standard font. “My Spanish is decent, but I’ve never seen this word before.”

The wrinkles behind the shield of his fallen hair press together as he cranes his neck, adjusting his stance to read the word on the paper you thrust in his direction. It clears rapidly though — the visage sailing and unfurling itself when he absorbs the story hidden in-between letters on a page.

He repeats the word back to you, leaning into the sound the way he leans into you, inching closer in his explanation. You stare at his lips, completely captivated — his tongue catching between his teeth — the purse of his lips — the rearrangement of his jaw as it conforms to the aerodynamics of structured syllables.

“Strictly speaking,” he says, eyes roving your face, deep and dark, “it means elf, or spirit. Something ethereal. It’s used in stories a lot.” The words are smooth, smokey, whiskey-like as you let them drip down your skin, the insides of your thighs. “Entiendes?”

Your body temperature rises. You can feel it — the way your mouth’s run dry and the paper’s slippery in your grip. Did his voice drop lower when he used the familiar form of the verb, not the formal? You think it did. Oh god, he’s so close, he could just extend a hand across your body and it could rest on your hip. You had never really noticed his height either, always in heels. Tonight, though, the heels are in the corner with his jacket and tie and you realize that he’s inches above you, yet somehow still within reach.

“What’s” — you swallow thickly, desperate to remain professional despite your wide eyes, the tongue tracing your lower lip — “what’s the non-strict definition of the word?”

He gives you one of his trademark smirks. “It can also mean,” he says, “enchanting. Charming. For someone or something to be magical.”

Nodding slowly, you drop your eyes down to the paper again, desperate to avoid his gaze. It follows you, watching your eyes hide even as you adjust to be ever-closer, a bare foot extending outward and brushing against the fabric of his dress pants. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Say it,” you hear him urge, your head bolting up, incredulous. And you try, you really do, but it’s so new and unfamiliar and you’re so goddamn nervous with him looking at you, that you fuck it up. Words are but the vessels by which emotions themselves are expressed, so maybe the act of speaking should not make you feel all by itself. But it does — oh, god, it does, and you feel like you’ve shrunk in the process, dwarfed by this man with rolled up shirt sleeves wrapped around muscular forearms, who grins impishly around his cigarette.

“Not quite.” He stubs out the thing, and to your surprise, brings hand to your jaw, cupping your chin in-between his thumb and forefinger. “Say it again.”

“No, I can’t; I..“ you protest, and for what? because you don’t want him near you? no, that’s not it, but you’re being branded by his touch all the same.

“Say it again,” he commands again, more gently this time, his words accompanied by an encouraging nod.

You comply readily, sounding out the syllables. His strong fingers manipulate your movements, guiding you in pronouncing the difficult phrase. It’s forceful and noble, a tender yet compelling influence that teaches you how to wrap yourself in the meaning of the word as much the word itself. You’re tingling; is it from the thrill of achieving or from his sturdy hand against your bare skin?

He doesn’t back away when you’re finished speaking, but holds your stare. Dimly, you register the steady crescendo in your breathing. He’s not immune to your proximity either: his Adam’s apple bobs as he pushes down the deficit of hope flooding oppressive maxim of his presence. Times stretches as you remain caught in his hold, coursing through you, carrying you downstream in brash, coarse recklessness. Are the emotions you swim in those eyes yours, or his, or some measure of both?

The pads of his fingers migrate, drifting to rest along your cheek and tumble into his touch like a moth to flame, or fish to water, or whatever trite phrase people use to make sense of such profound belonging.

Javier is mesmerized with the way his fingertips trace your cheekbones, the shell of your ear, along your jaw, returning to outline your lips.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice scrapes along your bliss, and you force your eyes open to see that he’s moved even closer, closer-than-close, so tight against you that you’re nearly leaning back over the desk.

“Do you want me to?” His eyes are dark and still now, but for the way they’re trained on yours as you whisper fate into existence.

“No — fuck — I shouldn’t, I —“ his jaw shifts again, this time in agitation, but it is you who does the deed, cutting him off, reaching out to tug on his collar. The action pulls him forward, pressing himself against you, caging you between the desk and the broadness of his firm chest.  And you do know it’s firm now, at last slipping your hands underneath that truant fabric and gliding along his smooth skin. His hands find your waist, gripping your hips as he meets your lips in an open-mouthed kiss.

He — Javier, now — kisses you a single-minded intent, letting his lips slide over yours lazily, over and over, memorizing the imprint of you against his mouth. One hand drifts upward again, cupping your cheek as he tilts your head slightly, letting his tongue delve into your mouth and trace your teeth. It makes you gasp, and you retaliate with a gentle nip to his lower lip, silently begging for more. Javier moans into your mouth, the pressure sending a jolt of pleasure through his body.

Tightening his grip on your waist, Javier lifts you, placing you firmly on the desk, feet dangling a few inches from the floor. You know what he wants before he even has to ask and you give it him readily, wrapping your legs around his waist. Javier’s weight conforms to your own, molding against your body as you press into him, back arching in your submersion to his touch.

He is so eager; his kisses drench you in a deluge of incubated affection interspersed with need. Grasping at his shoulder, you pull him even closer, your other hand anxiously fiddling with his buttons as you sigh, reveling in the storm of his attention. Slowly, painstakingly, driven by a clamoring need for oxygen, he drags himself away from you, parting slowly, ever-loth to break the kiss.

You can’t help the shy smile that dances around your lips when you look up at him, standing above you. His chest is heaving, out of breath, hair somehow even more mussed than it was before. You suppose you can touch it now, so you do, two fingers brushing aside the fringe on his forehead.

Time, and space, and whatever else this stuff is made of have prevented from this alternate reality. until now. it has broken through the dam and caught you up in its awakening, broad and unrepentant.

Javier captures your hand as it lowers, pressing a kiss to the side of your palm. He’s so tender it makes you ache, and you wonder if this is why he stopped fucking his CIs. He requires something more intangible than what they could give him. “Javier,” you whisper.

He hums a question, rubbing a thumb over your knuckles as he watches you consider him, emotion lapping at the shores of unkempt eyes.

“You asked me to use your name. Earlier, I mean.” Should you feel embarrassed? Kissing a man several years your senior? Maybe you should. But you don’t. There’s a cordial warmth spreading through you, bolstered by his gentle touch, the outward connection of him and you that’s been built through months of inanimate remembrances.

“I know.” Javier nods and leans in again, his breath rippling across your skin. “Can you say it one more time, princesa? They say you need to do something three times” — a kiss to your cheek — “to make sure you really —“ a kiss to your forehead — “understand” — a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

The words fall out of your mouth, splashes of unrestrained affection dappling each letter. “Duende, Javier,” you murmur against his lips. “Duende.”

javi tags: @frannyzooey @yespolkadotkitty @rentskenobi @goldenkenobi ​ @goldafterglow @teaofpeach ​ @justrunamok ​ @huliabitch @cri-me-a-river @littlevodika @catsnkooks @themarvelousbear @likeshootingstarsinthenightsky @ladytrashbird @princessxkenobi @roxypeanut @dracos-jedi-marvel @a-seeker-of-imagination​ // taglist link in bio!

#javier peña x reader #javier peña x y/n #javier peña x reader insert #agent peña x reader #narcos fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfiction #YES I NOW HAVE THREE JAVI SERIES #DON'T @ ME #I HATE IT TOO OKAY #i simply have no self control when it comes to him #it's f i n e #this was supposed to be!! 800 words!! #and now it's over 3k!! #what the fuck!! #cris write something without meta challenge #i listened to glamour child on repeat writing this #and it definitely shows #whoops #fic: waterfall #cw age gap #alkskd is this fic even coherent tho #bc idk #?!!? #usernobie #cris writes #highsviolets #filthybookworm

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, sivan325!

For @sivan325. I was so excited to get the chance to write a gift for you for this Secret Santa Exchange, and I hope that you love this and it hits a bunch of your likes that you requested!!

Credit to Corvus Cloudburst for the title, because titling this fic fought me for what felt like hours!!

Read On AO3

*****

Heart of the Dragon

Magnus glared behind him at Oberon and tried to reign in some of his irritation.  He rubbed his temples and did his best not to be frustrated with the Council that was waiting in the open room behind them both.  The only reason he was out here was because Oberon had demanded a recess.  

"Magnus?"  

Magnus turned his attention back to the phone and took another deep breath.  "I don't like the idea of you doing a raid on one of Valentine's old labs without me," he admitted,  "but I know it needs to be done.  You'll be safe?"  

Alec smiled.  "I'll be safe, Magnus.  I'll call you as soon as we're done.  It's likely just things that we need Izzy and you to examine in the lab later."  

Magnus blew out a hard breath and nodded.  "I'll be home in several hours."  

"All right," Alec said, smiling into the phone.  "I love you."  

"I love you too," Magnus said, listening to the call disconnected before he turned back to Oberon, gesturing for him to head back to the Council.  "I need a moment."  

Oberon nodded.  "Of course, Magnus."  

Magnus waited for Oberon to be behind the heavily warded door before he sagged against the wall.  He wrapped a hand around his forearm and closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the worry for Alexander that was suffocating him.  They weren't soulmates, after all.  Nephilim didn't get soulmate marks like the Downworld.  

And he still, after centuries of life, didn't have his own mark.  

Magnus tightened his hand around his forearm.  If anyone in his life should have been his mark, it was Alexander.  He knew it, and Alec knew it.  Beyond the immortality, it had been one of the reasons that Alec had hesitated in them being together.  

Magnus swallowed, taking a shaky breath.  He knew that Alec was quietly glad that he hadn't found whoever it was yet.  Because it meant that there would be someone after him.  Magnus bit down on his lip and dug his nails into the skin of his arm, his magic roiling and rolling uncomfortably inside him.  The idea that there would be someone else he would not only love more than Alexander, but that they would be, supposedly, the other half of each other's soul...

He couldn't afford to do this now.  He couldn't.  

Magnus took a deep breath and turned back to the Council room, opening the door and shutting it behind him.  It wasn't worth thinking about right now, and they had work to do.  

~!~

Alec looked across the assembled shadowhunters and drew an arrow, giving a slow nod.  

"I want everyone to be cautious.  Move in pairs," Alec ordered.  "Clear every room, one by one.  Report any findings.  Understood?"  When the rest of the team called out their affirmation, he gestured them forward.  

The warehouse had long since been abandoned and Alec was glad there were no signs of life as they moved further and further into the building.  There was the prevailing scent of death and chemicals that lingered in the space - enough to make all of them cough and cover their mouths.

"Careful," he ordered again.  

They were halfway through the warehouse, cataloging everything that had been found, when Alec heard the shout to his left.

"Hostile!  Armed and-"

The sound of a body hitting the ground had Alec spinning before he was thinking about it.  He sprinted into the side room that Alice and Stephen had stepped in to clear and was immediately pushed back by a man, his eyes glowing red.  

"Alec!"  

Alec lifted up his arms to block the teeth that were suddenly bared when he felt a syringe sink into his bicep.  His eyes flew to his upper arm and then back to the man who was smirking even as Jace ripped him away.  

"It's too late!"  The man started to laugh, ignoring Jace pinning him against the wall.  "You're all too late, he's never going to survive!"

Alec yanked the syringe out and wrapped his hand around it as his vision started to blur.  "Izzy!" he shouted, but the words felt slurred and he rolled onto his side, his arm starting to burn.  Tears gathered in his eyes and he was starting to feel too hot, his body burning up as he gasped for air.  "Iz..."

The world went black and all Alec could feel was fire.  

~!~

The end of the Council meeting took what felt like years, and by the time Magnus was summoning a portal to the loft, he realized he still hadn't heard from Alec.  He frowned and pulled out his phone, but there were no messages waiting for him.  He sighed and pressed his hand to his head.  If anything was wrong, he would have heard from them.  

Magnus called a portal to his fingertips and stepped into it, breathing out slowly as he stepped into the familiar comfort of the loft.  He changed his outfit in a quick flick of his fingers and sent Alexander a quick text asking what he would like for dinner as he moved to the bathroom.  

It was only when he reached up to wipe some of his makeup off that the sleeve of his robe slid back enough to expose it.  

Magnus froze, staring at his forearm.  

There, in ink as black as Alexander’s runes…

Was his soulmate mark.  

The makeup wipe Magnus had been holding tumbled to the counter and he stared at it, the column of flame with two wings spread out on either side.  Magnus forced himself to take a shaky breath, but the mark didn’t move, didn’t change.  

His soulmate had been born.  

Magnus pressed his fingers to the mark, but the black ink felt the same as his skin.  He closed his eyes and tried to keep breathing.  A tear slid down his cheek and he bit down on his lip, even as the tears started to fall faster and faster.  

He had a soulmate.   Somehow, after centuries, after being certain that he would never have one, his soulmate had been born into the world, and now they’d be drawn to each other until they finally met and…

Magnus spun, a snarl escaping his throat.  He dug his nails into the mark and yanked his sleeve down, casting a glamour over it for good measure.  The last thing he needed was Alec seeing it.

Magnus let out another hard breath, imagining Alec’s reaction.  He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head.  Alec would do something fucking stupid, like break up with him so that he could be together with his soulmate.  Nevermind that his soulmate had just been born, was likely a child, and who knew how long it would take to meet them.  

He strode out of the bathroom and changed his outfit in a snap of his fingers.  It was best not to think about it.  Right now, he wanted nothing more than to see Alec, and if his boyfriend wasn’t going to answer his text messages, he would go to the Institute to see if they were back yet.  

Magnus summoned a portal with a twist of his fingers right as a fire message came flying at him.  He frowned, shook it out, and took one look at the words, dread dropping his stomach.  

'Alec is injured.  Come quick.'

Magnus summoned the portal in seconds and raced through, charging up the steps of the Institute, the wards settling around him like a familiar friend.  He ignored the surprised looks from the shadowhunters and followed the shouts he could hear from the Infirmary.

Alec's scream ripping through the air had every shadowhunter flinching, and Magnus broke into a sprint, skidding into the room it was coming from.  Alec was still yelling and the Silent Brother in the room had been shoved back against the wall by a blast of power that looked like it had originated from Alec’s bed by the state of the room.  Magnus looked to Isabelle and Jace, his eyes wide.  "What the hell is going on?"  

"We don't know!" Jace snapped.  "None of us can get close to him and it feels like..." he sucked in a frantic breath, his hand to his parabatai rune.  "It feels like he's on fire.”

"He got injected with something," Izzy said, meeting Magnus' golden eyes when they snapped to hers. She took a step back when magic started to roll over his skin in waves.  "We don't know what it is beyond blood, and I'm trying to analyze it."  

Magnus' mind was racing as he watched Alec buck on the bed again, his hands and legs tied down as he shouted.  He cast a privacy ward around the room.  The other shadowhunters didn't need to hear Alec go through this.  "It's not angelic?" he snapped.  

Izzy shook her head.  "I have a point of comparison for that."  

Magnus gave a terse nod.  "Not another downworlder?"  

"No, Magnus.  We don't know what it is," Izzy repeated.  "But if his fever continues to stay this high, it's going to kill him."  

The words felt like ice sinking into his veins and Magnus turned to Alec on the bed.  "Call Catarina Loss," he ordered.  "Tell her everything you know and get her here.  Now."   He carefully rolled up his sleeves and stepped closer to Alec, gathering magic into his palms.  

"Magnus!"  

Magnus didn't listen to the cry of his name, stepping closer to the bed.  He could feel the waves of power coalescing and gathering around Alexander, and within another moment it was easy to see.  The power itself was red-hot and Alec was drenched in sweat, his lips parched and his eyes sightless as he panted.  

He took a deep breath and ignored the mark that he could now see on his arm, the glamour down so he could use every bit of power he had.  The spread wings with a flame down the center.  The mark of a long-dead race.  Magnus stared down at Alexander with tears in his eyes.  At the very least, he would save Alec and savor every moment they had together.  

Whoever his mystery soulmate was, they would never have the claim on his heart that Alec held.  Never.  

Alec screamed again, his back bowing off the bed, and Magnus barely managed to contain the next wave of power that swept through the room.  It was like nothing he had ever felt before and he took a deep breath.  He had to focus on helping Alec.  

Twisting his magic around his fingertips, Magnus pushed a wave of cooling magic at Alec, the power around him fluctuating wildly.  Alec shouted and Magnus pressed it in harder, but his magic remained frozen an inch above Alec's skin.  

"Magnus!"

Magnus snarled and called more power to his fingertips, pressing it to Alec, trying to shove it through whatever was shielding him from healing his boyfriend.  Alec's eyes were stuck on the ceiling when they opened, and Magnus could feel the weight of the heat emanating off his skin.  

"Alec!" he shouted, trying to get his attention.  "Alexander!"  

Alec continued to stare upward and now the heat was becoming painful as Magnus tried to force more cooling magic into him. It refused to sink in, instead wrapping around Alec in a cocoon.  An angry snarl left him as the room started to shake around him with the weight of the power he was pulling into his hands.  

Catarina's familiar shout of his name fell to the wayside when Alec's eyes, heavy with pain and apology, met Magnus’ own.  Magnus screamed when Alec's eyes started to fall shut and slammed his hands down, pressing through the barrier to shove the magic directly into Alec's chest.  

The shield that had been protecting Alec cracked like an egg at the touch of his fingers, and the full extent of the power Magnus had summoned rushed into Alec in the space of an instant.  Magnus didn't have enough time to shield the rest of the room, but he prayed Catarina had managed it when a violent boom echoed around them, throwing them all back and into walls.  

Magnus was up on his feet first, his eyes darting around the nearly destroyed room.  He scrambled to Alec's bed, the only untouched thing in the entire room, grabbing for his hand.  His magic was drained to the dregs, but he could see the steady rise and fall of Alec's chest and collapsed forward, breathing out slowly as he tightened his hand around Alec's.  

"Alec," Magnus whispered.  "Alec, you're never allowed to scare me like that again."  

"Sorry," Alec rasped, managing a small smile for Magnus.  

A tearful laugh escaped Magnus even as he heard the rest of the people in the room groaning, pulling themselves upright.  "I thought I had lost you," he whispered, kissing the back of Alec's hand.  

Alec managed a small shake of his head.  "Never."  

Magnus let the tears come, holding onto Alec's hand tightly enough to crack bone.  He didn't even have the magic left to make sure Alec was all right, but if he was awake and smiling, he was okay. That was all that mattered.  

"Magnus," Catarina said, rolling her shoulders as magic sparked at her fingertips, summoning a chair for him to sink into.  "Do you want me to check him?"

Magnus nodded, swallowing hard.  "Please," he croaked.  "I didn't think I was going to get through the barrier in time."  

"I know," Catarina said.  "I can still sense your magic in him.  You poured every last bit you had into healing him."  

Magnus exhaled hard, his eyes closing as he leaned in and against Alec's hand.  "I did," He agreed.  "I did."  

Catarina hummed and finished her examination.  "I can tell there's something wrong." She held up her hand when Magnus' frantic eyes met hers.  "But he's healthy and breathing, and, right now, that's what matters."  

"What do you think is wrong?" Magnus asked, kissing Alec's fingertips.  

Catarina shrugged.  "I suspect he had too much magic pushed into him in one go and his body is trying to figure out how to deal with it.  He might have a rough couple of days."  She looked to the shadowhunters and Silent Brother, giving them a nod.  "I'd recommend keeping him here for at least a day to get some rest.  He should be fine with time."  

Magnus blew out a hard breath, sagging in relief.  Alec would be all right.  Alec was going to be okay.  That was what mattered.  "Thank you, Catarina."  

"You're welcome," she said.  "Next time, maybe don't try to blow up the Institute to save your boyfriend?"  

Magnus let out a weak laugh, glancing at her as she summoned a portal and ignoring the startled looks of the shadowhunters.  "No promises."  

Once she was gone, Magnus turned to the shadowhunters.  "Find out everything you can about what he was injected with," he ordered, keeping his voice soft.  "We need to figure out what happened."  Thankfully, none of them, not even Jace, protested the order.  Magnus turned his eyes back to Alec, now sleeping peacefully.  

Magnus let himself relax as much as he could in the uncomfortable chair, pulling it closer to the bed before breathing out slowly.  Alec was going to be alright, he was going to be perfectly fine.  

He didn't think about the soulmark aching on his arm.  That could be a problem for another century as far as he was concerned.  

~!~

When Magnus woke up, he was sore and he ached, but he could hear Alec whispering frantically to Izzy and to what sounded like Jace.  He blinked himself awake and sat up in the chair with a grunt, not letting go of Alec's hand.  All three of the shadowhunters looked at him guiltily.  

"Stop that, I'm older than all of you," Magnus grumbled.  "Now what the hell were you trying to whisper about?"  

"So," Izzy cleared her throat.  "I need you to not ask how I got this as a point of comparison, but I know what Alec was injected with."  

All of Magnus' attention snapped to her, his eyes wide.  "You do?"  

She nodded, biting down on her lip.  "I do.  And, it should have killed him.  We found more than a dozen bodies at that warehouse that had been killed because of that blood."  

"But Alec's alive," Magnus said, his eyes darting to Alec to confirm that for himself.  He took a deep breath and relaxed a fraction.  "Alec is alive."  

"He is," Jace said.  "But he..." he glanced up at the room, but there were enough soundless runes burned into the wall that they would be safe.  "He doesn't feel like he's supposed to."  

"And I," Alec said, glaring at both of them,  "have been saying that I feel perfectly fine."  

Magnus released Alec's hand after a gentle squeeze and sat back to rub his temples.  "All right.  First things first.  Isabelle, what was Alec injected with?"  When all three of them turned apprehensive again, he raised an eyebrow and waited them out.  

Isabelle cleared her throat.  "It looks like dragon blood, Magnus."  

Magnus blinked and stared at her.  "Isabelle, dragons have been extinct for-"

"A long time, I know," Isabelle said, pushing her fingers through her hair.  "But that doesn't change what it is.  It also explains why Alec's blood looks eerily similar to how mine did under the influence of holy fire."  

Magnus swallowed hard and took a second to process that before turning to Jace.  "And nothing is wrong with the parabatai bond?"  

Jace gave Alec a grumpy look.  "Alec doesn't feel right.  Like he's constantly unsettled."  

Alec sighed and raised his eyes to the ceiling.  "I told you, that's the itching, Jace.  I'm fine."  

"Itching?" Magnus asked, and, even as he did, he watched Alec's fingers dig into the skin by the side of his eye, scratching hard.  The skin was clearly dry and flaking and he immediately tugged Alec's hand away.  "Right, I see.  That might be a side effect of the heat magic."  

"See," Alec snapped.  "I'm fine.  Can you stop mother henning me for two minutes?"  

Magnus' lips quirked and he waited for Alec to glare the two of his siblings out of the room before they were alone.  When his boyfriend sank back into the pillows, Magnus moved the chair in closer and reached for Alec's hand.  He took a deep breath.

"You're okay?" Alec asked, his voice soft.  

Magnus nodded.  "Tired, but okay.  I used a lot of magic to cool you down."  He cleared his throat.  "Are you sure you don't feel-"

"I can feel your magic in me still," Alec interrupted, glancing towards the door and then back to Magnus.  "I can't tell them that, they'll worry, but I can still feel your magic.  It hasn't gone away."  

Blinking, Magnus stared at him.  "Really?"  

Alec gave a terse nod.  "I do think Jace is right.  I think that something is wrong, but I don't know what it is."  

Magnus swallowed hard, tightening his hold on Alec.  "I'll do whatever it takes to protect you."  When Alec gave a low, possessive growl, and pulled him closer, Magnus let out a weak laugh.  "Don't worry, I know you'll protect me just as much."  

"Will you come up here?" Alec asked, tugging on Magnus.  "I need you close."  

Magnus smiled and climbed into the bed with Alec, cuddling up closer to him with an exhale.  "I'm going to make a joke about you being clingy after near-death experiences when you're feeling better."  

Alec huffed out a laugh and tightened his arm around Magnus.  "You got it.  Sounds like a plan to me."  

Magnus smiled and let himself close his eyes again, listening to the firm beat of Alec's heart under his ear.  Alec was going to be alright.  He was going to be okay, and they'd, they'd be fine.  

~!~

Magnus woke up and the first thing he could smell was blood.  

He sat up, looking around wildly, magic springing to his fingers to rush towards Alec before it was soundly rebuffed.  Panic grew and he reached out to shake Alec.  “Alec, wake up!” he ordered, his eyes darting to the blood he could see on the side of Alec’s face.  

Alec blinked himself awake groggily and winced when he tried to move.  “Fuck, ow,” he swore, reaching up to touch the side of his face.  He pressed his hand tight against the wound, and sighed in relief when the pain abruptly faded, turning to look to Magnus gratefully.  

"Alec," Magnus whispered, staring at him in shock, his eyes wide.  Under Alec's fingertips were shining black scales, and the magic that had surrounded his hand was silver, magic that didn't belong to him, but now belonged entirely to Alec.  

"What the hell happened to me?" Alec muttered, looking down at his arms and chest, smears of blood over him.  

"Alexander," Magnus said, shaking himself out of his stupor.  "You, fuck, look at your skin.”  

Alec's attention sharpened, and he looked at the scratches on his chest and the...

He stared.  

"Magnus," Alec said, his throat tightening uncomfortably.  "What is that?"  

"I can't touch you with my magic, you're shielding yourself," Magnus answered instead, wrapping his hand around Alec's wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze.  "But, they're..." he took a deep breath and lifted his eyes to meet Alec's.  "They're scales."  

Alec blew out a hard breath and immediately smelled smoke, clapping his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide as he stared at Magnus.  "Did I just..."  

Magnus burst out laughing at the shock on Alec's face.  The small tendrils of smoke had been barely visible, but clearly Alec had smelled, or felt them.  "You did," he agreed.  He took a deep breath.  "Here, press your hand to each of the spots. I think you scratched the skin off them, that's why there's blood.  Just think of healing them."  

"Right," Alec said, his voice hoarse as he lifted his hand from spot to spot on his body, healing the wounds around his scales.  "Magnus.  This is, this is me, right?"

"Yes," Magnus whispered, his eyes tracking the magic that flickered around Alec's hands.  "It's mostly responding to your will right now.  And you don't have as much as an adult warlock, but dragons..." he choked on the word before continuing,  "Dragons have their own magic."  

"I still have my runes," Alec said, looking down at them, pressing his hand to the parabatai rune before relaxing.  "They're, they're still active."  

"Yes," Magnus agreed.  "And you can probably still use your stele, though I'd wait to use it while you recover."  

Alec swallowed and took a shaky breath.  "You're going to have to help me learn to glamour this.  I can't be walking around the Institute like this."  He reached up and stroked over the scales beside his eye and frowned.  "Do they look weird?"  

Magnus shook his head, reaching up to stroke along the scales.  "No.  They're beautiful."  He gave Alec a small smile.  "And, in true shadowhunter fashion, they are black as night, Alexander."  He closed his eyes and lifted Alec's hand to press a kiss to the back of it.  "Are you hurt anywhere else?"  

Alec shook his head.  "No."  He leaned in and cuddled Magnus close with a rumbling purr.  "What do you know about dragons?"  

"Only what the legends say," Magnus whispered, combing his fingers through Alec's hair.  "Shall I tell you?"  

Alec gave a small nod.  "Please?"  

Magnus smiled and kissed the scales on the side of Alec's face before settling back into his arms.  "A long time ago, dragons were the ancient magic of the world..."

~!~

Alec was startled awake by the sound of his parabatai stomping into the room.  He tightened his arm around Magnus and fought the urge to growl.  He and Magnus had discovered he was rather possessive of Magnus (more so than usual), but thankfully none of them had thought too much of it.  

"Time for Magnus to go home and feed the cat," Jace announced, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the two men on the bed.  When neither of them moved, he sighed.  "Okay, fine, Alec needs to be debriefed and has some shit to sign, and we can't do that with Magnus here."  

Alec made a distinctly grumpy noise, but after sharing a quick look with Magnus, they both started to untangle themselves.  He got himself propped up on pillows and was glad when Magnus squeezed his arm, refreshing the glamour hiding the scales on his skin.  

When Magnus twisted away to disappear the chair at the side of the bed, Alec froze.  At this angle, he could see the distinct flicker of a glamour on Magnus' arm.  All it took was a quick thought and he could see through the glamor.  There, branded on Magnus' forearm, just before he slipped his jacket back on, was his soulmark.  

Alec barely managed to lean into the kiss Magnus gave him before his boyfriend was stepping through the portal.  He dropped his hands to the blankets, waiting until the portal closed to drop his chin to his chest.  "Jace," he whispered.  

"Alec?" Jace snapped to attention, moving to his bedside.  "Alec, what's wrong, does something hurt?  Do you need Magnus back again?  Shit, hold on, let me call-"

"No," Alec shook his head, blinking hard, reaching up to rub at his eyes.  He couldn't stop seeing the mark in his mind's eye.  How long had Magnus been hiding that his soulmark had manifested?  Had he lied when he'd said he didn't have one?  

"Alec," Jace growled, reaching out to take his arm, his other hand pressed to his rune.  "Alec, look at me.  What's wrong?”  

Alec blinked slowly, lifting his head to look up at Jace.  He wiped away the first tear that fell, followed by the next one as he tried to breathe.  He had to hold it together, he had things he needed to do.  Responsibilities.  He could, he could fall apart another day.  

"Alec, I'm not letting anyone near you until you tell me what's wrong," Jace snapped.  

"Magnus," Alec whispered, lifting his eyes to look at Jace.  "Magnus has his soulmark, Jace."  He closed his eyes again and took another deep breath.  He needed to focus.  

"Alec..."  

Alec shook his head, once, hard.  He took another deep breath and managed a small smile at the wash of love and comfort that came through the bond from Jace.  "Just, give me a minute?  And then I'll see Underhill and anyone else."  

"Okay," Jace managed.  "Are you sure, Alec, you feel like-"

"It's fine," Alec said, taking another deep breath, burrowing the sorrow as deep as he dared.  It would be fine.  It would be.  "Send them in, just give me another minute."  Alec was so grateful when his parabatai nodded and left the room to give him another minute.  

He'd be okay.  He’d known, They’d known...  

~!~

Alec was signing the last report when Magnus stepped back into the room and looked up at him, offering a smile.  Something deep in him relaxed at the sight of Magnus, until he remembered, his smile abruptly falling.  

"Alexander?" Magnus asked, walking closer to the bed.  Alec looked like he might crumple in on himself and it was worrying.  "Are you, is something wrong?"

Alec took a deep breath and held out his hand for Magnus, glad when his boyfriend immediately crossed the room to sit at his bedside.  He tightened his hand around Magnus' giving a gentle squeeze.  Magnus was wearing a jacket and a long sleeve shirt, maybe making sure it was hidden now.  

"How long?" Alec asked, his voice hoarse.  He couldn't make himself look away from Magnus' fingers yet, even when he felt Magnus tense.  

"How long what, Alexander?" Magnus asked, shuffling closer to the bed.  "Did something happen?"

Alec managed a nod before he sucked in a deeper breath, lifting hesitant eyes to Magnus and looking back down to his arm.  "How, how long have you had your soulmark?"  

Magnus tensed, jerking his hands back for a moment before he reached out for Alec again.

He let out a low breath, sighing.  "You could see the glamour?"  

Alec nodded again.  "I can, I can see them, now."  

"Right," Magnus swallowed, reaching out to press his hand to the mark beneath his clothing.  "You, you know it doesn't change anything."

"I don't think there's a world in which that wouldn't change things, Magnus," Alec said, his voice quiet.  

"It doesn't change how I feel about you!" Magnus snapped.  "It doesn't change that I love you, that I am going to stay with you-"

Alec lifted his eyes to Magnus and gave a sad smile.  "While I get old?"  He reached out for Magnus' arm, pressing his fingertips to where he knew it was beneath the fabric.  "May I see?" he asked, keeping his voice soft.  

Magnus blinked hard, his throat dry.  "Alec."  

"Please?" Alec asked, looking up at Magnus.  "I don't want you to have to hide it from me.  I, we knew, after all, right?"  

Magnus removed his jacket and carefully unbuttoned his sleeve, rolling it up, well-aware of Alec's eyes on him as he did so.  He bit down on his lip, taking a shaky breath as he let the glamour fall.  

"It's beautiful," Alec said, looking at it.  

"I hate it," Magnus snapped, glaring at the wings.  "I hate it and everything it represents!"  

Alec smiled sadly at Magnus when he brought his arm closer so he could see the soulmark in more detail.  "I know you do, Magnus.  I know."  He circled his fingers around Magnus' wrist and kissed his palm.  "But this is a symbol that someone will love you the way you deserve after I'm gone."  

Magnus trembled under the gentle touch of Alec's fingers.  "I don't want anyone other than you, Alexander."  

Alec acknowledged the point with a nod.  His fingers slid higher.  "May I touch it?"  

Magnus let out a small noise, but he nodded.  "Yeah," he whispered.  "Of course."  

Alec smiled and tugged Magnus in closer, leaning down to press his lips to the soulmark, kissing it softly, gently.  When it flared bright white under the touch of his lips, he jerked himself back, his eyes widening.  "Magnus...?"  

Magnus stared in shock at the white-gold shining color of a confirmed soulbond and watched Alec pull away from him, grabbing his arm as he hissed in pain.  "Alec!"  He reached out to help Alec, but he was already straightening.  

Alec sagged to the bed as the pain was abruptly gone, his chest heaving as he stared up at Magnus.  He lifted his hand, expecting blood, or something else from the cut, but the sight of a cat’s eye, surrounded by lightning, had him freezing.  "Is... is that..."

"A soulmark..." Magnus whispered, unable to look away from it.  He'd never imagined what his soulmark would look like on someone else, but now that he could see it, it was perfect.   "And, and you activated mine."  

Alec sucked in a frantic breath, his eyes wide and he shoved his arm at Magnus.  "Touch, fuck, Magnus, please, touch mine!"  

Magnus blinked away the tears gathering in his eyes and pressed his fingertips to Alec's mark, watching as it flared the same white-gold against Alec's skin.  All at once, the bond snapped into place, and he could suddenly feel Alec in a way that he hadn't been able to before.  Alec’s magic brushed against his and it felt the same way as Alec wrapping him in a hug did, making him sag in obvious relief.

Alec swallowed and stared at the shining mark on his arm, back to Magnus.  “Oh,” he whispered.  He reached out for Magnus and yanked him into the bed, pulling him as close as he could stand.  Even when Magnus’ arms and magic were both wrapped around him, they weren’t close enough and Alec growled in annoyance.  

“What’s wrong?” Magnus asked, reaching up to comb his fingers through Alec’s hair, sinking into the comforting feel of their bond.  

“Not close enough,” Alec grumbled, pushing a hand under Magnus’ shirt, relaxing at the feel of warm skin with a sigh.  “There, better.”

Magus chuckled, breathing out a sigh.  He could feel Alec’s quiet, possessive joy singing through their bond and he smiled.  “I wanted it to be you, Alexander,” he admitted after the quiet had stretched between the two of them.  “I never wanted to think of loving someone else the way I love you.”  

Alec breathed, smiling and nuzzling into Magnus’ hair.  “I’m never going to leave you now.  Not ever.  You’re stuck with me.”  

“Well, my fierce dragon,” Magnus teased, feeling Alec’s disgruntled nose wrinkle through the bond at the nickname.  “I might argue that you are stuck with me.”  

“Good,” Alec growled out, another rumbling purr leaving him.  “Mine,” he added, just for good measure, nuzzling into Magnus’ neck.

“Yours, just as you are mine,” Magnus whispered to Alec, holding him tight.  “Always and forever, Alexander.  I love you.”

Alec smiled and gave a firm nod, closing his eyes as he settled in closer to Magnus.  “Love you too.”  

#sivan325 #malecsanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

[mtvswatches]

Wynonna Earp 3x04 No Cure For Crazy

Click here for previous recaps!

Stray thoughts

1) Did that… did that tree just fucking walk?

Is the tree possessed by Dolls or something? Why is a tree helping Wynonna and Doc?

And why is Peacemaker not working?

2)

3) Okay, the trees are fucking bleeding and this dude just called it “a murder tree” and what the actual fuck!

4) So… the “fire” never really happened, it was just a Black Badge cover-up for the massacre. I really want to see where they go with this whole backstory they’ve given Nicole because so far? Not into it.

Nicole does make a good point of asking Waverly why she hasn’t talked to her mom yet to figure out who her parents are. She seemed quite intent on figuring it out last season, and here she has the perfect opportunity to have every answer she’s looking for, and she’s not taking it? Waverly is anything but a chicken, so I’d figured she would confront her mother head on but I guess she’s been conveniently written OOC so that the writers can keep this mystery going for a while. I hope they don’t stretch this for too long, though.

5) Why did Nicole randomly and carelessly throw the ring in the middle of the forest? Huh? That’s also kind of OOC? Wasn’t she talking about disposing of it carefully two minutes ago?

6) MORE OF THIS, PLEASE.

7) And more of this.

8) Okay, so Waverly IS going to see her mother, she just didn’t disclose that bit of information to Nicole, why? She just made this big speech about not keeping secrets from each other… or is it that she wasn’t planning on seeing her mom until Wynonna brought it up and basically set it all up for her?

And suuuure, Mama is doin’ just fine!

9) So, Wynonna couldn’t shoot Peacemaker because she ran out of bullets, which is a more logical explanation than what I was expecting. I don’t know why but I just assumed Peacemaker had magical ammo and it didn’t require reloading? Anywho, look at these two idiots flirting with each other and basically dry-humping…

10) SHIT. That was a low blow.

But how fucking adorable is it that he’d taken the time to buy - or build! - baby Alice a crib? My heart!

11) Why was their mother so intent on Waverly never finding out where she was or seeing her? And what’s going to happen when Waverly does…? There must be a reason. It seems she was trying to protect them.

12) Why are they giving me so much Doc/Wynonna in this episode? What’s going to happen? (Listen, I’ve grown up watching Joss Whedon shows, I’m conditioned to believe that happiness is followed by utter and complete destruction and mysery!)

13)

NICOLE: Can we talk? It’s about Nedley.

WYNONNA: Not again. How many more plungers do we need?

 14) Wait, did I forget that Jeremy was gay or they haven’t mentioned it before? Because I’m all for it, and especially about the way it was casually brought up in conversation because it’s not Jeremy’s single defining characteristic. 

15) I guess the mother-daughter reunion is happening sooner than expected, since Waverly was contacted as her last known emergency contact.

16) Jeremy is totally vibing with this Robin dude who found the murder tree and they’re making silly tree puns and it’s gay heaven, I love it.

17) Well, that couldn’t have gone any worse…

And yet, I can’t help but feel she means something else? I still feel she’s trying to protect Waverly.

Something happened when Waverly touched her, too, and then she kept saying “she’s unbound, she’s loose, kill the demon.” Waverly of course assumes her mom is referring to her as “the demon”, but I have a feeling she’s talking about an actual demon.

18) I really felt for Nedley when he admitted he’s tired of covering the supernatural shit up. Man, I hated him on the first episode of the show and now I’ve really grown to like him? And Wynonna suggested he should step aside and let Nicole take charge, and he’s actually considering it, and I’m here for Sheriff Haught.

19) Listen, I’m not usually into Gay, meet Gay, now get together because you’re the only two Gays so therefore you must be attracted to each other and date, but… I’m really liking the Jeremy/Robin interactions so far? They’re really cute!

20) And now they’re two gays who have zero idea about the woods lost in the forest and they found the stairway to heaven…

21) Mama Gibson is not messing around.

22) Ah, great, the idiots who let a dangerous convict escape have now locked Wynonna up. Marvelous.

23) Damn, Waverly keeps thinking her mother wants to kill her and that she called her a demon, but I just fucking know she’s talking about a literal demon that’s probably threatening Waverly’s life, that’s why she’s kept away from her.

24) Wait, what?

NEDLEY: Michelle didn’t go to prison because she burned down the barn. She went because her youngest daughter was in it.

Her youngest is Waverly? So did she try to set Waverly on fire? I have a hunch she’s possessed.

25) Oh, dang, Doc is hearing a baby’s cry in the woods. Of course, this is a trigger for him, he’s thinking of Alice, and he’s being lured into the woods.

26) Major Spike vibes in this scene…

27) Hm. Bulshar just tried to strike up a deal with Doc – he’ll give Doc reprieve from the knowledge of his miserable destiny if Doc does his bidding. And Doc was really contemplating accepting. Don’t be weak, Doc. Come on. There has to be a way.

28) So, this fucking corrupt guard suggests they should just off Wynonna and write it off as if Michelle murdered her own daughter when she was trying to escape. And of course, he’s a fucking revenant. It’s definitely going to be interesting to see how Wynonna gets out of this one while handcuffed and without Peacemaker…

I mean, she was fucking tasered and yet…

QUEEN.

29) Nedley, my heart. He’s so heartbroken over this.

NEDLEY: Well, I got a call to a situation at the Earp farm. By the time I got there, the barn was lit up like a torch. You... somehow you escaped. I mean, you were covered with soot, you were crying, but you were unharmed. WAVERLY: And my mother? NEDLEY: She was... locked in your daddy's patrol car. She set the fire. But she was no murderous sociopath. She was Michelle Gibson. Rodeo spitfire. The wild heart and loyal soul of Purgatory. Even the thugs and the dimwits drank to her. With her. They loved her. Look, she wasn't herself that night. She kept... she kept insisting that... that she was trying to vanquish a demon. WAVERLY: A demon she thought was... me. NEDLEY: Well, that would explain The occult nonsense that Ward saw plastered all over the barn before she lit the match. Did you believe it? That was Ward's interpretation. Look, your pop was my boss, so... And I know... I know I should've been braver. I should've defended her. But... I booked Michelle like I was told to. God, this just keeps getting worse. I've been trying to make up for it ever since. I kept watch over you. I tried to set Wynonna on the straight and narrow. That didn't work out. And when I became Sheriff, I pulled the report. I didn't want anyone seeing it.

30) Why would Wynonna let the revenant in on the fact that she got a kid? I mean, wasn’t the whole point of sending Alice away to protect her from the likes of him? I get that she used that bit of information to distract him, and yeah, she did this later…

…but maybe don’t go talking about your child out loud around the enemies?

31) Why is he coughing dirt? Is he going to get gay-buried before he can be allowed to actually gay?

32) Now Waverly is listening to her mom’s tapes with a psychiatrist or therapist or something, and yep, I’m still convinced she was possessed or something and the reason she was trying to stay away from Waverly is because she wanted to protect her. As she was talking to the therapist, she said “Shut up!” or something like that and she was clearly talking to someone else who was not there, like someone who might be in her own head or that only she can see. Someone or something that might be using her to kill her own daughter. The question is, who and why? Is it Bulshar manipulating her the same way he tried to manipulate Doc? Or is it something else altogether? And why is this something or someone so intent on killing Waves? What is she? What kind of role is she supposed to play in the grand scheme of things for this evil entity to want her dead so badly?

33) Okay, theory confirmed, Doc just heard a third, infernal voice on the tape.

34) Oh shit, is history going to repeat itself?!

Yep, there was an actual demon in serious need of a facial and makeover.

35) Bye bye Robin, I guess?

36) Who the fuck is Jolene and why is everyone acting like Stepford Wives? Is this some sort of Ted/Dawn scenario?! And why is it that, in a supernatural show, this is by far the creepiest thing I’ve seen?! 

37) So, I’ve got a lot of questions. First of all, I want to know more about the murder trees. How do they come to be? Are they inhabited by serial killers? We saw the face in one of them, and they can actually walk and move around, but why do they bleed? Is it like their victim’s blood? Also, who the fuck is Jolene? I mean, I know she’s probably the demon that showed up in the barn, but what’s her deal? What does she want? I mean, she didn’t kill Waverly, and instead she’s feeding and glamouring the whole group… to do what? Where was Robin taken? Can we please not do the whole bury-your-gays trope? I expect better of this show. Will Doc accept Bulshar’s deal? Please don’t, Doc. And what is Waverly?! That’s the biggest question of all, so I’m guessing the answer will be delayed till the season finale.

That was yet another fun, exciting Wynonna Earp episode, setting up a lot of stuff for the season, I guess. And I want answers!

38) Hope you enjoyed my recap, and, as usual, if you’ve got this far, thank you for reading! If you enjoy my recaps and my blog, please consider supporting it on ko-fi. Thanks!

#Wynonna Earp #Waverly Earp #Nicole Haught #Doc Holliday #Jeremy Chetri #Wynonna Earp 3x04 #WE RECAP #recap #No Cure For Crazy #mine #WE 3x04

[monkhsuns]

Vault

Drabble

Series: XIV Write 2019

Featuring: @kintsukuroi-memoir​​ & @themyriadmen​ (#basim’a)

Read More: Click Me

Hosted By: @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

“Your friends stopped by,” Ambrosia spoke idly as she dragged Hoshi up the stairs. “It was interesting to watch them. They made quite a mess. Though, I’ll make sure they pay for that later.”

Chou was tossed onto a bed and the master bedroom’s doors were slammed shut. Ambrosia released a little sigh and crossed her arms beneath her chest. Amethyst gaze focused on the disobedient mortal’s features. Lips popped before they formed into a disapproving frown.

“Not even going to ask how they didn’t find you? Boring. You’re starting to be more trouble than you’re worth.”

“You have what you want now, don’t you? So leave them alone.”

“Have what I want?” the queen burst into a fit of sarcastic laughter. “Oh, baby of mine, you have no idea what I want. Oh, yes, you are quite intricate, but you’re nothing truly exquisite. Oh, no, no, this has very little to do with you. You’re an item promised to me, and I do like when promises are kept, but this feud started before I even bothered to trace your little wings to Eorzea. Family is complicated, don’t you think?”

Chou dug her nails into the bed sheets beneath her to restraint trying to launch herself at the voidsent in front of her. In the back of her mind she began to calculate how much energy she had. The broken hand hardly helped in light of things. Ambrosia gave an amused little hum before she continued.

“Consider the generations of chosen bound to me, princess. Curious, don’t you think? How many of them do you think you’ve killed in your time fighting against me? See, that’s really just it. You were all only added peons to my army. It was only a matter of time before I got bored and just slaughtered the village for fodder but, I mean, at least this way I had generation and generations to steal from. I was, I am, a goddess. I will admit to being greedy, child, it’s in my nature. The Pearl certainly made my job a little easier by weakening my sister but they played a part in taking from me that which is mine. Evalynn stole my sister’s power from me. Evalynn, who is supposed to be dead. For that, the Pearl signed their lives away. They stand between Evalynn and I. They stood for Evalynn. It’s almost a shame, really.

"Oh, but don’t worry, I still fully intend to keep my promise to you. You’ll watch all your cute little friends die. I’ll save Maneshi for last, hmn? No, better yet, I’ll let you kill him. See, tomorrow night, you’re going to fulfill that promise your family made. I am going to start taking back that which belongs to me, baby of mine.”

Hoshichou had never been that mad. She was beyond livid. She screamed as she launched towards the succubus. Shadows wrapped around her and yanked her back to the bed. Chou continued to flail and scream as she struggled against the bonds. Ambrosia’s laughter made it all that much worse. - Baby Mine, @kintsukuroi-memoir​

‘Jane’ stood outside the manor with her arms crossed. Fingertips tapped an unheard beat on her biceps. Ebony lips were twisted into a thoughtful bud off to the side. Her tail flicked several times as she studied the large, locked doors. Her brows narrowed as her expression twisted, unconvinced by the seemingly silent manor. With a hum, Jane stretched her neck out from side-to-side and nodded to herself.

“Time for games, then.”

With a step forward, Jane lowered her hands towards the ground and grasped at the whispers of magick that coursed through the air. Darkness bled into her periwinkle gaze as the veins around her eyes went black. A low hum resonated in her throat. As she walked, her hands continued to rake slowly at the air. Shadows spilled out from the cracks in the cobble, loomed away from garden cages, and misted in a growing abyss around the witch’s hands.

The closer she got to the stairs, the more volatile the shadow magick became. It lashed out at the realm around her. Jane’s hands began to tremble as she fought against the gravity of her spellwork. Her jaw set firmly into place as she stepped up to the door. Chaos seemingly tore at the fabric of reality as she stood there. Opalescent glimmers shimmered and shattered as shadows lashed out and ripped at the air. The quirk of a smile curled on Jane’s lips.

Slowly, her hands dragged the darkness up against their will. With a solid glare at the door, Jane suddenly rolled her hands outwards and pressed at the realm around her. The abyss exploded out from her spot. It lashed at every glimmer until it had consumed the entire glamour. Jane stood in the center of its wake and lowered her hands. Before her, the manor was not so quiet. Its lock was broken and replaced with the Void’s seal.

“Disappointing.”

Further investigation took pause, however, as she listened to the oncoming arrival of another. Her attention snapped back to the gate and she cursed beneath her breath. With the flick of her wrist, a simplistic glamour spell was tossed over the door. Though not elaborate to wholly mask the manor from the darkness within, perhaps it would discourage a curious adventure, or silence any wandering child. With that, Jane darted around the manor’s bend and watched from afar.

Unexpected was the arrival of Basim’a Jinkjhal. A seeker-keeper she had known in a life’s past. Explicit orders were given to her by Evalynn not to intervene with Pearl’s operations. You work better alone, she reminded herself in Evalynn’s voice. Still, it was doubtful that the redhead noticed her, and if he was investigating the manor than maybe something important was within. She crouched down slowly and fished out a lollipop from her pocket.

Several minutes of observation passed before Jane started to grow bored with his meandering. Her brows creased and she tilted her head slightly when she overheard a linkpearl conversation. Who was he talking to? Arah? About. . .  Hoshichou. Jane paled a shade (a feat, given she was albino), and she glanced towards the manor. If Ambrosia was within, and had her hands on Hoshichou, that could explain the glamour spell. With a hissed curse, Jane slinked out from her hiding spot.

Without being noticed, the Xaela settled herself down into the corner of the outer manor wall. A bouncy ball was drawn from her pouch and tossed idly from cobblestone to pillar, from pillar to cobblestone, before it returned to her hand and she repeated. The end of his linkpearl was listened to more closely until it came to an end. She hummed thoughtfully but hadn’t taken her gaze from the ball.

“Voidsent problems?”

That she could still startle him was a point of pride.

“Who the hells are you?” he asked quickly.

The bouncy ball was caught only to be hurled towards him.

“—No, wait. . .  Jane? But you’re. . .”

#crystal data center #ffxivwrite2019 #ffxiv write 2019 #balmung #xwp19 #drabble

[hecate-herself]

Prompt: Silver babysitting children and not knowing what to do?

Thank you for the prompt, I really enjoyed writing this one (Ao3 link in notes if it's hard to read here) 🖤

"I'd only be here if it was an emergency." Irene said, Ophelia clutched her mother's skirts, hiding in them as much as she could.

"What's happened?" Silver asked.

"I need a favour. Kai and Vale never made it home last night. I am going to go and find them. I need someone to keep an eye on Ophelia and there's no one to do it."

"You want me to look after yours and the dragon's spawn?" Silver said slowly.

"Personally, Kai and I prefer the term sprog." Irene said with a shrug. "Please Silver. I need to find them."

"What do I get out of it?"

"It will really annoy Kai." Silver looked at her for a long moment, and then down at Ophelia.

"Ophelia, right?" She nodded. "Okay, I'll keep an eye on her." Irene audibly exhaled.

"Thank you." She knelt down to her daughters level. "I'm going to be back as soon as I can little one." Ophelia looked on the verge of tears. "You're going to be alright. I just need you to stay here and be a good girl for Silver until I get back." She kissed her forehead. "I love you."

"Love you mama." She said, flinging arms around Irene. Irene hugged back but eventually, had to release her.

"Be a good girl." She repeated as she got up and looked at Silver. "Thank you for doing this."

"Make sure that they come back so that I can annoy the princeling." Silver said, he held a gloved hand out to the child and after a moment, she took it. Irene relaxed a little, she was worried that Ophelia's dragon heritage would make her automatically unhappy, or even sick around Fae, but it appeared that whilst the girl looked like her father, she took after her mother. Irene waited for the door to shut behind them, and left.

"What do you like to do?" Silver asked Ophelia. She was looking around the room with wide, curious eyes. "Child? Sprog? Ophelia?"

"Unca Vale calls me Phe." She said quietly, she'd put her right hand to her mouth and started to suck on her thumb.

"He's your uncle Vale?" She nodded. "Okay..." Truth be told, Silver had agreed to look after her for only one reason. It would really annoy Kai and Vale. He didn't actually know what he was doing or how to look after a small child. She had a small bag with her. "What's in the bag?" He asked.

"Toy." Ophelia said. Well, hopefully, that would make the day easier. He led the way up to his office, he could at least be a little productive (since he'd been roused well before midday), and she could play in there without getting into trouble.

He sat her on the couch in his study with an instruction to stay there whilst he worked. She pulled a stuffed rabbit out of her bag, a book and four wooden horses. Content that he could just leave her to her own devices, something he'd soon realise was a stupid idea, he sat down at his desk and pulled the first sheet of paper toward him, a message for Johnson to explain the situation.

He'd been working for about half an hour, though it felt like it had been a lot longer when he looked up and saw Ophelia peering at him, standing on the tips of her toes to look over the edge of his desk at what he was doing. "Can I help you?" He asked her. She was clasping onto the desk to help her balance.

"What that?" She asked.

"Haven't you seen your mother's work before?" He asked, looking for the lid of his pen, he'd lost it underneath paper sheets. She shook her head. "Your father's?" Another shake. She was not a talkative child, he thought. "How about your uncle's?" She nodded. "Well I may not be doing the science that he does, but I still need to keep records. Very dull busy work." She nodded in a manner that suggested she knew exactly what he was talking about. She released the desk and wobbled, before returning to her toys. He watched her tuck the rabbit under her arm, it was battered and had been patched up multiple times, the girl seemed to drag it around with her all the time. The horses seemed new, or at least better kept, and the book was very old, probably belonging to one of her parents first, and at a glance seemed to be a book of children's poems. He looked down again and sighed. Ugh, work.

The second time he looked up, she had vanished. He dropped his pen, spattering ink everywhere as he stood up and looked around. "Phe?" The study door was open, he hadn't shut it after they'd come in. Well, that was a bad idea. He looked around the room and she was definitely gone. Kai would be more than annoyed if he lost his sprog. All of her toys but a single horse were still on the couch.

She wasn't in the corridor outside of his office and when he stopped to ask a maid if she had seen the girl, the maid was more curious as to why there was a child in the house to begin with. He huffed and stalked off, trying to figure out where she may have wondered off to. His first thought was the nearest bathroom, but she wasnt in there. Nor was she in the ballroom. He grabbed Johnson as soon as he saw the man.

"I have misplaced a child." He said. Johnson blinked.

"Small, black hair, brown eyes?" Silver nodded. "She's in the garden sir." Silver sighed.

"Excellent. How did she get out there?"

"I imagine that she walked sir, she seemed capable."

"I told her to stay put."

"Children don't usually listen. In my experience. Why do you have a child if I may ask?"

"Right, I never sent the message. She's miss Winters' daughter. Vale and mister Strongrock seem to be in a little trouble." Johnson nodded. "Where in the garden did you see her?"

"By the lavender bushes sir."

"Thank you Johnson. I spilt ink on my desk, have someone clean it up."

"Yes sir." Johnson said with a half bow. Silver left him to head out into the garden, it was semi decent weather with some sun filtering through the clouds. He found Ophelia exactly where Johnson had said, she was sat by a row of lavender bushes, watching as a pair of monarch butterflies flitted from one plant to the next. She watched with enchanted eyes as they flew back and forth. Unlike most children, she didn't try and grab them out of the air, or even pick them up more gently, she just watched.

"There you are." Silver said, making her jump and turn to him with suddenly wild, scared eyes. "You can't just walk off like that." Her lip wobbled and he realised that she was about to start crying. "It's alright." He said quickly. "I'm not angry." She still looked like she was about to burst into hysteria and he really did not want to deal with that. "Look." He reached out a hand and one of the butterflies settled on his fingertips and he carefully moved his hand to hold the butterfly level with her face. "Isn't it pretty?" She stared at it for a moment and then looked up at him.

"I want papa." She said, before bursting into tears. It frightened away the pair of butterflies as the child soon became hysterical and Silver stood, shocked and clueless as to what to do. Silver knelt in front of her.

"He'll be here as soon as he can." Silver said. "With your mother and uncle. I swear." Ophelia threw herself down into the grass, curling up on herself as she wailed. "Phe, you need to calm down." She was nearly screaming, red in the face as she beat her hands against the ground. "Ophelia!" She stopped and stared at him, tears streamed down her cheeks as she hiccuped and sniffed. Her cheeks were scarlet, and so were her eyes. Scales flickered to life down her throat.

"Ophelia. Calm down." His voice was layered with glamour, and she went lax, her breathing eased and her eyes half shut. He hadn't wanted to use his glamour on her, he wasn't sure how well it would even work, or if it would last, but she was young and it seemed to work perfectly. He leant forward and gathered her up into his arms, her head lulled against his shoulder. She didn't resist as he lifted her up and carried her back toward the house. He got a few funny looks as he carried her back up to his study and lay her on the couch. The rabbit had fallen to the floor at some point, and the maid was still cleaning the mess he'd made, but he ignored her in favour of fetching the stuffed animal and setting it in her arms. 

"Go to sleep." He said. She nodded, cheeks still sticky with tears. Once the maid was gone he got up and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He downed it in one, and then poured a little bit more. He sat at his desk, leaning back in his seat as he nursed the second glass, watching Ophelia. The scales were slowly fading away as she fell asleep, he breathing evened out and she dropped the rabbit again when her arms relaxed. 

He felt like he needed a nap as much as she did. 

He had coffee be brought up to his room. Responsibility for a child was quite possibly the worst thing in the world and he was very glad that he had no, as Irene put it, sprogs of his own. They were a lot of hard work, which he had very little interest in. Ophelia was handful enough after two hours. Hopefully someone would be by to pick her up sooner rather than later. She slept for long enough that he thought that maybe he could keep a handle on things from here on out. Clearly, she was overwrought and needed to sleep. It had gone noon when she did finally wake up and that was only because he woke her to get her to eat lunch. 

Ophelia picked at her food, rather than actually eating most of it. It wasn't that she was a fussy eater, she was too upset to be hungry and Silver had to keep cleaning her face because she kept crying. He had a splitting headache when someone knocked on his door and said that miss Winters was waiting for him. He quickly gathered Ophelia's things up for her and took her downstairs. Kai and Irene were waiting for them by the front door and Ophelia flung herself as Kai. 

"Papa!" Kai easily scooped her up and held her close, wrapping his arms around her tightly. 

"Thank you. She wasn't too much trouble, was she?" Irene said softly, taking the bag. 

"If you spawn again, do not ask me to look after them." He said. "She snuck off and threw a tantrum in the garden." 

"I'm so sorry." Irene said. 

"Vale alright?" 

"He's in the hospital. We're going straight there. He should be fine, just a few broken ribs, but they want to be sure." Silver nodded. "Thank you again." 

#the invisible library #Fanfiction

[dustedmagazine]

Idil Biret — Concertos and Solo Music Edition (Idil Biret Archive/Naxos)

The tenth and final box anthologizing Turkish pianist Idil Biret’s studio recordings became available in the summer of 2018. This volume, and the huge set it concludes, has been an obvious labor of love to assemble and a joy to explore. I began listening to Biret’s playing in the middle 1990s, when only her then-recent recordings for Naxos were readily available, each of which presented a new and fascinating aspect of her broad repertoire and the stunning technique rendering it all convincing. She plays Chopin and Boulez with similar depth, precision and insight, no mean feat in a marketplace increasingly devoted either to specialization or glamour. If this volume seems to be a catch-all, gathering pieces and performances external to the other more thematically organized sets, its substance is not to be missed. As with every other entry, a bit of digging shows much more than at first meets the eye.

Before even taking stock of this final set on its own terms, a few contextual comments are in order. The completion of this mammoth project has been long and laborious in coming but not simply due to the material’s chronological disparity. For various reasons involving playing style, choice of repertoire and the resultant neglect by, and even downright hostility from, major labels and some in the critical establishment, a substantial part of Biret’s recorded legacy has been in need of recirculation. Now, her entire back catalog is housed under one roof, so to speak; in fact, while the ten sets do indeed contain all of Biret’s studio recordings, made for a variety of labels between 1959 and 2016, there are concert performances a-plenty; more on that presently. What unifies everything might also be the most difficult aspect of the set to describe. As a child, she could play adult works like Bach’s “Chromatic Fantasy” with an assurance and virtuosity any adult performer would envy. Like Alfred Brendel early on in his career, Biret had mastered a style of playing that exemplified and transcended convention, necessitating changes in articulation, phrasing and voicing as her art progressed that would bring the music to another level. The ten volumes cohere as related stylistic paragraphs and chapters rather than as a single overarching developmental narrative.

This final box brings together pieces from various countries and time periods, from Schubert through Ravel. If one descriptor could be used to describe Biret’s playing throughout, it is the potent but ultimately unsatisfying phrase “unostentatiously heroic.” Revel in the tempo flexibilities of her 2004 recording of Tchaikovsky’s first concerto, in collaboration with the Bilkent Symphony Orchestra under the direction of the still underrated Emil Tabakov, a Bulgarian composer, double bassist and conductor who brings a unique vision to everything he touches. His rendering of the first movement’s ubiquitous string melody is of a piece with Biret’s shaping of that melody in octaves, approximating molten granite, immutable in intent but fresh on every audition, while her subsequent arpeggios breeze by with liquid ease, and Tabakov’s reentry at 2:50 elicits some of the warmest and richest sonorities a string section can muster and tempo gradations as natural as breathing. Each pianistic and orchestral detail contains all this in microcosm. Biret’s low-register octaves, beginning at 15:12, gradually round and melt, merging with the sensual winds and succeeding solo oboe. All of the whimsy, tenderness and unadulterated triumph of the first movement are crystalized in the third. Any classical music aficionado has ridden the warhorse ad nauseam but never quite in this way!

Let a middle 1960s recording (no firmer date is provided) of Ravels Gaspard de la Nuit represent the compositions for solo piano. Its sonics are a little rough around the edges, but again, despite so many great versions in the catalog from players as diverse as Jean-Yves Thibaudet and Jacqueline Eymar, this one is unique. No aged and filtered recording can dim Biret’s take on Ravel’s interpretations of Bertrand’s evocative poetry. The accompanying booklet states that it is a studio production, though periodic coughs say otherwise. Whatever its provenance, the lonely siren in the heartbreaking Ondine has never shown her isolation so completely, save, perhaps ironically, in the version waxed by another Turkish pianist, Husein Sermet. Biret presents the initial melody as only slightly separate from its watery surroundings, repeated chords which morph gradually but definitely into the elements that are complicit in Ondine’s solitary fate, which Biret captures in the bitter laughter that ushers in the movement’s somberly anticlimactic conclusion. Only an unfortunate volume drop mars an exquisite and powerful performance. Biret’s Gibet is icily transparent, what Mark E. Smith encapsulated superbly in “Pat Trip Dispenser” as “clarity of nothing.” The tolling bell’s statement answers no questions in that existential moment of questioning images, and Biret depicts all regions of that ghostly landscape in diverse shades of stunning color in equally astonishing pianissimo. Her Scarbo, that fiendishly and notoriously difficult study in technical prowess in dance, is all contrast in the service of rhythmic unity as the monster, whimsically frightening but ultimately illusory, flits, stalks and romps, rearing up only to disappear with a slight but potent sting.

This set contains a remake of note in Franz Liszt’s arrangement of Hector Berlioz’s radical and programmatic Symphonie Fantastique of 1830. It was Liszt’s piano version that was published first, and Biret recorded it in the late 1970s. Here, we have a 1992 digital recording in a warmer and more reverberant acoustic, but her interpretation has also deepened. The symphony was conceived orchestrally, and, rising to a formidable challenge, Biret coaxes inner voices from Liszt’s dense writing that were overshadowed in her earlier version. Even a quick listen to the first movement’s introduction, with its volcanic shifts in tempo and dynamics, reveals a controlled freedom in which detail and emotion balance, like the best Furtwangler on record. Biret arrives at the first chord as at a summit, leaving it only reluctantly as the melody unfolds. Her second movement waltz, where the tortured artist attempts to drown his sorrows in a party atmosphere, is elegant and whimsical, especially the bass notes, which live as close to pizzicato strings as a piano can. She finds pathos in the artist’s final musings on his beloved as, on the scaffold, he faces execution, and the act itself is as sharp and cold as his reminiscences are tender and poignant. Biret takes obvious and slightly wicked delight in the last movement’s no-holds-barred harmonic complexities, constructing monoliths of stacked sonorities at top volume only to watch them disintegrate as the beloved, resurrected as a witch, greets the artist with bitter laughter so similar to Ondine’s in Gaspard. All recedes as the thunderous low-register octaves of the Dies Irae sweep all before them, foregrounding the cataclysm and capping a reading of Romantic scope and power.

 There is far too much to cover in a review. The Scriabin sonatas, while occupy a fair bit of my listening notes, didn’t get the space they deserve. They float lithely into focus, luminous but somehow light, ordered and almost academically figured while never losing their mystery. The closest proponent to Biret’s vision of this music is the still underappreciated Vladimir Sofronitsky, the Romantic who married Scriabin’s daughter, and there is the heart of the matter. Biret is a Romantic, maybe one of the last still playing. She is not in search of emotion, and she has no grand philosophical statements to make, though both the academic and the intuitive approaches come to her with grace and ease. Never striving to overaccentuate the music’s mythological or devotional qualities, a single chord can have the sonority of a church organ and can engender commensurate reactions. If her playing gains in introspection with age, it does not fall prey to the whims of fashion or even the whiles of self-parody that have diminished the work of higher profile performers. She confronts each piece with a balanced knowledge of interpretive history and inner vision, and in achieving both on multiple levels, her interpretations are ultimately patient, constructed on layers of sculpted narrative until they burst forth in that incendiary passion for the creative act that may be Biret’s legacy and most heroic accomplishment.  

Marc Medwin

#idil biret #concertos and solo music #naxos #idil biret archive #marc medwin #albumreview #dusted magazine #box set #classical #piano

[professorflowriter]

To have loved, and lost. Ch6

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11402901/chapters/27772809

Severus took another large sip from the bottle, noting with alarm that there now seemed to be more air than liquid inside. He was definitely going to need more if he was going to be able to drown out the memory of one of the most utterly stupid things he'd ever done.

The thought of her, wanton and needy for his touch as she had been that first night made his heart clench, just as it had done the morning he'd woken up cold and alone. Of course, back then he'd attributed it to indigestion, but now, despite the drink fuelled haze, he could view his own past feelings with a clearer eye than he'd had at the time. Even then, he'd loved her. He was unfamiliar enough with the emotion to not be able to pinpoint the exact moment his infatuation with he had become more.

He had wanted her or so long, perhaps he had confused love with obsession. After all, he had managed it the other way round for so many years. He had been obsessed with Lily, he could understand that now that he had something to compare his feelings to. But as strongly as he'd tried to hold onto his want for her, it had not been long before thoughts of his new wife had pushed the memories aside.

2 years, 5 months earlier

It didn't take long for him to realise why he'd woken up alone. Upon exiting his bedroom he'd noticed the door to the smaller bedroom at the back, his room as a child, was slightly ajar. Silently he'd approached and peeked in. What he'd seen had caused him to push the door open wide and step in. For years the room had been bare, ever since he'd cleared out the sad remnants of his childhood and moved into what had been his parents' bedroom. The memories weren't as strong there; he'd rarely been allowed to enter. Even as a young child he'd known not to go in, even if he was sick in the night, for fear of his father's anger. His own room, however, had seen so much of his own neglect, beatings from his father, years of cowering in his bed like a coward as he listened to him rage and batter his mother downstairs. He'd stripped both his old room and his parents' the summer he'd been required to stay at home by the Dark Lord, but while he'd replaced the furnishing's in the latter, he'd just vanished everything from his own room, leaving nothing but a few battered pieces of furniture, plain whitewashed walls and dusty floorboards.

But now, the room was crammed with colour, the barren remains of his childhood hidden behind bright rugs, piles of books and various knick-knacks. The shabby old bed had been repaired and was made up with deep purple covers. His old wardrobe and bedside cabinet had been similarly treated, and the former now held a lamp which he recognised from Hermione's old flat. In fact, he realised as he looked around, he remembered seeing most items before; the oak bookcase that was already overloaded, the rug from in front of her fire, a small old-fashioned writing desk now tucked under the small, pokey window.

How she'd got it all in the tiny room he wasn't sure, and he wondered what she'd done with the rest of the stuff from her flat until he remembered just how adept she was with a shrinking charm. She'd sold the flat not long before the wedding and had moved into Grimmauld Place temporarily. Clearly she had shrunk her belongings into the smallish trunk that Potter had brought over the night before the wedding.

Looking around at the space she'd carved out for herself, Severus could feel his fury mounting, not only at the fact that she was clearly planning on sleeping in the room and not with him, but that she'd changed it without permission. It was his house. He ignored the voice that reminded him that actually, no it was hers now as well. He turned quickly and swept out of the room to seek and confront her.

He found her in the kitchen, her back to him, hands still wrapped round a now-empty mug. He almost turned and snuck back out, unsure of what to say to her. But then, with a sigh, she stood suddenly, picking up her mug as she pushed her chair back. Without thinking, her name fell quietly from his lips:

"Hermione…"

He'd come in so quietly that she was startled, almost dropping her mug. She turned towards him, and his angry words died in his throat. She'd clearly been crying, the glamours he could just make out on her face not quite enough to mask the red around her eyes. But no amount of magic could erase the sadness evident in them, which was perhaps why she quickly shied away from meeting his gaze and forced a more cheerful expression onto her face.

"I made breakfast, although I wasn't sure when you'd be up so it's been sitting under a warming charm." She started to busy herself with tidying away her own plate, and grabbed his from the kitchen surface, setting it on the table. "Would you like some coffee?"

Severus watched her whirl around the kitchen from his position by the door. His new wife was clearly nervous of him. Perhaps she was worried about his reaction to her redecoration. And well she should be… It wasn't until she was laying out his breakfast on the table that he finally moved, striding across to her and catching hold of her wrist as she finished putting his coffee down.

"Hermione…" he repeated gruffly, ready to confront her about the bedroom.

She stilled, face down, offering no resistance to his tight grip. Silently he waited, and after a few moments she slowly lifted her head. He wasn't sure whether it was the spiritless look in her eyes or the way her hand trembled beneath his fingers that did it, but suddenly his anger dissipated as if it had never been. Finding it suddenly difficult to look down into her warm honey eyes, his gaze fell on the breakfast she'd made for him. It was his favourite; eggs benedict. He frowned slightly. He was sure he'd never told her that. Perhaps it was just coincidence that she'd chosen to make it for him. For all he knew it could be her favourite too.

"Severus…" came the quiet whisper from beside him, and with a start he realised that he had been squeezing her wrist harder than necessary. He let go of her, and immediately she tucked her hand behind her back, her face a pale mask. Refusing to apologise – after all, it was her fault that he was irritated with her that morning, he sat down at the table and pulled the plate towards him.

It was perfect, the eggs were the consistency that he preferred – not as runny as was usual with this dish, and the hollandaise tasted just the way he'd convinced the house elves at Hogwarts to prepare his a few years previously. It was hard to enjoy, however, when he could feel something that felt horribly like shame curdling in his stomach. He could only conclude that she'd gone to the effort of finding out exactly what he liked as a special surprise. Why she'd still bothered to make it for him after what he'd said to her the previous night he wasn't sure.

He only turned round to speak to her once he'd emptied his plate and finished the last sip of his coffee, having taken his time to decide what to say to her, but the kitchen was empty. He'd not even heard her leave.

Instead of going after her, he collected the book he was currently working his way through and retreated to his lab in the basement, where he spent the rest of the day brewing and reading – not hiding, of course. He didn't emerge until past 8, when his stomach was beginning to hurt from lack of food since breakfast. Hoping Hermione had eaten already he slipped quietly into the kitchen, intending to find something in the cupboard and disappear back downstairs until late. No such luck. How long she'd actually been waiting for him he wasn't sure, but it had been long enough for her to cast a warming charm over the large pot in the centre of the table. Again he thought of retreating, but she'd clearly heard him already, for she turned suddenly, and upon seeing him, beckoned for him to join her. Smoothing out his frown before it had even begun to form on his face, he slunk around the table and sat down. What was she up to? Why was she treating him so nicely, when his own experience with upset women told him they liked to get noisy and cry a lot?

Conversation over their meal was almost non-existent, with Hermione occasionally breaking the silence to ask him questions about the house, where certain objects were, and the way he preferred things to be done around the house. His answers were short and to the point, and often consisted of little more than him telling her what she was not allowed to touch or use. The longer they sat, the easier it was to tell just how hard she was trying to keep her emotions under control. In the lull between questions he would catch the way her carefully constructed expression would waver, and the sadness would creep back into her eyes. The topic of their sleeping arrangements seemed to be the elephant in the room, despite Severus wanting to confront her over it. But there was something about the atmosphere that he didn't want to ruin. It was a glimpse at the peaceful home life he'd never had growing up, especially if he ignored the underlying tension between the two of them, and he wanted to pretend a little longer that all was well.

It was still torture, sitting across from her and knowing that despite their newly married status, that he most assuredly would not be enjoying the delights that he would have he'd been able to keep his damn mouth shut. Even in her misery, with dulled eyes and pale complexion, he wanted her, the obsessive desire that had built up over the past years barely appeased by the one night of passion they had shared. By the time they'd both finished their meals, he was more than ready to make his escape from the temptation that she presented, and he left her clearing up the dinner while he went to ostensibly check on a potion that was simmering in his lab, but in reality he needed a break from her company to give his libido a chance to cool before he did something stupid.

When he emerged an hour later, he found her in the sitting room, curled up in an armchair with a book. Her only response to his entrance was an empty smile directed at him, before she returned her concentration to the book in her lap. He pulled a book from off the shelves and sat in his own chair to read, occasionally glancing up at his wife. A couple of hours passed in silence, the only sounds being the rustle of pages as they were turned. As the clock on the mantelpiece struck 11, Severus finally noticed how late it had become. He needed to be up early to tend to his potion, and after his restless night's sleep, he needed to get to bed.

Looking up at Hermione, Severus noted the stubborn set to her jaw, and he careful study of the page in front of her, although her eyes were red and bleary. Clearly she'd been waiting for him to go to bed first. With a sigh he snapped his book shut, and stiffly got to his feet. Feeling horribly awkward, he replaced the book on the shelf and headed towards the stairs, stopping for a moment at the door and turning his head to look at her. She never looked up. At the creak of the first step, however, a quiet voice called to him.

"Good night, Severus."

He froze, opening his mouth to reply, but then thought better of it. Good? There's nothing good about it. He started to climb the stairs, hating the way each one creaked loudly. A quick visit to the bathroom later and he was shutting his bedroom door behind him. His dark furnishings reflected his mood. He could have been fucking her again this evening, maybe even had her several times already that day. He was surely the biggest idiot he knew, and that was saying something, considering the number of utterly incompetent students he'd had in his classroom over the years.

He heard her soft footsteps cross the landing a short while later, after he'd already crawled into bed, pausing slightly in front of his room before continuing down to the one she'd taken for hers. He strained his ears to hear any further sound but there was nothing, and he could only assume she'd put up a silencing charm, as he knew from experience that even little sounds carried far in the old house. It took him a long time to drift off that night, and when he finally did, he was plagued with restless sleep and fitful dreams.

As the first week of their marriage passed by, he began to wonder whether he was going to have to drag her to his bed to carry out the Ministry decree before the end of the second. The Ministry had insisted on the implementation of a charm that would alert them to any couple not meeting the requirements as part of the wedding ceremonies that fell under the new law. By the time Wednesday, a full week after their wedding, rolled around again, they still hadn't spoken about what must happen that evening. Severus had made sure to take some food with him down into his lab before Hermione arrived home from work, so he didn't need to go up at dinner time. He had no desire to sit opposite his wife in awkward silence as they both avoided the one thing that needed to be discussed. He was frustrated enough with the situation, having to spend so much time in her company, lusting after her, but without being able to have her. This night hadn't been able to come fast enough.

By 10.30 he couldn't pretend to himself that he could do anymore that evening, and so, steeling himself for the long awaited confrontation, he trudged up the stairs. He was surprised to find the kitchen and sitting room both dark and silent. Despite the cool April weather, it seemed as if Hermione had not bothered to light the fire this evening at all and it was markedly cooler than in the warmth of his lab. It seemed as if she'd already gone to bed. Shit… He began to climb the stairs with a heavy heart. Despite the circumstances, he'd been looking forward to slaking his lust for her, he would never be capable of forcing himself on her if she refused to abide by the law and accept him into her bed, even if it meant the two of them taking a trip to Azkaban. Hopefully she wouldn't refuse him if he knocked at her door, although the thought of fucking his wife is his small childhood bed sent him cold.

To his surprise, when he reached the top of the stairs, he found his own bedroom door slightly open, a weak beam of light crossing the dingy landing carpet in front of him. Hating the way his heart leapt – she'd come to him of her own accord once more – he peered through the gap. She was already in his bed, reclining against the pillows with a book in her lap. The nerve of her… to sit there as if she'd not eschewed his bed for the past week. Suddenly irritated, he flung the door open with a bang, hoping to make her jump, but she only looked up at him for a moment with a tight smile, before returning her eyes to her book.

As he stalked closer he could see that she wasn't as relaxed as she seemed. Her face was pale and he could see how tightly her fingers were clutching the book.

"What are you doing?" he snapped as he came to stand by the bed.

She looked back up with a feigned look of innocence. "I assumed we'd be more comfortable in here, rather than squeezing into my single bed. Unless…" She faltered when his scowl didn't disappear. "…you don't wish to… only it needs to be tonight, or the Min…"

Not wanting the reminder that the Ministry law was the only reason his wife was willing to grace his bed with her presence, his reply was harsher than he'd meant. "Don't be foolish, girl, of course tonight is acceptable. May I know when you plan to fulfil the second of our weekly copulatory requirements?"

"Oh… l I thought perhaps tomorrow evening…"

"That will suffice," he replied sharply, turning away to start unbuttoning his jacket, trying to hide the desire he knew would be shining in his eyes at the thought of fucking her. He was acutely aware of the silence behind him as he quickly undressed and pulled his dressing gown on. Just the thought of what was to happen was making hi hard, so he made sure to keep his back to her. He left the room with a muttered, "I won't be long," and disappeared off to the bathroom where he took a perfunctory shower to rid himself of the potion fumes that clung to him after a day's brewing. By the time he'd returned to the bedroom Hermione had put the book aside and dimmed the light.

He crossed the room quickly, pretending not to see the nervousness on her face, and quickly divested himself of his dressing gown and slipped under the covers. As silence reigned for a few moments Severus could only think back and compare this to the last time he' had her in his bed, full of heat and passion or him, not the cold fish that lay next to him now. For the umpteenth time, he cursed himself for not being able to lie to her about his feelings. He'd been a spy for as long as she'd been alive, for Merlin's sake, lying had been second nature to him for almost as long as he'd lived. So why had he been unable to do so to her this time?

Hermione shifted slightly beside him, bringing him back to the moment, and he rolled to face her. Ignoring the apprehensive look on her face, Severus began to tug the covers off her, realising with delight that at some point she'd rid herself of the nightdress she'd been wearing earlier. Immediately he could feel himself growing hard once more. He may not love her, but Merlin he desired her. He couldn't help but lower his mouth to one puckered bud, even as his fingers trailed across her stomach to gently cup her other breast. She was strangely tense beneath him, and at first her unnatural stillness was easy to ignore as his own need mounted, but he quickly found his pride demanded some sort of response from her. He began to lave and suck her nipple with fervour, gently using his hand to caress her and flick at her bud with his thumb.

The strangled gasp that tore from her throat made him smirk against her warm skin. He let his hand trail down her soft stomach and down between her legs, which he gently pushed apart for better access. Brushing his fingers across her opening he was pleased to find that despite her cold demeanour, she was wet already. However, when he lifted his face to look at hers he was dismayed to find her eyes full of unshed fears. Bugger… He didn't want to do this if she was really that unwilling. He pulled back a little.

"Hermione…" he started.

She clutched at him, tugging him back towards her. "Don't stop, Severus."

"I don't…"

"Please… Severus," she whispered. "Don't make me beg."

When he still held back, uncertain, she sighed gently, closing her eyes.

"Severus, I… I need you to… fuck me… now," she bit out quietly, pulling his head back down to her breast.

Pushing away his unease, Severus did as she asked. Deciding that it was pointless continuing to tease her with more foreplay he quickly shifted to lie between her legs, holding himself with one hand at her entrance, and looked down at her. Her eyes were still closed, her full lips parted slightly, and at the same moment he pushed into her tight heat he impulsively leant down to kiss them. Unknowingly, at the same moment she turned her head to the side, away from him, and awkwardly he buried his face in her neck instead as he began to rock his hips back and forth.

Her hands came up to grip his shoulders, holding him tight against her as he hips tilted to accommodate him fully. Severus groaned in pleasure as he began to thrust harder. She was still so tight, and the soft skin of her breasts felt like silk against his chest. She really was exquisite, her form slender and lithe, but not scrawny, with just enough curves to be womanly instead of childlike. Not like Lily of course, certainly not as stunningly beautiful, with her red hair and piercing green eyes, and her height gave her a bearing that Hermione would never have. Oh gods, Lily, how could I have been so stupid to push you away?

And now he'd also fucked up the best thing to happen to him since he destroyed his and Lily's friendship. It seemed like he was doomed to repeat his mistakes over and over. Well, he may have wrecked the chance to have Hermione his bed every night, but at least he would be guaranteed something at least. It was still a thousand times better than his alternatives. Besides, he could pretend, like he had with all the previous women, that it was Lily lying beneath him. Not that you have done so far with Hermione… No, he'd desired the girl long enough that even thoughts of Lily had been pushed aside for some time. Such a state couldn't allowed to continue though. Lily was, and always would be, his one true love.

Hermione had begun to undulate her pelvis in time with his, causing him to penetrate deeper, although she was still silent. Feeling his climax approaching, he began to snap his hips faster in an effort to push himself over the edge, neglecting his partner's pleasure in his own blissful haze. It wasn't long before he could feel his balls tighten, and with a shout of completion, he emptied his impotent seed deep inside her, before slumping down on her in exhaustion.

After a few moments catching his breath, he was in enough possession of his wits to lift his head, and immediately realised she'd put the light out. When did that happen? Wordless and wandless though… impressive! Not that he would ever tell her. Feeling his softening cock slip out of her slick pussy, he extricated himself from between her legs and collapsed to one side, turning onto his back. Considering how he had avoided cuddling with her before, he still felt a strange sense of loss when she did not roll with him and wrap her arms around him this time. Don't be such a fucking soft touch, you idiot!

In the darkness he could hear her shifting, and the movement of the mattress told him that she'd turned onto her side, facing away from him once more. He hated the way that single motion made him feel rejected. You rejected her, you idiot, when you told her you loved Lily. Perhaps he could draw her back somehow, if only to appease his own need. He'd been uncaring of her pleasure in the heat of the moment, after all, it wasn't as if he needed to keep her happy so she would return to his bed, but now that he was sated he suddenly felt a peculiar duty to make sure she felt the same.

"Did you… " He paused, unsure how to word it.

"Did I what, Severus?" was her quiet response after a few seconds.

"Did you enjoy yourself… did you cum, I mean." The moment the words were out of his mouth he cringed at the crassness of the question.

There was silence for a moment before he hear the faintest of sighs. "No… It doesn't matter."

He grimaced into the darkness, her words wounding his masculine pride. If that's how she wanted to be, then he wouldn't bother making the effort again. See how long she could go without the frustration being too much. It wasn't like it would make a difference to their relationship either way. He was more than willing to take what he wanted and leave her hanging if she wanted to be so blasé about it, although he wasn't too impressed that their sex life would probably become monotonous fairly quickly if she was just going to lie on her back and take it.

Remembering how she had snuck from his bed the week before, he wanted to see whether she would leave once more, so let his breathing deepen and slow after a few minutes. Severus judged it to be about fifteen minutes later that she carefully slipped out from under the covers and left the room silently without the aid of a light, pulling the door closed with a quiet click. After a few moments he rolled over with a sigh, pulling the pillow she'd been using to his chest. It smelt very faintly of her shampoo, and unconsciously he buried his nose in it as he pondered just what he was going to do, but despite his annoyance at the situation with Hermione, it wasn't long before he slipped deeply into a post-orgasmic sleep.

When Severus work up the next morning with the scent still in his nose it took him a few moments to realise that his wife hadn't returned at some point, and that the warm object that he was pressing his morning hard on against was not her pert and rather lovely backside. It wasn't long before he realised that not only was he was still clutching the pillow tightly, but that he'd dreamt of Hermione half the night. Frustrated and turned on by the vague memories of some rather erotic dreams he climbed out of bed, his bad mood set for the day.

He was fairly foul to Hermione every chance he got that day; at breakfast before she left for work, the moment she got back home, all through the dinner she'd cooked for him, although he wouldn't have been able to explain why if asked. As he crawled into bed besides an even quieter and paler Hermione that night, he did wonder for a moment if he'd been trying to see how hard he could push her before she refused to sleep with him.

His last coherent thought as he insinuated himself between her thighs was, Thank Merlin she doesn't give in easily.

#snape #severus snape #severus #sevmione #Severus x Hermione #snanger #snamione #Hermione Granger #hermione #sshg

[highsviolets]

A, D, & F for waterfall please?? 👀 i just love it sm

aar!! of course!! 

A: how did you come with the title for waterfall inquiry? 

i really suck at titles. for waterfall, i was reading and re-reading and re-reading, trying to find a phrase or emotion that would fit. i was scrolling through my sixty-five playlists in desperation when i found one  i had one made YEARS ago called “smooth [waterfall inquiry].” i got that warm fuzzy feeling when i read it like, yeah. that’s it. that fits. that’s them.

D: is there a song or playlist to associate with waterfall inquiry? 

yes. yesyesyes. the playlist is here.  i don’t always listen to it while i’m actually writing, but if i do, i typically listen to one song on repeat for hours. chapter one = “glamour child” by moonrise nation. chapter two = “this is the last time” by the national and “cold” by mating ritual. 

F: share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes and explain why you’re proud of it. 

aaaaaahhh that whole scene in their office in chapter two when they’re talking about the intelligence reports? i really like that one. writing dynamic dialogue is something i find difficult, and i think i did a really good job in demonstrating both what they were feeling and thinking as well as their physical actions and words. plus, it’s quite demonstrative of how their relationship is the same-yet-different from chapter one: 

Stay, please, he wants to say. But once again he chooses something that’s more practical, constrained by place and circumstance. “Thank you for your time,” Javier says. “I apologize for keeping you. I’m sure you’re quite busy.” Turning his shoulders (so sturdy, you think again) so his back is to the door, Javi lets his gaze drag over you, head to foot, eyes catching on the small instances of exposed skin at the collarbone, at your calves, your wrists.

Lips perk up into a smirk. “It was no problem at all, Agent Peña. I’m glad we were able to clear some things up. And I’m afraid I’m not as…busy as I would like to be.”

A step closer. “Oh? Do you need a bigger challenge than taking down the biggest cartel in the world?”

“I like complications, Agent Peña. Tidiness scares me.”

fanfic asks!

#ask #writing things #okay but the 'tidiness scares me' line KILLS ME i love it so much #and i don't usually say that about my own work #fic: waterfall #SHE LOVES COMPLICATIONS AND HE IS A COMPLICATED MAN okay i'm done screaming about my own fic now bye #chapter three out soon! #also i just laugh when i think about waterfall #kelli wanted established relationship office sex with javier and i said i'd write it #and then this happened kasdjaskd #aar tag 🌵