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watchtowerindistress · 16 days

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for the love of ... bob? - jake seresin x reader (1/2)

Summary: Being Jake's (best) friend - sorry, Javy - proved to have its ups and downs but there was something about having him in your corner you couldn't resist. Jake and you just clicked on a deeper level. That's why you didn't get it when the Southern boy was acting so weird.-

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Language, Jake being an idiot (what else is new?), Jealous! + Soft!Jake, fluff

Author’s note: Just something fun I wanted to write. I kinda hate myself for not writing for Bradley first, since I love the guy. You know, Jake's fics I love to read, yet I couldn't stand him while watching Maverick. Go figure.

I haven't watched the film enough to distinguish the traits of the characters, so I can't guarantee for accuracy for the side characters. I can only include a handful of people - that's why I don't have people like Reuben in there since their character traits aren't included in the fandom page.

Tagging: @mellowstatesmanhandsempath @ravenmoore14 @blackmagicwoman @silenthappyplace @mrsevans90 @dempy @yourgirlypop (blank blogs can't be tagged)

Read me on AO3

“So, tell us all the details. Preferably, the humiliating kind,” Natasha asked with a curious air.

You smiled. “What about?”

“Hangman, of course.”

The Dagger Squad was the perfect company to be around, you decided. Jake, your childhood best friend, who you haven’t seen in years, offered The Hard Deck as the place for you to wait until he arrived. Video calls didn’t hold up to the real thing. Especially, with you two being very busy people and you finally getting out of New York to spend some quality time together.

“I need to get the embarrassing goods, at least before Hangman shows up. I mean, we have the perfect person to interrogate. In the rare instances, when he talks about something other than himself, Hangman keeps mentioning you,” she mused.

“Nat-” Bob interjected, who was sitting next to her in a booth while the rest of their squad were scattered in the bar.

Natasha turned her head. “Aren’t you a little bit curious about the depraved mind of Jake Seresin?”

“Not really.”

You snorted at their torn convictions when Mickey and Javy arrived at their table with bottles of beer.

“What did we miss?” Javy asked.

Natasha’s stubborn gaze didn’t stray from yours for many seconds. “I’m trying to crack Y/N.” Her eyes met Javy’s over her shoulder. “Tell Rooster he needs to stall him until I get to the good bits.”

You looked around speculatively. “Is this some sort of initiation or baptism by fire Jake should’ve warned me about?”

Javy offered a small reprieve. “Don’t mind her. She just wants to pick your brain. How long are you going to stay?”

“About a week. Enough time for Jake to show me around San Diego.”

Mickey took a gulp from his drink. “Good luck with that.”

Warm breath against your neck sent shivers down your spine when someone whispered into your ear, “Did I just hear my name?”

Your body jolted at hearing the unexpected voice. “Oh my God.” You turned and found a cheeky Jake standing behind you. “You little f- Don’t startle me like that!” Clambering out of the booth, you jumped into his arms, while giggling from the shock. “Hey, you,” you said, holding on tightly.

“Hey, yourself. Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes, darlin’.”

“You’re such a jerk,” you whispered into his neck.

Jake swayed you lightly. “You love when I’m a jerk.”

Leaning back, you pressed your fingers an inch apart. “Just a tad.” You hesitated. “Like about 10%.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “Oh please. Talk about 75%. It’s part of my charm,” he murmured, stroking your lower back.

“Is this what you tell everyone here?” You teased, pointing to his colleagues behind you.

Javy’s scoff was joined by the others.

You looked back to see their reactions. “You know, I’m starting to really like your group of friends.” While turning back, you narrowed your eyes when you saw Jake glowering at the Dagger Squad before his expression turned into an innocent one.

“I’m starting to question your taste in people,” he said.

Someone snickered next to him. “That’s funny, … Hangman.”

Realizing that another person joined their company, you turned towards the man who looked vaguely familiar from the pictures Jake had sent you. Not to mention, you remembered Natasha’s remark from earlier that Jake would show up with someone else.

“Rooster, right?” You stepped away from Jake’s embrace and shook Bradley’s hand in greeting. Jake merely sighed and crossed his arms.

“Bradley’s fine.” He faced the rest of the group. “By the way, am I the only one that felt really awkward just standing here, watching those two?”

Mumbles echoed all around. “No, you’re not.” Still slightly by the display of the too-long-hug.

A sigh left Jake, who placed an arm around your shoulder. “Don’t listen to the others. And the words of the chicken shouldn’t be trusted. I hope those knuckleheads treated you right.”

You shrugged. “It was fun. I was this close to reveal your darkest secrets for a slice of a good ol’ fashioned apple pie made by … Phoenix, was it?”

“There’ll be no revealing. And no pie,” Jake interjected before pointing at Natasha. “You’ve already been in the company of Phoenix and the goon squad for less than an hour and Nat already found out your weakness for sweets,” he whispered against your neck. “At least you didn’t have to be subjected to the likes of Rooster here.” A shiver coursed through his body. “I shudder at the thought of you having to listen to him at first. He’ll probably want to talk about his caterpillar of a moustache.”

A languid smirk drew on Bradley’s lips as he stroked his mentioned facial hair. “Very funny. You jealous?”

You tilted your head at their teasing. “You have some weird fixation on Bradley’s facial hair. Didn’t you talk on the phone about-”

Abruptly, Jake took you by the hand and dragged you to the bar counter. “Let’s get some food into you. Your blood sugar’s getting awfully low. Someone’s getting tired already.”

“You’re being such a grump, Jake.”

Jake leaned against the counter. “I’m not. I’m just making sure you’re getting some nachos into you, darlin’.”

“You need to be nicer. We both know you’re more of a sweetheart than this.”

He rolled his eyes. “I have a reputation to uphold. And don’t let yourself be bribed by the others.” Jake turned to Penny. “A basket of nachos for this one, Penny?” You rolled your eyes at seeing Jake point at the top of your head.

There was something about Penny’s playful glance that warmed you upon first meeting. The woman nudged her head at Jake. “Be careful with this one.”

With mischief in your eyes, you stole a glance at him. “I know. This one … has been trouble for as long as I can remember.”

“Hey!” Jake uttered in mock outrage before he did introductions. “Penny, that’s Y/N. She’s my friend,” he said, placing his hand on your back.

“And here I thought I was your best friend.”

Jake hushed any further confessions, whispering, “But don’t tell Javy.”

You turned to Penny with a smile. “See? He’s such a big softie.”

Penny smirked. “I’m starting to. Where are you from?”

“Moved around a lot as a kid. Dad’s an Air Force pilot.” You waved towards him. “We grew up together in Texas. But I live in New York.”

Penny’s eyes lit up at the mention. “I’ll get you some cheese dip.”

“Thanks.”

Jake watched Penny wander off with a speculative gaze. “Someone’s making friends quickly.”

“It’s okay. I’ll teach you my ways,” you said only half-teasingly and stroked Jake’s arm. Your hand lingered on his muscles. Wait, were they flexing? “Woah, what happened to your arm, dude?”

Jake’s voice turned concerned. “Why? What’s wrong?”

There was something akin to awe in your voice. “Your bicep feels like it’s going to rip through your shirt.”

His shoulders were shaking when he chuckled. There was something about Jake turning his head to hide his blushing cheeks that stunned you even to this day. “You’re such a smartass.”

“I’m serious. Someone’s really working out, huh?” You mumbled to yourself, “This could make a girl feel weak in the knees.”

“Okay, you need food,” Jake said with a resolute mindset, before calling over your shoulder, “Thanks, Penny.”

He pushed the basket towards your elbow. “Get some chips into you.” Jake just watched you munch on your crispy snack. “Speaking of food, you want to join me and the group to some Barbecue this weekend?”

You barely lifted your head. “Barbecue? Special occasion?”

“Rooster’s uncle Maverick is celebrating his birthday-”

“Woah, hold your horses, Jake.”

You raised your hands. Either to stop Jake from continuing or to restart your own brain. “Come again? Maverick?” Your hands hovered over your mouth, as you mumbled, “You’re inviting me to Maverick’s birthday barbecue party? I don’t feel prepared for this.”

Jake groaned. “Oh great, I forgot your dad is such a Maverick fanboy. Of course.” He closed his eyes in a mixture of misery and defeat.

“Jake,” you breathed in deeply and covered his shoulders with your hands, mindful of not dropping nacho dust on his shirt. “Jake,” you began again, “I’ve never told you this, but this is the first time when I realized how absolutely invaluable you are to me as a best friend.”

“I’m seriously regretting telling you this.”

You nibbled on your lip. “I think I scared Jake off with my … how do I say it … domineering admiration for Maverick. I’m getting the feeling he’s embarrassed of me. You have no idea how quickly he dashed the moment we arrived here.”

Natasha appeared nonchalant at your worries while she took a bite from her noodle salad on her paper plate. “Not possible. I’ve only met you yesterday and can affirm that man couldn’t be closer to you. Hangman was probably held up by something. Or he’s just elevating his testosterone level with Rooster again. You met the birthday kid already?”

“Nope.” At the mention, your hands tightened around the food container.

A soothing smile tugged on Natasha’s lips. “Deep breaths. You can’t miss him.” She pointed outside to the backyard. “He’s the guy at the grill, in the sunglasses and Hawaiian shirt. If he has a mustache, you’ve gone too far.”

“Got it.” You exhaled quietly and reminded yourself under your breath, “No mustache, Hawaiian shirt.”

“You’ll survive, don’t worry.” Natasha looked behind her. “Rooster, take her with you. She wants to meet the birthday man in question.”

“Sure.” Bradley stepped forward and offered his arm.

Your body acted on pure instinct.

“Holding my hand, alright, that’s fine.”

You only mouthed in gratitude, “Thank you.”

They walked a few steps onto the lawn when Bradley looked around. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Nat told me he was probably wrestling in the mud with you to assert his dominance.” You cleared your throat when you realized something. “And not my boyfriend.”

“Whatever you say. Just making sure where you two stand if he sees us standing together, holding hands.”

“Jake Seresin is not my dad,” you said absentmindedly when a dark-haired man caught your eye. Your throat felt dry. “Is that him?”

“As everyone keeps telling me.” Bradley approached the man standing behind the grill. “I found someone who wants to send their birthday wishes, Mav.”

Maverick revealed a crooked smirk. “Is that so?” You could feel his curious gaze through his sunglasses. “You’re a new face.”

“Um, yeah. I’m Jake’s friend.”

“Hangman has friends?”

“I know it’s a first for everybody,” you admitted. Knowing that Bradley and Jake were at least on speaking terms, and with Jake inviting you to Maverick’s barbecue party, you elaborated, “He needs some time to let people get close.”

Bradley gasped. “You don’t say.”

You focused on Maverick. “A few days ago, Jake invited me to your birthday. Hope that’s okay. I brought you peach cobbler as a present.”

At the mention, Bradley’s head whipped around. “Jesus, why didn’t you just go with that?”

Maverick moved his glasses until they laid atop his head and his eyes were uncovered. “You had me at cobbler.” He rubbed his hands against his jeans. “Bradley, you mind taking over the grill for a bit?”

“Fine. Get me a beer along the way?”

“Sure.” Maverick faced you again when he led you towards the table filled with food. “I didn’t catch your name?”

Just being in Maverick’s company felt surreal. You tried to restrain yourself from appearing too much like a crazy person.

“Um, Y/N … L/N. You’re Maverick?” Nervously, you stroked a curl of hair behind your ear. Even saying that name while standing right in front of him felt out of this world.

“Pete’s just fine.” His expression turned inquisitive. “Did Hangman tell you stories or did I miss something?”

You swallowed thickly. “My dad’s a big fan of yours. He’s a pilot in the Air Force. Told me stories ever since I was a kid. Your flight maneuvers have been legendary.”

He smiled at the devotion in your voice. “Still are.” You adored that playful glint in his eyes still shining through.

“Definitely. You probably get this all the time.”

“Want a beer?” After seeing you nod, he gave you a bottle. “Sometimes. Although, that kind of reverie I’m not used to.”

To calm your nerves, you downed some alcohol. “Really? Okay, I’ll try to control myself. However, Iceman’s skills were far-” Your eyes widened at your blabbing mouth before you covered it. “I’m sorry, too much liquid courage.”

Pete—even thinking that name felt strange—released guffaws of laughter at your gaffe. “Hey, it’s still my birthday!”

“I know, I’m sorry. Happy birthday, Ma-Pete.”

~ Jake POV ~

“Hey, Hangboy, I need to have a word with you,” Jake heard Natasha’s hard voice a few feet away from them as he hung out with the boys. Despite that, the concept of strength in numbers didn’t make him feel safe, judging by her vehemence.

He swallowed at the dark glare in Nat’s eyes. “Vernacular?”

Natasha didn’t appreciate the humor and crossed her arms, letting uncomfortable silence fester around them.

Jake pressed his lips together. “Bad timing?”

“Someone ever say you’re a bad friend?”

Without hesitation, he replied dryly, “You. Every morning when I show up to work.”

“I had to send Bradley in Y/N’s direction because she was nervous about meeting Maverick.”

He groaned at the thought, throwing his head back. “Oh, poor Y/N. Being forced onto the company of that dull-stache? Sounds horrible.” Jake checked his surroundings, hoping to pick them up.

There was something about Natasha’s innocent eyes, with murder in her eyes, that unsettled him deeply.

“You make me want to punch you in the gut. And you know I grew up with brothers. I know how to make it look like an accident.”

Jake dropped the drink he was holding on a nearby table. “I have a plan.”

Natasha tilted her head in fascination. “Wow, your brain can actually do that? Could’ve fooled me. What does that even look like?”

He drew nearer at the sound of her challenge. “It’s called giving each other space. Did I miss something or why are you so gung-ho when it comes to Y/N? Do we need to have a talk?”

“Five minutes in her company and I already know how she’s too good for you.”

Something bitter settled in his stomach at the mere mention. As if he didn’t already know. He smiled tensely. “Thanks for the reminder, Phoenix. Do I need to save her from Rooster?”

Natasha waved a hand. “Not to worry. Y/N is having fun with Bob.”

His mind went blank, trying to process her words. Jake pursed his lips, feeling confused. “Wait—w—why—what are you saying? Bob? Bob with the glasses? Or is there another Bob I should know?”

Natasha hummed, analyzing his reaction. She chose to unnerve him further by chuckling maniacally. “Cake stand. Have fun.” And with that she left.

Jake whipped his head around and narrowed his eyes. The food area instantly caught his eye. Y/N stood with Bob and was laughing uproariously. It felt X-Files-strange to watch that anomaly. Y/N arched her back and patted Bob’s shoulder, with a plate of cake slice in her hand.

Feeling perturbed by the macabre reality, Jake imagined Y/N being into Bob of all people. He frowned at that scenario, whispering, “Bob?”

~ Y/N POV ~

You held your stomach. Your cheeks were hurting from uncontrollable laughter, as you were trying to breathe. “Oh my God, Bob, that’s so-”

Jake inched closer with a small smile on his face. “What’s so funny?” He draped his arm over Y/N’s shoulder and reached for her dessert plate, either so she wouldn’t drop it or to have a taste himself. Without looking at him, you placed it into his hands.

You took a deep breath to calm yourself. “Why didn’t you tell me that Bob is so funny?”

Jake swallowed before coughing. “You learn something new every day. Still waters, huh?”

Bob smiled awkwardly.

Upon seeing his reaction, you spoke up, “I always hated that saying. Bob’s an absolute sweetheart.” To reinforce your point to him, you rubbed Bob’s shoulder.

Bob adjusted his glasses while blushing. “I try my best, ma’am.”

“Bob!” You chuckled in mock outrage, swatting lightly against his chest.

He nodded with a small smile. “Yes, Y/N, affirmative.”

“We’re getting to know each other. I just found out that Bob’s from Montana and his momma used to be a Grizzlies mascot. Personally, I’m more of a Saints girl, but to each their own.”

Jake groaned, with his mouth full. “I’m eating here,” he muttered indignantly. Jake swallowed his food. “What did I ever do to you? The last time we did this, we had the Cowboys/Saints-gate.”

You leaned your head back against Jake’s chest, patting his cheek consolingly. “He’s such a big baby.”

Bob pressed his lips together. “Uh, I think I hear my name. I need to say hello to Maverick real quick.”

You reached out with your arm. “Oh, do put your feelers out if the birthday guy is still fine with me after I was blabbing my mouth about g-loc and Iceman’s record stats.”

“He’s probably fine.”

“But still!” You called out against his back as he left.

It was turning out to be a quiet evening, you realized, rubbing your feet.

Jake stepped into the living room, drying his moist hair with a towel. He leaned his shoulder against the doorway, watching you. “Would you look at that.”

You were transfixed on the film playing on Jake’s TV while you snuggled deeper under the towel on the couch. “What’s up?”

Jake decided to join you on the couch and put your feet on his lap. He spread his legs comfortably. Unconsciously, warming your heels. “You know, feels like old times. You sitting on my couch, taking all the blankets.”

You covered your eyes, with a groan, and leaned your head back. “You make me sound like a mooch. I offered to go to a hotel.”

“Hey, that’s not what I meant.” Jake chuckled. You felt the warmth of his hand when he reached for yours. Before you could blink, Jake stared deeply into your eyes and interlaced your fingers together. With a smile, he whispered, “I missed this. Feels like old times.”

With blushing cheeks, you felt your skin tingling at sitting so close to him. It was moments like these that made you question the nature of your friendship. You swallowed at seeing Jake’s sage-green eyes sparkle. His soft smile was making it hard to breathe.

You whispered, “Me too.”

“You know what else I miss? And what I can’t stop thinking about?”

You swallowed thickly, licking your lips. Feeling uncertain by his thought process, you slowly asked, “Which is what?”

Jake inched closer. “How I used to do this.” He tilted his head, rubbing his wet hair into the crook of your neck.

“You jerk!” You giggled from his attack. It made him seem more like a dog than a human when he was content in brushing his wet hair against your skin.

He grumbled lowly, as his warm breath puffed against your skin. “But this feels really nice. I could stay like this forever,” he said with a hum.

Your phone emitted a notification sound. “You’re an idiot.” Slapping against his forehead to push him away, deep chuckles followed you while your focus switched to your phone.

“You hungry? I could whip up some chicken teriyaki for us? I think I got some sauce in the cabinet. I know how much you love your teriyaki.” He groaned while standing up.

Giggles left your mouth when you read the incoming messages.

Jake turned his head. “Your girlfriends miss you already?”

You bit your lip. “No, it’s Bob just being sweet.”

Blinking slowly, Jake tried to process the words you just uttered. He cleared his throat. Jake’s voice turned slightly high-pitched. “Come again?” He coughed, placing his hands on his waist. “Are we talking about the same Bob? Bob Bob?”

You hummed in agreement without looking up.

He mumbled, “Didn’t know you guys already exchanged numbers. That’s quick, … right?”

With a curious gaze, you looked up. “What do you mean?”

Jake paused. “What do you mean?” He licked his lips, backtracking a bit. “With, you know, Bob … being a total sweetheart.”

You smiled fondly at the memory of the barbecue. “Well, he is. I really loved talking to him.”

With grumbling breaths, Jake puffed his chest. “Really?”

You shrugged your shoulders. “Yep, it was fun.”

“As you keep mentioning,” Jake murmured.

“I did some thinking,” you spoke, “and I was wondering, how would you feel about doing karaoke night with your squad?”

At first, Jake had a look of appreciation which took a turn to disappointment. “But karaoke night is our thing,” he said, pointing between them.

“I know, but this could be like a bonding thing. You’d get to know them, I’d get to know them and we could have fun together. Win-win!”

He sighed deeply, letting his shoulders drop. “You’re far too invested in this.”

“I don’t want them to remember me as the friend who didn’t want to bother with them.”

Jake’s voice turned into a soothing murmur. “They wouldn’t dare think that.”

With a whisper, you enunciated, “Not if we do karaoke night. It’s going to be fun, I promise.”

#watchtowerindistress #steph writes #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x y/n #for the love of bob #jake seresin x fem!reader #jake seresin fic #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick fic #hangman x reader

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honestsycrets · 8 months

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querido i: a reward of 2099 | outlaw!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ pairing | outlaw!miguel o'hara x reader

❛ type | doubleshot; chapter is safe for work.

❛ summary | it's been a long time since you've been with miguel o'hara. when your daughter gabriella finds his wanted poster, life starts to unravel.

❛ tags | mention of murder and minor character death, hidden pregnancy, western au, spanish not translated, outlaw!miguel, baby-mama!reader, slight cursing, angst, threats.

❛ sy's notes | here's to listening to the civil wars' devil backbone one too many times. i needed a break from filling most requests, so i only incorporated one very lightly in this piece.

“Mamá, 2099 is a strange amount for a reward, isn’t it?”

Your daughter was a mischievous girl just like her father. She tore down the poster that was tacked up on the homely post office’s bulletin board as you gathered the weekly post. Coming into town was always a bit of a laborious task. With goods to gather and a little girl to socialize, you made it into town once every week.

"Sure is," Jackson the postman said.

“Thank you,” you plucked mail from the man’s dark hands. “I’ll see you next week.”

He wore a warm, kind smile. Working in the post office, he always seemed to be well-versed in what was going on in everyone’s life. His coal-black eyes shone warmly at you.

“Take care now, there’s wild men out there. What with Peter gone and all, you sure you girls will be okay out there? Rio’d sure put up Gabi and you at the hostel.”

Gabi scrunched up her face tight like a screw being twisted into a board.

“That’s real sweet of you to worry but I’m sure we’ll be fine. We've been out there nine years now. I’ll see you next week, sí? ” You tucked your post into a basket that dangled on your elbow, pulling long and heavy skirts to avoid trampling them with your boots as you opened the door.

“See ya then!”

Gabriella stepped out first, pulling on your lace sleeves as a cue for her delayed answer. She wouldn’t butt into a conversation, but she always seemed to hold her questions for a better time. You sighed, looking at the pale wooden buildings. Saloon, feed store, bank, and the occasional hostel. Over the last decade, the town seemed to flourish, bringing all manner of people to your once tiny Spanish town.

“I suppose they didn’t wanna give the extra coin out, Gabi.”

She looked back to the paper in her hands.

“Wanted dead or alive. Notorious badman Miguel O’Hara, 38, native of Nueva… why that’s here, mama!”

Your blood chilled. Congealed even. The sun nearly blinded you, even with the hat that kept the hot sun off of your head. You stepped off the doorway and onto the dusty ground, spinning on your heel to face your little girl with your dark blue fan in your hands, waving the heat of the day off your flushed skin.

“Wanted for--”

You swiped the paper from her fingers.

“That’s about enough of that. We best get on our way, we got goods to buy, the undertaker to see, and a new dress to fit for your papá’s funeral.”

“I was just reading it. In case we see him?”

“We won’t. It’s been a time since he’s shown himself around these parts. You have no business looking at-- that kinda man. He’s a troublemaker. Now get in the cart, let’s not dolly around.”

You would know.

“O—okay, mamá.”

“I’m sorry, Gabi, I don't mean to yell. You’re all I got, preciosa,” you wedged the paper into a new bible, right next to your wooden rosary, and flung it into the basket.

"I know."

You started ahead of her, fussing with your white veil, sparing no expense to the many questions that she had that day. You had just as many questions as she did.

You just couldn’t articulate them to a grieving little girl.

Do you think it's a boy or girl? the seamstress asks a woman in her shop. She fashions all sorts of fashions from birth to death. Her store is stuffed to the brim with frilly and lacy baptismal dresses. Your gaze fell on her belly, tracing the curve.

"Una niña," she says. Her voice triggers something old, some ancient memory you've suppressed. His voice in your ear, a soft kiss on your head. You're sitting there, next to the little girl that he always wanted, haunted by the flood of memories that comes with looking at another woman's pregnant belly.

"You're not like the others. Aren't men supposed to want sons?" you teased him. Miguel snorted, his arm underneath your neck as he gazed up at a sky of glittering stars. The air was lightly warm, a light wind fluttering through the tall grass. Post-relation bliss was warm on his skin, peaceful and quiet.

"For what? Men are jealous of sons," he muttered, shifting his head to kiss the top of your head. "Little girls are... the light in their lives. I'm going to call mine Gabriella. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"That's a real pretty name."

"Sure is. ¿por qué?"

You didn't tell him why. That you hid a secret underneath the layers of your dress. A secret that you knew Miguel would have more than an issue with if he knew.

"Mamá?" Gabi shakes your arm, "Mamá we're next."

Your mind likes to pull mean tricks on you.

Wanted for double murder.

Miguel O’Hara was always somewhere between a hangman’s knot and three mouths to feed. For you, the latter. You were under no illusion of the sort of man Miguel was.

Every look at your daughter’s soft, peaceful face at night reminded you of him. You worried that the more she looked at posters of Miguel, peered into an artist’s rendition of Miguel’s slight, sultry eyes, lush lips, and strong jaw-- she might be able to locate the similarities when she looked at herself. That was why you had to take the flyer from her. The artist sure had a fine hand at drawing him, the man who danced in your dreams by a warm fire and stayed up late counting the stars. He’s gotten thicker, you thought. You sat on the rocking chair as she slept peacefully, rocking back and forth on the chair.

A violent knocking at the front door swept you free from your thoughts. You snatched up the silver lantern, yanked a fine ivory rebozo over your shoulders, and rushed down the stairs. The booming knocking became louder, more urgent. The movement was mechanical, with no husband to answer the door for you, you checked the window first. The man who stood there was not a man you’d want to see. Not now, not back then. He had a wicked face that sat beneath a wide-brimmed hat that obscured the balding spot on top of his head.

God, not him. He was obsessed.

“Buenas noches, Doña O’Hara,” he peeped into the window.

“Bendito, don’t call me that,” you rushed out, the heavy wooden door slamming to a close behind you. “I’ve told you already, he is not here.”

“And I don’t believe you. First, your man-loving husband dies. Next, sightings of Miguel a town over. ¿Qué piensas? Hm? What comes after that?”

“My husband was trampled, Aaron. By a bull. He was a hard-working man who worked with violent cattle. These accidents happen. Why don’t you ask the undertaker?”

He wouldn’t. Although you don’t think Aaron is a complete idiot, he surely has his own motivations for which leads to follow and which leads to ignore. Your husband’s death was one of them.

“I’ll tell you what comes next. You come next. It’s only logical that he would come back to you. You have his daughter and all. Or… does he not know about that? I seem to recall him running out of here like a bat outta hell.”

“You’ve checked my property three times. Barn, basement, home. It’s been nine years, Aaron. Gloria a Dios, he’s probably remarried and forgotten me by now.”

“Not according to my reports.”

You hate the twinge of delight that comes from that admission. Your cheeks warm with blood, highlighting the rouge that sits across your cheeks. He chuckles caustically at how easily it shuts you up. Aaron takes a step forward, his deep leather boots creaking along the aged floorboards.

“What’d you want me to do with that information?”

“If he comes to see you, and I know he will,” he reached out for your chin. Your hand connects with his, shoving him back. “Tell me. You know, it’s a crime to kill another man without good cause.”

“You wanna catch Miguel for your own reasons, Aaron. Don’t bring none of that holier-than-thou bullshit to my footstep.”

“She can curse,” he laughs again. “Here I thought you were a good Christian woman.”

“Don’t try me,” He tries to corral you against the door. You flip your skirts up, his eyes following the motion. You seize the handgun strapped to your thigh, threatening to pull it on him. Aaron slides back, holding his calloused hands up. "Get off my property."

“I’m just saying. If you see him, you know where to find me. Who knows, you and I could work a lil something out.”

Even if you knew where he was, you would be hard-pressed to turn him into Aaron Delgado. You knew Miguel O’Hara would kill him. So, really, it was for his good. You watched him beat down the squeaky steps and mount his horse, fading into the distance of dark, twinkly stars. You probably shouldn’t be praying that robbers got ahold of him.

But only Diosito could judge you for that.

You dipped down to pick the lantern up, stepping off the steps to ensure that he was not just off your property, but properly gone. Then, seeing him set off toward town, you gazed up at the deep night sky. It was littered with an abundance of stars, massive and twinkling brilliantly. Miguel’s favorite constellations shone brightly in the sky. The Anglo called it-- Orion’s belt. Around here, it was named for the hunter: the deer, the pronghorn, and the sheep. You count each of the stars on your way back indoors to sleep in your empty bed.

You prayed Aaron’s hunt would be fruitless that night.

With your husband's untimely death came several complex decisions. Namely, what to do with his cattle hands and the animals under your care. You were fortunate enough to have support from the community in caring for the cattle, but you knew human affection did not last forever. You could sell his property at a scam of a price as a woman or you could keep it and work bitterly on the farm.

Or, as Aaron suggested today in the cover of concern, you could remarry yet again. It was nearly the only good option. Working wasn’t sustainable when you had a little girl to raise and a whole host of children to teach, as you always had. It would be nearly impossible to find someone like your dearly departed husband who knew your situation and couldn’t care less about it.

It’s good for a lil girl to have a father, he says. You know that-- but Aaron should be no one’s father. Not Gabriella’s. Miguel would’ve never approved. Neither did you.

You loosened beads of sweat from your hair as you returned inside, the ends of your skirt matted with dust. Gabriella would return home from school soon and you were fully intent on feeding her a slice of fresh peach pie.

You made your way into your home, your boots between your fingers. The smell of a smoky hearth piqued your attention. It didn’t arise from your great big wood stove that sat against the wall, ready to cook fresh tortillas, but the sort of hearth settled in the deep outdoors.

“Dios mío.”

Miguel sat there, plain as a field flower. His fingers tapped over the heavy wooden table, rolling in succession. He’s older than you remember-- jaw peppered with dark facial hair, his hair dark and wild, set away from his kind eyes that caught yours as quickly as you caught his. You dropped your boots at your feet, backing up once, twice.

“Don’t run, you won't get far,” his voice trilled, low and warm. Beside his sombrero on the table sat a thick rope and his gun, you don’t want to know which one he was planning to use today. His head twisted, a mused smile growing on his face. “You look so surprised, amor. You had to know I was coming.”

The nickname cut more than it used to. You had not been someone’s amor in a very long time. Married strictly by the weight of paper, you don’t exactly recall what the fleeting emotion of love felt like. Wisps of it licked a dead flame to life in your stomach.

“Miguel.”

“You look gorgeous,” Miguel hummed, turning his impossibly broad arms one over the other. You don’t remember him being this thick. He lurches onto his leather boots, taking a few practiced steps closer. Brilliant, you think, you’ve languished years thinking of this moment just to smell of sweat and cow shit. You suppose he’s smelled worse as an outlaw, a name that doesn’t quite fit the handsome man before you.

“You were always a bad liar.”

“Look, not smell.”

“My point stands,” you say.

Your normally practiced updo has gone frizzy, bits of hair escaping the clips that kept it flat against your head. Miguel’s eyes flickered over the strands, then down to your skin flush with blood and exhaustion.

“Mine too.”

You stared at him a moment longer before you found yourself laughing, just a light-- a small thing that you had failed to do over the past week. His death, and the subsequent funeral, was all too miserable. Now he was here and for a moment, just a brief thing, everything didn’t feel so earth-shatteringly dire.

He cracks a smile, drawing his hand to your flyaways, soothing it down against your head. You should be more angry at him-- settling you with a baby like he did and disappearing into the long grass with Widow and not a word more.

“I missed you,” you said quietly. His hand falls away from your head, drifting past his dark blue vest, and hooking at the fat metal belt buckle. “Pero… why are you here?”

“I heard Peter passed,” he said in a practiced tone. “I was a few towns over. Seeing how he’s taken good care of you all these years, I dropped in to say my dues to him. Came to see my girl too.”

The grief may not be readable in his eyes, but you know he’s practiced it in the same way you did for your Gabriella. Her only daddy was gone, deep in the cold earth. His words echoed in your ears, cutting through your grief bright and resonant. You wonder if he knew, but logically, you knew he couldn’t. Miguel always wanted to be a father.

“Who’d that be?”

“You,” Miguel turns your name over, making your name sound beautiful and light on his tongue. It’s sweet, like the peach pie cooling in your aged windows.

“After all these years?"

"Claro."

"You... shouldn't be here. You’re a wanted man,” you said. “Aaron is looking for you. You know that, right?”

“He's nothing to be concerned about.” Miguel shrugged off your suggestion. "I'm only wanted in these parts."

“Where else is there?” you said

“Out West. South. You take your pick,” Miguel lifted his hand, tracing your parched lower lip. “It don't matter to me. I seen all manner of places, like it here more than anywhere.”

"There's nothing here."

"Nothing but you."

You felt your stomach swoop, a delight filling it better than any meal you’d had. You parted your lips to say something else, to find a response that would fit-- to tell him the truth. But he left you then, came back when something fit better than the road. You wonder what fortune he must have made on the road that he’d come back. His hand caressed your cheek, rubbing it as if to soothe you. It didn’t.

“You think you can just go and come back like nothing happened? After what you did?”

The front door squeaked, dragging with a long hiss. Miguel peered over your shoulder as if it were instinctual, his hand snapping to the gun on his hip. You stopped him short of seizing his handgun. Gabriella bobbed in, closing the door tightly shut behind her. She wore a plain blue dress, fine ribbon braided in the updo she had on that day. She takes a few short steps forward before realizing who you were talking to.

“Mamá, I’m home!” she gasped. “That’s the man in the— in the flyer mamá--”

“Gabi go to your room.”

“I’m not--”

“Gabriella,” your voice went soft but stern. Nearly apologetic. You had been so hard on her lately. Miguel’s eyes dropped from Gabriella’s huge, doe-like eyes to her nose, then lips. His eyes sharpened, whipping back to look at you. “Por mí, okay? He won’t hurt me. Te prometo.”

She darted up the many steps to her room.

"Gabriella?" He stared at you uncomprehendingly. He quickly goes quiet, searching your eyes for something. You worry that he’s found the truth, your breath light as you walked over to your wooden stove, checking the flame and setting a pot of water that you brought from a nearby creek to bathe with. He follows you to the stove.

“My daughter is home. You should go,” you remarked, less of a command than a meek statement, floundering on your lips at the end. As delightful as it sounded, running off into some other territory, town, or world with Miguel-- it was unfeasible and irresponsible to be with a man whose name was stapled on the bulletin boards towns over.

“How old is she?”

"That's none of your business." Your outlaw hovers over you, absorbing the space, a bundle of heavy muscle and rage that plumes off his skin like the smell of sweat on your skin. It’s almost as if he can smell the regret seeping off your skin, despite knowing you couldn’t have done anything differently. No one told him and you could not reach him. Whatever the reason he stayed away, you were not the one he reached out to for updates.

“Tell me,” he growls, waves of anger causing his voice to shake. The tone is heartless, empty of the nights together, of slipping off with the old cattle hand at night and day, in the barn and the field. You’re stuck in the memory of your lovemaking with your vaquero, now your outlaw man. You missed him.

“Don’t do this. She could be listening.” You pad away from the stove to the window with the hope that he wouldn’t follow. He backs you up into the wall, his calloused hands so tight on his belt that you could draw lines of tension through his veins.

“You're not telling me because she’s mine,” he’s whispering, the words going through your chest, fizzling out into terrible pain. He reaches out, squeezing your hips to keep you put. Miguel leans into your space and buries you in his overwhelming scent.

“What do you want me to say?” you stare at his prominent muscles, the shift that is thrown open to expose his skin. He cups your jaw and throat with his large hand, forcing you to confront the truth. Your eyes blink closed, bits of tears dripping there. Miguel doesn’t have the patience for pity, or empathy, whichever the two you were looking for right then.

“I want you to tell me the truth. It's not hard.”

“Me telling you the truth changes a whole lot of nothing. You're putting her life at risk just being here. You're an outlaw,” you say, trying his rapidly evaporating patience. "You got a bounty on your head."

"It changes it all," he shoves you back into the window, a choked cry slipping from your throat. He doesn’t mean to hurt you, he meant to have the truth. Distantly, you were aware of Gabriella’s feet beating down the steps. You’re relatively certain she’d never gone all the way up to her room. In this creaky house you would have heard her door shut, the floorboards bounce. In either case, there’s no point running away from what you both know to be true.

“Sí, she’s your daughter,” you mustered the words in a bid to get it over with. Miguel always had to get his way. “Now what?”

Miguel flicked a look over his shoulder, marked by the heavy drag of his weighted firearm skidding across the wooden table. A life on the run will do that. Gabriella’s tiny hands slipped around his handgun.

“That ain't true!”

“Gabriella,” you cut her short. “Gabi, bebe, put that down.”

Miguel took a step back, pulling his head back slightly as you shifted in front of him. Her tiny head shook, over and over, tears pricking her bright brown eyes. You fooled yourself into thinking that she wouldn’t listen-- because your Gabi was a good girl. A wonderful good girl who liked nothing more but running in the field with the boys and brightly colored ribbons laced into her braids. She was also a mischievous girl who had been trying really, really hard to be good for you this week. Children had their limits.

“My papá is dead,” she said, her fingers trembling about the thing. Miguel’s head tilted in response, expecting you to take care of it. “His name was Peter and-- he liked sunsets and fluffy chocolate calves and--”

“Badly made blankets,” Miguel said lowly. Gabi lowered the gun, slowly, just an inch or two. “Shorn fabrics, uneven stitching, ugly colors.”

“He liked to make you smile-- be helpful,” he added. You snapped to look at Miguel as he rose his hand to his hips, gazing at the floor and rocking. He waits another moment, noting how Gabriella’s head nodded, rubbing away the tears that dripped off the corner of her eyes with her shoulder. She set the gun down on the table.

“You knew my papá?” she turns her arms one over another. “How?”

“He was my friend.”

“Mamá?” she looked toward you, seeking an answer from someone who wasn’t a face on a wanted paper with a reward of 2099 dollars.

“Peter was your papá but-- Miguel is your padre, mija,” you breathed hard, exhausted from years of suppression. She looks at you, not used to this level of betrayal. Her eyes are distant, somewhere in her tiny memories. She whips around and runs out the back door. Miguel turns his eye out the window, her tiny body disappearing into the deep green fields. The sun blinds your eyes as you look out to the fields full of cattle. He reaches for his rope and gun, settling them in their respective places.

“¡Déjala! She needs time alone.”

He heads out the backdoor. He never did listen well.

#miguel o'hara oneshot #miguel o'hara x you #miguel ohara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel ohara oneshot #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara/reader #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spider 2099 x reader #spiderman imagine #spiderman imagines #atsv miguel imagine #atsv imagine #atsv x you #atsv imagines #atsv x reader #atsv fanfiction

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cirrus-ghoulette · 4 months

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Thinking about how the four Papas react to being given a baby to hold.

Primo: He's actually the best out of the four when it comes to kids. After all, he basically raised Secondo and Terzo. Their own father was far too... Busy.

He'll gladly hold a baby. He likes holding them. If he sees a sibling of sin that's a new parent and they're struggling in the hallways of the Ministry while also holding their baby, he'll carefully pluck the baby out of their arms (with the parent's permission, of course), and hold them until the sibling is sorted out.

"Let me hold them for a second while you get sorted out, Suora. These baby carriages, they are so fiddly, hm? Hello, little one..."

Rocking slowly in place and humming to the baby. Making the baby wave at any other siblings who walk past.

Loves having Old Man Naps in his armchair with a baby rested on his chest. Grumbles that he was just resting his eyes whenever someone wakes him.

Secondo: Doesn't hate babies, but he won't go out of his way to hold one either.

He waits until someone places a baby in his arms instead of him volunteering to hold a baby.

For some reason, babies seem to love his nose and they will grab at it the second he's holding them.

Looks VERY grumpy while holding the baby. Gotta keep the tough guy exterior up. Smiles down at the baby and gently tickles their tummy when no one's watching.

Terzo: Nope. Do NOT hand him a baby. He will actively go "Nonononono-" while someone tries to put the baby in his arms.

To him, babies are gross and sticky and always weirdly moist. He holds babies at arm's length when he's given one to hold. If you ever want to see Terzo looking terrified, just place a crying baby in his arms and ask him to settle them for you.

He has to leave the room while a baby's diaper is being changed or he will gag completely unironically. He gets so grossed out by it.

He tries to leave Unholy Baptisms to his brothers. Holding a baby is uncomfortable enough for him, having to hold a baby while wearing his good robes, then dunking it in water, then having to hold a wet, slippery, crying baby is Terzo's worst nightmare.

He's a little better with kids once they exit the sticky, drooly stage.

Copia: He's... Interesting, when it comes to babies.

Like Secondo, he doesn't volunteer to hold babies. Like Terzo, he panics as soon as they're lifted into his arms, but... He has this weird skill where babies seem to settle as soon as they're placed in his arms.

You can give him a colicing baby to hold and he'll have them settled within two minutes flat. Just by holding them and talking to them.

He's very humble about it, too. And he doesn't know how he does it. Babies just like him.

Likes to walk around with babies and point stuff out to them. Gently places his biretta on their head, even though it's far too big for him. Definitely has a baby puke stain down the back of at least one of his cassocks that he can't seem to get out, no matter what he does.

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trippingontheescalator · 5 months

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Snape Headcanons

He's bad at geography. Sure, he knows this super rare, obscure potion ingredient can only be found in this one area in Laos, but ask him to find Laos on a map he won't have a clue. There was a time he dreamed about seeing world, but he quickly realized he would never get the opportunity and so doesn't see any purpose in learning geography.

A lot of the Marauders' claims about him, like knowing curses as a first year, are exaggerated, but the one thing they're right about is Snape was very nosy. Part of it was because it was useful; knowledge is power, after all. He could trade gossip with his fellow Slytherins, or use it to keep one step ahead of the Marauders (or taunt them with it). But most of it is just his natural curiosity. He's a people watcher. He doesn't often understand people, is bad at human interaction, so he watches from a distance.

Severus knows half the first years think he's some sort of vampire and he revels in it. He knows exactly the kind of image he creates, dressing up in those long black, swishing robes, the spooky dungeons with the jars full of animal body parts. His taste is 33% Mad-Scientist-Run-Amuck, 33% Sad-Victorian-Boy-Dying-of-Tuberculosis, 33% Tacky-Post-Halloween-Discounted-Decor, and 1% Lucius's-Increasing-Despair-to-Make-Severus-Into-a-Functional-Human-Being.

In addition to potions and reading, Severus also does a lot of writing. He's been working on-and-off on a novel since he was fifteen. At this point, it's almost 500,000 words long. One of the few ways he's able to express his thoughts and feelings is through fiction. The main character was heavily based on Lily, especially in the early stages when they were still friends, but as he grew older he put more of himself into the character and now she's become the version of himself he wishes he could be. The night before he kills Dumbledore he burns the entire thing.

Severus knows the DADA position is cursed. Everyone knows it's cursed. He still asks to teach it every year because he also knows that it's the only way he can escape Hogwarts, and he's willing to risk death to do it.

His feelings for Lily have gone through the entire spectrum. At times, she was a sister to him, especially the years before Hogwarts. He used to be incredibly jealous of Petunia, wished he could be Lily's sibling and live in their house and have their parents. It became romantic as a young teenager, especially since she was the only person he felt safe enough with for his pubescent mind to fixate on and explore his budding sexuality. Later, as he became friends with the other Slytherins in his year, it was strictly platonic but nonetheless a very deep friendship. They were both trying to control the other, and Severus was especially worried that Lily would end up like Eileen if she gave into Potter's charms. After his failed apology, he grew angry and resentful and he tried very much to hate her (but he couldn't, not even after she married Potter). And then, after her death, it circled back around to brotherly. He liked to remember those early years best of all, and his devotion to a better cause after her death parallels that of Dumbledore's after Ariana died.

Look I know there's a lot of confusion about godparents, and HP didn't help by being coy about religion, but a godparent isn't a legally appointed guardian. Like, they definitely can be if the parents want that (as it appears to be the case with Sirius Black), but that's not the default. A godparent sponsors a child's baptism and is in charge of their spiritual upbringing, making sure they know their catechism, etc (hence the god part of godparent, its a Catholic/Anglican thing). And the most widespread religion in HP does seem to be Christianity with Christmas being celebrated and whatnot (though I do headcanon the purebloods have their own Druidic/Christian hybrid religion going on). With that being said-- Severus Snape is Draco's godfather. He's also Merula Snyde's godfather. And Pansy Parkinson's godfather. And, like, the godfather of 10 other kids of former Death Eaters. Severus Snape climbed the Death Eater ladder; he was one of Voldemort's favourites during the First War and these other Death Eaters were like, "Damn. I got to get on his good side. Please sponsor my child's baptism."

#severus snape #pro snape #pro severus snape #snapedom

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hozierandco · 8 months

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Callum Turner x Reader - The match-maker (Pt. 2)

AN: Second part to a fic I published yesterday in which Callum Turner and Reader meet through Austin Butler, a friend they have in common. Requested.

If you have any requests, feel free to send them to me xx

TW: none. Kinda fluffy, no smut.

If you're interested in pt. 3, lmk. Ok, byeee

Arriving in New York was a surreal experience for Y/N and she was glad to be met by Austin and Kaia. The two of them looked like lovebirds and it would have made Y/N sick with sentimentality if it had been anyone else than them. She was longing for a healthy and stable relationship and was only glad her best friend had found the one.

Y/N knew she had one shot of making things right and that she was not allowed any mistake during the Gala. Not only for her career but also for her friend’s reputation if she failed him. Austin knew that Y/N was capable of great things and only had to trust herself. If anything, the Gala was her baptism by fire and a great way to give his friend the confidence she had lost in herself.

Plus, he knew that she was about to meet Callum and was beyond thrilled to see them together. He was certain it would be a match.

“Alright, I need to prepare myself for the big day tomorrow”, Y/N declared after having spent most of the day in the city with Austin and Kaia. Together, they had been to the Guggenheim, Central Park and the Brooklyn Museum. It had been an exhausting but satisfying day and Y/N was now more ready than ever to craft her portfolio.

She woke up the next day wishing she could have slept longer but since it was Met Gala day, lots of things were to be done before the evening would arrive. Thank God, Austin had thought everything through to make her the most comfortable possible and had secured a spot for her in the first rows of the red carpet. She could then afford to arrive later at the Metropolitan Museum.

She fixed her many cameras, making sure she had battery and film rolls tidied up nice and clean in her bag when Austin texted her.

Her phone showed her what the guy she had saved as Orange County Boy in her contacts had to say:

7:21 am - “Ready 4 tonite?”

Him too had woken up early to get ready.

7:21 am - “Readier than everrrr. What about you two?”

7:24 am - “You bet we r! Kaia and I r having a party afterwards. You should come”

By sending that, Austin prayed everything he could pray on that she would accept as Callum had already let him know that he would join in.

7:32 am - “Yeah, sounds good. If I’m not dead with exhaustion or fangirling by then”

7:34 am - “Haha, even half-dead, you better get there!”

Once she had everything she needed sorted out, Y/N exited her Airbnb on the 11th Street to get some breakfast. In a few hours time, she was going to see all the celebrities she had dreamt of seeing. There would be Anna Wintour of course but she was mostly daydreaming of taking pictures of Jessica Chastain, Blake Lively and Alicia Keys. The fact that she would be first row was a golden opportunity.

By 2 pm, Y/N headed to the Metropolitan Museum and found her spot. She was escorted by people who were talking and acting as though she was the new Annie Leibovitz. Was it her Givenchy dress that she had borrowed from Kaia or her self-assured walk that gave the impression that she was famous? She could not have said but it sure felt good.

And then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye (though that was a couple hours in fact), the first people grazed the carpet. People from Vogue at first, and then a handful of random models before the A-list made their way.

Y/N noticed Vanessa Hudgens that she had known very well a few years back but had grown distant since. Vanessa reached out for her and greeted her amicably as she recognised her in the cloud of photographers which made a huge impression amongst Y/N’s peers.

When Austin and Kaia entered the scene, Y/N was beyond excited and could not stop taking pictures of them. The night followed that way and soon enough, all of her cameras were full. The batteries could not take any more picture which coincided with the end of the night.

The photographers were asked to leave and Y/N thought of getting a drink somewhere with some other photographers she had met while waiting for Austin and Kaia’s party to begin.

“Girl, you were on fire tonight!”, a 30-ish year-old woman told her as the photographers started debriefing about the evening and voting for the best-dressed celebrity.

“Yeah, who are you even working for?”, another guy around 25 asked.

“Uh, well, no one in fact. I’m trying to make my way up”

“And you got into the Met Gala? Damn, that’s impressive”

Y/N had made her promise to herself never to mention her friendship with Austin as a safety net towards her friend and because she did not wish to be known as the “friend of”. So she decided not to reply.

It was fun to be surrounded by peers who had so many anecdotes to tell about working in the industry. Y/N surprised herself laughing along with them and she made up her mind that Blake Lively was the best-dressed when she noticed it was 11:18 pm which meant the party had started about 20 minutes ago at Loeb Boathouse, a restaurant in Central Park that Austin and Kaia had privatised.

Y/N called it quits on the photographers and walked her way to the restaurant. She instantly regretted choosing the Givenchy dress Kaia suggested for her. Straight from the Spring collection of 2018, it was a long black dress with a wide collar and a bow in the back. It was absolutely magnificent but not the most practical thing to be wearing, especially at night and in a gigantic park.

She arrived by 11:30 at the party, much to Austin’s relief that was wearing a tuxedo and a large grin on his face, far too happy to be hosting both a party and a surprise for his best friend. She greeted him and his girl for the second time of the evening and was shown to a table where food had just been served.

Coming back from the bar, Callum was trying to find an available seat when Austin reached out for him and indicated where he could sit. Right next to Y/N. He noticed a beautiful woman he thought he had seen somewhere before. He had to know more about her.

She was looking like a Celtic goddess, he thought with her hair descending and shimmering as the light crashed on it. With her classy black dress, he could only presume she was a celebrity too and he then tried to force his memory to remember a name, to no avail. The woman seated next to her was so splendid in fact that, though he was craving to talk to her, he felt himself blushing like a schoolboy. Being an actor and not knowing your pick-up line, you could not make it up!

Y/N made space for the man sitting next to her, recognising him in the blink of an eye to be Austin’s friend and colleague he had talked so much about. Though she never truly listened to Austin’s attempts to set the two up together, she was much obliged to admit that he might have been right to even try match-making.

Callum Turner was indeed a very elegant man besides being good-looking. His aquamarine eyes had something of a malicious air which made her imagine him to be a kind soul and considering he had become a good friend to Austin, he must have been this kind-hearted being. She felt immediately some comfort in his company, which she had not felt in ages while surrounded by men.

She did not feel intimidated by his 6’1 stature nor his assured walk as they were balanced by a gentle and wide smile on his face. She dared starting a conversation as she could catch a glimpse of him eyeing her.

“Hi, I’m Y/N. You must be Callum, right?”

“Hi, that’s right! So nice to meet you. You were in a film, weren’t you?”

Y/N chuckled at the idea of being an actress and even more so of giving the impression of being one. “Oh no, I would be a terrible actress. I’m a photographer and also a childhood friend to Austin”

Callum laughed along at the confusion “Gosh, I’m sorry. It’s just the dress and you look, well, drop dead gorgeous” And the blush appeared back on his cheeks and was soon followed by the same tint on Y/N’s. After having said that, he realised who she was and why she was so familiar. Austin had talked about her earlier and had even shown some pictures of them at prom and other moments of their early adulthood.

She was even more of a beauty than what the photographs made it to be, he thought.

“You’re not bad-looking yourself”, Y/N commented after a few seconds.

From afar, Austin looked at the two introducing themselves, knowing the deal was closed.

“So, tell me, what drove you to photography?”, Callum inquired while not being able to take his eyes off Y/N.

“I guess I’ve always wanted to show another version of nature and people than what could be seen in magazines. Having someone pose for you or waiting for a certain light to come up in a forest does not interest me. I want to capture what makes a person different from another or why a certain setting is going to move you or not. Well, tonight was a little different than usual but it was fun somehow”

“You took pictures tonight? What photographs did you -”, Callum stopped mid-sentence, connecting the dots between the after-party he was a part of and Y/N’s activity and had to ask as Y/N seemed to nod at him “No way! You were on the red carpet?”

Y/N nodded once more, still not down from the experience she had gone through that evening.

“Wow, that’s amazing! Congrats on that! How was the whole thing?”

“Exhausting”, Y/N admitted, which Callum could only relate to. Himself was not the biggest fan of red carpets, nor after-parties. But at this instant, he did not regret attending Austin and Kaia’s get-together and laughed along with her. How long had it been since he had not laughed and had genuine fun with a woman?

“But I guess you’ve got plenty of things to say about red carpets for yourself”, Y/N hinted. She loved his London accent which was music to her ears and her laugh was the purest thing she had heard in a while.

“Tell me about it! I’m a real mess when it comes to those. There was this one time I nearly tripped on Judi Dench at the Bafta ceremony. I was running late which is something I’m really good at. So I’m running for my life to get on that carpet, right. Well, I saw the cameras and all but I did not see Dame Judi Dench and I just lowkey rushed into her as she was getting in the theatre”

“Stop, you mean you had a pile-up with M from the James Bond films? How did she even react?”

“She was the nicest about it. Mind you, I was 24. It was one of my very first award shows. I think she just noticed just how silly I had been to even try running on a carpet. I was unable to stop apologising to her but she was an angel”

After having discussed for over 30 minutes, interrupted here and there by the dishes served, the guests were taken to another room without tables and with enough space to dance the night away.

A playlist made of Taylor Swift, Marina and KC and the Sunshine band started blasting in the room, soon enough filling it with dancing actors and singers. Callum suggested Y/N and he could enjoy the tunes too. He took her hand and the two of them got to dancing.

With the light emanating from the stroboscopes, Y/N was a shooting star. Her black dress twirled so nicely as she moved her body to the rhythm given. Callum could not stop looking at her while dancing along.

Callum had this look of having done that all his life. He moved so lightly on the floor, with a composed pace and glistening eyes.

“You look amazing when you dance”, Y/N whispered in Callum’s ear as the song ended, morphing into a new song.

“And you look amazing overall”, Callum replied. “You’re so beautiful I think I could kiss you right now”

Of course, it was mostly the alcohol speaking as Callum said that and he instantly regretted having said that outloud. As he was wishing she had not heard what he had just said, he felt a warmth on his lips. The warmth was a soft kiss placed with all the tenderness in the world.

After the shared kiss, the two of them went back to their dancing but this time, they got closer. Y/N’s sensual moves rushed Callum to grasp her waist and joining in, echoing her moves with his hands on her wiggling body. With the soft fabric of her dress under his hands, Callum felt like kissing her once more and in her ears said “I really want to kiss you right now, would that be okay?”

“Callum, we’ve just made out in front of everyone. Of course, I’m okay with that”

More kisses added up to the list and the song ended once more. “Let’s go somewhere more quiet”, Y/N suggested and the two of them got back to the first room where they had met.

In that room, Callum was all hands on Y/N, not being able to resist the tension anymore. “Would you like to see the pictures I took back to my place?”, Y/N questioned, feeling like the end of the night could well go somewhere unplanned but nice.

#callum turner x reader #callum turner #fluff #fanfic #austin butler as side character #met gala 2022 #parallel universe #fiction

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tanadrin · 1 year

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(Note: this is all totally non-rigorous free association)

Famously, the King James Version of the Bible translates Exodus 22:18 as "thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." This is one of those translations, though, that has suffered for passing through multiple different cultural lenses over the textual history of Exodus. Alternate modern translations say things like "put to death any woman who does evil magic," "*wizards* thou shalt not suffer to live," or even "whoever has sexual relations with an animal must be put to death."

In the Septuagint, the underlying word is translated φάρμακος; despite the connotation of the English word, a masculine noun; the word is associated with magical arts in general, but is *especially* associated with poison. It's from φάρμακον, a word which can mean either "poison" or "drug," and is the origin of "pharmacy." Greek had a rich vocabulary for the supernatural: an older and more general word seems to be γοητεία, "charm, jugglery, sorcery," from γόης, "sorcerer, wizard, juggler, cheat." That it includes in its semantic field the concept of sleight-of-hand shows that mundane deception is countenanced as a possible explanation for claims of magical power, which no doubt contributes to the dim social reception of magic, but also shows a neat symmetry with the modern concept of the stage magician, whom we publicly acknowledge as really being just a particular kind of illusionist and entertainer. Another Greek word for magic is, well, μάγος, the source of the English word, ultimately a borrowing from Old Persian maguš. A maguš was simply a priest of Mazda in the old Zoroastrian religion; the word is of uncertain etymology, but its connotations in Greek arise from crediting a Greek mythical version of Zoroaster with the invention of magic and astrology, showing us that perhaps orientalism of one sort or another has long been part of European traditions of the occult. There is also θαυματουργία, "wonder-working, doing miracles, wizardry."

But the Septuagint word choice is an odd one; as I understand it, the actual underlying lexical item is מְכַשֵּׁפָה/mekhashefah, the feminine form of מְכַשֵּׁף/mekhashef. The root of this word seems to be כשף/KH-SH-F, which has been glossed various ways. One gloss I find particularly interesting is "cut." Kenneth Kitchen links this etymology to the cutting of herbs; thus, a mekhashef is a kind of herbalist, and the context, as with pharmakos, is the fear of poisons--the feminine form might also make sense here, as it seems plausible that just as in our modern society, poisoning was a more reliable tool for killing for women than for men, for whom the possibility of physically overpowering their enemies was less likely.

But I think it's interesting to note other ways in which magic is about division and breaking. Though in modern fantasy a "warlock" is either just a generic wicked sorcerer, or a summoner of demons, the word comes from Old English wǣrloga ("promise-deceiver"), a deceiver, a breaker of oaths. A warlock is thus someone who dissolves social ties, or even betrays their baptismal vows by making an unholy vow, an un-promise, to Satan himself. The English "witch" comes from the Old English wiċċa or wiċċe (masculine and feminine forms respectively), from Proto-Germanic *wikkô, "sorcerer, necromancer," from the verb *wikkōną, "to practice sorcery." One likely derivation of *wikkōną is the Proto-Indo-European stem *weyk-, "to separate, to divide, to choose." This may be a reference to cleromancy, the casting of lots; many ancient words for magic link together fortunetelling of various kinds (the second element in words like "necromancy" and "cleromancy" is ancient Greek μᾰντείᾱ, "divination, prophecy, fortune-telling), but here again the concept of separation appears in a way that is difficult to ignore.

The Romans, like the Greeks, looked east for their wisdom, and were also obsessed with divination in particular, so their words for magic are often borrowed from Greek, or concern forms of fortune-telling in particular: haruspicina, the inspection of entrails; the genius or numen, language of spiritual presence and will (the latter not dissimilar to the mana of Polynesia); auspicium, the interpretation of omens, especially the flights of birds. Perhaps other kinds of magic invoked skepticism: Pliny argues that, except possibly in the making of potions (the Romans, no less than the Greeks and the Hebrews, knew that the right herbs could kill!), most claims of magic were simply lies--though there was little harm in apotropaic wards to set the mind at ease. Apuleius granted the existence of spirits and demons, and both Augustus and Constantine worried enough about magic to try to suppress its practice.

In Sanskrit, magic was apparently sometimes called इन्द्रजाल/indrajala, "Indra's net," a metaphor for emptiness, a word that foregrounds the idea of fraud and illusion. Similarly, the word माया/maya means "magic," but also "illusion," being in that way akin to the English notion of glamour found in fairy-stories. There is also possibly semantic overlap with German Zauber, whose meaning is "magic," but which is etymologically connected to Old English tēafor, "to paint [a picture]," and Icelandic töfrar, "enchantment." (Icelandic also has galdur, "sorcery," but also "[conjuring] trick.") Chinese offers the root 魔/mo2, which according to Wiktionary is from Sanskrit मार/mara, "death, pestilence;" in Chinese it takes on theurgic qualities: "devil, demon, magic, the unnatural, crazy," depending on the context it's found in: 魔羅, a kind of Buddhist demon; 魔術, "magic," as in an illusion imitating the supernatural; 瘋魔, "to be insane, to be fascinated by, to be enchanted by," a concept of obsessive madness shared in other cultures, including our own.

A full cross-cultural, historical comparison of words pertaining to magic is far beyond my capabilities, of course; but exploring current in the vocabulary and historical development of words around magic is interesting so far as it peels back the thick systematizing, empirical layer within our culture and helps us glimpse how these ideas functioned in the past. Nowadays, magic is often prototypically the magic of high fantasy: it is systematic, little more than a flashy kind of science, even if it is one accessed through mental discipline rather than mechanical instruments. Magic is patterned, stable, fundamentally knowable, because we are so thoroughly grounded in systems of knowledge that understand the whole world as patterned and knowable that we cannot imagine anything else. We redefine magic in ways that simplify it down to nothing: to be little more than abstract spiritual practice, moral therapeutic deism with countercultural window-dressing, or to mean nothing more than simply acting on the world. But is that really in keeping with the spirit of the thing, as it is has been imagined for most of history?

Magic is about many things. It is about division: discrimination, separation, cutting. Cutting the body of the sacrifice, to prod at its bloody insides; cutting breath from a living victim; cutting off the sacred from the unholy, and vice-versa. It is about speaking, chanting, singing, the form and the performance of words. It is about writing (itself a word which means to cut or carve into something). It is about deception: lies in pursuit of status or money, lies to avoid culpability for murder, lies about secret knowledge. It is about feeling oneself inhabiting a world filled with intentional beings, beings with a will and nature unknown and perhaps unknowable to you. Spirits of the dead, of the air, and of the wild world; the genius loci, the demon, the hungry ghost. It of a world when the night could claim real darkness, when the stars were forever an inscrutable mystery, and when the terrifying unknown could intrude into your life at a moment's notice. Even modern occultism feels like a nonsensical imitation of the past, with emphasis on benign enlightenment or spiritual growth, when ancient magic was rife with murder, curses, treachery, and simple human greed. The huckster fortune-teller, who cynically defrauds their customrs, is closer to the spirit of magic than the observant neo-pagan.

We are mostly too sure of ourselves, and too confident in our ability to understand even that which is at first horrifying and inexplicable, to really replicate the feeling of that kind of magic. A world in which that kind of magic is possible is a world in which the last few centuries of philosophy and epistemology and science are shown to be so profoundly wrong that we are left with nothing but naive superstition and fear. Or else, it is a world where all these basic forms of inquiry that we take for granted simply do not work--because if they did work, we would be back in our own comforting, familiar world, a world of rationalism and enlightenment, albeit perhaps with a few of the phenomenological incidentals changed. I wonder if it is really possibly anymore for us to tell stories in the mode of that older world. With the exception of certain kinds of horror, I don't really know of anything that comes close.

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elbiotipo · 2 months

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Workbuilding Fundamentalist question: when it comes to dates, times and calendars in a fantasy setting where do you stand? I'm always conflicted as a writer just because changing the length of a year or what all the months are called all makes sense given that most fantasy worlds aren't earth and because every month is named after a person or deity and our calendar has been changed like 7 times in the real world. And yet I don't want to throw all this extra work at the reader.

Example I have a gas dwarf planet with like, winderwaker islands poking out above the gaseous ocean what people live on. And there's only 4 months in a year there so a 64 year old is still a teenager and it just seems like a lot to make someone keep track of.

First of all, very cool setting, I love islands among the clouds! Now, this is actually something I've given a lot of thought into, and might become a real concern if humanity goes to other planets.

There's, for example, an opening line of a Heinlein novel (IIRC) where a girl says she's 10 years old and thus old enough to marry, which is true, on Mars (the year is 687 days there). There is no reason, if one is designing a new planet, or even finding one IRL, to expect it to have the same day and year lenght to Earth, not even close. Mars with 21 hours is pretty close, but the length of our year and day is really just a cosmic coincidence. You could easily have an reasonably earth-like planet with shorter years (because it's closer to its star, or just revolves faster), or longer days or years.

However, very few fictional settings bother with this, and it's not hard to see why, you can have all sorts of exotic additions to your setting, but to wrap our head through different lenghts of the year or the day is a bit too much. Even different week lenghts, which did exist on history, sound strange. There are all sorts of different fantasy and sci-fi calendars, but at the root, most authors operate with "Earth-time". I don't blame them, it is 'extra work' for some readers, and it's not easy to wrap our head around, it's easier to say "this is sort of an alternate Earth" and be done with it. Also, to lenghten or shortern the year or day might bring all sorts of consequences from ecology to climate that should be considered, otherwise it's just a lame gimmick in my opinion.

HOWEVER, it's still an interesting piece of worldbuilding to consider!

Calendars of a sort have existed since humans started to count seasons and days, but our current society where there are calendars and clocks everywhere is quite recent, actually. I'm sure you are aware of the different calendars besides the BCE-CE one was imposed as the standard, many cultures . But there are also different ways of counting years;. The classic one is seasons, farming societies of course need it the most but hunter-gatherers also follow and know the seasons. There is no reason at all for them to correspond to the "temperate" seasons (summer, fall, winter, spring). Dry and wet seasons, cold and summer, and other options are not only possible, but have actually been widespread on human history. I recommend reading on Wikipedia about seasons, especially the section about non-calendar based seasons.

Of course the above applies to pre-industrial civilizations where timekeeping isn't as widespread. But even in those, counting years and ages is treated differently. Birthdays, for example, don't exist in all cultures. Koreans still count age based on the Korean new year, not your birthday. Some medieval Christian celebrated on the feast of the saint they were named after (and there are lots of them) or IIRC, their baptism. And so, a culture as yours might use different ways of counting the age of a person, perhaps by more "qualitative" rituals than just counting the years (though I have a feeling they would quickly adapt to their own calendar). Much like I told you about different kinds of seasons for different climates, I imagine that in worlds where the years are too short (or too long) to really make sense for the average person, some other ways of counting time will prevail. For example, are there predictable climate cycles in your planet? Moons (lunar calendars are always fun)? I can assume your planet has shorter years because it's closer to your star (by any chance, did you base it on red-dwarf orbiting planets?), so perhaps you could use something regarding the very visible star to count time?

Like I said at the beginning, this will be a real concern when humanity expands through space, and there's even a bit of debate if the human body can adapt to such heavy changes on its circadian rhytm. In any case, my prediction is that there would be a "Earth time", that is, 24-hours day and 365 day year, that is kept as standard out of convenience and in spaceships and space habitats (in my own setting Campoestela, it's called "ship time" because human spaceships use it as standard) and lots of "local times" on different planets with all the quirks I mentioned above, with everyone going into space learning how to convert their own time to "Earth time". Or maybe, to make things even more fun and, admittedly, complicated to the reader, the time of another time is taken as a standard. There's lots to play with here.

DON'T even ask me about relativistic time (like in Interstellar) because it makes my head hurt, even if I did use it a couple times on my stories. But "ship time" might be a real thing. Some cultures might have completely different 'times', not calendars, actually *times*, depending on relativistic time delation.

BTW anon, sorry for using this to promote myself, but if anyone loved this rant and would like to see more, I would appreciate some tips on my ko-fi (given the situation down here, now more than ever) and suggestions for other topics to talk about!

#worldbuilding #calendars #writing

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darkgodcomplex · 11 months

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Reverend Wally

Wally X Reader

AO3 Link

Content Warning: Psychological Horror, Scopophobia, Religion and Religious Symbolism, Christianity, Demons

"Our father, who art in heaven-"

Hands clasped tightly together, you pray alone in front of the alter. It's far too late for anyone else to be here, but that is somehow more comforting in a time like this.

"-hallowed be Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven-"

You stare up at the large pillars of the church, the tall sharp architecture and the stained glass windows. If it were day, the windows would show the stations of the cross, going through the entirety of the crucifixion. Now though, they're only dark and hollow, the reflection of the candle's light on the surface mimicking eyes.

"Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses-"

Are you speaking to no one? Will no one answer your prayers?

"-as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation-"

You feel a warm hand curl around your shoulder. They recite the last line of the prayer in unison with you.

"-but deliver us from evil."

You whip your head around only to see Father Wally Darling smiling down at you. You're used to seeing him in his mass attire, but now he wears more casual clothes. The only indication that he's a reverend is the small cross he adorns around his neck.

"Father-"

"Why are you here so late, my child?" He asks, tilting his head. His eyes are soft and kind, just as you always remember them.

"I-" You look at the floor, then back to the alter. "Father... have you ever performed an exorcism?"

He freezes, then chooses his words carefully. "Why would you be getting mixed up in such dark things?"

"I fear there is a demon following me." You tell him, standing from your kneeling position. "Or some dark energy, in the least."

Wally runs a hand over his chin, his eyes trained to the floor. "These things don't just appear. Did you-" His eyes flick up. "-invite them in somehow?"

"I swear, I have been faithful to you and our church." You bow your head. "But lately I feel as if I've been watched. Even now, I can feel the eyes boring into me." You glance around the dim chapel. The statues, the paintings, even the knots in the floorboards are eyes staring into your soul.

"Of course you have been loyal to me, my child." He grips your chin, moving your head so that you're staring into his eyes. "The only pair of eyes you have to worry about here are mine. This place is safe."

You grasp nervously at your hands, continuing to stare helplessly up at him. "Father, what am I to do?"

He lets go of your chin, running a hand through his hair. "We won't perform a exorcism, that is only for the most extreme of cases. We shall have a baptism of sorts."

"But I am already baptized." You tell him, confusion written all over your face.

"Of sorts, I said." Wally leads you up the steps to the alter. "It's bit different."

You let him take the lead, following his instructions as you set up the equipment. You've never heard of another type of baptism, but you trust that a reverend knows more about this than you do.

Once everything is set up, he motions with his hands, "Kneel before me, child."

You fall to your knees. It feels like worship.

He dips his hand into the water, bringing it to your face. You had watched him bless the water just moments earlier. He presses his thumb against your forehead, drawing some sort of shape. It doesn't feel like a cross.

"You've always been quite the dedicated follower." He whispers quietly, wet hand moving to now cup your cheek.

"Yes, father." You agree, unsure of where he is going with this.

"I wish to have you." He says, voice low. "What do you wish for in return?"

You blink up at him, "Have me?"

"Semantics." He brushes it off. "I merely mean to have you in the sense of a loyal worshipper of the church."

"Oh, okay." You pause. "I wish..."

What do you wish for?

"I wish to be safe."

"Oh, I would never let anything hurt you." He assures. Still, he extends his hand. "I wish to have you. You wish to be safe."

You're not quite sure what he expects from you, but you take his hand. He gives a large smile, holding your hand tight. "Thank you, my dear."

There's a gush of wind and the candles go out in the church, leaving you in darkness.

The eyes.

The only thing that is luminescent in the darkness are Wally's eyes. They glow, staring down at you. You yank away your hand, scrambling backwards as more eyes appear in the blackness. You have to escape.

You have the church layout memorized and move easily through the pews. The eyes appear everywhere, lighting your way. When you reach the door, you find that it's locked. You bang against it.

The window. Your hands scramble to find anything heavy. A small Jesus statue sits upon a table.

Sorry Jesus.

Taking the statue, you heave it against the window. Despite the statue's weight, the window doesn't shatter. It only stares down at you.

"Is this any way to act?" It's Wally's voice, but it's more distorted now. "I promised you that you would have your safety, didn’t I?"

"I didn't agree to this!" You protest, chest heaving. You feel cornered, the eyes are in every direction now.

"Oh, but you did." He laughs. "That's how it works, you shook my hand and made a wish. I'm keeping up my end of the deal."

Something grabs onto your ankle. You try to kick it off but it yanks you, making you fall to the floor.

"It's time to keep your end. Don't worry, I take good care of my playthings"

You're dragged further into the church, kicking and screaming.

This was never a holy place.

#wally darling #fanfic #fanfiction #horror #wally x you #welcome home #welcome home wally #psychological horror #religion #christianity #priest wally #wally x y/n #wally darling x reader #wally fanfic #scopophobia #demons

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loveerran · 4 months

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Could you elaborate on the JS sealing practices?

Great question! Thank you :)

What I am referring to (in this post) is the breadth and depth of the sealing power as envisioned and implemented by Joseph Smith and practiced in the early church. The original post speaks to how our family is more than just direct line descent or blood relations.

I've previously noted that 9 of Joseph's first 12 plural sealings were to women already legally married. Today, we regularly seal deceased women to more than one man (and deceased men to more than one woman) if they were married to more than one individual in mortality. We understand it will all be sorted out later.

But more interesting to many of us is the notion that sealings were performed for things other than marriages and the sealing of direct-line ancestors to direct-line progeny. Consider this account from the diary of John M. Bernhisel relating a sealing between friends and cousins, aunts and nephews and so on:

"The following named deceased persons were sealed to me on Oct 26th 1843, by President Joseph Smith: Maria Bernhisel, sister; Brother Samuel's wife, Catherine Kremer; Mary Shatto, (Aunt); Madalena Lupferd, (distant relative); Catherine Bernhisel, Aunt; Hannah Bower, Aunt; Elizabeth Sheively, Aunt; Hannah Bower, cousin; Maria Lawrence, (intimate friend); Sarah Crosby, intimate friend, /died May 11 1839/; Mary Ann Bloom, cousin."

A Gospel Topics essay notes early sealing practices may have been intended to extend family ties "both vertically, from parent to child, and horizontally, from one family to another".

Of additional interest is how proxy ordinances for the deceased, including proxy baptisms, could be performed by someone of any gender, prior to Brigham Young clarifying the same gender requirement in 1845. We also note non-related individuals were sealed by adoption to Joseph Smith, Brigham Young and other church leaders, including men sealed to men as father/son adoptive pairs.

Some believe our current evolution in practice aligns itself more closely to God's will and the original practice was at fault or incomplete. However, I give Joseph's expansive vision a lot of room. And the truth is that non-family, non-lineal sealings were performed by Joseph and others. Will those sealings be honored in the eternities, or will they be null and void? I have a hard time believing the latter. And what of OP's case for "the spinster aunt who had no kids but made sure that three of the six kids her sister abandoned survived into adulthood"? Church doctrine is big on adoption already, and I can only imagine that relationships like found family and adoption continue in the eternities.

To me, the sealing vision feels more expansive than our current understanding and practice may be.

#questions!#polygamy #sealing #temple #joseph smith #brigham young #lds #mormon #lgbt #lgbtqia+#queerstake #tumblrstake #religion #trans #transgender #love

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a-mythologynerd · 5 months

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Actually all of the six of crows characters have a traumatic or deeply developing character motif associated with water and I just think that's neat.

Inej in the belly of a slaver's ship to a new baptism by rain in the furnace's chimney where she decides she wants to sail the seas and "flood" the streets of Ketterdam

Jesper's mother died because someone drank from a poisoned well to he makes the Khergud swallow the Wyvil cause it reacts to sugar/saliva

Matthias and Nina only bond after the shipwreck and storm,

Matthias, Djel as a wellspring and river that connects us all from a thing that is used as propaganda to reprograming and acceptance of grishas

Nina, stops being connected to the living world but connects to death which she describe as an icy river or depth

Wylan and Kaz both nearly drown because someone they trusted and saw as a father figure only saw them as expendable in pursuit of their own greed.

(The reason Wylan doesn't really have a second changed moment is because of Kaz and the crows who save him from having to go through what they did. This is my essay on why Kaz is not Wylan's dad, they are character foils and if we are gonna draw parallels to family members Kaz is doing for Wylan what Jordie couldn't do for him)

And finally, Kaz's second drowning in the Djel wellspring where he is again reborn into something less like Dirtyhands and more like Rietveld.

But also the drugged tidemaker as the first time the reader is introduced to jurda parem, Jordie, and Kaz's grief, to the fake tidemakers in the auction for the scheme, to the council of tides as our last narration scene of Ketterdam before the epilogue. The idea of a being reborn from a baptism of sorts is a crazy important motif.

#six of crows #leigh bardugo #kanej #wesper #helvik #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #nina zenik #mattias helvar

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mononijikayu · 10 months

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the horrifying what happened to aemma in episode one about this is that it is only when the woman is ACTUALLY dying or are already dead that c-sections are performed. that told me they do not care of about the historical telling of the story AT ALL. so i just wanna break down the situation and why i dont think that scene in episode one was necessary in the way it was.

now we have a precedence of this shown in the form of queen dowager alyssa velaryon in f&b. the first birth of her marriage to rogar had not been good, she was already weakened by that and her second pregnancy in the marriage was worse, to the point she was dying.

the maester informs that alyssa was already dying and that the only solace they could give is dreamwine. if she had consented or never woke up, we dont really know - but either way the baby, jocelyn, would actually die if they hesitate longer and that if nothing is done, alyssa could take the baby with her as well.

so jaehaerys and alyssane are told and its jaehaerys that tells rogar - that alyssa is dying and the babe could be as well, but they would have to cut her open. rogar was horrified but its something that had to be decided. yet it was a hard choice to make, because no matter the outcome, there would be pain and death - brutal one at that.

but because alyssa was already dying, it was offered as an option and hence it aligns heavily with the medieval standards. in fact, we can find this in a book by historian renate blumenfeld-kosinski called not of woman born where she talks about this.

there's a passage where she mentions saint thomas aquinas and the conundrum of conducting a c-section as soon as possible to annoint the child in holy baptism, to 'save its soul' from damnation — which details a conversation but saint thomas wrote against that, in defense of the mother and explicitly details that he rejects killing the wives.

if the mother is already dead but child is still alive, that's where you move to cut open because the child would die just the same as the mother. thomas rejects the idea that you should kill the mother in order to baptize the child. it is so interesting that the church is against abortion, but one of its outspoken individuals has this sort of perspective.

in fact, there is a passage on three instruction manuals for women's health and medicine called trotula (the little work of trotula) in medieval italy in the 12th century. the midwives who study these texts are encouraged to take care the mothers first. this was at a time where people are HIGHLY religious and would have caused such a social taboo. it was a shock wave to the population seeing these radical ideas for the first time.

the text on c-section on the trotula goes as follows: "whan the woman is feble and the chyld may noght comyn out, then it is better that the chylde be slayne than the moder of the child also dye." - which means it was highly encouraged that they ONLY CUT when the woman is already dying or is dead. this text tries to tells that the mother and child need tp be looked on but women need to be cared for as much as the child. if there is any other way, it should be taken. only in the event of no more choices should there be cutting.

in fact the woman who was behind ideas in trotula — trotula of salerno was a radicalist in her time. she believes both women AND men can have defects. specifically how men's semen can be medically unfit to conceive a child. and that WOMEN should not be suffering at child bed, discussing the use of opiates from herb plants to help with pain and just like saint thomas, she believes that women are not meant to suffer or die from childbirth and that women should not have to make up for the sins committed by even in eden.

in fact, c-sections were also heavily regulated by local authorty. jakob nufer in 1580s for example was a veterinarian who found that his wife was having such a hard time with childbirth that he was so concern and begged to be allowed by local authorities to perform a c-section on his wife because he feared she would die and he succeeded, which his wife surviving AND that child living a long life according to the records.

historians have said that this would not happen just without any reasonable cause to do forced c-sections on their wives for the fact that their wives are also belonged in other royal houses and strong noble families. the people in charge needed these alliances and connections in order to keep the peace going. foul play cannot be a must, the childbed is risk enough for these alliances already. marriages and childbed tied the peace together. alas, the best childbed care is a MUST.

aemma's death would have been fine as a regular death in childbirth or even a similar situation as alyssa's, which would have at least dignified her death. unless it was the natural progression of childbed and or foul play, aemma arryn would have no need to die like that on her childbed. this was not a good way for aemma to die.

it was just insulting to the book material, historical record and aemma herself. not to mention to viserys i. losing his son was tragic enough but having him decide prematurely without her consent, without her actually nearing death or without discussing it in depth with the maester and or not insisting any other way was so off to me. he would have been making a bunch of questions, this was his wife - she was tied to house arryn and she was a high ranking woman. he would not HAVE had her cut open like that when she was not dead yet or actually on her death bed.

#hotd #house of the dragon #asoiaf #hotd meta #asoiaf meta #a song of ice and fire #house targaryen #aemma arryn #viserys i #viserys i targaryen #alyssa velaryon #rogar baratheon #alysanne targaryen #jaehaerys targaryen #jocelyn baratheon

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sisterspooky1013 · 5 months

Text

Gaslight, Chapter 27/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

PART FOUR

When Mulder stalks out and the door slams behind him Scully startles, and Byers squeezes her shoulders in reassurance.

“Well, that went about as well as a baptism at a whore house,” Frohike says dryly.

“It’s okay, Agent Scully,” Byers says, and she breaks away from him and walks back into the living room.

“Did you find anything yet?” she asks, scanning the surfaces around Langly’s computer. Her chest is tight and her eyes are blurring over, but she tries to distract herself with details.

“Sort of,” Langly says as he approaches and takes his seat. “We got as far as locating the database that we’re pretty sure houses the information we need, but the level of security on it is way higher than anything we’ve encountered before. We have some of the most advanced hackers we know working on it, but it’ll take time,” he explains.

“Okay,” she says with a nod, avoiding meeting any of the men’s eyes. “That’s good progress. How are you all feeling this morning?” she adds.

“Fine,” Frohike says, representing the group. “I don’t feel any different, but when I saw Mulder I just…knew him.”

“That’s good,” she says in a tight whisper. “Could you—” she starts, then pauses to clear her throat. “Could you take me back, please, Langly?” She just wants to be alone.

“Okay,” he says, stealing a glance at Byers. She can tell that they’re worried about her, but she can only manage her own emotions at the moment.

“We’ll call you as soon as we know anything,” Byers assures her.

“Thank you. For everything. I don’t know what I’d do without your help,” she says sincerely.

“Get some rest,” Frohike adds before she walks through the door into the garage.

She’s silent on the short drive back to the safehouse, and she can sense Langly’s discomfort. She bids him a brief farewell and makes her way inside, holding it together until she latches all four deadbolts behind her. She enables the security system, the final step, and then she falls apart.

The hardest part was his smell. Aftershave and toothpaste, and something metallic and earthy that stoked the fires of her deadened memory recall. The urge to touch him was so overwhelming, she’d had to fold her hands in her lap to stop herself. The cadence of his voice, the flash of his angry eyes, the way he shook his head in frustration. Like an earthquake pushing buried artifacts to the surface, memories tumbled forward unbidden, and it was all she could do to focus on the matter at hand.

She makes it to the couch and collapses in a heap, racking sobs rattling her chest and slickening her tongue. If he doesn’t believe her, what’s the point of all this? What future does she have without him? She may as well have carried on back in Ellicott City. The fabricated life that was prepared for her looks ideal compared to where she is now: alone, and afraid, and in danger.

You’re my one in five billion.

You made me a whole person.

You are my constant, my touchstone.

How could she have known that this would be even worse than living a lie? To remember with acuity how it felt to love him, to be loved by him, to understand the depth of her loss. Perhaps the people behind this really did do her a kindness. Perhaps she is the one who made the wrong choice.

Somewhere in the onslaught of tears, she falls asleep.

“What is this place?” Mulder asks, but the armed man just pushes him forward by his cuffed hands, and he stumbles to the ground.

“Mulder,” she calls out as she tries to go to him, but her own escort pulls her back and the metal on her cuffs digs painfully into her wrists.

They come to a set of glass doors and wait as their escorts request entry. The doors slide open, and she is nudged forward with the butt of a rifle against her back. As they pass through a small vestibule, a blast of warm, antiseptic air pushes her hair in all directions and it falls across her face, obscuring her vision. Someone grabs her upper arm, and she is pulled roughly away from the door and further into the building.

“Mulder!” she yells again, bending her knees and going slack in an attempt to prevent being moved to a new location.

“Where are you taking her?!” she hears him bellow, and then the sharp thwack of something striking his skull.

“Get up,” an unkind voice barks at her, and she is yanked to her feet. Her shoulder pops and a hot stab of pain lights up at the joint.

“Mulder!” she cries out again, tossing her head to the side to move her hair out of her eyes. She sees him on the ground, conscious but writhing and disoriented. “Mulder!” she screams again as they drag her away, the heels of her boots squeaking against the linoleum. “Mulder!”

She wakes with a start, her heart pounding and her ears ringing. It felt so real that she lays a hand on her shoulder, expecting it to be tender to the touch. As her heart slows, she realizes the burner phone the Gunmen gave her is ringing, and she scrambles to dig it out of her purse.

“Hello?”

“Agent Scully, are you all right? I’ve called you half a dozen times,” Byers says, part chastisement, part concern in his voice.

“Sorry, I fell asleep. What time is it?” she asks, noting that the sun has shifted in the sky, but it’s very much daytime.

“Nearly 3:00 pm,” he tells her. She almost feels guilty for wasting the day, but it’s not like she had anything productive to do anyway.

“Did you find something new?” she asks, sitting back down on the couch. She needs to use the restroom, but it will have to wait.

“No, not yet,” he says, and she feels a little pang of disappointment. “But that’s not why I called,” he continues. “Mulder came back.”

She’s so struck that she drops the phone. It slides under the couch, and she gets down on her belly and snakes her arm underneath it while yelling for Byers to wait for her. Finally, she fishes it out and puts it back to her ear.

“He came back? He’s there now?” she asks, trying to temper her own hope.

“No, we decided that it’s unwise to have him at the house as long as he still has his chip. Frohike and I are taking him to a diner, and Langly is on his way to come pick you up and take you there, if that’s all right.”

“Yes, I’ll be ready in five minutes,” she says as she stands and heads towards the bathroom.

“He’ll call you when he’s outside,” he says, and she hangs up.

She brushes her teeth, wipes away the streaks of mascara on her cheeks, freshens her makeup, and changes her now-wrinkled shirt. She looks at herself in the mirror and wonders what he sees when he looks at her. A stranger? She wishes she could recall how it felt to have him look at her with recognition. With affection. With love.

Her phone rings again and she leaves the apartment, her nerves a tangled mess.

When she enters the diner, which makes the average greasy spoon look like a Michelin star establishment, Mulder is on one side of the booth with his back to the door, and Frohike and Byers are seated across from him. Frohike looks up when she walks in, and Mulder twists in his seat to see who has arrived. His eyes flick once from her head to her feet and then he turns back to the men as she approaches.

“Hi,” she says softly when she arrives at the head of the table, unsure where to start.

He looks up at her and pushes his mouth into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Hi.”

“Mr. Spender has some questions,” Frohike says. “About the chip, specifically.”

“Okay,” she says with a nod. “What would you like to know?”

Realizing that there isn’t anywhere for her to sit except next to him, Mulder slides to the back of the booth to make space for her. She sits on the outermost edge of the bench, giving him as much space as possible though every cell in her body is reaching for him.

“Well, for starters, how did you obtain this information? I assume you didn’t stumble across the chip by accident?”

His tone tells her that he is very much still on the defensive, which is understandable. If he hasn’t had the same experiences she has, if he feels rooted in his fabricated life, this kind of news would be incredibly unsettling, and she probably wouldn’t believe it herself.

“I knew that something wasn’t right,” she begins, keeping her body facing forward while giving him intermittent glances. “I had reasons to believe that something was being kept from me, but I learned about the chip from a man who only identified himself as Alex. He was a defector of sorts who previously worked with and for the men who did this to us. He told me about the chip and its function.”

“And you believed him?” he asks, incredulous.

“I had doubts, of course, but I believed him enough to give it credence. That same night I removed the chip from my husband’s neck…or the man who I was told was my husband. It was clear by the next morning that what Alex said was true,” she tells him.

She feels his eyes on her and she turns her head to find him giving her an appraising look.

“In what way was it clear?”

She sucks in a breath.

“He described it as a feeling of blankness. He felt off, but he couldn’t say exactly how right away. As the day wore on, he realized he couldn’t remember things he’d known the night before, like what our son likes for breakfast or how to do the job he’s held for over five years.”

“I thought you said the chip erases memories, but removing it caused memory loss as well?” he clarifies, and his tone is slowly shifting from defensive to curious.

“Well, yes and no,” she says, pausing to consider the best way to explain it. “Alex said that the chip contains memories, manufactured ones that help you to accept your new life as reality. So Cal, my husband, never actually knew what Peter likes for breakfast. That information was given to him by way of the chip. And he likely never learned how to code for his job as a software developer, that was also part of the manufactured memories. So when the chip was removed, those false memories were removed with it.”

Mulder sits back, pondering.

“What about the medication?” he asks.

“To my understanding, the chip holds the new memories, and the medication helps suppress recall of the existing ones. I’m sure it’s more complex than that, but my experience was that once I stopped taking the medication, I started having vivid dreams. When I removed the chip, I started remembering during waking hours when exposed to something that triggered a memory.”

He turns his head towards her and they lock eyes for a moment. She’s back in the kitchen from her dream, lost in the depth of his evergreen irises. Her belly tumbles, her heart aches, and there is a single throb from between her legs. He makes her feel everything possible that there is to feel with just a look.

“You remembered me?” he asks with an edge of skepticism.

She nods, not trusting her voice to remain steady, and Mulder heaves a sigh and looks at his coffee cup.

“So you removed your husband’s chip?” he asks the tabletop, and Scully looks over to Frohike and Byers to confirm that they also see where this is headed.

“Yes, I did,” she says.

“I gather that you went to medical school?” he says, lifting his head.

She swallows.

“Yes, I did.”

He gives her a doubtful look.

“A doctor and an FBI agent?” he asks tartly, and she feels like she’s losing him.

“Agent Scully is a trained medical doctor,” Byers pipes in. “She was recruited into the FBI out of medical school, and her training has been helpful to your work on countless occasions,” he says sternly, and she feels a surge of gratitude for him.

“Okay,” Mulder says, acquiescing. “I guess there’s little risk, right? If you don’t find a computer chip in my neck, will you call off your cronies?” he says, giving them each a questioning look.

“We don’t have any cronies,” she says with some irritation, “and I’m very confident that I will find a chip in your neck. But if I don’t, I can promise that we won’t contact you again.”

It’s a risky bet to make, but she feels like there are no other viable options.

“Deal,” he says, holding out his hand for her to shake.

She freezes, struck by the prospect of touching him, but she doesn’t want him to read her overwhelm as hesitance. She takes his hand, and he wraps his fingers around the back of her palm, dwarfing it. His skin is warm and smooth, and she closes her eyes for a moment as she recalls how it feels against her cheek.

“Deal,” she says hoarsely.

They set up a makeshift surgery center in the Gunmen’s van outside a Walgreens. Mulder, still unwilling to trust them, asks Byers to hold a mirror up to the site of the incision so he can observe via reflection in a second mirror that he will hold in his hand. This, he tells them, will help him feel confident that if there is a chip, it came from his body.

When Scully brushes an alcohol swab over the back of his neck he shivers, and she reflexively lays her hand on his shoulder. He startles, and she pulls it away quickly, murmuring, “Try to hold still.” They wait for the lidocaine to take effect, and then she asks him if he’s ready.

“Can you lift the mirror up a bit higher?” Mulder directs Byers. “And then tilt it down a bit. There, that’s perfect.”

She can see Mulder’s face reflected in the mirror that he’s holding, and she has to remind herself to keep her eyes on the task at hand. He doesn’t flinch when she drags the blade across his skin and a bright red line of blood beads along the incision. Carefully, she goes deeper, then retrieves the forceps and a square of gauze, blotting away fresh blood and exploring the tissue beneath his scar. When she sees a silvery glint, she stops.

“I see it,” she says, stilling her hands.

“Where?” Mulder asks, his eyes flicking around as he tries to make sense of the image reflected back to him.

Scully moves to the side so Byers can bring the mirror closer. They shift around to perfect the view, and Scully rinses the area with saline to clear away the blood.

“Right there, see?” she asks, indicating the chip with the tip of the forceps.

“I think so,” he says. “Can we leave the mirrors like this while you take it out?”

She puffs a little irritated sigh, but if this is what he needs in order to believe her, then it’s worth the awkward angle she’ll have to take to extract the chip. Slowly, she nudges the chip free from the surrounding tissue, then rinses it again.

“Do you see it?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Mulder says flatly.

She steals a glance at his face in the mirror, and he looks pale and stricken. She is at once empathetic to his distress, and delighted at the prospect that he’s finally coming around.

“I’m going to place it on this square of gauze, and then you can have a closer look,” she tells him, meeting his eye in the mirror to gain his consent.

She frees the chip, wiping it onto the square of gauze before she sets them both in the center of his palm, and he examines them closely while she sutures his wound. When she’s finished, she sits back and joins the Gunmen as they all watch Mulder, waiting for his reaction.

He’s hunched over with the chip inches from his nose, and while he appears to be giving it a thorough inspection, she sees that his eyes are unfocused and vacant.

“Are you okay?” she asks, and he looks up at her with a mildly surprised expression, as though he’d forgotten that he wasn’t alone.

“What am I supposed to do now?” he asks with childlike helplessness, and without thinking she reaches out and lays her hand over his wrist, squeezing once.

“I was hoping we could figure that out together,” she says, working to keep the maelstrom of emotions swirling around her heart and mind out of her voice.

He nods, then looks away.

They destroy his cell phone, which he’d already had the good sense to turn off, and ditch both it and the chip in a dumpster behind an adult video store. Confident that his location can no longer be tracked, they all return to the Gunmen’s to make a game plan. Frohike pours them each a shot of tequila, and she considers telling Mulder about the poker night they spent drinking the first half of the bottle, but doesn’t want to overwhelm him.

“To the truth,” Frohike says, raising his glass.

Mulder lifts his glass in a halfhearted toast, then takes several small sips. He’s been withdrawn and sullen since she removed his chip, and she desperately wants to ask him what’s on his mind. Is he remembering anything? Is he remembering her? She sees him toying with his wedding ring and realizes that she is not the woman on his mind right now.

“Hey, we got something from LiminalLurker,” Langly calls from his computer, and Scully, Byers and Frohike scurry across the room and huddle around the screen.

“Did she get in?” Frohike asks excitedly.

“Not quite, but she found a vulnerability that she has her team working on. This is the most promising lead we have so far.”

“Get in to what?” Mulder asks, and she looks back to see him still seated on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees.

“A heavily guarded database that we think belongs to the Spurious Project,” Langly tells him. “If we can get into it, we should have the keys to the whole damn kingdom,” he finishes with a mischievous smirk.

“Spurious?” he asks, and she realizes that there is still so much he doesn’t know. She isn’t sure if he’s ready to hear it.

She walks back to the couch and sits on the other end of it, leaving him an entire empty cushion as a buffer. He keeps his head down, though she sees his eyes flick over to her.

“It’s the name of the group that developed the memory manipulation program, to our understanding,” she says, and waits for him to ask questions.

He’s quiet for a few moments, continuously running his thumb across his wedding band. It hadn’t occurred to her to remove her own until the day prior, and it felt like a betrayal to bury it at the bottom of her purse, even though she knows that Cal wasn’t the one who gave it to her. If anyone on this planet is capable of understanding his turmoil, it’s her.

“Why—” he starts, and then pauses to pull in a deep breath. “Why would someone do this? Why would she—”

He stops again, shaking his head. He’s overwhelmed, she can easily see that. Part of her feels guilty for putting him through this.

“I don’t know,” she answers. “We saw or learned something that we weren’t supposed to, and this was how they chose to ensure that we wouldn’t tell anyone else.”

He sits up and runs his hands through his hair, then looks over at her.

“What did we see?”

She gives him a sympathetic smile and shrugs.

“You don’t remember?” he asks.

“No,” she tells him. “Not yet.”

The doorbell chimes, and they all look at one another.

“Check the camera, Ringo,” Frohike whispers harshly, and Langly rolls his chair over to another bank of screens.

“Looks like a door to door salesman,” he says, and Byers moves toward the door.

“Wait!” Mulder says, and they all freeze. “It could be a decoy, right?” he suggests without much confidence.

Scully feels a smile tug at her mouth. This little glimpse of him is like a balm on her heart.

“Shit, you’re right,” Frohike says.

The doorbell rings again.

“C’mon,” Frohike says with a come hither motion, and Mulder and Scully rise from the couch and follow him into the back of the house. In a messy, cluttered bedroom, Frohike throws back an area rug and tugs on a small metal ring set into the carpet. A door appears in the floor, and it becomes clear that they are meant to climb down into whatever darkness lies below. “C’mon, hurry up,” Frohike says again, urgently, and Scully descends blindly down the hatch.

The small space is dimly lit, and once Mulder makes his way down the ladder, the trap door slams shut over their heads and plunges them into pitch black. They hear the muted thump of the rug being thrown back over the door, and then Frohike’s footsteps as he leaves the room.

Scully strains her ears, but she can’t make out anything. The harder she tries to listen, the louder the ambient sounds in their little den become. The hum of something mechanical that she hopes is ventilation, the steady rush of Mulder’s breaths, and then the wet tick of his mouth opening in preparation to speak. She waits, but he doesn’t say anything.

“What?” she finally asks in the smallest whisper she can produce.

“Nothing,” he whispers back, then clears his throat.

She hears the scuff of his feet on the floor before he bumps into her, knocking her off balance. She barely suppresses a surprised squeak as she reaches out for something to grab onto, and what she ends up grabbing is the front of his T-shirt over his belly. She fists the fabric to steady herself, and he cups both her elbows in his hands for the same reason. When she is no longer at risk of falling, she reluctantly lets go, and so does he.

“I was going to say that I’m sorry,” he says softly. He’s standing so close to her that she can smell the tequila on his breath.

“For what?”

There’s a pause, and she revels in the heat of his body radiating against her, and the familiar smell of his skin.

“For not believing you,” he finally says. “And for being kind of a dick about it.”

“It’s okay,” she says sincerely. “I would hope that most people would exhibit some degree of skepticism if told by a stranger that their entire life is a well-orchestrated cover up.”

He chuckles, and she lets herself smile in the dark, teeth and all.

They hear footfalls, and wait as the rug is moved and the door is tugged open. She cringes and closes her eyes as a blast of light blinds her, then tries to feel her way to the exit. Mulder grabs her hand and leads her to the ladder, then stands back to let her go up first. She gives him a long look, but he doesn’t seem to feel anything. Not yet.

“Who was it?” Mulder asks as they re-enter the living room.

“Just some folks who wanted to tell us the good word of Jehovah,” Frohike says dryly. “But they didn’t look very godly, if you ask me.”

“You think they were looking for us?” Scully asks fearfully.

“They may have been,” Byers says. “Mulder’s chip was here long enough that they could have tracked his location. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay here, Mulder.”

Mulder gives him a strange, unreadable look.

“He’s right, it’s not safe,” Scully says, backing up Byers.

“I know, I understand,” he tells them both. “It’s not that, it’s just strange that you keep calling me Mulder. It’s just—it’s not my name.”

Scully sucks in a breath. One step forward, two steps back.

“Do you have another safehouse?” Scully asks the men, and Frohike shakes his head.

“Never thought we’d need a backup,” he admits.

“Okay. Then Jeff can stay with me. If that’s okay with you, Jeff,” she says. The fake name leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

Mulder considers this for a moment and then nods.

“I don’t have anything with me, clothes or toiletries,” he says.

“You can borrow some of my things for tonight, and we’ll do some shopping for you this evening,” Byers offers.

“Okay then,” Mulder says, clapping his hands together once. “We better get going.”

Tagging @today-in-fic

#the x files #x files fanfic #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #xf fanfic #x files #the x-files #xfiles #thexfiles

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dragon-communion · 11 months

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While on the one hand, Fia’s sessions of “taking lifely vigor” from the Tarnished are definitely implied to be sex, and I find it hilarious that this is a situation where the devs probably bapped GRRM on the nose and told him to calm down, what if I roll with the implication?

It’s implied in a previous version of the Turtle Neck Meat item that people in the Lands Between just don’t have sex anymore. It’s too feral. Bestial. Might even have something to do with the birth of Omen children, actually, considering how such an animal act might bring one closer to the Crucible.

So what if extended hugging sessions are that scandalous and vulgar? Spending a minute in the arms of another person being worse than a glimpse of Victorian ankle has some fascinating implications for society in the Lands Between. If physical contact itself is base and hedonistic, can you imagine how touch starved everyone is?

One of the major problems in modern day America is how distant everyone is. While the Lands Between might not have the same issues with a lack of third places or the consequences of car-focused city planning, our level of general societal paranoia compounded with the advent of COVID means we just don’t touch eachother at all ever. This is grossly simplified because I’m too lazy to go get sources, so feel free to fact check me, but part of the focus on getting yourself a romantic partner is so folks can finally have someone it’s acceptable to get positive physical touch from. Failing that, getting into a sport at least earns you a more violent facsimile of that.

In the Lands Between, where society is focused on being a civilized as possible, it would make sense (a la Brave New World by Huxley) for society to try to eliminate sex and its trappings. Given Elden Ring’s heavy Catholic themes, celibacy also takes on a religious twist- Augustine of Hippo “taught that original sin was transmitted by concupiscence”, or physical desire and longing. To quote briefly from Wikipedia, “The view of the Church is that celibacy is a reflection of life in Heaven, a source of detachment from the material world which aids in one's relationship with God.”

Looking at Queen Marika the Eternal makes it painfully obvious to the player that she’s not even a creature of flesh anymore, twisted into something like a glorified clay pot or even a reliquary for the Elden Ring. We don’t know much about what she was like beyond a few queenly speeches, but whether she was always literally a vessel like that or not, the no doubt popular image of her as a vessel of life could have easily changed over the years from something very physical to the more chaste implications of the female water-bearer statues or iconography of her pouring out a chalice. People do still swear by Marika’s tits, so obviously physical desire might still exist, but my recent theorizing on crystal tears and amber babies really puts me in mind of the sterilized process in Brave New World where disembodied ovaries are fertilized in a lab via cloning. There’s something there in the imagery of the baptismal fonts around the Erdtree collecting tears that become new births.

The whole arrangement might also put a new spin on the gladiatoral games in the Coliseums, and to some extent Marika’s warlike drive. People crave contact, and the high of violence can be close enough to sex to mimic it, though poorly. I think everyone has probably made jokes about how American football has some undertones, and pro wrestling is the same. The most obvious example is dog collar matches, which look so close to BDSM as to be nearly indistinguishable to me.

With all of that in mind, the unmistakable intimacy of Fia’s actions might actually be as degenerate and twisted to modern Lands Between sensibilities as pup masks and handcuffs to the modern day American. What she offers is a gentle hug, perhaps even extended cuddling, and pillow talk. It’s stated that Rogier says “all sorts of things” abed, and while it’s easy to take that to a more physical interpretation, it could actually literally be Fia playing with the man’s hair for an hour until every single thought falls out of his head. When she makes the offer to you, she has to couch it carefully, framed in the ideas of a foreign interpretation of the sacred as if the only way it can be legitimate is if it is a sacred act, as if that’s the only way you’ll be able to understand it. Like when we argue for gay marriage and couch it in the language of romantic equality, because surely everyone can empathize with romantic equality, when the real physical benefits involve insurance and hospital visitation rights.

Anyway, it’s just something I’ve been thinking about.

#elden ring #elden ring theory #elden ring lore

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