#as long as tacit permission remains

[anaki-boo]

“NOT SCARY AT ALL”

This stone bird appeared in the second half of winter. Even at Christmas she was not there, and in February she was already looking at Harry with her blind stone eyes. The bird was definitely conjured, because it was one with the tombstone, as if it was born from it. It was a raven with folded wings and a slightly open beak. As if he wanted to say something.

One could only guess who decided to decorate the grave of the professor, and why it was a raven. Not some bat, not a snake, finally. A raven. Perhaps it was the symbol of wisdom and death. Yes, Harry even read about it specifically in Agatha Daredevil's book "Symbolism in Magical Transformations".

"Raven," she wrote, "has long meant mind and has been associated with death. He embodies prophecy and insight. Crows in stories often act as psychopomps connecting the material world with the spirit world."

Don't ask why Harry needed to know about the raven. And even more so, don't ask why he visited the grave of his former professor so many times in a row. He didn't quite know the answer himself.

They say that criminals are drawn to the crime scene. But it was there—in the Screaming Hut, where he left him to die all alone, bleeding. But here… This grave was just a pit with a stone coffin in which Snape's remains were placed — evidence of Harry's crime. But he remembered the basics of first aid, he remembered, and then for some reason he thought that he was powerless before fate itself.

Harry still dreamed of Snape, paralyzed by Nagaina's poison, unconscious. His light warm breath, his eyes glazed with pain (but not from death). How long had he been lying there when they left before he died? A couple of minutes? An hour? Or maybe more?

Harry first visited his grave in June. He came alone and at dawn, sneaked in there like a thief. He was going to make some kind of speech, ask for forgiveness. But even though there was no one to eavesdrop on her, Harry couldn't get a word out of himself. Instead, for some reason, he burst into tears like a child. At the funeral — Lupin and Tonks, Freddy, baby Creevey, Snape himself — did not cry. But then... the speech was successful only in August.

Since then, Harry had been dropping in on the professor at least once a month, on one of the extra-curricular Saturdays. I told him about my life, shared all sorts of nonsense. He did not ask for forgiveness, as if he knew that the professor no longer holds a grudge. And as if he understands.

***

“Do you mind if I sort out your things?” Harry asked in May.

Only yesterday, the Hogwarts cemetery paid tribute to the memory of those who died in the battle. Today, the usual silence reigned here again.

“No one has touched them all this year. However, the elves have recently collected... how should I say... personal — clothes and all that. There are papers left in your office. No one knows who would need them, and I told McGonagall that I could take them. Not all of them, of course. But... something important. She said she would have given it to my mom if she were alive. But she's not alive, and you're out… So you don't mind, I think.”

The grave did not answer, nor did the raven. Their tacit permission was granted.

There was a warm spring calm. The sun was hot, the back and the back of my head were hot. It was like someone's tight embrace.

***

Surprisingly, there were few papers. So — study plans, several business and personal letters (Harry decided not to poke his nose into envelopes with the Malfoy coat of arms, but to forward them to Draco) and books, most of which were with a library seal, and over which Madame Pince then groaned.

"Professor Snape was constantly delaying the delivery of books! But about this one — he lied to my eyes in an impudent way, said that some scoundrels stole it and burned it!".

In the top drawer of the desk, under stacks of blank paper, Harry found an old, battered diary. The entries in it were completely irregular, sometimes Snape forgot about the diary for several months. There were potion recipes, whole phrases in runic notation, addresses (Harry assumed they were potion customers or ingredient suppliers), and drawings and squiggles that Harry remembered from the Potions textbook.

The guilt that seemed to have calmed down over the past year came flooding back to Harry. He randomly leafed through this old notebook and thought about how much he had personally deprived the magical world. If Harry had stayed, he would have helped Snape, if he had called for help, the professor could have been saved. And with him — his developments. Dozens of useful potions and spells. Cured diseases, solved problems and saved lives…

Harry shifted the notebook to his other hand and started leafing through from the end. On the last filled page, at the very bottom, a bird was drawn in ink. Smooth body, large open beak and folded wings. It was the same raven that appeared on Snape's tombstone in winter. Words written in the professor's familiar small handwriting seemed to fly out of the raven's mouth:

"Feed the bird."

In the lower right corner there was a postscript made in pencil:

"If you go to feed, take a broom."

Harry loved riddles, but he didn't like being overcome by excruciating excitement. Like, for example, this time.

***

Harry took with him a broom and treats for the raven. There was a piece of bread and a sausage wrapped in a paper bag in his pocket. In his mind, the raven would definitely have been treated to some of this.

It looked stupid. He was standing in the middle of the cemetery with a broom and trying to stuff his breakfast into the mouth of a stone statue. She refused to eat.

“Feed… Feed the bird. But how?!” he muttered, feeling himself getting angry.

Why did he even think that this was the same bird? What makes him think that the professor left him a hint? And what was he going to find anyway? A hiding place? A cache with something important? For example, by a will? Snape didn't care about earthly things, and he had nothing to bequeath, except for the old house, which, as McGonagall told him, he hated with all his heart.

Angrily, Harry threw the spoiled food on the ground and began sorting through everything he knew about crows in his head. As a child, these birds scared little Harry. Aunt Petunia knew about it and said: "Don't look at them, or they, bloodthirsty creatures, will peck out your green devilish eyes."

“Bloodthirsty… Bloodthirsty creatures," Harry whispered thoughtfully and bit his finger with his teeth.

The blood did not appear immediately, it had to be squeezed out of the wound. Harry put his hand to the bird's beak and smeared it with blood.

The stone moved. At first, the raven moved its head, then cawed soundlessly — just opened its beak several times. Then he spread his wings, stamped on the spot and fluttered up.

Then Harry understood why the broom was needed.

***

"Why the hell were you going through my papers? Arrogant, stupid, curious, shameless... why are you silent? Can you feel your hands? Do you feel it or not?!”

Snape was furious, his eyes were shooting lightning, but Harry was not afraid. To see him—pale and with bloodless lips—on the floor of a Screaming hut, to see him off on his last journey a few days later, to come to his grave for the first time — that was what was scary. But now I'm sitting in a chair, leaning closer to the fireplace, licking drops of firewhisky from my lips and watching the professor rub his stiff fingers… It wasn't scary at all.

Let his hands be completely frozen from the long flight, let them turn red. Let this village house be unfamiliar and creepy, and it looked like no one had lived here for a long time and only recently a person had settled here. Let Snape, aged and with a torn, scarred throat peeking out of the collar of his robe, shout at him (thank Merlin, his voice remained the same). Harry was happy. And he couldn't get a word out of himself.

“Do you feel it? Are you going to answer me?”

Harry nodded, somewhat drunkenly and sluggishly, and only then did Snape leave him alone.

He sat down at a table—a long one and probably intended for a large family that once lived here, and now almost completely covered with dried herbs- and began to unwrap one of these dried bouquets. His fingers nervously fingered the thin stems and selected suitable ones.

“I…” Harry finally managed to say, but then he trailed off.

Snape looked at him sternly, and there was a threat in that look.

“I was hoping it would be Minerva. Or, in extreme case, Miss Granger…

“Weasley”, Harry interrupted automatically. Hermione, who had been Ron's wife for three months now, was constantly correcting her acquaintances who called her by her maiden name. “She's Mrs. Weasley now”.

Snape snorted. As he was doing it before — ironically , disapproving and arrogantly.

“ I had a better opinion of her. Well… What the hell did you want in my desk? What were you looking for there? Memories? My diary, in which I confessed to crimes? They wanted to sell his Skitter, probably, and…

"I wasn't looking for anything," Harry interrupted him again. "McGonagall gave me permission to take your papers, that's all. The office had to be vacated for a new teacher. She allowed it… She allowed me to take what I think is necessary.

“Allowed you? And why on earth would that be?”

“I needed it.”

“Why did you need it? Couldn't leave me alone even after death?

“Couldn't," Harry muttered, reaching for a bottle of firewhisky. It was standing at his feet.

The esophagus burned with heat, it became difficult to breathe at first, and then immediately felt better. Even the excitement has subsided.

“Why would that be? Tormented by guilt?”

"No, no guilt," Harry lied. “ I just fell in love. You know, it happens like this… You know a person for many years, and then he dies, becomes less disgusting and malicious, and you even have a communication. So you can fall in love. Even... with such a… you.”

He took two more big gulps, and a very pleasant heat spread in his chest.

Snape was silent and stared at the herbs on the table. It seemed that now they would break out and a fire would start.

“And how did you...? The antidote? Or did someone help?”

"Someone helped," Snape echoed and, apparently deciding that Harry had had enough to drink, called for a bottle with non—verbal and non-verbal spell.

He waved his hand — and it jerked and flew to the table, hitting the bottom on the edge.

“Malfoy? I've seen his letters… You were friends, right? … Are friends, I mean”

"Can you take the stairs?" Won't you wring your neck? Or do you need to be levitated?

It took Harry a moment to realize what the professor meant.

“ Are you inviting me... to stay? After what I…”

“ You won't be able to fly back in this condition. I won't let you apparate drunk, and I don't have a sobering one. You will spend the night here, and in the morning I will erase your memory.”

“ What are you going to do to me that you will have to erase my memory?” Harry laughed.

“I don't like you, Potter...” Snape looked at him as if he suspected some kind of bad change in him or someone else's evil influence.

“Yes, to be honest, I don't like myself ... but you…” Harry paused, feeling like a drunken fool. “Don’t erase my memory. I'm coming back anyway. In a week or a month…”

“Yes, you are coming back. I have no doubt in your stickiness, Potter.”

A few things didn't happen next morning. Firstly, they did not quarrel, although they could have. Secondly, Harry did not apologize for what he said drunk in the living room yesterday. As if he felt it was wrong to apologize for telling Severus the truth. Thirdly, Snape never erased his memory.

And, to be honest, Harry didn't go anywhere. Neither in the morning, nor in the evening, nor the next day.

[the-darkness-does-not-bargain]

I'm on a cruise right now so of course I'm thinking about my blorbos going on a cruise too. Idk why maybe there's wraith demons aboard a particular ship and the company is trying to cover it up. The point is: Nuns on a Boat. I'm sure the Vatican forks over the necessary funds, probably for a week-long trip, enough time to investigate, plan, execute, and clean up. The original plan was to send a small team of two or three, but Ava probably pesters the new Pope into paying for the whole gang to go (she definitely plays the Jesus card).

It goes like this: the official OCS sisters enter as a group of 4 (Mother, Camila, Yasmine, and Dora) while the remaining 4 split into 2 pairs, Avatrice undercover as newlyweds on a honeymoon (it's good practice for the real thing, Bea!) and Mary riding as a solo passenger (hiding Lilith in her room). They probably have a contact in the ship's crew that sneaks them keycards and pass codes to restricted areas and makes arrangements for them to be in the right place at the right time for recon purposes. I don't know what the demons are doing, maybe planning some kind of mass possession within an enclosed space, but whatever it is will require asskicking through overpriced shops and probably flinging several pool chairs around to solve.

Assorted ideas:

1. The list of shore excursions has to be pried from Ava's hands by Mary because The Second Coming of Christ canNOT be trusted with them. Not because she doesn't know what she's doing, but because if they let her go unchecked she'll have their days booked 6 ways to the Sabbath with several activities overlapping each other. Baby girl wants to do EVERYTHING, time constraints be damned!

2. Beatrice is a little nervous about their cover story, not because she doesn't love Ava or doesn't see them getting married eventually, but because she's still battling some shame about being affectionate in public. This is, of course, in stark contrast to Ava, who is ecstatic over the chance to be shamelessly close to Bea with the tacit excuse of the mission. She drags them to every couple-y event aboard the ship and has no qualms about basically climbing her girlfriend whenever she can get away with it.

3. The God Squad is properly outfitted for just about every situation that could come up, and that includes swimming. For the actual nuns in the party, this means tasteful one-pieces that still earn respectful wolf whistles from Ava and the requisite number of sexy nun jokes. Ava wears a predictably tiny bikini that drives the boys and girls wild while Bea wears a more modest two-piece that drives Ava wild. Mary draws all the attention in her suit that shows off her killer arms and excellent abs. Lilith has to be coaxed into her suit because she's self-conscious. Jillian has probably come up with some way to either reverse or hide her scales, but the result is probably a lot of burn tissue that is difficult to conceal. Ava buys her a long-sleeve swim shirt with some silly design that Lilith threatens her life over but wears anyway.

4. Circling back to the excursions, an argument breaks out about which they should do, and whether they should stick together or split up. It gets a little heated until Mother shuts it down with "We will be doing the dolphin swim and that's final." "But why that one?" "Because I want to do the dolphin swim."

5. Ava is banned from the ship buffet after the third time she tries to dispense ice cream directly into her mouth

6. Camila gets a lot of attention from the fellas, and she gets permission from a quietly proud Mother to indulge them so long as she gets more information for the mission

7. Yasmine sweeps the trivia contests, winning all manner of silly knickknack prizes that she cherishes.

8. We don’t know much about Dora but I'm going to assume that she’s a prodigy in mini golf and collects a following of children who ooo and aaa every time she hits a hole-in-one. She and Mary clown on the competition in shuffleboard

9. Some guy sees Ava by herself (Bea is probably getting them ice cream since she's not banned) and attempts to shoot his shot. It's Ava, unfairly charming and distressingly cute, so he's practically bewitched two sentences into the conversation, but Ava's just being her normal, puppy self. Bea sees them and starts getting jealous, threatening to crush her ice cream cone to bits, but when Ava sees her coming back, she lights up with a "heeeyyy Boo-Bear, there you are! I missed you!" And immediately abandons the dude to press against her girlfriend. The guy makes brief eye contact with Bea before wisely choosing to walk away. Better luck next time, bro.

10. The tables turn when Beatrice is lounging in the sun while Ava is away (probably pestering Lilith) and an interested lady sits next to her and starts making small talk. Beatrice is extremely polite and doesn't quite pick up on the fact she's being flirted with, but Lilith has to punch Ava in the arm to stop her lighting up like an angry glowstick at the sight. Ava does march over there though and turns the puppy energy up to 11, wrapping her arms around Beatrice, nuzzling their cheeks together and pressing in until she's basically in Bea's lap. Bea is flustered and embarrassed, but the lady catches on to what's what and gracefully makes her exit. Ava drags Bea to their room for some quality time while Lilith does her best to look like she doesn't know them.

[wide-eyedscottishlass]

Scarlett and the Professor - poolside sin

[continued from]    [contains NSFW material]

Just as he had known she would, Scarlett had melted for him. At the potency and command in the depth of his kiss, and in soft submission to his will. Though she had managed to surprise him again—first, with those sketches of her Greek boy, an eloquent testament to the reality of their relationship (though for Hennessy’s sake she had immediately tried to downplay it, as if he might grow jealous), and then with…well, it had felt to Hennessy as nothing short of her lovingly rendered drawing of himself—she remained wonderfully easy to read. And she was very easy to like, as well; he always got on best with lovers who were smart enough to hold their own with him, even challenge him at times, and after her initial timidity those few weeks ago (has it only been that long, he wondered) the vitality of her mind had asserted itself in some entertaining and satisfying ways.

There was much about her to view favorably. Such a very bright girl, with a sharp wit when she chose to display it. A gentle, kind, and very loving nature. Scarlett was soft in all the right places, too; not just in how she surrendered to him, but in the quiet way she clung to him afterwards, making no demands but that most elementary, unspoken one of simply laying with him flesh on flesh. No need for silly chatter in the afterglow, nor the trite habit he sometimes encountered, of  lovers asking for promises of devotion and loyalty. And as he had discerned from their first liaison on the beach, Scarlett could be obedient almost to a fault, and possessed a keen need to please authority figures such as himself. Hennessy had initially suspected she had daddy issues, and my oh my, she had confirmed that with a few passing references to a perpetually absent father. In that aspect, she seemed custom made just for him.

Most intriguing of all was a well of passion, which—despite her naivete—dwelt within her to an as yet indeterminate depth. Oh, he would learn that depth before he was finished with her. He most certainly would. The Leviathan that cruised his own depths had been quiet through their weekend together, not unusual as Hennessy had only just broken beneath her surface. But inevitably, it would find its voice and seek release—meaning that he must discover before then if Scarlett was meet enough to satisfy his wickedest hungers. And if she would revel as much in his darker predilections as she had already learned to in the sensual lessons he had already schooled her in. 

When he’d released her from that kiss, her eyes had remained closed, her face soft with that dreamy expression which he had begun to covet. Hennessy allowed himself a moment to enjoy it, before he gave voice to an observation. “Darling, you’re pinking up a bit—you might want to apply some sunscreen.” She blinked open her eyes at his unexpected comment. “I’d hate to see you burn that creamy skin of yours.” 

Scarlett gave a little ‘oh’, enough to make it clear that hadn’t even occurred to her. Leaving him wearing a small, indulgent smile. “You can fetch a tube from the cabana, little lamb—and I’ll even do your back for you, alright?” Goddamn, how pleasant and surprisingly natural it felt to take care of her! As though she was custom made to rouse that tendency in him as well. 

He’d made quick work of it, too, quietly pleased when she hummed softly beneath the care of his hands, then moaned when he ran his fingertips onto the outside swell of her breasts. “All set now, love,” he teased against her ear, even as he slid the backs of his fingers along her ribs and down to her waist, before throwing her a little off balance by simple letting go—for surely she had expected more. Scarlett turned in time to see him give the tube of sunscreen a one-handed toss and catch it deftly, while he grinned at her innocently, and then headed to the cabana to put it away. The look of surprise and wee confusion on her face was priceless, perfect fuel for the little game he had in mind. 

Exiting the cabana, he saw that she’d settled back into her chair and was staring at the sketchpad in her hands, though she hadn’t taken up her pencil yet. Hennessy slipped of his pool slides at the shallow end of the pool, right above the set of underwater stairs, then meandered over to the far end, giving her a chance to grow curious enough to watch him. When he was sure he had her attention, he dived right into the deep from the pool’s edge, swimming along the bottom for about two-thirds the length of the pool before surfacing for a deep breath. Scarlett was tracking his movements almost surreptitiously, her pencil just hovering over the paper. Gottcha, he thought smugly, it’ll be just a few minutes more, and you’ll be joining me for some very wet fun, m’dear. 

As a further enticement—certain that she was bound to be entranced by the powerful strokes of his long arms cleaving through the water—Hennessy propelled himself towards the shallow end, turning underwater and pushing off the wall, and then swam three full laps before coming to lean against the ledge, facing Scarlett. 

But there she was, presenting him a third surprise—for she sat engrossed in whatever she was drawing, paying him no heed, so that he finally had to call out for her attention. “Scarlett…darling,” he aimed to sound casual, “Come cool off in the water with me.” She gave a rather insouciant tilt of her head, and it occurred to him that she was playing hard to get. Perhaps in reply to the way he’d left off so abruptly after applying her sunscreen. This was a delicious, albeit unexpected, turn—though he knew that she would easily give in if her were to use his voice of command. Let’s see how far she is willing to take this…

Hennessy propped his elbows on top of the pool ledge, then entwined his fingers to rest his chin upon them, becoming the picture of patience before calling to her again, “The water is very refreshing, my pet…and I’d love for you to join me.”

 This time she looked up and gave a little shrug so that he smiled and crooked his finger to beckon her over. Scarlett gave an exaggerated sigh, blinking at him in faux innocence, then began to tuck her art supplies back into her rucksack. Slowly and with much deliberation, purposely making him wait. Her recalcitrance was turning him on in a way he hadn’t yet experienced with her, and the sudden image of her splayed across his knees as he prepared to spank her bare bottom in retribution, flashed across his mind’s eyes. Bringing his hardening prick to full attention. 

She stood up and launched into a long, languid stretch, reaching her arms above her head, then bending at the waist to touch her toes, before shimmying out of her capris. Highly amused, Hennessy bit his lip against commenting just yet, for he was busy picturing how hard he was going to rail her when she finally joined him in the pool. 

And then she was drawing near, smiling sweetly as her shadow fell across him—surely unaware of the wicked turn his thoughts had taken—to stand just out of his reach. Naughty Scarlett! He t’sked at her brazen disregard for his directives, even as her surprising behavior was working on him like some powerful aphrodisiac. She indulged in a dramatic sigh, then turned without a word, walking towards the deep end, sparing him a single, backward glance and a coy little smile, on her way to the diving board. 

Hennessy watched with growing fascination as Scarlett mounted the board, wearing an expression of intense concentration upon her lovely features. She took several deep breaths as she stepped onto the board, then briefly closed her eyes as she stood stock still, clearly preparing herself to dive, and then moved rapidly to the end. Once, twice, thrice, she bounced, gaining height with each spring of the board, and then flawlessly executed an open pike dive, entering the water with the barest of splashes, and then swimming the full length of the pool floor without coming up for air until she reached him. Emerging prettily—as if there was nothing to it—as sleek and as wet as an otter, confident in the wake of her skillful display, and eyeing him impudently. 

Gobsmacked for several seconds, Hennessy drew in a long, whistling breath, truly impressed with the grace with which she had moved through the water. A natural grace that affirmed that water was her element—perhaps as much hers as it was his own. “Christ, Scarlett,” he exclaimed, “That explains how you can hold your breath so well. You must be part water nymph after all!”

She dunked her head beneath the surface, then broke though again, leaving her neck and shoulders submerged. “Now you’re just teasing me, Professor,” she pouted, though her eyes told him what his compliments actually meant to her. Without waiting for his reply, Scarlett was off again, slicing through the water on her way back to the deep end, quickly flipping into an Olympic quality turn, to swim effortlessly back to the shallows. 

Twice more she showed him the same neat trick, arriving back in front of him barely winded, all wide-eyed and lustrous, and looking so very ripe for the taking that he couldn’t stop himself from grabbing hold of her arm and hauling her close. “And now you’re teasing me, little lamb. Awakening the wolf inside me.” He was breathing heavily, his voice raw with the lust she had conjured, “A very hungry wolf, at that…” He grabbed her chin with his other hand and kissed her roughly, then pressed his forehead to hers, “Hungry enough to devour you, Scarlett. Is that what you were hoping for?” 

Left speechless by his fervor, she nodded and swallowed hard, finally managing a breathless reply. “I think…I think with you, I…I always hope for hunger. Does that…make me wicked too?” 

Hennessy gripped her by the shoulders, rumbling from a deep place in his chest, “That makes you perfect for me, love. It makes you mine.” When he took her mouth again he pulled her under the water with him and held her chained to his kiss, only surfacing so they could both draw desperate, heaving breaths. 

Scarlett’s eyes had gone their widest and she watched him, mesmerized as he cupped a hand against her cheek. I’d bet that your pretty Greek boy never kissed you like that. Or that you ever looked at him like you’re looking at me now. “Say it for me, Scarlett,” he demanded, “Say what you know to be true.” 

She blinked several times and chewed on her bottom lip, hesitating only briefly as she searched for the words he expected to hear. “That,” she panted, “That I’m yours.” Scarlett breathed a heavy sigh, closed her eyes, and nestled against his palm, her relief clear in both her voice and expression, “I’m yours...my jo.” 

“Exactly so.” Hennessy rested his free hand on the side of her neck, noting the rapid pace of her pulse, while taming the feral edge to his voice—though it seemed every nerve in his body was alive with his need consume her. “You are mine, and mine alone. In this time and in this place, and for however long it pleases me to have it so.” That she showed no fear of such an absolute concept—that she even greeted it with a small, quiet smile—placated to a degree, the hungry beast lurking at his core. He placed his lips against her ear, relishing the little shiver she gave at the hot kiss of his breath on her tender skin, “And this is not by my will alone, little lamb, is it? It’s what you wanted of me from that very first love note you left on my desk.” 

“Yes…oh, yes.” She sounded almost grateful to share her illicit secret. “It was like some…dark magic came over me. Like I recognized you in the moment I saw you—and that all the choices of my life had led me right to…you.” 

Though lust still thundered through his blood, Hennessy held himself in check long enough to nuzzle her ear and then her cheek. Soft-voiced, he assured her, “You’re precious to me, Scarlett. I hadn’t expected that to happen. Not so soon, anyway.” She gave a little moan, which pleased him well again. “I can taste your trust in me in your every kiss, and that is precious to me too.”

Scarlett wrapped her arms around his neck, shivering with need despite the balmy air, molding her body to his, ready to give herself over to his will once more. Stoking his determination to take everything she was. This time he kissed her without need to pull her under, and with nothing to prove to either of them. Doing his best to go slowly, though inevitably raw hunger overtook them both. 

He had been kissing her face, her neck, her shoulders, as she let her head fall back; sucking the water from her sweet flesh, even as his urgency mounted and he moved them towards the pool wall. Once he had her there, Hennessy pulled away only so that he could shed his swim tee and toss it onto the ground behind her. Scarlett raised her arms above her head, inviting him to do the same for her, and then purred deep in her throat when he was able to flex his powerful hands around her bare breasts. Sinking lower in the water, he took one hard bud between his teeth, while tweaking the other between his fingers, thriving on the moans that were her reply. He swirled the tip of his tongue around her areola and then greedily pulled her into his mouth to feast upon. Her smooth moan drew his eyes up to hers, to see her nod ‘yes’, to see her nod ‘more’, so that he began to suck harder. Pulling her ever deeper. Suckling on her so vigorously that she hissed and shot her hands into his hair, while moaning his name unrepentantly. 

Hennessy dove his right hand down, first parting her thighs, and then slipping it inside her bikini bottom, reaching for that precious nub he’d learned so well. Using the thick pad of his thumb to work her as he moved to take her other nipple deep into his mouth. Absorbing the incredible, sinful sounds rising from her chest, sounds purely for him. Triumphant in knowing no man had ever drawn such sounds from her before, and surprised to feel himself grow even greedier for more. 

As much as he loathed to part from her again for even a moment, need drove him to it; though he kept his gaze upon her, he only let go long enough to pull off his trunks, while Scarlett tugged off her bottoms. Hennessy held out his hands and she came to him at once; he grabbed her hips and using the waters buoyancy, he lifted her enough so that she could drape her legs around him. A moment more and he was using one hand to align the head of his cock with her opening, and then thrusting up into her as he pulled her down onto him. The pool water had been wonderfully warm, but Scarlett’s heat surrounding him was heavenly. Her walls enclosing him perfectly while she sucked the water from his skin, all along his collarbone, and then danced her tongue from his Adam’s apple down to the hollow of his throat. 

She was clinging to him, giving out sharp huffs of air at each of his hard thrusts, but having no traction, she could only rotate her hips for him, so that he cupped her bottom in his hands, sinking his fingers into her firm flesh. “That’s right, baby…that’s the way…” he panted, backing her against the wall again, enabling him to grind up and into her mercilessly, eventually finding their ideal rhythm. Fucking her hard while she dug her fingers into his back. 

Soon, her mouth fell open against him, and she was moaning louder and louder with each of his thrusts, driving him on in equal measure to the divine sensation of her walls pulsing around him, gripping him tight. “Scream for me, Scarlett…if you need to, baby…shout to the heavens, if you will…” 

When she did, it was spectacular, crying out his name like an unholy prayer, her heady moans become wicked as she begged him please, to never stop. “Fuck me hard, my jo…fuck me forever!” So shockingly un-Scarlett like, yet exactly what his soul craved to hear. 

Hennessy opened his eyes, wanting to mark her singular beauty in the throes of their excessive sin—and was struck to the marrow by how utterly his she had become. Exactly as he had wanted, but like a thing that had eluded him his whole life. Making him need her, even more than the wanting. Desperately needing to feel the clench of her muscles—at the height of her ecstasy—surround his throbbing cock, needing her to cum hard and milk him dry. Needing to drown in her…in her love. 

And when he commanded her to, she did—oh, she did because he deemed it so—and so beautifully, so hard that it felt like a rocket imploding, and he followed hard upon, buried as deep inside her as he could get. Suddenly, there were words rising up from his chest, but Hennessy caught them quickly in his throat, while his Scarlett was cooing her bliss, unmindful of his uncharacteristic struggle. 

Catching those dreaded words before they could escape and make everything too complicated, and make him appear weak and ordinary in his precious lover’s eyes. He would not, could not, feel them or speak them aloud. Even if they were a product of truth, and not just his hormones. They would destroy the dynamic of his life, the life he’d worked so religiously to build for himself. 

Besides, he’d have to put Scarlett aside, should he say them—for he certainly did not feel them. Especially not now, no matter how mind blowing it had been, not when he had been made vulnerable by what they had just shared. Not now, when the apotheosis of pleasure had laid his soul bare. Hennessy was far from ready to forsake all the glorious promise of her young, nubile body, nor the astonishing softness of her heart, which she had proven ever ready to lavish upon him. He bit his tongue and tucked his face into her neck, while she smoothed gentle fingers against his hair, and they rode out the last waves of shared ecstasy together.

“Hennessy,” she whispered at last, several minutes having passed with only silence between them and his head still resting on her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

He nodded, groaning against her skin, his mind still hazy in the aftermath of not only their extraordinary physical experience, but as much from the jumble of emotions he had needed to deny and then try to lock away. “I’m fine, Scarlett,” he told her, regretfully lifting away from the welcome haven in the crook of her neck, feeling too drained of energy to give any thought to the dilemma that he had just withstood. “Perfectly fine.”

Hennessy realized that given her remarkably sensitive nature that Scarlett would sense, perhaps even feel, the change in him. But it couldn’t be helped. She had intimated more than once her vivid and quite literal dread of going too deep into dark, unknown waters. Well, there were deep, treacherous waters of his own, which he had vowed long ago to avoid. A mere forty-eight hours---not even that long yet---spent indulging in her charms, no matter how beguiling, were simply not enough to tempt him to tread there. 

He pressed a perfunctory kiss to her cheek and then backed away, submerging into the water as though cleansing himself of those things he would deny. When he surfaced, Hennessy caught her eye long enough to see he’d left her perplexed, and even a little hurt.

That’s as it must be---and what choice does she have otherwise, he decided, rolling over to take a leisurely lap to the far end of the pool; the only promise he’d made, beyond those of the sins he would teach her, was that their affair would never broach the boundaries of his black and solitary heart. It’s best you remember that promise now, little lamb. If not, what heartache you may suffer will not be my fault to bear.

(to be continued)

tagging: @strangelock221b @ben-locked @thelostsmiles @splunge4me2art @ben-c-group-therapy @tsukuyomi011 @humanbornarchangel @emilyinnj4real @letterstosherlock @aeterna-auroral-avenger @frowerssx2 @groovyfluxie @ravencatart @doctor-stephenstrange @candiegirl-22

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

You’re one of my fave writers and deserve so much love and praise. I don’t mean to be pushy. Only wondering when can we expect an update with Scarlet and her jo? It’s amazing. By the by, is it on ao3? Thank you.

Well, thank you so much, dear Nonny!! 💖 Rest assured, I never find it pushy when someone asks for more of my work--I actually love it. As I love my Scarlett (and her wicked Professor). Although my pace has slowed with them, there are lots of chapters to come, and I am hoping (with my fingers crossed) to have a new one posted by the end of May.

I haven’t posted it on AO3 because Hennessy doesn’t quite belong to me. Their story started as a role play with another blogger, who has for their own reasons, discontinued our interaction. I do note this with every chapter that I’ve posted--not my OMC and used with permission. Such permission remains tacit as far as I know, for we haven’t communicated directly in a long time. I like to think that if they ever read what I’ve been creating, they would enjoy it, even if it isn’t exactly what we would have written together. If I should ever want to post it to AO3, I would be absolutely obligated to ask for their permission.

But in the meantime, please do stay tuned, for there is plenty more to come for the sweet little lamb and her lustful sea-wolf. They are connected not just by the pleasures of the flesh, but by something growing deeper with time spent together--and Hennessy is going to fight that every step of the way!

[collapse-and-comfort]

An SOS prompt fill for @lurkingwhump. Here we have a soft caretaking drabble with painful wound treatment! Hope you enjoy! 🤕 

The motel was quiet, cheap and clean. The holy trinity for anyone looking to lay low and patch up wounds. The curtains were drawn. The door was locked. Every available light in the room was turned on. Whumpee sat, stripped from the waist up, their chest against the back of the chair and their arms resting on the desk in front of them.

Whumpee groaned and shifted on their chair as Caretaker eased the pressure off of the wound on their shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Caretaker said, their voice quiet and calm as they eyed the laceration. They nodded to themself, relieved to see the blood flow had been stemmed. Caretaker patted Whumpee’s uninjured shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Whumpee was lucky that was the worst of their wounds - they could even get away without stitches - but Caretaker doubted Whumpee felt very lucky. They’d made a very narrow escape, now their body was littered with bruises, cuts and scrapes. Caretaker regretted that they only had Tylenol tablets to give them for the pain. Their supplies were limited, but they would be sufficient.

“The bleeding’s stopped,” Caretaker said. “I’m going to get this clean now, okay?”

Whumpee drew a shaky breath in, then let it out through their mouth and nodded.

“You’re doing great, Whumpee,” they said. “Just tell me if you need me to stop.”

“‘kay,” Whumpee said as they focused their gaze at the wall.

Caretaker couldn’t help but notice how weary that one syllable sounded.

“Okay,” Caretaker echoed.

They used the friction necessary to sanitize the area around the wound, but they let Whumpee’s reactions dictate their speed. Caretaker explained that they were going to irrigate the wound next, but Whumpee was unable to keep from flinching and hissing when the water made contact. Caretaker apologized again as they caught pink-tinged water with a white towel. They paused before the next part.

“I’m good,” Whumpee said. Their voice was distant, but the set of their back and shoulders was rigid and prepared for whatever other pain they had to endure.

Caretaker smiled even though, or perhaps because, Whumpee couldn’t see them.

“It’s okay if you’re not, you know?”

Whumpee let out something like a chuckle and nodded without looking at Caretaker.

“Oh, I’m nowhere near good, Caretaker, but let’s get this over with?”

Next came the peroxide. Caretaker was loath to use it, but they wanted to be sure nothing remained that would cause infection. Whumpee was still when Caretaker poured it on their shoulder, but as it worked, they sucked in air through their teeth and began to tremble.

“I know,” Caretaker said as they set the bottle down and placed their free hand on Whumpee’s other shoulder. “Just breathe.”

There was more peroxide, followed by water, and for every gentle reminder to breathe, there came a stilted, whispery exhalation.

“Good, that’s good.” Caretaker padded Whumpee’s shoulder dry. Their voice was barely above a whisper, but it didn’t need to be louder than that in the quiet of the room. “Almost done.”

Caretaker used cotton swab sticks to apply petroleum dressing. They’d covered half the area they’d wanted to by the time Whumpee’s shoulders fell. The noise that escaped them was small. A tiny ah that made up for in hurt what it lacked in volume.

“Stop,” they panted and braced their forehead against the back of the chair. “Please? Just stop.”

Caretaker halted immediately and took a step back. They gave no indication of their surprise.

“Yeah,” they said. “Yeah, Whumpee. That’s fine. Take a breather.”

It didn’t take long - maybe several minutes - for Whumpee to come back to themself and give Caretaker tacit permission to proceed.

“Sorry,” they said.

Caretaker was saddened that Whumpee felt the need to apologize, but they continued with the vaseline.

“You’re not the worst patient I’ve ever had,” they confided. “Probably not even in the top five.”

Whumpee managed a single note of laughter, but it was genuine.

Caretaker appraised their work before dressing the wound with gauze. The remainder went smoothly enough and Whumpee’s eyes had begun to grow heavy by the time Caretaker put a bandaid on one final scoring on the back of Whumpee’s hand.

“All done,” they said.

They helped Whumpee over to one of the room’s twin beds and told them to rest. In the time it took them to walk to the bathroom, discard their gloves and wash their hands, Whumpee had fallen asleep.

[delicioussshame]

One step forward...

Shen-laoshi has taken to wearing the clothes Luo Binghe had bought for him.

They fit perfectly, following the outlines of his teacher’s body much more closely than the frayed shirts and worn pants Shen-laoshi had brought with him.

In a way, it felt like the culmination of weeks of waiting. From Shen Yuan barely daring to leave the one room Luo Binghe had declared was his to him leaving unfinished books and half-emptied glasses of water around like he would at home, progress had been slow but, he believes, consistent.

The part of him that wants nothing more than to own all of Shen Yuan couldn’t be more pleased with the latest development. Luo Binghe had been more concerned with providing anything his laoshi might need to bother with the usual perks someone in Shen-laoshi’s position might have expected. Luo Binghe’s busy schedule left them little time for foreign vacations or luxurious nights out. He didn’t think Shen-laoshi was the type to demand designer items and exclusive jewelry. His hobbies were not especially expensive. All in all, he left Luo Binghe with very few options to spoil him like his student wanted to. While Binghe’s ultimate goal was an egalitarian relationship, he very much wouldn’t mind indulging in those more stereotypical aspects of their current arrangement. He was guilty of imagining Shen-laoshi acting coy, asking him for treats in exchange for another type of favor altogether, more times than he will ever admit.

Since he hasn’t gotten the chance to spoil him as he dreamed of yet, letting his eyes feast on Shen-laoshi willingly wrapped in vestments Luo Binghe had handpicked for him was as close as it got. Mine is all he can think about as his stare is glued to his laoshi’s swan neck, so delightfully framed by the shirt’s opened collar.

Luo Binghe has excellent taste in all things.

Shen-laoshi has to be aware of what he’s doing, hasn’t he? After that first misstep, he’d been so careful around him Luo Binghe had regretted his moaning. This has to be a deliberate choice, to drape himself in a physical representation of all Luo Binghe wanted to give him.

Luo Binghe dares to hope it is. Even his occasionally absent-minded teacher must have accounted for how this change would look to his host? It certainly feels more like invitation than rejection.

He’s going to try his luck. At this point, he doesn’t think it likely that Shen-laoshi will take his advances badly. The worse he’ll do is shy away.

Luo Binghe moves to the couch Shen-laoshi is occupying, giddy when his teacher instantly makes room for him. The move is probed by instinctive awareness of Luo Binghe, and completely devoid of the awkwardness that had tinted their interactions when Shen-laoshi had first arrived.

He does tense up a bit when Luo Binghe rests a hand on his thigh, but the way he stays still, continuing to read instead of fleeing or objecting, is tacit permission.

Normally, Luo Binghe might take advantage of such a permissive mood by stealing both the book and Shen-laoshi’s lips, but this time, he’s going to push a little bit further. He applies his mouth to the side of that fair neck, and kisses it gently before bruising the skin.

His handiwork on Shen Yuan’s skin only spurs him on. Luo Binghe’s sole focus becomes worshipping those few centimetres of exposed skin, futilely trying to sate his hunger but only feeding it.

The muffled sound of the book dropping on the floor isn’t enough to stop him.

“Binghe.”

Blood rushes to his head at his laoshi’s breathy tone. If it was intended to be a rebuke, it is a very poor one.

A delicate, rapidly warming hand rests on his arm. “Binghe… What are you doing?”

It’s a tragedy that he has to lift his mouth from his teacher’s neck to reply. “Something I am very bad at, if Laoshi has to ask.” He would have thought it was self-evident.

Witnessing Shen-laoshi’s blush from this angle is mesmerising. Luo Binghe wants to follow its progression with his mouth. “That’s not what… Why now?”

There are no bad moments for this. There are only good and better occasions. “Why not? I’m here, so is Laoshi, and he’s being so tantalising refusing him would be criminal.” For Luo Binghe honestly believes Shen-laoshi knows what he’s doing, resting on Luo Binghe’s couch by Luo Binghe’s side, reading the book Luo Binghe bought him and all prettied up in clothes Luo Binghe bought. Shen-laoshi can be oblivious, but not that oblivious.

The lack of denial to his comment also is a point in his favor.

Luo Binghe returns to the object of his fascination.

“Binghe! Slow down…”

As much as it pains him to admit it, he can’t deny it is a reasonable request. There has to be some level of trepidation remaining in his teacher. The last thing he wants is for the strength of his desire to push him away.

Also, their first time is not happening on a couch. Luo Binghe has many nice, wide, very comfortable beds, all of which he fully intends to christen with his laoshi when the time comes.

Not that he would mind carrying Shen-laoshi to one of said beds. His teacher still weights too little for this to be a hardship.

In response, Luo Binghe presses his teeth to the lobe of his laoshi’s ear. “Anything Laoshi wants, he shall get.” Slowly taking Shen Yuan apart also has appeal.

It just demands a lot of him. Remaining in control when Shen-laoshi’s breathing grows laboured, when his hands refuse to stay limp to instead hold on Luo Binghe for dear life, is one of the hardest things he’s ever done. It’s a miracle that his hands are steady when he undoes the first buttons of Shen-laoshi’s shirt to finally allow himself a glimpse of what it’s been hiding.

It hid no surprise. Shen-laoshi is perfect. Luo Binghe can already tell he'll never get enough of kissing the mole on his right collarbone.

If he's lucky, Shen-laoshi won't either.

"...Binghe…"

He's also certain he will never tire of Shen-laoshi calling for him in this way.

"Binghe!"

With a lot of reluctance, Luo Binghe abandons the chest he'd barely had a chance to get to know.

Only to instantly be assaulted by the vision of his teacher debauched by him, messy and red and nowhere near as unapproachable as he once appeared.

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to center himself. "Yes?"

"That's enough, isn't it?"

Luo Binghe stares at his laoshi with betrayed eyes. It very much isn’t? Can he really say such a thing when his voice shook as he spoke, when his cheeks are flushed, when his fingers still tremble on Luo Binghe’s arm? The one he loves wouldn’t be this cruel to him, would he? He did say to take it slow, but this slow? He hasn’t even shrugged his shirt off!

It’s a very good look on him, what isn’t, but the point still stands! “Laoshi!”

He doesn’t have to wait for Shen-laoshi’s reaction to understand his mistake. “Don’t call me that now!” It was enough to snap his laoshi out of his indulging mood; Shen Yuan manages to close his shirt and jump off the couch before Luo Binghe can stop him.

The urge to go after him is very strong.

He doesn’t.

_________________

Shen Yuan isn’t freaking out. He’s too old to be freaking out.

So maybe he’d figured out he’d die alone. He might have made peace with that a while ago. What did he have to offer to a partner? Neither time nor money? What would have been the point of dating in those conditions?

So he’s been single for… a while. A long while. It takes time to get back into things! And Binghe… wasn't making it easy.

It wasn't his fault he wasn't anything like Shen Yuan expected his potential partner to be.

Not that he'd thought about that much.

Binghe was living the life Shen Yuan had left behind. He was attractive enough that Shen Yuan, who had never given another man a glance, couldn't deny it. And he was young. An adult fully grown, but still younger than him by many years.

He wasn't supposed to make Shen Yuan feel the way he does.

Shen Yuan should be a better man than this.

And yet, life had proven, time and time again, that he very much wasn't.

[laurelsofhighever]

Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again. 

--

CW: mild gore

The light burned low in Alistair’s room, wobbling as the hearthflames sifted moodily through the dying embers for fuel, outcompeted by the gleam of Sevuna through the large windows that overlooked the formal gardens of the Winter Palace. If he had cared to, he could have spoken the command to wake the lyrium glowstones dotted around the room, but he preferred the silence. In the brooding dark, he could look out at the frozen splendour of the grounds, with its hibernating fountains and spears of topiary, and his thoughts could chase themselves in circles at their leisure.

How could the world have tilted so far sideways in such a small span of hours? If he turned inwards deeply enough, a molten core still burned with the anger of being lied to, but the surrounding fire had been doused almost the moment Rosslyn had stepped back into the ballroom, vanishing as the realisation of his own stupidity came crashing down around him. He had lost her. Again. That she was alive, and somewhere within the labyrinthine decadence of Halamshiral, tormented him as much as it made him breathless with joy.

She was alive. But she was also out of his grasp, with no one to blame but himself. His hands flexed against the window frame as his memory spat back the things he had said to her, accusations and disbelief and the promise that he could never hate her turned around not a moment later to be flung in her face.

You aren’t who I thought you were.

And yet, how could he doubt her identity when she had taken the blow with such grace, and pinned him with the steel in her eyes as she left him to the frost. Fear had gripped him then, more tightly than the idea that she had spent two years laughing at his grief; he watched her retreating back with her gaze a haunt of tacit pain, and only the jolt from his reawakened sense of politics had kept him from going after her.

Someone had to be coercing her, and in order to sneak her into the Orlesian court under a false name, whoever it was had to be powerful. Revealing her might only put her in more danger, even without the less than favourable reaction that could be expected from Celene. Not since his soldiers, digging through the ruins of Ostagar, had presented him the battered remains of the falcon helm had he felt such a bottomless drop to his stomach, such a bleed of strength from his legs. When he had staggered back from the terrace his shock had excused him from the rest of the party, but such an early night had so far only given him a better opportunity to berate himself. He doubted sleep would come for him before morning.

A chill whispered through the thin fabric of his sleep clothes, drawing him from his reverie. Confused, he glanced to the fireplace, where the flames burned low but undisturbed, and then to the rest of the dark room. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a slight billow in one of the curtains, from a draught through a window he was sure had been locked.

One of the shadows moved.

Before he could cry out, the assassin flashed out a hand, and a glitter of sharp powder caught in his lungs, stinging his eyes and choking his breath so that instead of a shout, only a dry rasp emerged from his throat. On instinct, he snatched up the closest curtain to foil the glint of the blade lunging for his stomach and flung it out as far as he could, already thinking about the dagger he kept within easy reach on the bedside table. The tearing fabric behind him told him he had little chance to reach it. His limbs wouldn’t move as they should. He had to hurl himself across the bed, with a whirl of dark velvet in the air above, throwing pillows and anything else his hands could scrabble at for distraction, before his fingers finally closed on the dagger’s hilt and swept it up in an arc that drew sparks from the assassin’s descending blade.

He tried to shout again as he kicked out and rolled away, savouring the muffled grunt he got for the effort, but only until he managed to right himself. His strength was slipping, adrenaline giving way as the effects of the powder worked into his blood. Desperate, he staggered behind one of the many overstuffed chairs that littered the room, knowing it would do little good. The smirking porcelain mask, floating like a phantom above the assassin’s dark clothing, had blocked the path to the door.

Waiting for the drug to take its full effect.

Then something else moved in the darkness. In the heartbeat it took for the assassin to follow the flick of Alistair’s gaze, a second figure leapt out from behind the bed to collide bodily with the first. The momentum of the blow threw the assassin into the nightstand hard enough to send the water jug shattering to the floor, but not enough to knock them down. As Alistair watched, the white porcelain flashed, turned, lunged forwards – and stopped, impaled on the stranger’s blade.

Even with a blank, black mask disguising her features, Rosslyn could not be mistaken. She straightened as her opponent convulsed in one last gurgle and slid off the end of her sword, impassive but taut as a drawn bowstring, radiating a cold fury that froze Alistair worse than the draught blowing in from the window. He swallowed. If he could just get to her, reach out –

“Your Majesty!”

He turned too quickly at the crash of the door and had to catch himself on the chair to avoid collapsing completely. In the confusion as his guards poured into the room, weapons drawn, he lost sight of Rosslyn, with only a current of air at his back to follow her passing.

“Your Majesty, are you alright?”

He tore his gaze away, from how she pressed herself into the side of the chimney and the frantic, pleading shake of her head as their eyes met. “Uh…”

“What happened?” Morrence demanded. She had already sheathed her sword and was kneeling to examine the corpse.

“I –” Even that small attempt at speech left him coughing. His eyes watered as he tapped his throat and managed to rasp out the word assassin. “Caught me by surprise. Got lucky.”

“Hm.” His guard-commander drew a dagger from her belt and used the tip to lift the porcelain mask away from the assassin’s face. The slender features and scraggy attempt at a moustache hardly made Alistair feel better, but before he could dwell too deeply on the age difference between him and his would-be killer, he caught Morrence peering at the blood trail leading away from the body.

He shifted his weight to block her line of sight.

“Looks like he got in through the window,” one of the other guards called from across the room.

“I want someone out there now to see where he came from,” Morrence ordered. “And alert the palace guard that there’s been an attempt on His Majesty’s life. It could be whoever’s responsible wants to try for the empress as well.”

Both the look on her face and the sullen note in her voice conveyed her suspicion about Celene’s role in the whole affair, the hope – on the slim chance she wasn’t behind the attack – that the assassins creeping into the empress’ chamber were having more luck. Even more than Alistair, she had found Orlais unwelcoming. Dismissed as both a Fereldan and as someone with obvious elven ancestry, her temper had been hanging on rather a fine string ever since crossing the border.

“Either way, it sounds like all the excitement is over for me,” Alistair huffed, flashing a brittle smile at the improving quality of his voice. “What a shame, I do so love being the centre of attention.”

“Your Majesty, this man was killed with a sword.”

He quelled the urge to glance behind him. “Was he? It all happened so fast – are you sure?”

“And yet there’s no sword in this room,” she pressed, rising from her crouch. “I still have yours right here.”

“What are you suggesting, Guard-Commander?”

Her eyes narrowed at the uncommon use of her title. “It would be a good idea to make a thorough search of these rooms in case of accomplices.”

“What? No, I don’t –” He coughed, fixed his gaze on a mountain in one of the tapestries so he wouldn’t give Rosslyn away – “That won’t be necessary, surely? Can’t you just take the body, maybe put a towel over the bloodstain?”

“Your Majesty –”

Sensing defeat, he sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. “Look, it’s been a long day of disappointments, and someone just tried to kill me, if you didn’t notice. I really think if there’d been an accomplice they would have jumped out of the wardrobe while I was occupied.”

“You take your safety too lightly,” she protested. “At least let us get you checked over by a healer.”

“A good night’s sleep, that’s what I need.” He tried to smile again, to hide the lurch in his stomach at the idea that Rosslyn might disappear again if he gave her the opportunity.

“But –”

He held one arm out, the other firmly supported on the back of the chair. “Look at me, I’m not even injured. And whatever got thrown in my face, it’s wearing off. If you don’t take that body away right now and leave me to rest, you can be the one to tell Élodie why I spent half the night being prodded at by Wynne instead of getting my beauty sleep.”

For a long moment, he worried she would insist anyway, but at last she turned with her fingers tight around the hilt of her own sword, and he knew this particular battle was won.

“Fine,” she bit out, and nudged the assassin’s body with her boot. “With your permission, I’ll have Leliana take a closer look at this for any clues about just who might have wanted to kill you.”

“Good idea.”

“One of us has to have sense.” She sighed. “Allers, get over here and help me, would you?”

The guard still standing by the door saluted and stepped forward to take the assassin’s legs, while Morrence hefted him up beneath the shoulders. Shuffling and cursing, they hauled the body through to the next room, while Alistair kept up his smile and eased around the chair to block their view as much as he could, despite the pins-and-needles starting to shoot up his legs as the drug wore off. When the door finally clicked shut, he allowed himself to sag and turned, only to find Rosslyn leaning against the chimney, head bowed forward, a picture of exhaustion that pulled at something unpleasant deep within his chest.

“Rosslyn –”

“Thank you,” she interrupted. “For not revealing me.”

“Thank you for saving my life,” he replied, but the smile died on his lips. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if his legs were strong enough yet to cross the distance between them, or if she would even want him to. “That poison powder has a kick.”

“I remember.”

So did he. The night after they met in the mountains on his return from Orzammar, the first time he truly feared for her life, when had had so much left to tell her.

“It should wear off soon,” she said, pushing off the wall, her eyes still on the floor. “With no permanent damage.” She paused. “He would have killed you.”

“Then I guess it’s lucky you were here.”

No response. She half-turned to him as if to reply, but not far enough to meet his gaze. Instead, her eyes caught on her hands, as if she hadn’t yet noticed the assassin’s blood coating both them and the length of her sword. There lay the last piece of evidence carving away the doubt that it really was her; Talon’s blue-gold colour shone through the gore as it cut the light, the runestone in the pommel winking with power.

“There’ll be a guard outside the window soon,” she started. “I should –”

He staggered towards her. “Don’t. Please don’t go. What I said before – I couldn’t bear to lose you again.”

“What if I’m not who you think I am?” she replied, every word laced with sudden venom. For the first time, she looked at him, not bothering to hide the hurt within the depths of her glare.

“How could I mistake you?” he asked her, or himself. “How could I not recognise the woman who –” His throat wouldn’t work, though his mind screamed what he wanted to say. “I haven’t been able to stop wondering if it was a dream, if I really could be that much of a fool, but I was. I am. You could have let me walk away and I would have deserved it, but you didn’t, and I…” His laugh tasted bitter, and his eyes stung as he dared to edge the distance between them. “It’s crazy, right? Two years of wanting to see you again and the moment all my wishes came true I drove you away. I am so sorry, just – please, don’t go.”

Shrinking away again, she turned her eye to the tapestries, to the fire, to the blood on her hands that gleamed black in the low light, until the silence had stretched for so long it left a ringing in his ears and made his mouth dry, but he didn’t dare move. Finally, she wrapped her arms around her upper body with Talon held carefully to avoid its edge, steadying herself with a breath.

“I didn’t exactly make it difficult for you.”

Hope flared. As before, he approached her with halting steps as if she were an apparition likely to disappear, only this time he reached out to her in full knowledge that she wasn’t, that this encounter really wasn’t some Fade trick or conjuration. Her hands still held the cold of the Harvestmere night, the blood tacky against his skin, but she returned his grip with fingers that bore the callouses he remembered, the ones born from her dedication to her training, and when he breathed her name again she met his eyes with that fathomless winter grey he could spend hours studying without boredom.

“Come here,” he offered gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She followed him through to the suite’s tiled salle de lavage without complaint and watched him turn the taps. “I can manage.”

“Of course.” He tried to smile. “I didn’t mean to… well. You’ll need a new shirt, though, since that one’s got blood on it. I’ve got – I mean, do you want to borrow one?”

She froze with her hands running a cloth under a cool stream of water. Silence pooled like marsh fog between them, where the memories ran thick; once upon a time, his shirts had been her nightly attire, borrowed, and then naturalised to their new owner until her scent clung to the cloth even after he managed to steal them back, until it was the only thing he had had left of her. He shoved a hand backwards through his hair and coughed away the unpleasant rise at the back of his throat, made worse by the aftereffects of the powder.

“You don’t have to if you’d rather keep that one – it is quite nice, now that I’m looking – not that I’m looking – but it’s really the least I can do after the whole saving-my-life thing.”

“I’ll take the offer,” she told him with perhaps a shade of her familiar wry amusement. “Thank you.”

“Great! I’ll, uh… leave you to it, then.”

When she emerged from the washroom a little while later, he had stoked the fire and lit the glowstones, and found a spare blanket to soak up the bloodstain on the floor. He startled from his rummage through his drawers for a shirt to find her still rubbing at imaginary specks of blood in Talon’s hilt, the intense concentration in what he could see of her face throwing him back to old nights on campaign, when they would sit knee to knee, cleaning their equipment as an excuse to spend time in each other’s company.

“What’s so amusing?” she asked when she caught his expression, finally satisfied enough to sheathe the sword and throw the cloth onto the corner of the bedside table.

He turned away to hide the flush of heat up his neck. “Nothing, I just recognise that look on your face.”

“I don’t have a look on my face.” But she touched her fingers to the mask nonetheless, as if to check it was still there.

“If you say so,” he answered, grinning, and held out his least wrinkled shirt. “Here, this one shouldn’t smell too bad.”

The corner of her mouth ticked upward as she took the garment from him, but it faded into uncertainty when she glanced between it and the tunic she already wore. With an apologetic look over her shoulder she turned away, hiding herself from him as she started on the fastenings that kept the mask over her face. He tried not to let the action sting. Two years before, he might have helped her change – or hindered her, if they had time – and more than anything else so far this evening, the idea that she might not be comfortable in his presence cut deep, reminded him just how far the gulf between them had grown. He ought to respect her privacy, and tried to, but as she drew the tunic over her head the swish of the fabric caught his eye, and the sight of her held it.

Her scars were the same. The white starbust on her left shoulder from the crossbow bolt he had pulled out with his own hands on the night they first stumbled into each other; the small leaf-shaped depression below her ribs where Loghain’s sword had pierced her back. He knew them, by sight and touch and tongue, but the canvas upon which they were painted now sent a lance through his chest. What had she suffered to become so thin? How did she still endure, when he could count her ribs and see every strand of wasted muscle working beneath her skin? He had added to that pain. His gut churned with the guilt of it.

Before he was aware of moving, he had crossed the space and wrapped his arms around her waist almost before the new shirt had settled, burying his face into her neck and hating how she tensed.

“Alistair…”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her shoulder, hoping she wouldn’t pull away. “I’m sorry for everything. Everything you’ve been through. Everything I couldn’t protect you from.”

She drew in a breath and let it go, laid her fingers over his. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“The things I said tonight were,” he insisted. “You deserved better. All those vile things – it was unforgivable.”

“And yet you appear to be asking forgiveness.”

She broke his embrace, just enough to turn in his arms, and this time as she looked up at him, without darkness or resined paper to hide her features, he forgot to breathe. The familiar, teasing curl of her mouth drew him in, but he stopped, and brushed a hand along her cheek instead. How many times had he wished for just one more look, bargained his entire kingdom to the dark for one more moment to admire the straight line of her nose, her high cheeks, the way her fine lashes fanned against her skin and perfectly framed her eyes?

“Alistair?” she prompted.

“What?”

“You were staring.”

“Oh! Well…” He resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck. “The clockwork’s a little rusty – you know how it is. I forget to wind it up. Ah.” He swallowed, dared to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “I don’t suppose you’ll forgive me for that, too? I remember you being very forgiving.”

She chuckled. “Do you?”

“Very clearly. You’re the most merciful person in Thedas.”  

For an instant, he watched a retort dance on the tip of her tongue, but she held it back and dropped her gaze to the middle of his chest, and he started forward to ask what he’d done wrong.

“You left me,” she said, before he could open his mouth. “On the morning of the battle I woke up and you weren’t there. Why?”

He flinched away from the quiet, even tone of her voice, as if she had shouted instead. There was no answer he could give beyond an admission of cowardice, nothing that would excuse it.

“I have regretted that every day,” he told her. “I couldn’t face that being the last time I would see you, I was terrified I’d change my mind. I wondered, after, if that was why…”

“You think I went and faced the Nightmare out of spite?” she checked.

“No! I mean… Sometimes. In the beginning, I was so angry, but you would never stand by while you could help. I should have known better than to try and make you.” His memories from those early weeks without her existed in a haze of vitriolic self-destruction, recalled only as flashes where he cast blame at anyone who dared come near him, until even Cuno was banished to the kennels after pacing one too many times from room to room, searching for the mistress who had not come home. He had begged the mages to help him, to offer him some hope that she lived, and now before him stood the proof that he should have tried harder.

Cool fingers laced tentatively with his. “I should have let Morrence lead the cavalry.”

“You saved us all,” he insisted, but sighed and looked away, because the wound still throbbed. “And you deserved more from me.”

“I promised you I would stay behind.”

“Shhhh…” Weary to his bones, he pressed a kiss against her forehead. “It’s alright. You’re here. And I should have known that not even death could ever stop you. It probably took one look at that glare of yours and decided to turn tail.”

The comment earned a brief, wet chuckle as he pulled her close, and left in its wake a more comfortable silence than those that had gone before, a relief and a comfort, taming the shadowy beast that since Ostagar had clawed its way through his mind and body both. That Rosslyn now clung to him too opened a new, bright kind of pain beneath his ribs, clean and healing where before his wounds had festered. He never wanted to let her go.

“I did everything I could to get back to you,” she said after a long moment. “I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you sooner.”

“It’s alright,” he whispered, with another kiss to her forehead as if reassuring nothing more than a bad dream. “It’s alright.”

He trailed the declaration down the side of her face, his lips brushing over the lid of an eye, her cheek, the very corner of her mouth, while her hands curled slowly into his waist and the back of his neck. At the last, she turned her head and his mouth found hers of its own accord, instinct more than effort that sent sparks to the tips of his still-numb fingers.

“Say you’ll stay with me,” he breathed, not daring to pull away. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t,” she promised, and leaned forward again.

“Wait, does that mean you won’t stay or you won’t go?”

The sound of her laugh made him giddy as she pushed into him, rising onto her toes so the arms around his neck could pull him into a deeper kiss. Any caution urged by the overwhelming shadows still ranged against them fell to the press of her body against his, the beat of her pulse under his thumb and the whimper that slipped her throat as his hands wandered.

And yet even here in such a perfect moment, responsibility nagged at him. The gaudy porcelain clockwork on the mantelpiece chimed the early hour and drew them apart, flushed and breathing heavily and still joined by the gentle brush of fingers over each other’s skin. He had meetings to attend in the morning, and Élodie’s wrath to face if he spent them trying to hide yawns behind his hand.

“We should go to bed,” he murmured, with a rush of longing and doubt so strong his head spun. “To sleep! Not for anything nefarious. I mean –”

Breaking into a smile, she stopped him with a swift kiss. “You’ve never been nefarious in your life.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You should know… I don’t sleep much these days,” she admitted. “Not since I came back.”

He stroked his thumb over her cheek, at a loss for how to comfort her. He didn’t want to pry.

“Don’t worry about it. Perhaps this is what I’ve been missing.”

“You say the nicest things,” he replied, to cover, and brought the back of her hand to his lips.

In the few paces to the ridiculously ornate canopy bed, his heart thundered, stalling his breath with memories of the nights he had spent wrapped up with Rosslyn nestled against him, and after, even more nights when the place at his side lay cold and empty. He bit down on the urge to tell her sleep would likely elude him too, for fear of waking to that nightmare again, even as his heart ached with the stilted atmosphere between them, the experiences that had pushed them apart. His body responded to hers in a way it hadn’t for longer than he cared to think, automatically and carelessly, but reaching for her now felt like reaching across a tidal strait too deep to swim, close enough to hear her voice and see her waiting on the far shore but unable to cross the gap. But he would not push. The day he had spent with her in the meadow high in the Frostbacks loomed in his mind, when she had told him of her lacking desire and the fear that to others it would not matter, and the promise he had made to never be that person to her which still held true.

It didn’t mean he had to be tired of kissing her. They had two years to make up. Every line of muscle yearned towards her as he turned and found her still behind him, not an apparition, her hand warm in his and her breath soft and sweet across his face. He felt her smile as he leaned down to her, and then the jolt in his blood when the tip of her tongue darted out over his bottom lip.

“Does that convince you I’m really here?” she teased.

He bumped his nose against hers. “Just about.”

Humming her satisfaction at the response, she left him to sit on the edge of the bed, smirking as she lifted one leg across the other. “What, you don’t expect me to go to bed in boots, do you?” she asked when she noticed his frown. “I’ll get mud all over the sheets.”

“As much as I’d love to explain that one to the servants…” He shrugged as he knelt and waved her hands away from the buckles. “Let me do that.”

“I’m perfectly capable –”

“I want to see if you’re wearing embarrassing socks.”

The brief chuckle earned by the remark drew his eyes upwards. Rosslyn watched him, her head tilted in a wistfulness that reached down through her fingers as she twined them into his hair.

“You’re staring again,” she noted.

He turned to kiss the inside of her wrist. “Must be the view.”

“Hm. Get back to it, Your Majesty.”

Smirking, he did as he was told and set to the straps, content to go slowly, working his way down her calf. The boot slipped off her foot with a minor tug, accompanied by a sigh from above. She had lain back to gaze at the canopy of the bed while he worked, entirely at ease, and the normality of the whole scene eased a sigh between his lips.

“I’m disappointed in these socks,” he informed her as he started on the second boot.

An answering hum of laughter. “I will endeavour to do better next time.”

“Good.” He stayed on the floor a moment longer, kneading his thumb along the lines of hard muscle between ankle and knee until she relaxed under his touch. When he finally moved to join her on the bed, her head lay propped on one arm, her eyes warm as he settled at her side and laced his fingers into her free hand.

“Is that better?” he asked.

“Mostly.”

“Oh?” He quirked a brow. “And what would make it all better?”

The corner of her mouth tugged into a smile as she untucked her arm from behind her head and rose onto one elbow, closer to him, and his eyes fluttered shut with the gentle fingertips she traced along his jaw.

“Just this,” she murmured, and tilted forward to kiss him, long and sweet.

When she finally pulled away, the lack of her froze his skin as if he had turned from a campfire on a cold night. He followed after her, pressing his forehead to hers and curling his hand around the precious shell of her ear. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” She paused. “This beard, however…”

He jerked his head back, one hand already flying to his chin. “What’s wrong with my extremely manly beard?” he demanded.

Laughing, she scooted around him so her legs no longer dangled off the edge of the mattress and did not answer, preoccupied instead with unbuckling Talon from her waist. He noticed she laid it still within easy reach as she peeled back the covers, but he pushed down the twist of pain caused by the implication in favour of a more pressing matter. He followed her up the bed.

“Teagan says it makes me look distinguished, you know.”

“Teagan’s never had to kiss you with it,” she retorted. “Or at least I hope not.”

He frowned as he settled next to her under the covers, on his side with his chest tight and heart dancing for her closeness. Their legs tangled together. As his hand found its old place on her hip, it awoke every forgotten habit his mind had sealed away, like a limb released from a tourniquet and allowed to move again, and when her arm slipped up to rest in a loose embrace, a sigh painting her lips, he never wanted to move again.

“I haven’t kissed Teagan,” he told her. “I haven’t kissed anyone.”

Damn those grey eyes. The intensity in them could turn a charging horse, or reduce a hardened criminal to gibbered pleading, and Alistair doubted he turned away fast enough to hide the well of loneliness that had eaten away at him for so long – perhaps stoppered now, in her presence, but still aching like the echo in an empty cave. Her touch burned on the side of his face as she sought to comfort him.

“You really don’t like the beard?” he checked, before she could speak.

“You mean these boar bristles?” she asked gently. She stroked her fingers along the edge of his jaw and the unexpected shiver it sent down his back made him want her to do it again. “The overall effect has… a certain charm. Perhaps it’ll grow on me.”

“I certainly hope not! The beard can stay on my face, thank you – but I’ll let you borrow it whenever you like.” He pulled her close, forgetting his earlier caution in her giggle as he held her face and rubbed his stubbled cheeks all over hers as if he were a cat, kissing where his lips brushed skin, until her hands twisted into his hair and they had turned so she was beneath him, wrapped in his embrace with her hair coming loose from its pins across the pillow. She bared her neck to him and he obliged, rediscovering the trail that led along her pulse as her breath turned to gasps and her hands fisted in the collar of his shirt.

But she wasn’t free, not yet. Even as he nipped at her skin and soothed the bite with his tongue, she drew his head up to bring his mouth to hers again, seeking comfort, the frayed ends of their connection severed at Ostagar. He embraced her tighter and at the sound of her name she turned his head and kissed along the exposed length of his neck, the juncture of his shoulder. Eventually they lay wrapped together like tree roots, quiet, lost and found without the need for words.

“Staying here won’t affect your mission, will it?” he asked when he again trusted himself to speak. “You won’t get in trouble?”

Silent, Rosslyn shook her head.

“Tell me about it.” He pulled back. “I want to help, whatever it is.”

“Alistair…”

“I’m serious.”

Defeated, she huffed and pushed him onto his back before tucking herself down against his chest, shuffling until she got comfortable. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” he replied. “Who’s behind it? Not just anyone could keep you on such a tight leash.”

She tensed. “It’s Flemeth.”

“You mean –” The nerves at the ends of his fingers tingled like they had been dipped in hot water after coming in from the snow. “Flemeth Flemeth?”

“She’s the one who pulled me from the Fade. If not for her, I’d still be there.”

The reminder settled like lead in Alistair’s stomach. He curled his arm more snugly about her waist, as if that alone might keep her from being dragged back into the formless world beyond the Veil, to face demons and who knew what else. To turn his mind from the image, he set it the task of wondering what an all-powerful swamp witch might want with the glitter of the Orlesian royal court.

“It’s something to do with Morrigan, isn’t it?”

Rosslyn glanced to him. “You know about her?”

“I met her this evening,” he said. “Very like her mother, though I don’t think I’d dare say that to her face.”

“She has possession of an artefact, an enchanted mirror that acts as a portal to… somewhere, or something. Some ancient elven magic. Flemeth asked me to destroy the mirror before Morrigan can work out how to use it.”

“I wondered why Celene was bothering to keep the templars off her,” he mused. “Ancient magic the world has never seen could be powerful in the wrong hands.”

She hummed her agreement. “And as far as Ferelden is concerned, you can’t get much worse than Orlais.”

“No, you can’t. No wonder you didn’t want to be found out.” Discovering the supposedly dead Queen of Ferelden sneaking about the halls attempting to thwart the schemes of a political adversary would have lit a flame to the waiting pyre of Orlais’ warmongering nobles – could still, if Rosslyn were caught. Celene had made her intentions towards the Fereldan Crown very clear, first by housing Alistair in the Emperor’s apartments under the guise of having nowhere else fit for his entourage, and then by having him attend her and her proxies all evening, her charm a militant campaign of flattery he had no doubt could turn sour the moment she found herself upstaged. And that was without the threat of an ancient weapon held like a knife above the heads of his people.

“I can hear you thinking,” Rosslyn mumbled into his side.

“Not so much of a rare occurrence these days,” he told her. “Kings who are fools don’t tend to last long.”

She pushed herself up onto an elbow and turned to face him properly, palm flat against his chest. “You were never a fool.”

Celene posed a threat. He had no explanation for Rosslyn’s presence, and no way to protect her should the empress discover her purpose in Halamshiral. If she did not succeed, Flemeth might not release her, and Ferelden might suffer an Occupation more ruthless than the last. And yet…

“You do know I’m not letting you go again, right?” he asked though the sting at the corner of his eyes. “You’ll have to stay with me forever, and we’ll have to stay here in this bed because I never want another moment without you.”

Quiet, she leaned forward to stroke his cheek. “There are worse fates.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “Glad we sorted that.”

There was a long silence as she curled into his side again, punctuated only by the command for the glowstone to dim. In place of words, their hands found each other in the darkness and chased random patterns from fingertip to wrist in slow arcs, reassuring touches that gave a focus beyond the disinclination for sleep. For Alistair, it was the lingering fear that Rosslyn might vanish as soon as he closed his eyes, the desire to savour having her warm and heavy against him. They had a whole lifetime for sleep, endless days where he wouldn’t wake and have to steel himself to brave the emptiness on the other side of the bed. At least, so he hoped, if she wanted it too.

[utterlyhopeful-fics]

Already Gone (SOA x Mayans Crossover)

A/N: Deep diving back into my roots. SOA will forever be near and dear to my angsty heart! This chapter primarily focuses on Y/N and Jax but following parts will include my Mayans. As always, feedback is GOLD!

SIDE NOTE: Huge shout out to @creativepromptsforwriting for motivating this story into fruition. Your blog is beyond inspirational!

If I keep tagging you and you’re not interested or you’d like to be tagged; please let me know!

MASTERLIST 

Jax Teller x Reader (then we’re in Mayans territory :D )

Word Count: 2375k

Warnings: language, mention of biker gangs, slight female degradation, angst, sprinkles of heartbreak. 

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Daylight vanished drifting into another starless evening. Nightfall succumbed to a starless evening. Y/N wished to be anywhere else in the universe than where she currently found herself; the Sons clubhouse. In childish hopes, she stilled all movement adjusting her jacket nervously fidgeting with the hem. The door swung back under her touch; light reflected back harshly in the demurely lit bar. Smoke descended throughout the congested area; clouds of hazy fog engulfed her lungs. Here goes nothin.

The air wreaked of putrid obscenity and cheap tequila. First and foremost, Y/N met Chucky’s charismatic stare. She sent him an anxious grin impulsively pleading for uneasiness in her stomach to subdue. The one-handed man remained surrounded by countless liquor bottles engrossed in order after order shifting gears from her. 

Every man and member leeched on to the closest thing in a short skirt, tits overflowing from too small blouses, and topped off in four-inch platforms. Any girl within proximity of the Sons all had a similar motto; barely-there skirts and perky tits. There was no doubt sex was the main attraction tonight.

And to this very day, she played nice with them so long as they abided by one rule in particular; Jax was untouchable. She was their queen bee. Glancing down at her outfit; she preferred a more comfortable approach. She paired tonight’s look with her favorite pair of worn out high-waisted jeans styled with a Ramones crop top finalized with suede black booties. Her body was a sacred temple and only those granted permission were able to worship her. She made sure of that. Loud conversations vibrated from table to table, voices lost in the chaos increasing with every passing decibel.

Y/n scanned the room peering for one particular member; Jax fucking Teller. In childhood, Mr. President and Y/N friendship blossomed as close friends before ultimately admitting their feelings five years ago. The wildest five years of her entire life. Her thoughts quickly darkened, if only someone would’ve warned her those three years ago. If only Y/N hadn’t welcomed him with welcoming, open arms. But sometimes life’s a bitch, and the hardest way is merely the only route.

Her clandestine orbs voraciously whipped back and forth jumping from person to person. In her search, Opie sat alone at a corner table secluding himself willing her his direction. The pitiful look in his eyes was enough to make her stomach flip. Long ago, she grew weary with the amount of messes that befell on Opie. Their relationship bordered along best friend status, always seeking the other out. Ranging from moments of clarity to cruelty, Opie Winston never once betrayed the trust instilled upon him.

She already knew what bullshit lay ahead; it was his shitty way of apologizing for Jax’s past, present, and future fuck-ups. In the back of her mind, Y/N convinced herself she was different to him, that she was his one. But nowadays, doubt replaced confidence as Y/N drifted farther out of reach/touch. Her feet clumped heavy against the wood suddenly weighing her down. Making her way through the crowd, Y/N plopped herself closest to Op.

Her palms dampened in sweat wishing the fall beneath her to open up swallowing her whole. “So, this was the big meeting Jax was in a rush to get to?”

His eyes bounced from side to side searching for any way out of the conversation; “Shit Y/N...”

Y/N collapsed next to the burly man nuzzling deeper into the warmth of his neck, quietly leaning in closer so he could hear her clearly; “I know it’s not your fault, Op. I just wish he respected me enough to be honest with me. I can’t keep living like this anymore, he’s breaking me… I’m sure going to miss you, big bear.”

Y/N waited patiently for the wheels to turn in his brain. “You’re a smart man. Connect the clues, buddy.”

“You—You’re leaving?”

Her heart plummeted into uncharted territory; her head bobbled too quickly, too excitedly almost as if she’d been rifling for a way out of this life, out of their lives. She glanced sadly at him, really appreciating his handsome appearance while trying to memorize the man who’d kept her insanely calm since middle school. There was no hiding the bemudding frown etching her lips. His lengthy, luscious hair and accompanying brawny beard was enough to make any woman swoon.

If only she’d chosen him to protect her heart but what ifs were a dangerous path to question. Add in his admirable qualities and he was the gleaming winner. The man Y/N should’ve pursued but she was a fool and fell for the Teller trick over and over again. Long ago, Opie came to the conclusion that Y/N would never leave his side, not even if the devil bribed her himself. Her departure was agitating, possibly selfish, but absolutely necessary. Jax breaks everything he touches…eventually.

“Some bitch is grinding against his junk and you expect me to be alright with it? Boy’s got another thing comin if he thinks I’ll always be waitin to greet him at the front door.”

Words jumbled on the tip of her palate; ‘I just wanted to talk to you first before shit goes down. I’m so thankful for you, always know that.”

Op stared down at his dirty boots unable to meet her dejected orbs.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. You deserve more than his half ass shit. Ya know, I was afraid Jax had sucked out all that rad awesomeness you possessed before you decided to get together. He’s my brother, don’t get me wrong. But, he’s kinda the biggest dick on the planet and not the good kind. I’m proud you found your backbone. Here I thought you’d softened up…”

“Haha, glad to see you think so highly of me still! Please take care of yourself.”

“I’m a phone call away if you need me. Any time, any day, I’ll be there.”

His arms draped around her exposed waist rubbing soothing circles on her lower back. Her chin rested atop of broad shoulder before she reluctantly pulled away from his embrace.

A few tables over Jax’s arms seductively draped his arm around the croweater’s exposed waist. Every few minutes the chick gyrated submissively against him cock arousal his member. Jax closed his eyes inhaling a puff of his cigarette thinking of the girl waiting at home for him. All he had to do was find the courage to get up and leave. But this was the life, his life and Y/N understood him better than anyone else. So, he accepted the Yaeger bomb from girl with the rose tattoo and smiled widely. Fuck ‘em. He leaned incredibly closer connecting his lips to her plump ones.

Her sultry tone echoed into his ear; “Mmm, you taste like sin…”

Jax chuckled in retort; Darling, you ain’t even taste the best part yet…”

Disgust and fury ran uncontrollable through her body radiating to an explosively dangerous level. She quietly whispered; “This fucking asshole…” as she compelled herself to clear the lump in her throat noisily.

Her annoyance was beginning to peak into seething eruption; “You’ve got some damn nerve, Jax. That I can give ya. Such a lady’s man.”

A shudder ran through his vertebrates forcing the hairs along his neck to stand painfully on the edge. Her words were impudently brash bouncing off her rosy plump lips.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn ya, doll.” His arched brow sprouted newfound madness as Y/N daydreamed of punching that shit grin off his idiotic face. But his eyes told another tale, his sapphire irises brimmed with tacit concern and uncertainty.

Her life with Jax was a never-ending roller coaster. Exhilaration awaited them at every corner until it didn’t. No matter how many wrongdoings Jax committed, Y/N dutifully stayed by his side never daring to question his authority. Gemma taught her of loyalty, of the importance of family eternally sticking together, and to never turn her back when the going gets rough because it was bound to cross a line if you survived long enough. The Sons checked their moral ambiguities when they patched in, sacrificing their soul for the benefit of the club.  

So, Y/N’s skin thickened as time meandered on, and as Jax shacked up with Wendy, and again every time she watched some slut leave his dorm every night. Honestly, she should thank Jax for her turned her into the dominantly powerful woman she became that awakened Jax’s feelings. But now, now he was the reason her heart was breaking.  

She cleared her throat attempting to draw his attention; “Wow, seems like you’ve got your hands full tonight. Didn’t realize I needed to make a reservation.” Her eyes penetrated his, he looked like a deer in blinding headlights at the recognizable voice in front of him.

The girl seating in Jax’s lap had the audacity to open her bright fuchsia painted lips; “He’s busy tonight. Shoo, buh-bye.” Motioning her hand in Y/N’s direction.

Y/N eyed the broad up judging her every spectacle of the way. She bit the corner of her lips in attempt to register what her mind couldn’t.

She clicked on tongue in vast disapproval at the idiot before her; “Listen here, bitch. I’m Y/N, his old lady and you’re going to get the fuck up and listen to the words leaving my mouth and find another lap to occupy, NOW.” She put on her fakest high pitched voice just to prove a point; “Got it? Good, now if you make me repeat myself, I’d love the opportunity to fuck up that plastic face of yours. Now, Shoo.”

The random girl gulped unwillingly to challenge the alpha female and meekly wagged her head in agreeance. Jax noticed the slight tremor as she removed herself from his grasp trudging in defeat. He sighed in extreme exasperation; “Congratulations, you’ve got my attention…now talk.”

“Ugh, I’m seriously starting to question what the hell I’ve been doing with an asshat like you for so long? Seriously Jax, what the shit?”

He remained irrationally irritated Y/N had chosen a party to air out their dirty laundry. She was undermining him in front of his brothers, nobody challenged him. This was yet another lesson he’d teach Y/N the difficult way.

“You’re makin a scene! Let’s talk this outside?” He seized her arm dragging Y/N behind him. Her heels dug into the surface fighting his weight with her own. Jax glanced back at her stubbornness on display and/snickered sinfully.

“No, I’m fine where I am.”

Jax invaded her space, his breath jostled against her peach fuzz. He hovered dangerously close to her, fury seeping from his freckled skin.

“Ah, the mighty heroine here to save herself. Classic, real good Y/N.”

Y/N huffed venting her building frustrations; “I can’t do this anymore, Jax.” Her voice wavered in confidence before erupted in sadness; I fucking won’t do this anymore.”

Jax Teller rolled his eyes before sighing annoyingly loud; “You always say this shit, Y/N. And you always keep comin back for more. This is a dance we memorized baby girl, our dance.”

Her fists ignited into internal rage; her breathing skyrocketed to unbridled anger. Typical biker to neglect the actual words leaving a woman’s mouth in this hell hole.  

“So, I guess that makes me the fool and you the asshole, hmm? Yes, I might be a fucking glutton for punishment but at least I have a heart, some decency of a moral compass to abide by. But you, Jax? You would burn the world simply because you were bored. And right now, this is me telling you I quit. Go fuck one of your many other mindless wannabes. I bet they’re beggin for Jax Teller’s cock as we speak.”

His cockiness was beginning to push her past the point of no return as he growled his words from his venomous mouth; “I don’t doubt that darling. The question of the hour is if you’re really sure you wanna throw in the towel?”

Y/N’s head whipped around fast; her eyes blazed in pure hatred; “The biggest mistake you ever made was letting love come into your life. You fuck up everything you touch. Have a nice life, Teller.”

Heavy footsteps clonked against the wooden slats swiftly rushing towards the front doors of the clubhouse. She approached the entrance grazing her knuckles along the worn material. In the upper right-hand corner, the smallest of carvings adorned the walk away years later; their initials carved for the world to bear witness. Digging through her purse, Y/N located her car keys and stood on her tiptoes scratching at the etchings now nothing but mere wood indentions. Fuck happy endings. No wait, fuck this ending.

Finally, anger breached its imminent tipping point as his temper imploded. His arms gripped hers excruciatingly firm slamming her against the wall aligned of mugshots. A frame or two randomly dropped closer by. Jax was the Kurt Cobain to her Courtney Love; both destined and simultaneously cursed. Glass pierced the ground piece by piece. Her eyes fully dilated as fear crept into her smug demeanor. Her breath came out in short, timid, huffs as quaked in anxiousness.

“You’re my girl, Y/N. Don’t do this shit. You know I love you.”

Confliction cowered in her bones. His ragged and pathetic tone drew her in wrapping itself snugly around her. She knew that if she would have heard these words any other day, she would have declared it the best day of her life and would have started to call everyone to let them know that he finally said the words! But today was not that day and all she wanted to do right now was putting her hands over her ears and stop listening.

She spewed her virulent words once and for all; “You’re not the person I thought you were.”

Her body went rigid in his arms as sorrow clung to her like forgotten hope. She was losing him, sacrificing a piece of her heart for her own freedom. She loathed the man Jax evolved into but somewhere under his façade lived the gentle poet who stole her soul. Jax snickered obnoxiously before a murderous grin took ahold; “No. I’m just not the person you wanted me to be.”

Tags: @twistnet @ifoundmyhappythought @angelreyesgirl89 @carlaangel86 @summertimesadnesswithadashofsass @imagineredwood @gemini0410 @mayans-mc @reaperwalking @prospectfandom @emmaveale123​ @peaky-marvel @kind-wolf​ @scorpio4dayzzz​ @starrynite7114​ @penny4yourthot​ @breanime​ @whyisgmora​ @thegirlwhowritesfics​ @star017​ @threeminutesoflife​ 

[just-horrible-things]

Here’s a really old piece from before I had heard of whump! The perspective character is not mine, I wish I could remember a username to credit the owner.

---

Waiting for the High Hunt

I can hear him long before I enter the dungeon. He's in another manic phase. His voice reaches me first, filtering up through the stones. He screams long and hoarsely, more animal than person. Not for the first time, I think he would make a good hunter. He is full of primal rage and energy. Perhaps if he survives being prey I will make him an offer. 

As I open the door to begin my descent, the sound is magnified a hundred fold, echoing off the damp stone walls. I hear the repeated clang of metal on stone now as well, irregular and harsh. 

It is cold in the dungeon, colder than the wooden cabin above, but not so cold as the outside air, where the wind blows harshly. I have allowed him his leathers, but I know it is barely enough to keep the cold at bay. 

The wolves are restless. Some come to me, whining as I enter their lair. The others stand a little apart from his cage, watching him, or pretending not to care.

I had hoped they would cow him, but he does not fear them, and they have come to learn not to approach too closely. He is astonishingly quick, and even with only his hands and a piece of broken stone he injured one that tried to bite him through the bars. 

I have removed all the rubble from his cage, but I cannot stop the ice from forming, and sometimes it forms in sheets thick enough to be used as fragile, makeshift blades. I considered removing his gloves, but I don't want him to lose his fingers to frostbite. He must be strong for the hunt. Besides, I doubt the pain and cold would keep him from handling the ice. 

I stand and watch for some time. He hasn't noticed me yet, or feigns not to have done. He throws himself at the bars over and over, slamming his shoulder into them. Sometimes he hurls himself so hard at the metal that he breaks bones, but not today. Today he is showing restraint. Perhaps not truly manic then, merely letting out frustration. It is good for him to exercise and maintain his strength. 

When he finally sees me, he stops yelling and clings to the bars, panting. Another sign that he is not in the grip of madness. His pale, yellow eyes lock mine with a desperate urgency. He is defiant today, then. When he fears me, he drops his gaze. 

I require his fear. I need him to run before me when I finally release him. When the Hunt comes, he must flee before the wolves. But I am not worried. I know how to make him fear. In the weeks we have been together, I have learned his terrors. When the time comes, he will run from me. 

But knowing that, I needn't have his fear every day. Too much too soon, and he will become numbed to it. He numbs so quickly this one, so quickly shuts himself away and becomes dead to the world. I can't have that.

"When is the Hunt?" he asks. He asks the same thing every time. It has become a routine, and I indulge him in it. "When the moon is full." "How long? How many days?" "It's been two days since I last saw you," I tease him. He has no way of counting the time here in the dark. "Five more days," he responds instantly. He remembers, then, what I told him last. I am not lying to him. I want him to be as prepared as possible in body and in mind. He must be the best prey that he can be. "Are you looking forward to the Hunt?" I ask, mocking. His answer is fervent, and a little surprising. "Yes, yes, eight times yes." He sounds so sincere, I could believe that it is the truth. 

But he is an inveterate liar, and very good at what he does. Most likely he is only looking forward to what he imagines will be his chance to strike at me. 

He does not know how badly he will fear when the time comes. 

Or perhaps he's merely saying what he thinks I want to hear. I've punished him before when he steps too far out of line.

There is a brief quiet. We watch each other, I among my wolves, and he clinging to the cold metal as if his legs barely have the strength to hold him. 

The power differential is palpable in the air, but that has never seemed to disconcert him. As if reading my thoughts, he sinks slowly to his knees, a tacit acknowledgement of my power over him. He has never been ashamed to beg, not even when his hatred for me runs hottest.

"You want water?" He nods. I haven't fed him in two days. Water seeps down from above and freezes onto the walls. He can lick the ice, but it is never enough. He grows thirsty in my absence. The water I've brought this time is warm, heated over the fire then carried under my furs. Its heat will give him strength, if he drinks quickly. 

I approach the bars at a slow, but confident pace. He hesitates, then falls back. Sometimes he attacks me at this point, but he is always swiftly punished. I am cautious, but I do not fear him. He is too thirsty to act against me today. 

I set down the jug of water in front of the bars just within his reach, and lay a haunch of raw meat beside it. The wolves eye it with interest. Just like that his gaze leaves mine. It flicks to the meat, then from one wolf to the next. He snarls, and some of my pack snarl back. 

I can see from the tension in his body that he is ready to pounce forwards, but nobody moves. They are waiting on my tacit permission. Even he acknowledges my authority today. 

I step back, and three bodies snap into motion. A hungry wolf moves fast, but he is impossibly quick. Almost faster than the eye can follow he is at the bars, flat full length on the floor to extend his reach. The meat disappears back into the cage before either pair of wolf jaws can close on it. 

One retreats, conceding defeat, but the other, angered, lunges forwards for him. Sprawled flat as he is, he shouldn't be able to react, yet he does. As the fanged muzzle pushes through the bars to reach him, he is spinning, and a booted foot collides squarely with the side of the wolf's face. It cries out in pain and withdraws, but he has landed another blow before it can retreat out of his limited reach. Wounded more in pride than anything else, it skulks to the back of the pack, tail low. 

The jug of water has been knocked in the confusion, but the seal holds. He retrieves that before eating and drinks deeply, holding the meat protectively against his chest. At first he seems a little surprised by the warmth. He looks to me and mumbles gratitude before continuing to drink. 

It remains a puzzle to me how he can simultaneously hate me and thank me, apparently in sincerity, for the smallest of things. I have never demanded thanks from him, but his manners remain impeccable, at least on days when he isn't mad.

When he looks up from the water, he speaks again. "What meat is this?"  He asks these pointless questions, trying to prolong my visits. He is not afraid of the wolves, but he is afraid to be left alone, and he barely bothers to conceal it. "Deer again," I respond. 

In the first week I tried to taunt him by pretending I was feeding him the meat of his own kind. He wasn't bothered by the idea, and nor was he fooled. I suspect he's been driven to eat the flesh of the dead before. He was so thin when I caught him, and yet I believe he has been thinner before. I feed him as well as I can, but it is not enough to put more flesh on his bones. I have too many other mouths to feed.

"Where did you catch it?" "Near the cemetery." The question recalls to me the thrill of the hunt. "We ran it down, just me and my priestess. A long hunt, to honour the Beastlord. The first time we ran it down we only spilled a little blood and allowed it to run on. The second time I tore out a hamstring to cripple it. We let it limp a little longer, desperately fleeing us, until we finally pulled it down and feasted on its hot guts. It was still screaming." I grin at him, but his pale eyes are unperturbed. "That's how we'll hunt you. A long, painful hunt, with a lot of blood and glory. You'll scream in the end." He nods. "Most people scream in the end."

"Still looking forward to the Hunt?" I ask. He still shows no fear, as such, but there is a certain wariness in his eyes. He hesitates, as if sensing my intent. "You shouldn't be. You should be afraid. You think you can escape me, but you are wrong. I will run you until you can run no longer, but the fun doesn't stop when I catch you. I will tear your tendons so you cannot flee, but I'll leave you just enough strength to struggle against me as I pin you to the floor." I step closer to the cage, right up against the bars. He's afraid now, he won't strike against me. "Once you're helpless, perhaps we'll start eating. Eyes are delicious, we could have those out, one at a time. Maybe your guts. A gut wound is a terrible way to die, but a slow one. You'd live long enough for us to have plenty of fun. You like begging for mercy, don't you, but once I had your tongue out, you'd be hard pressed to beg for anything."

He shrinks away from me as I speak, eyes low. No more defiant stares now. This is what I need. He must fear me. He must run before me. I bare my teeth and snarl at him, and he flinches sullenly away. 

I laugh and stand to leave. 

As I reach the stairs, I hear the dull crash of him hitting the bars, but only once. I look back. He's clinging desperately to the bars, staring at me with pleading in his eyes. As my gaze meets his, he drops his stare, and sinks again to his knees. He doesn't bother to beg me to stay with words anymore. It makes no difference to whether I stay or go. But he still does this pathetic routine every time. 

He's normally quick to learn, so I wonder if I've been accidentally rewarding this behaviour. Perhaps it's not such a bad thing. His submission to my strength is good. 

I smile at him as he kneels, silently begging me to stay, then I turn and climb the stairs. 

As the door at the top grinds shut behind me, I hear him begin to scream again.

[emmys-grimoire]

Cosmology blurb

Mulling over ideas for a fanfic series set in the Celestial Realm and realizing I may need to make some educated guesses about how things work. I figure I’d share my observations. Spoilers ahead.

I’m thinking the realms aren’t sandwiched/stratified on top of each other but are arranged more like this...

... if Lilith didn’t have to fall through the human realm to get to the Devildom and if the heavenly gates are accessible from the Devildom (implied when MC is transported there from the Devildom). There are obviously Celestial-Human and Devildom-Human access points in the story, too.

Traditionally, Heaven is upstairs and Hell is downstairs. But, while clearly inspired by these places, the Devildom is not actually Hell and the Celestial Realm is not actually Heaven. I mean, they’re not even named that.

They each have their own seperate skies with different constellations/celestial bodies (Devildom doesn’t have a sun and the other two realms do, and they have Belphie’s/Beel’s stars). Clearly the act of falling from the Celestial Realm to the Devildom is at least a metaphorical thing, but it’s implied to be literal, too.

I don’t think it matters a whole heckuvalot, but it’s interesting to think about.

Angel versus Devil society

Looking at what small details we have, the way these two realms have evolved and currently function is also very interesting.

The Devildom is a monarchy while the Celestial Realm may be an autocracy with a caste system (I think the Devildom probably does, too, just by the nature of feudalism but it may not be officially acknowledged). Previous Demon Kings have lived and died (there’s a tomb and a line of succession) while the Celestial Realm presumably remained ruled by the same entity throughout time. 

That’s pretty interesting, too. Demon Kings are not immortal. Diavolo, however, is likely stronger than Lucifer -- it makes sense that he has to be if he’s actually meant to replace his father.

The Celestial Realm’s caste system has Luke at the lowest rank, some kind of middle or multiple ranks, and Michael at the top rank. Lucifer used to occupy the same rank alongside him.

Christian angelology has multiple very detailed and convoluted hierarchies regarding angels, and for that reason it's probably much more simplified in the game. It already deviates from the typical choir arrangement by having archangels be the top rank when they're normally near the bottom, and giving them the six wings of the seraphim (the top choir).

We're not given much insight as to whether or not angels are born into these ranks or if they ascend them through good works and valor in battle or something. Lucifer being so utterly flawless seems to suggest he was born with it, but Luke complaining about being in the lowest rank suggests that there may be some way for him to change that arrangement and it may simply be a consequence of his (lack of) age and experience. Simeon also mentioning Michael may be of higher rank but he's still "a normal angel" may also allude to that. It could be a variation, where everyone starts at the same level but Lucifer and Michael were specifically given a greater share of angelic power so they were meant to get to the top and that inevitably happened. Or maybe angels gain xp and levels in fights with the demons and they managed to become head and shoulders above the rest by being better gamers.

Also, the legion of angels. 

A legion is a military or semimilitary unit. That is an interesting term to call what may also double as your governing body outside of daddy. The game mentions Michael was in charge of Mammon’s “training” before he was handed over to Lucifer, and well...

Michael is usually depicted and referred to as a protector and the leader of the army of God against the forces of evil, and it seems he reprises that role in this universe. Lucifer once did, too.

A fundamental part of “angel training” may revolve around warfare and training for it. We know the angels and demons have had a long, bloody history, but fighting doesn’t seem to be a part of RAD’s curriculum. The Celestial Realm may have changed it’s course now that they’ve entered a period of relative peace, but I’m not entirely sure.

So far the only in-game lore detail we have related to the actual fighting is the colosseum being destroyed in a battle before the creation of RAD, but it’s proof that the angels have invaded the Devildom at some point. It might have went vice-versa, too, and we simply haven’t observed it because we haven’t been in the Celestial Realm for more than two minutes. 

In spite of all this, it doesn’t seem like angel society is wholly bad. It’s likely rigid and hierarchical, but it is also strangely communal. The brothers have all fostered close bonds with each other within the Celestial Realm -- not the Devildom -- and the angels in the story seem to maintain their positive opinion of Lucifer and his brothers in spite of him sparking a civil war and them now being demons. How the angels treat each other is also noteworthy: Simeon and Luke clearly love each other and have a healthy relationship, by all accounts Michael wholeheartedly supports Luke and gives him positive feedback, and in spite of Luke’s obvious (though changing) prejudice towards all things demon they’re comparatively even-keeled. They generally operate on the assumption that they should help each other and others and that’s a good thing.

They also seem to be onboard with the intent behind exchange program. Luke isn’t sent there to be a spy like Simeon probably was, because he’s pretty terrible at subterfuge. 

A tacit admission that Luke’s perspective is one commonly held by the denizens of the Celestial Realm. Simeon points out that it’s not entirely bad, and I’m inclined to agree.

And also an acknowledgement that the thinking is flawed and they’re willing to make an effort to expand their horizons (considered a good thing). So something has changed, and it’s probably connected to... well... Lucifer and his brothers falling. Or the Celestial Realm just isn’t a monolith and there’s competing viewpoints even with how their society is structured. It’d be interesting to hear what the brothers thought about demons before they became demons themselves, and how they adjusted to that transformation (we get insight on how Lucifer viewed them via Glory Days, but that’s it.)

The Devildom, in contrast, uh... still has problems in this area outside of Diavolo.

This is disregarding all the soul devouring, torture, and casual murder that goes on between demons -- including the brothers. Diavolo is well regarded, but he’s also been unofficially in charge for quite awhile and it doesn’t appear he thinks this is a problem, even though he himself doesn’t treat his subjects poorly (as far as I know, anyway).

Which brings me to this...

There’s a reason he doesn’t really have any close bonds beyond Barbatos and Lucifer, in spite of being universally beloved. And I’m not sure how well he knows Barbatos, honestly. He’s isolated, and it’s not entirely related to his position; Lucifer has been in a high status position in both realms and doesn’t have this problem and never really did in spite of being prickly and anal-retentive af. There’s been quite a bit of commentary in these lessons about how he’s changed and may be reverting back to his angelic tendencies, with Barbatos implying that while it may be good for him and his family, it may not be what’s best for the Devildom... and I think that’s a mindset carried over from his tenure serving under Diavolo’s dad and helping enforce the current state of the Devildom for a specific purpose. MC somehow turning Lucifer and his brothers back into good people (or better people, at least), and Diavolo being envious of their closeness, may interfere with that: the demons around them may start getting ideas, and Diavolo may make more changes.

So not all is well in the Devildom, either, and Diavolo may not be cognizant of how or why. While the Celestial Realm may be a militant society with authoritarian impulses and bigotry, the Devildom sounds like a corrupt monarchy with a dog-eat-dog world underneath that makes trust and love liabilities to survival and keeps the peasants where they are forever. It’s simply another brand of dysfunction.

Hoomans and MC

The Human Realm is probably meant to be some kind of middleground in the dark/bad - light/good spectrum, with its inhabitants having no impulses skewed one way or the other and thus possessing the ability to slide back and forth. 

Demons interact with the human world via being summoned, pacts, or simply travelling there. Manipulating them and preying on them involves magical speechcraft. The angels aren’t allowed to reveal their angel forms to humans, travel there without permission (though it seems the punishment for this wasn’t enough to deter Belphie/Beel/Lilith/Mammon), or magically extend their lifespans -- it seems they prefer to meddle in their affairs indirectly, and revolves around shepherding them towards certain (presumably good) decisions. Ironically enough, Michael himself seems to violate these tenets with Solomon, who is evidently aware of who gave him the demon-controlling ring and was invited to chill with him in the Celestial Realm. It’s do as I say but not as I do, apparently.  

The game seems to imply that it’s possible that MC inherited Lilith’s angelic tendencies/abilities/memories/whatever after the big reveal, which makes me think she may not have turned into a demon before she was reborn. There’s no reason to think she would have retained her angelic abilities as a demon when her brothers haven’t -- she presumably would have lost them before being reborn, if she was turned into a demon first. Diavolo might have just skipped that step altogether for simplicity’s sake.

But she did technically fall, so ???? Maybe it’s just literally falling from the sky.

tl;dr version: they’re all fucked up and the exchange program is a good way for them to try to get their shit together. And I like how it’s set up.

[buzzdixonwriter]

Don’t Let The Screen Door Hit You On The Way Out

”It’s never the crime, it’s always the cover-up.” Watergate Lesson #1

Y’know, some bastards need to be cancelled.

The liars, the hypocrites, the betrayers of trust public and private.

The “do as I say, not as I do” anusoids.

Dropkick those bozologists right outta here.

The problem is not people who screw up -- people screw up all the time.

It’s not ideas that later prove to be in error or just plain bad -- all of us at one time or another believed something we now know to be wrong.

No, the problem is those who set themselves us as moral exemplars and then betray the very moral example they proclaim.

Ska-rue those dips.

Cast them into the outer void.

Cast in point: The drugging rapist comedian spent their entire professional career stressing high principles and values, openly saying “look at what I did and do likewise” while deriding members of their own community for not obtaining the heights they did.

A good hunk of that time they spent drugging and raping victims, paying them off to keep silent so they could drug and rape more victims.

Look, back in the day Bob Hope was a notorious philanderer but he and his wife had an understanding and Hope never promoted himself as a moral exemplar (quite the opposite!).

So to find out Hope engaged in consensual adultery with the tacit approval of his wife is neither a big shock not does it undermine any message he sought to convey.

On the other hand, the drugging rapist comedian did espouse a message that millions saw as valid, and they held themselves up as an example for their fans to aspire to.

If we learned said comedian was a garden variety philanderer like Bob Hope, their message and example would be somewhat tarnished but not destroyed; consensual sex gets a tsk-tsk and nothing more, especially if the spouse doesn’t object (and said comedian’s spouse damn well knew what was going on yet didn’t think raping victims drugged into unconsciousness was a deal breaker of a marriage ender).

Some people today hope to this disgraced comedian will die soon so their comedy can be enjoyed publicly again.

Why?

Any good from this rapist’s life has already been done in whatever charitable donations and scholarships they provided, whatever inspiration they gave audiences to help them better themselves before learning of their crimes, and stylistic / topical insights gleaned by other comedians.

The rapist’s comedy routines and TV shows -- all family friendly and morally high minded -- now ring hollow and taste sour.  Whatever comedic insights the rapist had to offer have long since been absorbed by those who followed.

Leni Riefenstahl created two monstrous documentaries -- Triumph Of The Will and Olympiad -- that glorified Nazism while at the same time inventing the cinematic language for depicting mass movements and covering sporting events.

Nobody today ever need watch her original films in order to learn those lessons; thousands of film makers and videographers have applied them elsewhere and the technical lessons remain valid even when divorced from their racist origins.

So be it with the rapist comedian.

Let those who learned from their routines reinterpret those lessons in a form that noi longer contains a poison pill.

Case in point: The comic-turned-film maker presented their work -- no matter how funny the material – as a serious examination of modern moral values.

And, dang, the c-t-f certainly fooled a lot of us.

In their defense, the c-t-f always claimed in public to be a really terrible person, but this was all just c-y-a.

Of course those public admissions were all self-depreciating self-mockery, look how thoughtful and complex the c-t-f films were, how they examined modern life, look how they laid bare the contradictions and conundrums of the human condition.

Then it turns out the c-t-f could not keep their own knickers up and wreaked havoc on a dozen or more lives, rendering all their opinions and observations as worth less that a wadded of soiled toilet paper.

Yeah, the rapist comedian’s crime are worse by at least two orders of magnitude, but the c-t-f only misses a charge of incest by the barest of technicalities.

And it doesn’t matter that c-t-f’s spouse at the time is a batshit crazy homewrecker themselves -- c-t-f knew this then and chose them as a spouse and contributed to the chaos being wreaked in that family.

So, no, you can’t pose your films as Important Serious Examinations Of Modern Morals when you’re acting in a way that would get Dr. Freud to say, “That’s some seriously fucked up shit.” 

Open reprobates like John Waters and Russ Meyer never need worry about failing audience expectations; they’re upfront and honest about their perversions and peccadillos (and to be fair to them, they never screwed up the lives of others the way the c-t-f did).

I used to love the c-t-f’s work and eagerly looked forward to each new one.

Not any more.

You can never trust that viewpoint again, and even the earlier, funnier work is now called into question.

Case in point: This one is smaller, more localized, but I have personal knowledge of it and it’s emblemic of a far larger, far more vast problem.

The retired pastor tried to stay busy, volunteering at their local church and nearby nursing homes, and proposing an outreach for runaway abused teen girls.

It came as quite a shock to learn the retired preacher had been caught in a classic honey trap sex sting:  They texted what they thought was a 16 year old girl but turned out to be an adult investigator trolling for sexual predators.

The retired pastor got probation and registered as a sex offender.  There was a big public confession and an apology to their church, a contrite promise of repentance, and a big heaping helping of forgiveness all around.

There but for the grace of God, right…?

The retired pastor wanted to resume the runaway abused teen girl project.

Oh, they would have nothing to do with it directly, of course.

Just be available to advise others as needed…

Well, that waved more red flags than a May Day celebration in Tiananmen Square.  Even assuming the retired pastor was incredibly naïve -- more naïve than any retired pastor has a right to be -- the sheer optics alone would be incredibly bad.

And the chance of somebody finding out and filing a complaint for reasons real or suspected would put the church sponsoring it at terrible risk.

Dude, you screwed up.   That door is shut to you.

Organized religions are imploding right now, and no matter what faith or denomination, the reason is inevitably the same:  Predators of all stripes infiltrate the structure to find victims.

Sexual abuse ranks high, but there’s also financial abuse, emotional abuse, and just plain old abuse of power.  

It’s ultimately the exact same problem as that of the rapist comedian and the comic-turned-film maker:  Hypocrisy.

Religious leaders are as human as anyone else, few are the plaster saints we make them out to be.

And there are those who make mistakes, and those who hide their personal peccadillos from others (word among the BDSM community is that quite a few religious leaders enjoy those reindeer games), but those have the common fucking sense not to videotape themselves (remember, if you make a copy of anything you’re giving the universe tacit permission to share it and if the copy is digital, the sharing is compulsory).

The worst part is that the very victims of these predators are not only quicky to forgive these abuses and let them continue, but viciously turn on those victims that dare speak out against their abuse!

This is the reason organized religion is collapsing:  It’s become a cesspool of sexual predators and con artists.

Church leaders who decry the declining numbers are eager to blame a lack of spiritual discipline, a loss of faith, cultural influence, and of course that ol’ standby, Satan hizzowndamsef.

But when you ask people who left why they left, the answer is almost always they grew tired of being taken advantage of.

Physician, heal thyself. 

The problem we face today is that too many people impose standards on others they are not merely incapable of following themselves (which would be a sad but typically human failure) but are utterly unwilling to even make the attempt.

We need so-called cancel culture.  We need to expose hypocrites, denounce their hypocrisy, and deny them access to new victims.

Don’t feel sorry for the bastards who get caught, get angry over the harm they inflict.

    © Buzz Dixon

[wide-eyedscottishlass]

Scarlett and the Professor - a lazy Sunday morn

[continued from]

moodboard by @strangelock221b​ 💙  

Scarlett flipped onto her side, instinctively turning away from the sunlight filtering through her closed lids. The silk sheets cocooning her were slick and cool, but the sun had warmed her face enough to awaken her senses. In moments more, she breathed deeply--taking in the heady scent of all that sex, that astonishing, wicked, glorious sex--and gave out a purr of satisfaction. She was smiling before she even opened her eyes, remembering herself--happy and sappy and deeply in love.

“Ah, at last,” he chuckled; she heard not only his genuine amusement, but the crinkle and flip of some large pieces of paper. Newsprint? A newspaper than. Scarlett smiled into her pillow; of course he would prefer paper over the digital version. True hedonist that he was, Hennessy would always opt for the most tactile sensations.

“There’s my little sleepyhead,” he added with true affection, so that she popped one eye open and then the other. Hennessy sat up against the headboard, a couple of pillows propped behind him, bare to the waist. His long legs stretched out before him, covered in a pair of dark grey, silk pajama bottoms, and his feet were also bare. Scarlett sighed softly; when even his feet appeared to her as sexy, it must certainly mean there was no saving her from the beautiful fall she was taking.

She reached up to check the tangle of her hair, blinking at the strong sunlight filling the room. “Mmmmm...why didn’t you wake me?”

He flicked the top of his newspaper down to the crease, favoring her above his reading glasses with indulgent mirth. “My darling Scarlett, you needed your rest, of course. My fault too, as you were rather spent by the time I finally let you sleep uninterrupted.” His grin was smug, yet still she saw his genuine fondness for her, weakening her heart all over again.

“I’m not spent now,” she urged him, shimmying close enough to lay her hand on his bicep.

He pursed his lips, his eyes widening, “Well, haven’t you learned your lessons well! And now looking for extra credit...”

Scarlett batted her lashes and replied breathily, “Extra, extra...Hennessy.” She had already come to love how he looked when she dared call him by name.

His mouth dropped open as if to respond, but he was interrupted by the loud buzz of a text alert on his mobile. “Hold that thought, little lamb,” he commanded, “And I promise to give you all the attention you so deserve.” Hennessy took a perfunctory look at his phone, them jumped up from the bed, taking giant strides to the door. He turned back her way, eyeing her as though he saw right through the sheets, while his smile grew salacious. “Mmmm...mmmm...mmmm! You could almost make a man forgo his other hungers, Scarlett. But we don’t want out breakfast growing cold now, do we?” He dashed from the room.

Perplexed and a bit stymied--god, how perfectly divine he’d looked framed in the doorway, all firm, warm flesh, so srtong and long and lanky, that all she wanted was to mold her body to his as she lay beneath him--Scarlett turned onto her back and gave a long, languorous stretch, waiting upon his return. She heard his heavy front doors close and then imagined him taking two steps at a time back up to his bedroom suite. The mouthwatering scents of fresh pancakes and bacon preceded him into the room.

“Voila! Here’s my version of breakfast in bed.” Hennessy seemed very pleased with himself and with surprising her, crossing to the bed and setting down two plastic sacks filled with cardboard containers. He put a smaller paper bag on his bedside table, which turned out to hold coffee and orange juice.

Scarlett’s stomach had begun to rumble the moment the aromas reminded her that she hadn’t eaten anything in over twelve hours. She scooted up against the headboard, keeping the sheet decorously across her breasts, while Hennessy took his place beside her and began to dole out their meal. “There’s bacon and sausage, darling. Wasn’t sure you had a preference, but there’s more than enough of both.” There was plenty of syrup and butter, too, and a container of sliced and sugared strawberries, along with whipped cream, to top the pancakes. And a heaping serving of cheese-topped scrambled eggs.

She tucked in with relish, and Hennessy laughed good-naturedly at the evidence of her hunger, the smile lines beside his pale blue eyes (Scarlett sighed inwardly; they always look so astonishingly pale in strong sunlight!) grown dearer than ever to her heart. Since the moment that he’d taken her in full, she’d already stopped herself from saying that she loved him a half dozen times--and he was making it very hard for her to continue to suppress that urge.

“What?” He asked, around a forkful of pancakes and eggs. He must’ve have seen a flicker of that thought cross her face.

“Oh...ah...nothing...really,” she fibbed, lowering her eyes so he wouldn’t read more, “I’d been hoping to make some scones this morning---but this...this is so much better...”

“It is, isn’t it!” He hummed a jaunty tune as he set himself a second serving of everything. “But please don’t be too disappointed about your scones, love. The morning paper and breakfast takeaway in bed is a Sunday ritual I will never go without, come hell or high water.”

“Of course...” The danger of him guessing how soft she was for him seemed to have passed for the moment.

“But if it would make you happy, we can have them with tea this afternoon. Or failing that, another breakfast morning. Would that work for you?”

“Oh, yes,” she nodded, happier at the implication that there were further breakfasts together in their future, than for the promise of the scones themselves. “Whatever you want...darling.” His smile was pure sunshine as he leaned in and kissed her mouth, before returning to his meal.

After they broke their fast, he had her in the shower, amid a thick wall of steam created by the dual showerheads--taking her with such a stunning ferocity that he left her filled with speechless bliss, and legs shaking so badly that she had to lean on him for several minutes until she felt strong enough to support herself. Though he was both amused---his low rumbles of laughter at her very flattering reaction had echoed all around them---and highly satisfied, he also became the soft, solicitous lover in the aftermath, smoothing gentle hands upon her wet hair and scattering loving kisses on her face, murmuring endearments against her skin.

’My darling...my angel...my lovely, little lamb. My sweet, sweet Scarlett...’ Spurring her to ask herself: how can he see to my needs this way and still not know he owns my heart?

Why, he’d even stepped from the shower first--telling her to just hold on a tic--grabbing a thick, thirsty towel to swaddle her in before he wrapped one around himself, and then had guided her to sit on the padded vanity stool next to the long bathroom counter. Never having observed a grown man in his morning ablutions, Scarlett found herself fascinated watching him run gel through his thick, dark hair, trying to get it to behave as he preferred, and then lather up and shave. Shaving with meticulous care, the quiet scrape of the razor against his skin reminding her that this was all very real. That this complicated, brilliant, perpetual temptation of a man had welcomed her not only into his bed, but into the privacy of his home and the rhythm of his life. 

The air was soon rich with his scent--Bleu de Chanel--as he applied a generous dose of aftershave. When he grabbed his toothbrush, he turned to her with a grin, “I’m almost all set, love. Then you can have the room to yourself to do...whatever it is you do to keep yourself looking so...hmmm...scrumptious.”

Scarlett nodded, though she would have been just as content to simply watch her magnificent lover--her private Hennessy--in the domain which reflected exactly who he was, going about even his most ordinary tasks. Her heart was so entranced now that she wanted to memorize his every detail. 

He gave her another toothy grin, then strode over to deposit his towel in the hamper, casually revealing the full glory of the form she had come to worship. He flashed her a wink when he caught her staring-- she just couldn’t help herself, and odds were he knew that. “You might want to suit up, darling. It looks to be the perfect day for a swim.” Then he was out the door, leaving Scarlett to daydream her way through her own morning toilette, wondering what new lessons Hennessy might have in store for her. Eager to learn--and even more eager to please.

               ____________________________________________

Scarlett had plaited her damp hair into a Dutch braid, draped across her shoulder, hoping to keep her hair tidy if they did end up taking a swim. She slipped into a modest tankini with her denim capris over that, and then grabbed her rucksack before she headed downstairs. If Hennessy was busy--she’d noted he had taken his newspaper to wherever he’d gone off to--she had a bit of actual course work to do. Sketches for a study of the natural world, prep for an end of term project--a large, landscape painting in the artist’s choice of medium, along with a portfolio of drawings and any other work she did towards the completion of the final piece. She’d found the seeds of inspiration in Hennessy’s wild-grown garden, as well as in his serene shingle of private beach, and she was keen to make a start. 

She found him with his paper beneath the patio umbrella, with an iced pitcher of lemonade, one empty glass and one half-full, upon the wrought iron table. As he had advised her, he was clad in swim trunks and a matching, athletic fit surf tee. In blues and sea greens of course, the hues that not only dominated his casual color palette, but flattered him perfectly. 

Scarlett set her bag on one of the spare chairs, poured herself some lemonade and then topped off Hennessy’s glass. He thanked her before turning his attention back to the crossword puzzle he was working on. “You do them in pen?” she observed.

“Is there any other way?” he had narrowed his eyes while he was trying to work out a clue, rhythmically tapping his ball point pen on the glass table top. “Six letter word ending in k-a...an exclamation...hmmmmm...” 

She couldn’t resist chiming in, ‘eureka’ just as she began to set out her supplies, then pulled her sketchpad from her rucksack. 

“Eureka, indeed,” he chuckled, glancing over to watch her preparations. “And what’s this, little lambkin? Another hidden talent?” 

“Depends on what you would consider talent, Professor,” she stated modestly, “I draw a little, I paint a little. Always looking to improve.” She opened up to the middle of her sketchpad, several pages past the drawing she had indulged in the previous afternoon, meaning to avoid him catching sight of it. 

“And what sort of things give you inspiration, my dear? People, places...things, mayhap?” Hennessy’s curiosity had been piqued, and he was craning his neck to get at least a little peek. 

”Well, yes, of course,” she teased innocently, not ready to volunteer a thing, while setting the edge of her pencil onto the rough surface of the blank page. There was the scrape of chair legs dragged across the calypso coral stone beneath their feet as he drew nearer, and soon he’d made it impossible for her not to acknowledge that he was leaning in close, laying his hand on the back of her neck, toying with the few stray hairs that had escaped her braid. Scarlett turned her head slightly, just enough to see Hennessy from the corner of her eye, catching enough of him to recognize the mischievous glint in his. “What,” she asked quietly, realizing that she would accomplish nothing until she had at least humored him.

“Just curious, darling.” He ran a single finger across her bare shoulder and down her arm, a sure and pleasant distraction, softening her resolve. “I think you’d like to show me your work. Wouldn’t you, Scarlett?”

“I suppose,” she replied with a sigh, though she remained uneasy about how he would react to the liberty she had taken, of sketching him. 

“Always my good girl.” He brushed a quiet kiss upon her cheek and then rested his hand on the center of her back, waiting patiently as she flipped back to the opening page. 

“Some of these are incomplete,” she noted, “Mostly just for practice, or because I haven’t decided yet what other elements should be part of the composition.” Scarlett could feel his eyes study the page she had revealed, a very flawed study of the little cottage of her youth. “And of course, there’s a lot of trials and error.” 

“That’s home,” he observed, sounding more fascinated than such a simple thing usually allowed for. 

“Uh-huh.” Encouraged by that sign of his sincere interest, she turned a few pages more, where her work depicted rustic exteriors of her native Scotland, and several sketches of the village-side inlet that she would forever think of as her own. Next came several studies of a sunny, seaside bay, ringed to the beach’s edge with one and two story buildings set very close together. To the last of these, she’d chalked in traces of color--vivid blue for the water, pale pastels on random buildings--and had treated the sketch with a fixative to keep the chalk from rubbing off.

“These are lovely, Scarlett,” he exclaimed, absentmindedly massaging the stretch of skin between her shoulder blades. His touch felt blessedly cool on her sun warmed flesh.

“You needn’t sound so surprised, Professor,” she replied coyly, so that he chuckled and laid a kiss on her shoulder.

“I’m not, darling. Truly, I’m not.” He drew a deep breath, then added, “Though I’m curious about where these are from.”

Scarlett paused a moment, recalling those endless, sunny days and balmy, starlit nights. “They’re from my time in Mykonos, at the end of my gap year.”

“Clearly, you found the place enchanting, my dear. Why, it nearly leaps off the page!”

She watched his profile as he leaned in for a closer look. “Do you really think so?” How happy it made her to see his enthusiastic response!

“Absolutely,” he assured her, giving a low whistle of appreciation, “And if I had to guess, I’d say that you were at least a little bit in love with the place.”

“I...I was...” she breathed softly. And with a beautiful young man there. My dear Benedicktos.

Inevitably, the next series of sketches raised Hennessy’s curiosity even further. “And who’s this?” Scarlett heard a trace of judginess creep into his voice.

“Oh...um...an artist I met while I was there...” Artist, sculptor--and if only our stars had aligned properly, he would have been my first. My first lover.

“I see...” And surely Hennessy could see her true feelings for her Bene, pictured in the loving way she had drawn his lines and angles. One page was filled with thumbnail sketches of just his face in profile. She had worked a couple of those into larger versions, and chalked color onto them as well. They showed a thick, unruly crown of dark, windswept curls. Smooth, well tanned skin and a sensuous looking mouth. And eyes of pure sea green.

“I think you were at least a little bit in love with this boy, too,” he observed quietly, and he gave her a beat to respond, though she could not for the lump in her throat. “Weren’t you, Scarlett?”

She took a deep breath, gathering her composure as well as her wits; she would not share that golden time with Hennessy. Not yet, anyway. “I suppose I was, at least a little bit...but then, it’s easy to fall in love in a place like that...”

“I suppose it is, little lamb. And lucky boy he must’ve been.” To her wonder, his smile felt a little false. He couldn’t possibly be jealous, she told herself; doesn’t he realize I’m his completely? 

She tried to turn rapidly over the following pages, but Hennessy stayed her hand, determined to see the full story. Scarlett had draw Benedicktos sitting shirtless and cross-legged at the water’s edge. Standing and gazing out at sea, watching the sun set. Smiling vibrantly, cheeks creased with rows of dimples, while he appeared to be laughing. The last sketch showed him shirtless again, his smile softer but no less dazzling, as he stood in the prow of a fishing boat, a tall line of verdant cliff tops in the distance, the blue of the sky just a little lighter than that of the Mediterranean. 

Her teacher had gone silent as she flipped past the last page in that series and put the pad down. “Hennessy?” She placed her hand on his, where it rested on the table. “That was years ago. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime--once I got home, my mother fell ill for some time, and...and we fell out of touch right away.” He nodded and smiled, but she felt she needed to offer more. “That’s how holiday romances go, right? Golden but fleeting...” And now my heart belongs to you. Forever, by the feel of it. 

“Yes,” he nodded again, and she wondered if he caught the flavor of that thought, for he raised her hand to brush his lips against her fingers. He studied her face a moment, and his sunshine smile returned. “But I want to see them all, darling. You do have quite a talent.” 

And so they continued. Hennessy laughed genially at her studies of her little black kitten, Chaucer, ranging across her book shelves, warming himself on her laptop keyboard, and curled into a fluffy little ball upon her bed pillow. “I swear, he really did all those things,” she confided, glowing a little in the face of her lover’s generous regard, “It’s like he owns the place now, and I’m just the guest.” 

Hennessy clucked his tongue. “Bosh. We’ll see who runs the place when I come to visit. My will is certainly far stronger than his.” 

A little thunderstruck, she asked him breathlessly, “You’d come to see me at my flat?” 

“I don’t see why not,” he grinned, and then seeing what it meant to her, he issued a hasty disclaimer. “Of course, that’s no promise it’ll be any time soon, my dear. Timetable to be determined.” 

“Oh, absolutely,” Scarlett nodded, doing her best not to seem disappointed. It was too much, too soon to have expected, anyway. 

At last they arrived at the sketch, the one over which her anxiety had been gradually growing. The moment of truth. She averted her eyes at his sound of surprise, as he stood up and took the pad right out of her hand, to finally exclaim, “Well, I’ll be damned!” In the brief silence that followed, she could hear the thump of her own heart, hoping against hope that he had meant that in a good way. “Scarlett...darling...when did you do this?” 

She finally raised her eyes, to find such an open, soft expression on his features that her heart just about skipped a beat. “Yesterday. After I...left you in the study...”

Hennessy crooked his trademark, honest half-smile her way. “This...this is really good, my dear. And I have to say...quite...flattering.” 

Scarlett was memorizing the look of genuine wonder in those eyes that had the power to command her and cajole her. Frighten her for breathless moments, and just as effortlessly mesmerize her. Fancying that someday soon she’d capture the chameleon beauty of those eyes in this particular moment, in charcoal and in chalk, so to frame them and keep them well beyond the days when his interest in her finally waned. “I just drew the truth, my jo,” she shrugged, “Exactly as I saw it.” 

His mouth hung open as he reached to brush back some strands of hair that had fallen across her forehead, then stroked his thumb across her cheek. “You have a true artist’s eye, love.” His voice was the velvet caress she had come to crave. “And your romantic nature shines through in...all of these pieces. I am both flattered and honored by this...gentle version of me. By the beauty you’ve rendered to even my most...jarring...defects.” 

She bit her lip, and could only bow her head in thanks, else her voice might break with the tenderness he stirred her to. Jarring defects. His mysterious scars. How she ached to know their origin, and to give him comfort for whatever pain he’d suffered from them--though she knew she could not, should not, ask. But at least she knew she’d touched his heart in their regard, and that would have to be enough for now. 

Still tracing her cheek, Hennessy moved into a crouch beside her. The heat had brought a ruddiness to his face and the bright sunlight allowed her to study the soft smattering of freckles across his skin. Scarlett had a moment to think about how very much she’d like to capture this look on him, deciding that her Prismacolors colored pencils might be best, before he moved in close enough for kissing. “Would it be too vain of me to say that sketch is my favorite, darling?” 

“No. Not at all,” she breathed, contemplating how she might express on paper, the perfection of his cupid’s bow, the temptation of his tender lower lip. Even unto the wee scar that couldn’t mar it’s beauty, and which she had already tasted countless times, and hoped to taste countless more.

“Perhaps someday you’ll sketch me with the passion you expended on your Greek boy.” He was teasing her, of course; he had to be. He couldn’t know she was thinking exactly that. “In fact, I would enjoy that very much, Scarlett. To have you ply your...talent...on me.” 

Hennessy’s breath was on her lips now, the promise of his kiss achingly close. She shut her eyes, panting in anticipation. “Yes...on me, sweet Scarlett. On me, and me alone.” She whimpered beneath the searing power of his kiss, as though by accepting it, she’d made some sort of Faustian bargain--and thus he had claimed yet another piece of her soul. 

          _________________________________________________

tagging: @strangelock221b​  @ben-locked​  @ben-c-group-therapy​  @thelostsmiles​  @splunge4me2art​  @humanbornarchangel​  @tsukuyomi011​  @ravencatart​  @doctor-stephenstrange​  @letterstosherlock​  @emilyinnj4real​  @aeterna-auroral-avenger​  @frowerssx2​  @groovyfluxie​  @candie-girl22 

(And yes, my friends, I promise there will be watery fun to come in the next installment *grinning wickedly*.)

[allycryz]

Duende - Uri & Haurche :3

PG because Haurchefant makes innuendo, set during early Stormblood.

The first draft of this was super easy to get out. The edits were a little harder because Urianger’s voice is very different from mine, but a good challenge all the same!!

‘Tis expected of a Scion to battle as expertly as one might pen a treatise. Urianger schedules two ventures per day to hone his physical talents: a bracing run before dawn and a lengthy solo training session at dusk. For the latter, he takes to the rocky shore along the coast line. The precarious climb to his preferred spot (providing both privacy and space) is part of his regimen.

Urianger picks the times when visibility is low and most residents occupied. Small talk is not his wont, nor is he at ease with those not in his immediate circle. There is something about his unmasked, unhooded face that gives strangers tacit permission to approach.

His position and decorum dictate that he engage somewhat in chatter during his errands. The residents do not press overmuch, for which he is grateful. Still, the task fits him worse than the too-small aldgoat leather gloves Lyse gifted him on his last Nameday. (Except, those he could not put on as easily as he might a polite demeanor. They refused to go past the breadth of his palm.)

There are days when the convenience of sunrise and sunset for sundry reasons, prove incompatible with other needs such as visibility and safety.

The unexpected rain pours down as he wends his weary way up the cliffs. It sluices through his hair, running rivulets over his brow. For the dozenth time, he swipes at his face and squints against the onslaught.

His feet remember where to place, his hands where to grip for balance. These are his cliffs and his winding, narrow path. No one knows it better. Should that memory etched into his muscle fail, a fall here would not be deadly.

‘Twould be painful though, and impact his duties for the next few days. For that latter reason–above all–he takes longer than usual along the rain-slicked terrain. 

There, he thinks as he nears the safety of the plateau. Urianger blows out a soft breath of relief, relaxing muscles he has kept tense during the arduous journey. For this stretch he has always found it best to walk sideways, arms spread for balance. It has never been a treacherous spot, simply steep enough to warrant caution.

Today, treachery comes at last. He takes a step up the incline, shifts to lift the other foot. The slippery grass beneath his boots gives way and both feet shoot out from under him. He has enough presence of mind to throw his gravity forward rather than backwards.

The impact is unpleasant but survivable; naught but his palms and dignity scraped. Dirt and mud bespatter the front of his shorter training robe. The cotton garment ends below his knees, the boots just above. Thus the joints are spared injury besides a dull ache. He chooses an ignominious crawl up to the plateau rather than risk another fall by rising on the sodden incline.

The rain is not so courteous as to clean his garments. It does offer some reprieve as he turns his stinging palms up to the sky and rubs the rainwater against the creases of grime and grass.

Ah, well. Rain is uncommon enough that he should be glad when it comes. Should his comrades ever summon him to battle in such precipitation, he shall be well-prepared. Lord Haurchefant oft speaks of how training in winter climes these five years have better forged him for difficult conflict. (Urianger suspects it is not only snow and ice that stood in the knight’s way.)

He finds himself smiling, thinking of his new colleague. Though their base is near underground, ‘tis not wholly cut off from the outside world. Vents let in sunlight, rain can be heard pouring upon the streets. Like as not, Haurchefant put a kettle on soon as he perceived the change in weather. 

The Waking Sands are enchanted to remain a cool temperature. If the sun does return in full force, they shall not overheat drinking cocoa.

Befouled, bedraggled, and besodden; he returns to the outskirts of Vesper Bay. The twilight and the rain have not put off the residents. A knot of people gathers near the market stalls, the hum of their voices rising just above the thrum of rain upon roof and stone and sea. The citizens hold cloaks and hands over their head as shields, one has a parasol meant for sun and aesthetics. 

‘Tis a lovely pink one with expensive-seeming trim. A shame it is likely ruined.

The reason for their cluster becomes apparent. Lord Haurchefant is the focus upon which they circle, tallest among them save two other residents. His silvered head is bent to them as they harken to his low voice. This eve, he has garbed himself in a long scarlet coat over his usual apparel. ‘Tis the first time he has donned sleeves since his arrival.

 (For all the good it did me to be tempered by winter, his lordship had said. It does make me rather pitiful in a desert. I shall do my best to acclimate to Thanalan.) 

They all gaze upon him with utter rapture. It has ever been so, since his lordship’s residence began in the Waking Sands while Urianger’s comrades and Haurchefant’s love continued on to Gyr Abania. Their adoration is not due solely to his fair countenance or noble title, though both must aid the cause.

There is an...openness in him that beguiles all he meets. Urianger has witnessed the surliest residents and most peevish of vendors open like blossoms to the sun when Haurchefant turns the glory of his attention upon them. Such an unusual power he has seldom witnessed and never from so kind a soul as this knight.

There is no avoiding this throng, even would it not be unconscionably rude to avoid his guest. At least there is a smaller chance of strangers engaging him in conversation. Not with a beacon such as Haurchefant seizing their attention, both intentionally and involuntarily.

“-suppose he will be alright, he knows the land better than I.” He hears Haurchefant saying as he approaches. His noble brow is drawn down, his battle-sculpted arms folded. “But do let me know if you see him. No one expected this rainfall.”

Doth he….speak of me? Urianger wonders. As if attuned to his thoughts, his lordship turns his way. Surprise, then relief, and then rapture all pass across his handsome features.

“Urianger!” He exclaims. “Thank the Fury. I was worried–I know you favor treacherous paths,and with the dark and the rain…”

“I am well,” says Urianger. “Thy concern is much appreciated and noted. ‘Twould have been a perilous journey had I not been close acquainted with yon cliffs.”

Haurchefant steps towards him, gaze sweeping up and down. Lingering on his bare face, throat, and collar. “It seems it was perilous for your clothes. Let’s get you inside and taken care of, yes?”

One of the crowd smiles at Urianger. Mara, he recalls, the tall Hyur woman who hawks fruit.  “Well, we’re glad you’re alright, ser. I was just telling June that I worry when I see you go off in the dark.”

“Ah,” he says, trying to recall which is June. The baker. Yonder woman with the braids who oft gives thee extra tea biscuits. “Tis not my intent to cause worry. I am well versed in the land and how best to scale it.”

“Even knowing that, do be careful.” Mara gives an imperious nod. Others nod as well, their eyes on him and not the handsome knight.

He can only nod again, bearing and smile stiff. He does not recall all their names. It makes him feel the most ill-mannered of scoundrels. He sweeps into a bow towards them, hoping it goes to some measure in repaying their concerns. “I shall endeavor to have a care, my lady. Your solicitous care bringeth warmth into mine heart, ‘tis only right I do well by all gathered.”

She smiles and pats his arm. This seems a signal for all to disperse, more residents bestowing upon him pats and nods. It is a wholly alien experience, and he considers he may be lying at the bottom of the cliff in the midst of a delusion. Surely he is not dear to all these people with whom he barely speaks.

“Come friend,” Haurchefant says. “You need to get out of those wet clothes and have something warm in your belly.”

“Thou art just as sodden,” says Urianger. “Pray also attend to yourself. Thou shouldst not catch sick for mine sake.”

“Ah but I would have done so gladly if I had to save you today.” The knight’s smile is wide again, fair dazzling in its potency. Again, Urianger is astonished any resident would look at him with Haurchefant there. Do they not sense the charm radiating from his very core? “I do thank you, for arriving when you did. There are much better games we might play in the dark than hide and seek.”

Urianger near trips on the steps up to the door. Of course, Haurchefant is there to catch him, strong hands righting his balance and smoothing over his back. 

“I beg thine pardon,” says Urianger. Regretful that he has no mask or hood to hide the heat upon his cheeks. As Lord Haurchefant is cheeky himself to everyone, he is likely used to it. ‘Tis not the first time Urianger has witnessed or received innuendo delivered so warmly from this man. “Mayhap I used more energy than I surmised, during my exertions today.”

“Yes,” Haurchefant nods, opening the door. “All the more reason for you to come relax with me once you have cleaned up. I shall not have you burying yourself in work when you have earned respite.”

“For a little while,” says Urianger. He glances back at the streets, at the residents seeking shelter in houses and under awnings. At the way some of them look at them–at him. Relief and concern and warmth in their gazes. He frowns and cannot lose the change to his mien, even in the warmth and dry of the building.

Haurchefant pauses at the top of the stares, giving his shoulders a roll before beginning his descent. ‘Tis late and his friend is often tense in his upper body by the time supper comes. He will need help working the knots loose again. Perhaps Urianger might put off his tasks even further to repay Haurchefant’s worry and concern.

As to everyone else in Vesper Bay, he is at a loss on how to make recompense.

His friend reaches the door to their sanctum and turns back, looking up at Urianger still upon the landing. “Dear Urianger, what is the matter? That’s a rather pensive expression.”

“...I didst not realise the depth of their regard for mine person. Yon residents and I art not particularly close.” He shakes his head.

“Oh,” says Haurchefant, that entrancing smile returning to his mouth. “Do ask me an easier one next time.”

Facetiousness is not Haurchefant’s way. The ironic reply seems out of character. “Yes, I am aware the reasoning seems difficult to determine-”

“‘Tis not.” Haurchefant’s eyes crinkle with laughter. It does not sting–there is no malice in it. He doubts such a quality resides in the knight. “You are quite charming, even when cloaked. It inspires others to take interest in you.”

For the second time, Urianger says “I beg thine pardon? I am not given to using mine wiles-”

“No, no. We should all be in trouble should you do it apurpose. But you have a natural draw that leads people to want to know you. As you signal that is not what you want, they have kept their distance.”

It is an absurd supposition that Haurchefant says with all the conviction of his noble heart. So much does he seem to believe it; that Urianger wants to also trust it, if only for his friend’s sake. “I am...uncertain of the validity of thy premise. However, thy kindness and belief warms my heart. Wouldst that every man hath such a friend as you, my lord.”

At this, Haurchefant lets out a clear, ringing laugh. Again, there is no mockery in it. The sound is joyful and pleased, as seductive a sound as every part of the man. ‘Tis a wonder such a man as he thinks his draw is mirrored in Urianger.

“So I must endeavor to convince you of it, till you are no longer agreeing to humor me.” Haurchefant opens the door, shivering at the blast of magically cooled air upon his wet person. “Well, I look forward to the process. One could do far worse than spending an evening convincing a beautiful man of his charms.”

To that, Urianger has no answer. Nor does Haurchefant expect one. He winks and enters the Waking Sands, door closing behind him.

It occurs to him and the rapid beating of his heart, there is a reason he perceives Haurchefant as charming and beguiling and the one who everyone should desire. Projection has not been a key failing of his, but he has fallen prey to it before. And presently, it seems.

And Haurchefant is correct in one thing: there are far worse ways they might spend the evening. Perhaps Urianger shall put his work on hold tonight, to see the knight’s endeavor in full.

[roselightfairy]

Don’t know if this is helpful to anyone, but I got mad and sent some emails to reps. Probably won’t do anything, but if anyone wants my templates, I’m putting them below a cut. You’re probably fine to send the exact same template as long as it’s going to different people, but a) I don’t want to assume that my words are worthy of being a template and b) you might want to alter for your own reps. (Mine are Democrats, so the emails are more about pushing for decisive action than decrying their own actions. If you have Republican reps with some shreds of conscience left, some parts of these letters might still work for them. If neither of those things apply...I dunno. You might just want to send them some strong words for your own cathartic satisfaction.) But there’s also one for Nancy Pelosi in her capacity as Speaker, asking her to keep Congress in session so people can be held accountable.

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To my senators and representative, asking them to hold elected officials, insurgents, and law enforcement accountable:

Dear [Representative],

Like many Americans, I am shocked and heartbroken by the insurrection attempt in the Capitol building yesterday. I know that facing such an experience in person must have been far more terrifying than hearing about it on the news, and I hope that you are able to recover from the experience.

As Sen. Schumer mentioned in his speech last night, we all know that this coup would not have been attempted if not for the inflammatory rhetoric of the President, which has led to building fears for weeks - even years - of just such an event occurring. But I feel that it is also important to acknowledge that the President's rhetoric and encouragement of this dangerous rage would not have been so effective if it had not been enabled - indeed, continues to be enabled - by many of your Republican colleagues in the House and in the Senate. Even last night, after their very lives were threatened and their building ransacked, over a hundred Republican representatives still voted against certifying the results of a legitimate election. This stoking of fear and distrust cannot be left unchecked, or further violent displays will occur against the Capitol, and in other states, against vulnerable communities and Democratic voters. I am legitimately fearful of a civil war due to this threat, and I worry that the only thing that can prevent it is decisive action to hold those responsible to account for their actions - the president and the members of Congress who have enabled him.

Representatives such as Rep. Omar have announced the intent to impeach and remove the president from office, and Rep. Bush has announced an intention to put forth a motion for the expulsion of the Congresspeople who have enabled him throughout this process. I urge you to support those or any other efforts towards removing those responsible for this and holding them to account. I say again: a failure to acknowledge and punish these serious crimes against our democracy and the people of our nation will only embolden these domestic terrorists in their agendas, and the worst of that suffering will fall on the shoulders of marginalized communities.

Further, I want to ask you to support efforts to hold both the violent mobs and law enforcement accountable for what happened yesterday. We witnessed far more vicious and brutal police responses in multiple cities across the United States over the summer against peaceful Black Lives Matter protestors than we saw against a mob which stormed the Capitol - the heart of our government - and attacked our lawmakers. Fewer arrests were made, and the mobs were allowed to enter and vandalize the Capitol building, a far more serious offense than anything committed anywhere over the summer, even protests that did not remain peaceful. This is absolutely inexcusable - it is an offense to Black protestors and other marginalized communities throughout our country to have been terrorized and brutalized over the summer in protesting for their lives, and now to watch violent mobs parade Confederate flags through the Capitol building with the tacit permission of law enforcement and many Republican lawmakers who still will not speak out against them. Law enforcement and these lawmakers must all be held accountable for this threat to the foundations of our democracy and the insult added to the many, many injuries that our country has already committed against our Black communities.

Again, I hope you are well after yesterday's events. I thank you for your votes to uphold our free and fair elections, and I ask that you continue to vote to defend our democracy by holding to account those who threaten it.

Sincerely, [My name]

...

To Nancy Pelosi, asking her to keep Congress in session so that the above can be done:

Dear Speaker Pelosi,

You aren't my representative in that I don't live within your district, but as Speaker of the House, I feel you represent all of us in some ways. I have admired you for a long time and am grateful for your efforts to stand against the rising tide of anti-democratic sentiment that, as we have seen yesterday, has real consequences. I'm hoping you will continue to stand up for what is right and challenge those who would threaten our democracy.

Like many Americans, I am shocked and heartbroken by the insurrection attempt in the Capitol building yesterday. I know that facing such an experience in person must have been far more terrifying and violating than hearing about it on the news. I am so sorry for what you and your colleagues experienced, and I hope that you are able to recover from the experience.

As many of your colleagues have acknowledged, we all know that this coup would not have been attempted if not for the inflammatory rhetoric of the President, which has led to building fears for weeks - even years - of just such an event occurring. But I feel that it is also important to acknowledge that the President's rhetoric and encouragement of this dangerous rage would not have been so effective if it had not been enabled - indeed, continues to be enabled - by many of your Republican colleagues in the House and in the Senate. Even last night, after their lives were threatened and their building ransacked, over a hundred Republican representatives still voted against certifying the results of a legitimate election. Again, I'm sure that you understand the truth and the threat of this better than I ever could, but I am afraid of what could happen if this stoking of fear and distrust is not left unchecked. I'm afraid of further violent displays against the Capitol, and I'm also afraid of displays in individual states and smaller communities, particularly as other would-be insurgents see how much they are able to get away with. I have never in my life thought I would have to be fearful of a civil war, and yet now I am afraid - and I'm afraid that this violence will fall disproportionately on vulnerable communities and Democratic voters without the means to protect themselves. The only thing that can prevent this is decisive action to hold those responsible to account for their actions - the president, the members of Congress who have enabled him, and those who have taken their words to heart.

I have heard news about representatives announcing intent to draw up articles of impeachment to remove the president from office, and others intending to put forth a motion for the expulsion of the Congresspeople who have enabled him throughout this process. But I have also heard that Congress is not to resume until after the inauguration, and I beg you to reconsider that decision. These next two weeks may well be the most volatile period in our democracy, and I predict that even more violence and domestic terrorism will occur if decisive action is not taken. Please support any impeachment and removal efforts, any expulsion efforts, and accountability for everyone involved in this monstrous act. Please call Congress back into session so that you can be prepared to take action against further displays and demonstrations. A  failure to acknowledge and punish these serious crimes against our democracy and the people of our nation will only embolden these domestic terrorists in their agendas, and the worst of that suffering will fall on the shoulders of marginalized communities.

We the people are terrified. We are afraid for you, for ourselves, for the most vulnerable in our communities, and what might happen next. We cannot afford to wait for the next two weeks and hope that everything remains peaceful, not when so many people have been emboldened to take action and our country has been shamed in the eyes of the world. We don't have the power to do it ourselves, so we have to beg you: please, please take action. Please move forward to remove all of the people in power who have enabled and encouraged the actions that led to yesterday's events. Even if these efforts are not successful, the attempt alone will send a strong message. We cannot afford to let this pass. There needs to be retribution - there needs to be justice - or our country may never know peace again.

Sincerely, [My name]

[hannatuulikkdiary]

Tracking the steps of the Deer Dancer

Some years ago, in Southern Arizona, a friend advised me to beware of the desert's spiky plant life. Sure enough, wandering the zigzagging paths through the canyon, I found myself picking fine spines from my clothes and skin. Learning to minimise this risk, I started paying attention to the ground and noticed human trails intersecting with animal tracks – javelina, coyote, and especially deer. With no rain for weeks, hoofprints remained debossed in the dry earth, like chains of split hearts, or strings of letters. Where clusters of tracks had accumulated, it looked as if the deer had been dancing.

During that same visit, I came across a copy of the book Yaqui Deer Songs / Maso Bwikam: A Native American Poetry, edited by Larry Evers and Felipe S. Molina. Originally from the Río Yaqui, the indigenous Yaqui (or Yoeme) people now reside across the divided borderlands of Sonora, Mexico and Arizona, USA. I read that before setting out to hunt, their ancestors held a festive rite, enacting the wilderness world through a series of songs that address the deer, asking forgiveness for those animals that will die. Though hunting is rarely practised by present-day Yaqui, traces of the tradition remain extant in the Deer Dance, wherea single male dancer becomes the Maaso– the deer – and, wearing a stag headdress, he imitates the movements of a white-tailed deer.

I was struck by the ways in which the photos of the costume bore a resemblance to some images I'd seen of the antlered headdresses found at Star Carr, a Mesolithic site in Yorkshire. Archaeologists have suggested that these red deer frontletswere worn in hunting rituals, allowing the wearer to harness antler effects, gaining access to the perspective of the 'animal-in-action'. Could this also be true for the Yaqui Deer Dance?

Pondering these connections, I recalled two dances I'd heard about in the British Isles – the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance of Staffordshire, believed to be a memory of a celebration of villagers’ hunting rights, featuringsix men bearing mounted antlers said to move like deer, and the Scottish Highland Fling, thought by some to have its origins in a warrior’s dance imitative of deer, with hands held aloft for antlers.

'Mimesis' – the imitation or emulation of the more-than-human-world – in traditional music and dance is something I've explored over the years, from Scottish Gaelic vocal imitations of birds, to the practice of embodying a river in South Indian Kutiyattam movement. I was keen to find out more and studythese three'deer dances' in tandem.What kind of deer effects are harnessed in these dances? Which deer behaviours are imitated and why? What do they reveal about our relationship with deer and ecology?

Over the next couple of years, I made numerous field trips to observe dances, interview practitioners, and learn steps directly from tradition bearers. Spending time observing deer, I consideredthe ways in which their behaviour is emulated in the dances and, learning about the ecologies of their habitats, I examined their relationship to hunting, stalking at Trees for Liferewilding estate in Dundreggan, and animal tracking in the Sonoran Desert. I was particularly interested in exploring the 'tacit' knowledge embodied in the dances. What could be discovered by 'learning' and 'doing' these dances, as opposed to just 'watching' them? What could be discovered in the body, through practices of stalking and tracking, instead of simply 'reading' about them?

Needwood Forest, Staffordshire...

I first went to see the Abbots Bromley Horn Dancein September 2017, and then again in 2018. This folk dance takes place once a year in the Abbots Bromley village, near to Bagot's Wood, an area of woodland just one and a half square miles, which is all that remains of the ancientNeedwood Forest. Like most forest in Britain, historically it was property of the Crown and, in this case, was once parcel of the Duchy of Lancaster.

Today the word 'forest' refers to an area of wooded land, but the medieval sense of the word referred to land set aside for royal hunting. The 'Royal Forest' included large areas of heath, grassland and wetland, essentially anywhere that supported deer and other game.Villages and towns that lay within it were subject to forest law, protecting the 'Beasts of the Chase' from being hunted by anyone except the king, safeguarding the habitat in which they lived. These 'beasts' were primarily deer, and included native red and roe deer, as well as non-native species such as fallow deer, introduced to England for the very purpose of hunting.

Every Royal Forest in England was overseen by a keeper who was appointed by the King, and whose position was often hereditary. Forest Law meant that it was illegal to hunt deer, chop down trees or underwood, unless permission had been given by the Crown. Penalties for offenses were severe, but by 1217, the death penalty for poaching had been abolished. This didn't stop some kings; during the reign of Henry VIII, a yeoman named Richard Horne was caught poaching deer in the woods and was hung for his crimes. His ghost, known as Herne the Hunteris said to haunt Windsor Forest, with antlers growing from his head and chains rattling behind him.

Within the structures of Forest Law, payment for access to certain rights became a useful source of income and local nobles could be granted a licence to hunt an agreed amount of game, giving forest inhabitants a variety of rights. As I mentioned, theAbbots Bromley Horn Danceis believed by some to be a memory of a medieval celebration of villagers’ hunting rights, possibly recalling the act of giving thanks to the local nobility for access to the Royal Forest. Others believe it was danced to ensure a successful hunt, or a good harvest. The forest itself was largely lost in the eighteenth-century due to deforestation. With all this in mind, I couldn't help but think that the Horn Dance was taking place in an imaginary landscape, in the ghost of a place that no longer exists.

The dance itself featuresten dancers: six deer-men carrying mounted antlers, a hobby horse, bow-man with his bow and arrow, Maid Marian (or man-woman) with their stick and ladle, and the fool with his pig's bladder. The antlers are mounted onto carved wooden deer heads at the end of sticks, reminiscent of a child's hobby horse toy. Surprisingly the antlers are not native; carbon dated to 1065, they came from reindeer, long extinct in Britain.

At eight in the morning, after collecting the horns from the church, the ritual begins. Moving in procession, the horn dancers exit the church yard and, on a street corner in the village, they perform a sequence of steps, circling and winding in time with the accompanying music performed on melodeon and triangle. Though stylized, particular movements are especially mimetic. Recalling the rutting behaviour of a number of species of deer, the dancers move together in a parallel walk, and then face one another, moving towards and away, passing through, as if clashing antlers during a fight. Followed by villagers and visitors alike, the horn dancers and their musicians proceed to beat the bounds of the village, walking over ten miles throughout the day, performing at each farm and pub. Taking a drink at every stop, as you might imagine, banter follows, with jokes erupting at every turn. The music is constant and consistent and, soon enough, I found myself humming along with the tunes. The sound of the triangle was particularly affecting, cutting through the cacophony of sound.

At Blithfield Hall, the tone changes considerably. The hall, a Grade 1 listed country house owned by the Baggots, has been in the family since the 14th century. The horn dancers perform on the lawn outside and when the music stops, they stand in line and wait. The Lord and Lady of the house then proceed to shake each dancer's hand, while the audience looks on from across the boundary wall. In a legacy of class inequalities, the memory of a celebration of hunting rights becomes particularly visible. Back in the village, the dancing finishes at about eight pm, when the horns are returned to the church, to be hung on display until the following year.

During the dance, I met Jack Brown, a tradition bearer and local historian, now in his nineties, who was dressed as a fool in yellow tails. He explained that he had "played all the adult parts" in the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance – deer, hobby horse, fool, man-woman and musician – and invited me to visit him at his home, a treasure trove of photos and objects, including props from the dance – a pig's bladder, triangle, bow and arrow, and stick and ladle. Jack shared with me his memories and knowledge of the dance's history and gifted me a pamphlet on his interpretation of it.

The horn dancers themselves are also very generous, opening up the floor – or ground – to participation, and over the two years I visited, I took part in a number of dances, giving me direct insight into the movements, shapes and step formations, as well as an embodied understanding of the sheer weight of the horns. Weighing between sixteen and twenty-five pounds, it is physically difficult to dance with these objects, to carry and move with them. Reindeer antlers are larger than red deer – our biggest native species – and if, as it has been suggested, they were imported from Scandinavia, perhaps we could say that the dancers of yesteryear were attracted to their size, in order to 'harness their effects'. What are these effects, I wondered? The size and weight of the antlers certainly enhances a performance of physical strength, perhaps showcasing 'heroic' abilities of endurance. During times when hunting was commonly practiced, these were presumably important attributes.

The props are most deer-like during the 'fighting sequence' when the antlers become like weapons between three pairs of rutting deer-men, albeit in an incredibly stylized rut. Some folklorists have posited that the Horn Dance was a fertility ritual; the antlers in this case would be symbolic of the male sex organ. Was this a mimetic display of the stag's bravado? Certainly, at some point, multiple powerful effects were being harnessed.

Back in the studio, I began to make sketches, tracking the shapes made on the ground by the dancers in a series of visual scores. Returning the following year, I showed my score sketches to Jack, and to Jim, a deer dancer whose family, the Fowells, have been performing the Horn Dance since 1914 after it passed to them from the Bentleys – interestingly, the Bentley family were historically the foresters of the local woodland. Checking the shapes and patterns on the page, Jack and Jim approved my visual notations, confirming their accuracy.

My notation process was also supported by a surprisingly fortunate booking! Reserving a room in a local B&B that looked down onto the area of the final dance, I was able to film it from above and compare the footage with my scores.

Caledonian Forest, Scotland...

The Caledonian Forest, characterised by Scots Pine trees, was once a huge forest stretching across Scotland. About 6,000 years ago, as the climate became wetter, some of the forest began to disappear, but the impact of human beings was even greater; trees were felled for ships, buildings, fuel, and to make way for agriculture. By the 1700s, the Caledonian Forest remained only in the most remote places and much of the wildlife that depended on this habitat was lost through hunting, or simply because there was not enough forest left. The last wolf is said to have been shot in Scotland in 1743, which meant that by this point, all of the predators had been wiped out. In fact, all of the largeanimals had gone, leaving only the red deer. Since then, this animal has come to symbolise the Highlands.

In the 19th century, as deer stalking became fashionable, large tracts of land were dedicated to deer, allowing their numbers to increase, and ‘deer forests’, which are essentially open hills managed for deer, doubled in size. Today, many Highland estates still maintain large deer populations for stalking purposes and the current number is estimated to be 350,000 individuals. Through their excessive numbers and overgrazing, deer are often seen as the problem that prevents the regeneration of the Caledonian Pinewood, however, the ecological imbalance between native forest cover, numbers of grazing deer and lack of natural predators has been caused by humans, not deer.

Trees for Life acquired their Dundreggan estate in 2008, and since then, they have been rewilding the land, planting new trees in places, such as higher mountainous areas where it is difficult for trees to establish on their own, and reducing grazing pressure to allow the forest to recover and regenerate, which, inevitably, involves the culling of deer. In 2017, I went to stay in Dundreggan, and went out stalking with Allan Common, the lead deer stalker on the estate. It was autumn, which in the red deer calendar, meant this was the time of the rut. Meanwhile in the stalking calendar, it was the time for hunting stags. I wasn't sure whether this seasonal stalking tradition was due to the fact that a rutting stag, full of high levels of testosterone, was less alert and easier to hunt, or whether it was because this hormone surge meant that the stag was now adorned with a large mane and antlers, and so more desirable as a trophy. Doug Gilbert, the operations manager at Trees for LifeDundreggan suggested that perhaps it was a mixture of the two – a legacy from the stalking craze.

Dressed in a ritual costume of wax jacket, gaiters and tweed deerstalker hat, at 7am I was met by Allan and two of his friends. Up on the hill, he instructed us to move as one body, then, as we got closer to the deer, he showed us how to lie on our bellies and remain hidden. At the edge of a ridge, we stopped to look down into a bowl-shaped area. The distant sound of roaring stags reverberated into the cold morning and, for a brief moment, through binoculars, I watched as two mature stags walked in parallel, checking each other out, before lowering their antlers, initiating contact. Throughout the morning, Allan, or one of his friends, would position a gun, then using its view finder, take a shot. Sometimes this awkward movement alerted the deer to our presence, so to counter this, Allan skilfully mimicked the bellow of the stag with his voice, to keep the stags interested. It worked! – at one point, a mature male drew very close, standing only a metre or so away. Concealed safely behind a boulder we listened to his spine-tingling roar. My heart beat fast.

While staying with Doug and his partner Joyce, a fundraiser at Trees for Life, I learned more about their work. In order to regenerate the Forest, as well as the practical task of planting trees, they explained that there needed to be a shift in values, from "seeing the land as a place for deer, to seeing the land as a place with deer in it". On the estate, it does feel as though this is happening. When I asked Allan what the biggest changes have been in his job as a stalker, he explained that it was his shift in perception; he used to think the deer were the most important thing, but now he values the land in itself, the ecology as a whole. He told me about an earlier job, working for a sporting agency, where people pay money to go shooting, but had realised some time ago, that he didn't like this 'trophy culture'. He preferred instead to have a relationship with the place, and recounted lying on his back, watching as a golden eagle flew over him, just metres above his body. His most treasured memories were not to do with stalking itself, but a connection with the more-than-human world.

In February, when I returned to Dundreggan, there was heavy snow on the ground, and the deer tracks looked as though they had been debossed, not in earth but in thick white paper. It was the season for stalking red deer hinds, which, like the stags, were hunted in the morning. Night time was reserved for stalking the sika deer, an 'invasive' species from Japan. Being nocturnal, with a tendency to stay hidden under tree cover, they were difficult to spot. Allan used a combination of traditional tracking and an infrared thermal camera to find them. I began to reflect on the relationship of technology to the traditional costumes worn in the various dances, specifically in relation to the red deer frontlets found at Star Carr. Archaeologist Chantal Conneller has posited that these frontlets extended the body of the wearer, allowing them to "harness the animal in action", expanding their perception, essentially becoming-with-deer in order to hunt them. The user of the hunting rifle, with telescopic view finder and infrared thermal imaging also extends the body and perception, augmenting and expanding the senses, extending what is possible as a human being.

Allan may have used up to date technology, but he didn't appear to display any of the macho behaviours I had expected. His friends, however did, and on occasion, I felt uncomfortable. One ex-military friend, in particular, was keen to tell me all about his rifle throughout the stalks, even making me pose for the camera after a successful shoot. This macho sporting chat is not unusual in Scotland, in fact, it is part of mainstream stalking culture. After all, on most estates, the land is maintained as a 'wilderness' resource for deer, which supports an elite hunting economy for the privileged few – mainly rich cis white men on shooting holidays, collecting their trophies. This macho aspect of stalking is reflected in the language; the 'monarch', for example, is a term used to describe a mature stag with sixteen tine antlers, and thus the most prized trophy. Similarly, the language of animal behaviour studies is also gendered, and arguably problematic; the word 'harem', for example, is used to describe a group of female deer sharing a single mate.

Deer stalking itself is steeped in myth and folklore. Geographer Hayden Lorimer writes: "The pursuit of deer, both as a pastime and as a livelihood, has a long history in the Scottish Highlands. Celebrations of these activities, preserved through several centuries in native Gaelic folklore, oral ballads and apocryphal yarns, were seized upon by the authors of stalking guidebooks, histories and personal reminiscences." Scottish 'deer' folklore was mined and appropriated by the cultural elite, giving deer stalking culture seeming authenticity. 

The Highland Fling seems to be part of this process of appropriation. The story goes: Legend tells of a boy who encountered a stag; his father asked him to describe what he saw and, lacking adequate words, he danced the animal instead, his movements imitating capering, his hands held aloft for antlers. Becoming popular as an authentic dance of the highlands, it seems that deer mimesis gave the Fling credibility, but after some digging, I discovered that the story is more than likely a bit of 'fakelore' and probably invented by an eighteenth-century, Lowland dance teacher as a caricature of a 'wild' highland warrior who imitates deer. I couldn't help but think that this 'fakelore' shares striking parallels with the romanticisation of deerstalking, itself a mimetic performance of hunting traditions, reinterpreted and distorted into a form of macho display by landowning classes.

In Spring 2018, I began my studies in Highland Fling, taking lessons with dancer and teacher Sandra Robertson in Kinguisse. Sandra gave me a pair of leather ghillies – soft shoes traditionally worn in Highland Dance. Strangely, the word 'gillie' also means 'hunting guide' or 'male servant to a Highland chieftain'. The shoe's name is thought to be a type originally worn by Scottish hunting guides, who were servants to the lairds – there it was again: the working-class highlander at service to the landowning class and to the elite hunting economy.

I put the shoes on over my thick red socks and Sandra showed me some basic steps. Having done ballet up until the age of 19, I was accustomed to jumping, but the first thing to get used to was landing on the balls of my feet. This took some practice and on the evening after my first session, my shins were agony. Slowly, with time, I got used to it, and before long, I had learned six steps: shedding, rocking, toe and heel, backstep, crossoverand last shedding. It took me months of practice to get through the whole dance without stopping – it was exhausting! Anyone doing this dance regularly, had to be extremely fit.

To help with my learning, I made visual scores of the dance, replacing arm positions with red deer antlers, and human foot fall with red deer tracks in a notation of the steps. I also began to experiment with blind debossing, inspired by seeing the tracks in the snow.

Romanticisation aside, learning the Highland Fling, I could understand why the story of deer imitation stuck. While dancing with deer in mind, the arms, when held high, felt like antlers. The steps, such as toe and heel, backstep and rocking were delicate and deer like, yet powerful and athletic. Two of the steps sheddingand last shedding seemed even to reference the stag's antler shedding, which happens once a year. I could imagine that if a dancer of the Fling performed well, it might make them feel powerful and elegant. I wondered how it might feel to perform this dance if I were a man?

Sonora Desert, Arizona and Mexico...

The indigenous Yaqui, or Yoeme tribe are originally from Sonora in northern Mexico. Seeking refuge from persecution by the Mexican Government in the 19th and early 20th centuries, some of this community were forced north of the border. Their descendants in the USA call themselves the Pascua Yaqui, and in 1978 they were finally recognised as an official tribe. Today, the Pascua Yaqui have eight communities in Southern Arizona.

The Yaqui Deer Dance is a small but important element in the modern Yaqui ceremonial cycle, a ritual involving dance, music, pantomime, and poetry, in a complex blend of catholic and indigenous beliefs. Yaqui traditions speak of the Deer Danceonce being part of a rite performed before the hunting of the deer, but today that connection is only a memory.

Supported in part by the University of Arizona Poetry Centre, in March 2018, I went back to Arizona to begin to make connections with the Pascua Yaqui community. I met with Larry Evers, who co-authored the book on Yaqui Deer Songs mentioned earlier. He was about to retire from his role as a professor between the English and American Indian Studies departments at the University in Tucson, and when I visited, he was clearing out his office. Generously, he gifted me a pile of books and papers on Yaqui culture, as well as a set of DVDs with hours of footage of a Deer Dance ritual performed in Mexico in 1976. Of particular relevance to my research was an old type-writer written thesis, in which the writer Susan Burton explores the relationship of the Yaqui Deer Dancesteps to the movements of real deer and, using the 1976 film footage, notates the dance's vocabulary with labanotation.

Larry was excited by my research, though warned me that I would have many boundaries to cross. Firstly, my gender – the Yaqui Deer Danceis strictly a male domain – and secondly, my ethnicity as a white European. As with many First Nations people, the Yaqui tribe have been consistently ill-treated by various outsiders throughout history, from the invasion of the Spanish Jesuit missionaries and the Mexican Government's persecution of indigenous tribes, to the early American anthropologists misquoting traditions, and the US authorities' mistreatment of anyone who is not white. Understandably, the Deer Dance, and Yaqui culture more broadly, is rarely discussed outside the community.

I was readying Donna Haraway's book 'Staying with the Trouble' and the following passage resonated:

"Indigenous peoples around the earth have a particular angle on the discourses of coming extinctions   and exterminations of the Anthropocene and Capitalocene. The idea that disaster will come is not new; disaster, indeed genocide and devastated home places, has already come, decades and centuries ago, and it has not stopped. The resurgence of peoples and of places is nurtured with   ragged vitality in the teeth of such loss, mourning, memory, resilience, reinvention of what it means to be native, refusal to deny irreversible destruction, and refusal to disengage from living and dying well in presents and futures."

I wondered if it was possible to foster a meaningful dialogue and cultural exchange? To open up possibilities, Larry put me in touch with his long-term collaborator Felipe Molina, a Yaqui tradition bearer, teacher and translator, from Marana, Arizona. We exchanged emails and, though Felipe was interested in my research, he was too busy with his Easter commitments as a Deer Singer. We agreed to be in touch again later in the year.

During the Easter ceremonies, the Yaqui Deer Danceis held on two occasions, at the Pahko– an all-night Fiesta – and then again on Easter Saturday. Seeking permission to attend these, I contacted Daniel Vega from the Language and Culture Departmentof the Tribal Council at the Pascua Yaqui Reservation. At our meeting, I explained how I was exploring the imitation of deer across cultures in order to better understand their relationship to ecology and, sharing a little about my research so far, I was delighted when he showed a particular interest in hearing about the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance. He explained that the Yaqui tribe perform their various ceremonies as healing rituals, not just for the Yaqui, but for everyone around the world, so, if I went with respect, I was welcome to attend the Easter ceremonies at Old Pascua– the old village in South Tucson. He warned me not to take photos, make sketches or any recordings – this was strictly forbidden – and that I had to keep my cell phone out of sight.

Not quite knowing what to expect, on Friday evenings I began to attend the Lenten ceremonies, participating in the processions of the fourteen Stations of the Cross, following the various church groups who sang and prayed at each of the crosses positioned around the Old Pascua village. Also partaking in the processions was a ceremonial group called the Fariseos, who are said to represent those who persecuted Jesus. Within this group were the Chapayekas– masked figures who symbolise evil. One of the Chapayekas'ritual functions is to deride the procession and distract the church groups by silently mocking them, beating time with swords and daggers, and shaking the deer hoof rattles around their waists and moth cocoon rattles on their ankles. My initial reaction was to laugh at their pantomime-esque performance, but as the sun went down and the procession continued in darkness, they really felt quite sinister. I soon discovered that it is taboo to stare too closely at a Chapayeka.

On Palm Saturday, I attended the Yaqui Pahko. Though I'd read so much about it, nothing could quite prepare me for the experience of this multifaceted, powerful night-time ritual. Approximately two hundred performer-participants, divided into about twelve groups, each with a distinct role and music, carried out ritual processes and costumed dances representing the various overlapping forces of good and evil. There was only one Deer Dancer though; at the Ramada, a structure symbolising Huya Ania (the wilderness world), the Maaso(the deer dancer) emerged as a timid fawn and, dancing alongside the Pahkola(a group of clown-like animal-esque figures), he slowly grew into a virile adult male through the night, before predicting his own death and concluding his dance as an animal spirit.

During a break in the ceremonies, I chatted with someone I'd met in the 'audience' who made a striking observation about how the Maasoalways has his torso tilted forwards, like the enigmatic Palaeolithic ‘sorcerer’ cave painting of the Trois-Frères caves in Southwestern France. I hadn’t made the connection before, though I had stuck an image of the ‘sorcerer’ in my sketchbook. The visual similarity is uncanny – was this how humans become-with-deer?

A similar sequence of Deer Dances took place on Easter Saturday, another complex, multi-layered ceremony, where, in a battle against evil, the powers of the more-than-human world were harnessed. Dancing Matachiniswore flower streamers in their hats, processing Angels waved branch-switches in the air, trickster Pahkolas wore animalesque masks, and, the Maaso (Deer Dancer), in his final dance, charged at the Fariseos, threatening with his antlers. Finally, when evil was defeated, the Fariseoswere ritually ‘killed’ by 'flowers', symbolised by paper confettithrown at them, and a straw ‘Judas’ was burned in a fire, along with all the Chapayekamasks and swords. Bells rang out from the church and celebratory music was played. With so much colour and joy, I felt like I never wanted to brush the confetti out of my hair!

In a closer examination of the Deer Dance itself, the combination of the dancer's movements and costume seems to span a spectrum of mimesis, from iconic deer imitation to something more stylised. The deer's headdress enhanced the sudden sharp-to-still deer-like movements of the head; soon enough, I found myself watching not the dancer's eyes, but the deer's eyes, partially hidden beneath the cloth. The long line and tension of the tilted torso suggested a deer's back, and the white cloth joining the dancer's head and deer head gave the impression of a deer's neck and shoulders. The flexed feet were reminiscent of the animal's hind legs, while the gourd rattles suggested the front legs, the movements of which gave the impression of a deer's speed and agility. The footwork itself – the choreographed steps – seemed less iconic and more stylized. I wondered if I would be able to meet and learn from a dancer some time...

The dance is traditionally accompanied by three musicians who sing and play instruments: the hirukiam,notched rasping sticks resting on half-gourd resonators said to represent the deer’s breath or the scraping of the antlers against the brush, and the ba’ abweha’i, a water drum made from a half gourd floating in a bowl of water, representing the heart-beat of the deer. Sitting on the floor during the dance,I could feel the vibrations of the water drum in my chest, and I imagined that the dancer might be tuning his heart into a deer's heart beating.

The songs accompanying the dance, are sung in Yoem noki(the Yaqui language) and describe the Maaso(the deer) and his encounters with other animals, birds, insects and plants, especially flowers, which hold a spiritual significance. The Yaqui believe that there is a close communication between all the inhabitants of the Sonoran Desert, which they call Huya Ania. This could be translated as 'wilderness world', but it is worth pointing out that the word 'wilderness' here, does not mean a "neglected, uninhabited, or inhospitable region" like it does in the Oxford Dictionary, but a living, connected community. This ecology of the Sonoran Desert appears in the traditional songs, which become like scores, or a script to the dancer who, as the deer, also becomes, for a moment, the badger that is being described, or the hummingbird, or the mountain lion.

Later that Summer, I returned to meet with Felipe and, over a number of meetings, learned more about the dance. We shared our perspectives and he generously answered my sprawling questions, teaching me about aspects of Yaqui culture, including some Yoem nokiwords. Felipe explained how the Deer Dance was a way for people living in the city to connect with Huya Ania (the wilderness world) and Sea Ania (the flower world), and as he described how the songs are lessons for listeners to learn about ecology and Yoeme ancestors, I began to think of the Yaqui Deer Dance as a form of activism.

I was honoured when Felipe invited me to give a talk to his students, a class of young Yoeme adults, who were learning about their culture at the Yaqui tribal chambers on the reservation. I shared a little about my work with vernacular traditions, specifically Scottish Highland culture and language, and about the history of the repression of Scottish Gaelic and the current resurgence of the language. It was good to hear Yoeme perspectives. Though the Yoem Noki language is under threat of dying out, people like Felipe are out there doing the work of preserving and passing on knowledge.

Felipe and I began to make plans to visit a Deer Dancer in Mexico later in the year and, in November, over a number of days, we went back and forth by foot across the Mexico-USA border, to work with Indalecio ‘Carlos’ Moreno Matuz, a young Yaqui Deer Dancerfrom Vicam, Sonora, in the Yoeme homeland. We worked in Carlos’ hotel room, where I interviewed him and learned about the physical and symbolic aspects of the dance through demonstrations and diagrammatic drawings, while Felipe translated from English to Yoem Noki and back again.

Felipe and Carlos explained that the dance had only ever been performed by men because they were the ones who traditionally went hunting. Interestingly,the deer behaviours imitated were less about the bravado and display associated with the rut, and more about alertness and agility as a form of defence. This corresponds with the fact that in Yoem Noki, there is no word for 'buck' or 'stag'; Maasosimply means 'adult male deer', though his other song names are displayed here. The only time the Maasodisplays aggressive behaviours, such as charging or threatening with lowered antlers, is when he is being attacked or provoked by other figures in the ceremonies.

The white-tailed deer – and coues-white-tailed deer – live in areas of the Sonoran Desert – a land that rambles over 320,000 km, across two countries. It is home to about 130 species of mammals, more than 500 kinds of birds, 20 amphibians, 100 or so reptiles, 30 native freshwater fish. There are perhaps as many as 2500 native species of plants and 4000 in total. It is also home to at least 17 Indigenous cultures as well as many others who have adopted it.

The tribal lands of the Yaqui have been irreversibly damaged, initially due to the European invasion and colonisation, and latterly by the rapid growth of capitalism and climate change degrading the ecology. Along the Yaqui River in Mexico, eight tribal villages have no water due to drought and the actions of agricultural corporations and, every year, people battle with wild fires caused by rising heat levels and invasive grasses spread by cattle. Although the culture of the Yaqui Deer Danceis being preserved, the ecology of the wilderness world is seriously under threat.

Wild-deer-ness

Throughout the process of exploring these dances, I considered how a body of work might emerge from my research. By conjuring the antlered male deer, the dances evoke images of wild nature, but I realised there is a disconnect between what is encoded in their movements and the reality of local ecology. I was also acutely aware of the striking relationship between our cultural perceptions of 'wilderness' and ideas of 'masculinity'.

How could I honour these folk traditions and histories, yet simultaneously critique and de-stabilise constructed problematic narratives? How could I address contemporary intersections of ecology, gender and class? How could I touch on the complex relationship between indigenous cultural knowledge and the appropriation of vernacular culture? What did I want to explore and communicate?

I spent time writing, thinking, dreaming and in my note books began to distil my research into words:

From Palaeolithic cave paintings, to Landseer’s Monarch of the Glen, throughout time, artists have made representations of deer. Whether as staples to hunter-gatherers, icons of power and empire, or the focus of sport, deer have long been central to human cultures.

In popular imagination, deer remain etched into people’s consciousness as emblems of the 'wild' – the word wildernessitself, derives from the Old English wilde, wild, and doer, deer – and our relationship to the idea of wild-deer-nesshas shaped the landscape. Transported across continents, some species, such as fallow and sika deer, transformed ecologies with the establishment of royal deer forests and parks – hunting grounds belonging to the Crown. Other species, such as the reindeer of the arctic tundra and white-tailed deerof the Sonora desert, face threats of habitat loss caused by climate breakdown. In Scotland, the overpopulation of red deer due to human made environmental change impacted greatly on the degradation of Caledonian pinewood ecology.

And so, it follows, although they are perceived as powerful, deer also embody vulnerability. Constantly alert to the threat of a hunter or predator – or the ‘ghost’ of an extinct predator – they inhabit vulnerable places. It could be said that deer do not live in wilderness, but in ghosts of places that no longer exist.

Across timescales and cultures, our relationship with deer as a totemic and ideologically powerfulanimal has contributed to a construction of wilderness as an imaginary landscape, setting 'nature' apart from 'culture'. Is it possible to shift our relationship to the world and renegotiate these dichotomies?

The dancers at Star Carr, the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance, the Yaqui Deer Dance and the Highland Fling are separated by geography and time, yet there is a commonality in these seemingly disparate cultures, which find echoes throughout history, fromthe ritualised carrying of stag heads condemned by medieval European church leaders, and Herne the Hunter, the antlered ghost of a royal gamekeeper in English folklore, to the Tibetan stag-headed Chamdance and Shishi-Odorideer dance of Northeast Japan.

Evolving over generations, each dance is mimetic in some way, with movements that imitate male deer behaviour and gesture, from the frolicking of the fawn and the alertness of the adult male, to the bravado, display and aggression of the rutting stag.Costumes also play a significant role, and often, but not always, feature elements of attire made from animal parts. Another common feature is that they are (or were) traditionally performed by men and, with their displays of muscular strength and athletic endurance, they are all thought to have their origins in (or associations with) hunting ritual practices.

As traces of hunting rites, how are these dances to be understood within a contemporarycontext?

How does the mimesis of male deer behaviours inform a 'performance' of masculinity by male dancers? What are the implications of these gendered performances in society today?

Returningto the animal tracks that obsessed me, back in the studio, I finished scoring the three deer dances I had studied, tracking the steps of the dancers, replacing human foot-prints with deer hoof-prints: red deer for the Highland Fling steps, white-tailed deer for the Yaqui Deer Dance steps, and reindeer for the Abbots Bromley Horn Dance steps. Working with Edinburgh Printmakers, I developed these into a series of blind debossed prints.

Becoming-with-deer

Considering different approaches to choreograph from the scores, I decided to draw upon the most mimetic aspects of what I had learnt and adopt fragments of steps to make something entirely new. But who would perform this? Drawing on multiple layers of my research, I began to conceive of a series of characters, each one a constructed assemblage of aspects drawn from a male-deer/male-human spectrum, playfully dissolving human:animal binaries. Making sketches of these figures, I gave each of them names borrowed from archetypal male characters found within traditional theatre, as well as deer and deer stalking terminology: monarch, warrior, young buck, fool and old sage.

To get to know them with my body, I decided to attempt to become each deer-man myself. By queering these figures, I hoped to challenge our constructed ideals of masculinity and question the mythologies that give authenticity to gendered behaviour. Having experienced some of the more negative and toxic behaviours of the heroic-hetero-male in my day to day life – let's call this thecrisis of masculinity– I also wondered if, by becoming these characters, I could release myself from their impact on me as a queer woman, and simultaneously bring to the foreground the impact of these behaviours – the crisis of ecology– on vulnerable and damaged habitats.

My plan became to create a moving image and sound work, performing each character in a choreography-to-camera. I began to collaborate with two performance artists: Peter McMaster and Will Dickie, who both practice at the intersection of live art and dance, and whose past work had, in various ways, explored tropes of masculinity, ritual and ecology. Peter collaborated with me on the film's dramturgy and Will became the movement director, helping to devise the choreography. Together, we discovered and developed the characters.

To begin our process, in October 2018, we spent a few days at Trees for Life, workshopping ideas and watching deer. We also went out deer stalking with Allan. This time I was very sensitive to his movements, almost reading him as a dancer, and was struck by the ways in whichhe took on qualities of the animal of the hunt, harnessing deer-perspective.Like the deer, he was quick to register distant movements and sounds and, on getting close to the animal, to remain hidden, he tilted his torso with bended knees, a pose strikingly similar to the Yaqui Deer Dancer's basic posture and cave painting of Trois-Frères.Will made an interesting observation about how the deer stalk appeared to be carried out in clearly defined ritualised stages. Beginning casually, walking upright and chatting, we slowly grew tighter as a pack, becoming quieter and more focused, tuning in to our surroundings and, as we drew near to the deer, we got close to the ground, not moving or making a sound, our bellies up against the heather. Before taking a shot, Allan spoke about a moment of stillness – a stillness of breath and of thought.

In a similar way, each dance that I had been studying, sat at a different stage in the ritualised drama of the hunt: the Yaqui Deer Dancetraditionally took place before hunting, allowing the hunter to access the perspective of the deer; the Highland Flingwas a dance of triumph, a dance to feel powerful and in control; and the Abbots Bromley Horn Dancewas a celebration after the hunt, to give thanks. With gestures that ranged from iconic imitation to stylized metaphor, these rituals of the hunt were clearly mimetic of the rituals of the deer rut. But how could the dramaturgy of my film address what felt urgent to me: the interconnections between the crisis of masculinity and the crisis of ecology? We slowly began to realise that if Deer Dancer was to function as a ritual space, perhaps the characters would have to stalk each other to the death...

Early the following year, Will, Pete and I worked together to discover the five characters from the inside, developing their movement vocabulary and training exercises and, as we explored the relationship between them, a story emerged. I began to conceive of a two-channel film and sound work that would play with, and attempt to destabilise narratives found both the within anthropology documentary and wildlife/nature documentary. To prepare for the filming process, I created a story board for the two screens, and composed and recorded a multi-layered vocal composition to perform to.

Utilised technology to 'extend my body' and expand my vocal range into 'male' and 'stag' pitches, I worked with my voice to imitate drum sounds. Recalling my experience of the Yaqui water drum, and the Abbots Bromley Horn Dancetriangle, my intention for the sound was to affect the viewer-listener on a body level, sometimes in a way that is unsettling, at other times like a heart-beat of low vibrations in the chest or belly. Alongside the process of developing the characters physicality, and the vocal score, I began to design and make the costumes and props, with invaluable assistance from my partner Lydia Honeybone, using an assemblage of materials, from ribbons and sequins, to bullets and hunting horn. I also worked with naturally cured deer hide, hooves, antler and skull, specifically for the cod pieces, and the weapons, hinting at the relationship between the posturing of male sexual bravado and violence.

We filmed over three days in Glasgow University's theatre against a black curtain. My director of photography Andrew Begg lit the space, and followed the story board shot by shot, filming each character one by one, then, in post-production, with editor Laura Carreira, I then pieced together the jigsaw puzzle.

Introducing the characters...

The Monarch is a mature, dominant male, who holds his head high, displaying his sixteen-tine crown and enlarged neck. Over his hide, he wears gold. His stance is wide and a bulbous codpiece with tassels enhances his majesty. Belling loudly, he asserts his authority, warning off rivals to his harem of hinds. But he's growing old and his limbs are becoming stiff. Soon he'll be past his prime.

The Warrior is highly alert, his senses tuned into his surroundings. He tracks and hunts, defending himself on attack with antlered spears that extend from his shoulders. He's in his physical prime; his chest is hard and strong and over his tartan loins, he wears a sporran and bullet belt. When he hears his rival, he sounds his horn, displaying his power.

Though the Young Buck has reached sexual maturity, he's still a spiker, yet to win his own harem. But he's looking. Dressed in tweed trews and protruding codpiece, he taps the ground, addressing potential rivals. He is lustful, cocksure and trigger-happy, challenging anyone in his close proximity. Breathing heavily, he's on the hunt for a hind, on the hunt for a fight.

The Fool, small in stature, avoids the dominant males as they proclaim their authority during the rut, bawling and displaying his white behind in fear. Wearing ribbons, bells and a modest codpiece, he carries a broom with antlers, a hobby stag that appears to push and pull him into combat. Haunted by ghosts, this skittish staggard is bewildered by his own inner conflict.

The Old Sage is a spirit of the wild hart and ghost of a man. Haunting the wilderness with skull and ragged horns, he relives his life tending the land with hooves and hands. He also relives his death. Only perceived by a few, he sees all.

Deer Dancer

In the resulting work, the costumes, movements and music work together to tell a story, with the visual scores acting as hidden keys to the work. In the 'pop up theatre space' of the gallery, we meet the five characters in an imaginary wilderness world. This wilderness world is not rooted in a particular ecology, but is place-less, black and empty, allowing the viewer-listener to construct and project their own wilderness into the space.

A dynamic emerges between these deer men, and slowly they begin to stalk one another.Then, in a face-off, they lock eyes, take a bow and the deer dancecommences. With movements that signify both the deer rut and a pre-hunt ritual, the characters face one another, performing their ritual dance, with fragments of steps from the three dances. In the visual scores, these steps are delinieated in gold foil on the debossed tracks – interestingly, the word 'foil' also means 'animal track'.

Then, coming to a stop, one by one, the deer-men draw their weapons, and we see each one lying in their death pose, with blood flowing from their body, signified by slow moving red ribbons. As bodies disappear (or decompose), the costumes remain as relics of culture to be performed again. Bit by bit, they too disappear, until then reappear on my body, piece by piece, reconstructing each character in a queer assemblage. And then it begins again...

Stuck in a perpetual loop of learned behaviour and appropriation, these stag-men are ultimately condemned to self-destruct. Humankind has left a footprint so deep that we are only now beginning to grasp the immensity of the calamity. In a small way, I've come to think of Deer Dancer as a contemporary life-crisis ritual for a damaged planet. But when the balance has been set right in ritual, the question becomes how do we really address the damage?

This text was originally written and presented as a talk at Edinburgh Printmakers in September 2019, to accompany Tuulikki’s Deer Dancer exhibition.  

Deer Dancer credits: Performed & directed by Hanna Tuulikki; Character development and choreography by Will Dickie, Peter McMaster and Hanna Tuulikki; Dramaturgy by Peter McMaster; Movement direction by Will Dickie; Sound composed and recorded by Hanna Tuulikki; Sound mixed with Pete Smith; Director of photography by Andrew Begg; Edited by Laura Carreira; Costume fabrication assistance and wardrobe management by Lydia Honeybone; Production management by Amy Porteous; Costumes and print works by Hanna Tuulikki

Developed through conversations and interviews with tradition bearers and academics, Felipe Molina (Yaqui tradition bearer/ translator), Larry Evers (American Indian Studies, The University of Arizona), Jack Brown (Abbots Bromley Horn Dance tradition bearer/ historian), Doug and Joyce Gilbert (Trees for Life); by observing a number of dances and participating in rituals, including the Yaqui Deer Dance (Pascua Yaqui Easter ceremonies, Old Pascua, Tucson, Arizona, March 2018), Abbots Bromley Horn Dance (Abbots Bromley, September 2017/2018); and direct learning with Sandra Robertson (Highland Fling), Indalecio 'Carlos' Moreno Matuz (Yaqui Deer Dance), Gary Faulkenberry (animal tracking, March, July 2018), Allan Common (deer stalking at Trees for Life, Dundreggan, autumn 2017/2018).

Commissioned by Edinburgh Printmakers, funded by Creative Scotland. Research and development supported by Magnetic North's Artist Attachment, funded by Jerwood Foundation and Creative Scotland. Additional support from Hope Scott Trust, The Work Room, University of Arizona Poetry Center, Trees for Life, University of Glasgow, Glasgow School of Art, and CCA: Centre for Contemporary Arts, Glasgow.

[naitiaclo960writings]

Temperature

Destiel Hurt/Comfort

Read it on AO3 to see the full tags

To refuse to fight is the same as giving permission to be used.

It was a sentence Dean had read leafing through a book in the huge library of the Men of Letters bunker. One night, when he was bored, he had grabbed a book at random and spent the night reading about the representations of the body and its uses throughout the centuries. To refuse to fight is the same as giving permission to be used.

A drop of icy water slipped down the back of his neck, sending a painful shiver down his spine.

He had learned during his nights of insomnia that when someone allows others to hurt them, they tend to enjoy it. Tell someone that they can use you as they see fit, and it won’t take you more than a few hours to start getting into it. It’s funny how the illusion of omnipotence pushes people to do things that they would have usually refused to even try.

The toes on his right foot started to tingle, so he shifted his weight to his left. His whole body hurt, suspended in the air as he was, with only the tips of his feet grazing the ground. It had been a few hours since he lost the feeling in his arms, numbed by the uncomfortable position. He shook himself and tried to focus…

According to one research worker, the feeling of consent is a key step in the process of suffering. If the person who is the victim of violence decides to engage completely in the pain and its consequences, then a “violation of his integrity” no longer applies, but simply of tacit understanding between the donor and the receiver.

Dean had not consented to this.

Despite his effort to distract himself by channeling his inner Sam, the cramp that caught him in the top of his calf got the better of him. Dean let out a hiss of pain while trying to relieve the sore muscle as best he could. The chains above him rattled as he swayed pathetically in the damp room. His heel briefly met the concrete column a few inches behind him, but besides kicking himself forward again like the world’s least fun swing there wasn’t much to gain there. He finally gave up, as always, and let his toes grate against the cement below him, waiting for the cramp to pass.

How long had he been here? He’d stopped counting. The days bled into each other, an unending monotony of pain. A week? Maybe three? What if it had been months? In some ways, he felt like he’d always been here. He forced his eyes open, feeling more than hearing the slight crack as whatever gunk had crusted on his lashes became unstuck, he didn’t always open his eyes, it made no real difference. In here it was dark, always. Only a small neon light sizzled in one corner of the room provided enough light to make out his own dangling legs. Sometimes the neon would trip and he would go blind for a few seconds before that migrane-inducing buzz would start again and his feet would reappear.

He was sick of this room, of how unchanging it was; he closed his eyelids again and made himself think. He had to think, he had to focus. Above all, he had to stay calm. A reassuring face appeared to his mind’s eye. A square and masculine face, framed by a beard of a few days and topped with an unruly mop of black hair, all on top of a coat too wide for him. The dimple in the hollow of the man’s cheek jerked Dean’s lip up, too weak to smile, and the mischievous gleam in those blue eyes was enough to calm his abused body slightly.

When are you coming?

This question played on a loop in a corner of his mind and the longer it went without an answer, the more it fed into his fears; if he came, he’d be in danger. If he came, it might be too late. And worst of all: why would he come in the first place?

“Cas…” he whispered weakly, shifting his balance again.

A few minutes later, snatches of conversation sound in the corridor behind the door he could only just make out. The muffled voices exchanged a conversation he couldn’t follow before disappearing completely. One set of footsteps retreated and the silence that followed was the most cruel. Dean blinked and chewed on his tongue, watching for the slightest sign of movement in the shadows under the door, his heart pounding in his throat. When he was almost sure that he must have been mistaken, both parties must have left him alone, the familiar creak of the hinges echoed through the room.

If he still had the strength, Dean would have surely flinched or felt nauseous, but to be honest, he was just too damn tired to be surprised. When, exactly, had this door not opened when he begged it to remain closed?

“Hello, beautiful.”

Dean could not repress a thrill of disgust at the sound of the sickly, nasal voice that haunted whatever snatches of sleep he managed in this place. His muscles contracted on instinct before he remembered that it was useless to move and he slumped a little more, his arms regaining their feeling just enough to shoot lightning along his nerves as he begged the ground to engulf him.

“It’s been a long time since I came to see you.”

Long time? Perhaps. He didn’t know anymore.

“I’ll end up being a bad instructor if I’m not more regular in your training.“ 

Dean heard the smirk in his voice, as though that was supposed to be a joke.

The footsteps approached slowly, slamming into the silence of his cell, invading the air and seeming to pound directly inside Dean’s head. He didn’t succeed in suppressing the nervous jolt that jerked his hand and the sound of his chains magnified the smile on Alastair’s face.

“You look so good when you’re scared, Dean; of all my students, only you have managed to keep that raw terror in the back of your eyes. It’s fascinating how eagerly you give yourself over to fear.” 

Dean’s breathing quickened without him realising it and he forced himself to lift his head and gauge the distance that separated him from the demon. He began by distinguishing his shoes: perfectly polished, planted several feet away, then the bottom of his ordinary looking black pants. His eyes swept up long legs and a thin but powerful body before stopping at his bearded chin. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Alastair’s eyes, too frightened by those cold grey irises, so much more terrifying than their demon black. He also didn’t want to give Alastair any excuse to begin the festivities early.

A hand grabbed him roughly under the chin and forced him to raise his head, but Dean kept his eyes on the beard. Alastair considered him a moment, and Dean felt like an animal sent to the slaughterhouse.

“Doggy is tired, hmm? It’s very rude not to answer when someone is talking to you, Dean.“ 

A shudder threatened to overwhelm Dean at the sound of his name in the mouth of this monster.

“We’ll try to train you a little bit, do you agree?” Alastair added with sharp grin.

Dean wanted to scream, but there was no one to hear it that would care. No, he didn’t agree, he didn’t want to be here! He didn’t deserve to be here. 

When are you coming? 

He didn’t know if he could endure one more torture session in the company of this man, demon, whatever. The mere sound of his voice paralysed him, the words remained stuck in his throat whereas, before, he would have come out with some kind of witty retort. He was scared. So scared that Alastair would touch him again, use his body as a vulgar tool. He just didn’t have the strength to fight anymore. 

When are you coming to get me?

Alastair reached out to lift the handcuffs from Dean’s hanging hook before releasing him. He collapsed heavily against the concrete column, his legs giving out immediately. He still couldn’t move, though whether it was through physical weakness or fear he couldn’t tell. Alastair crouched to his level, his face still split with a repulsive smile, his eyes bulging with madness as he stared at his favourite toy.

When he finally pushed a hand towards him, Dean’s heart missed a beat and an ultimate thought crossed his mind. A small voice begged him in the back of his head: don’t fight it. Give him permission to do that to you, don’t worry. If he let himself go, maybe fundamentally he’d suffer less. Maybe that old book was right after all, maybe the solution was right here: if he let Alastair have fun with his body, then it will no longer be a victim and torturer situation. Dean would consent, he would be a participant. Alastair would not be able to reach him if there was nothing more to steal.

Dean sighed feverishly and clenched his jaw, staring at a point off to his left. He was desperate, exhausted, he’d been here for he didn’t even know how long and he was just done. If this was his life now, if there was something that could give him even a few extra seconds of rest, then what did it matter if he gave in? What else did he have to lose that Alastair had not taken from him anyway? The macabre inventiveness of this monster had already broken him. Didn’t Alastair tell him once that he liked seeing him fighting and crying? That he liked to hear him scream? So this time, he would be quiet and obedient. Alastair would get tired, his ordeal would end, and maybe, if he got lucky, Alastair would kill him nice and quick.

What other options did he have? He couldn’t move.

Consequently, Dean didn’t bat an eyelid when Alastair’s knuckles came into violent contact with the side of his head. He saw a frown pinch his torturer’s face when he still hadn’t reacted by the third blow, but his vision became unreliable quite quickly after that, trying to to take refuge in a safe place in the back of his mind. Dean didn’t get up either when Alastair threw him backwards, his skull striking against the cement. He felt blood run from the opening on the top of his head, sticking to his hair and mingling with the dried blood of previous sessions. He didn’t utter the slightest cry.

Listless and trembling on the ground, Dean perceived in the distance a metallic noise followed by the rustle of fabric. He realized that Alastair had removed his belt when the buckle of it fell down wildly on his back, forcing him to arch, dumb. A flash of pain passed through him, a snag in his breath, but his mouth remained resolutely closed. After many minutes, Dean began to wonder if he’d made the right choice; the less he reacted, the more furious Alastair’s blows became as he tried to pull out even the slightest sound from him.

He’s going to get bored, everything’s gonna be okay, he’s going to get bored, Dean repeated to himself, gritting his teeth a little bit more to hold back his tears of pain.

“Alright…” Alastair growled bitterly after what might have been a few minutes or several hours, angrily throwing his belt against the concrete column, jangling the metal end. “Keep going, Dean, that’s fine,” He said, the furious tone of his voice betraying his anger in front of Dean’s amorphous behaviour.

The touch of Alastair’s cold hand against the top of his hip made him jump, his tee-shirt bunched up as Alastair’s long fingers crept beneath it; he narrowly held back a whimper as the man above him slowly dug his nails into the skin of his back.

“Stay still.” Alastair ordered coldly.

Dean ended up closing his eyes, uncontrolled tears finally rolling from the corner of his eyelids. No, no, no. He was supposed to get tired, why was he pushing further? Maybe he just had to hold out a little longer, just a few more minutes? If he could do that, he would win, Alastair would lose interest in him. He bit his tongue until his mouth was flooded with coppery tang and his whole body seemed to lock up. Blood pounded in his ears, giving him the impression of having his head plunged underwater. He couldn’t hold back the violent tremor that ran through his body as more cold fingertips made their way across his skin. Did I make the right choice?

* * *

He awoke to a new sound, something reassuring, and a pleasant smell that was oddly familiar. His head seemed so heavy, numb with the vibrations of the ground beneath him. He wasn’t cold anymore, he was even comfortable; it didn’t feel like concrete. He tried to open his eyes but quickly changed his mind when the sliver of light he let in made nausea curl unpleasantly in his stomach.

Memories poured into him and had the effect of a cold shower. The blood sticking to his clothes, the concrete column, the neon; the constant buzzing was gone, the light must have tripped out again, but no, that wasn’t right… it had been light when he looked. Instantly, he tensed. In his movement, he recognised the texture of a warm blanket over him, but that didn’t help when his memory told him that he should be cold. The creaking door, the pristine shoes, the fear. Dean let out a breath, jerky with anxiety. Where was he now? He still couldn’t convince himself to open his eyes. The concrete, the belt… the book.

His back stabbed at him horribly, but that was nothing compared to the rest of him, his feet felt like they’d been skinned, his arms burned from the strain of holding his entire weight for days at a time, his neck ached and his head throbbed where it had collided with concrete more times than he’d bothered to keep track of. The fact that he was assessing himself now was twisting his brain, but he was somewhere else now, something had changed. 

In a reflex of self-protection that he thought had been beaten, stabbed and shot from him long ago, he tried to become as small as possible on this moving ground, curling his knees up against his chest. His breathing became more agitated, everything seemed suddenly too loud, and despite his eyes being firmly shut, he saw images flashing behind his eyelids. He curled into himself tighter, wrapping his arms around himself, squeezing his eyes shut even harder. He was so, so cold.

In his state of nascent panic, he didn’t immediately perceive the movement behind his back. His breathing seemed to resound in his own ears and the vibrations he found pleasant before were now something frightening and too much. A slight pressure against his ribs, however, made him hold his breath. He had imagined it, he must have. He was alone, alone in another dark and unknown place.

But the friction resumed gently, small circular motions against his ribs. In half a second, the urge to vomit seized him again and he uttered a strangled exclamation. A hand was on his side, someone was behind him, someone was touching him. Automatically, Dean raised his hands over his head. No, please no, please no. The litany took hold of his brain and he felt like his heart was going to explode. MOVE, he screamed inside his own head. MOVE. Don’t let him start again. MOVE!

The hand on his ribs stopped, as if suddenly uncertain, then it continued its ministrations. It never went lower, never higher, it just stroked the fabric of his shirt as if it was trying to warm him. The hand itself seemed warm, reassuring, and after another round of movement, Dean understood that there was something unusual in this whole situation. He didn’t know where he was or with whom, or even why the constant pain he had felt for weeks seemed less present. What if it was a new means of torture that Alastair had found? If all this was doomed to stop abruptly, reacquaint him to what comfort was just to break him a little more?

He didn’t want to, he couldn’t anymore. Alastair was supposed to lose interest in all this, Dean was supposed to get some respite. Apparently, that damn book was wrong. Giving Alastair permission to use him did nothing but contribute to his suffering. In a sudden rush of horror, Dean’s eyes snapped open and he found the strength to push on his crooked arms in order to throw himself out of the reach of the relentless hand. In actual fact, he only managed to move few inches further up what appeared to him now as an extra mattress, but it was something; he had to show Alastair that he was still alive, that he still had free will, that he belonged to himself. Alastair didn’t own him, although by now he was probably certain that he did and Dean didn’t really know what to do to try to fix his mistake.

The hand didn’t return immediately, but Dean perceived a quickening breath. He didn’t look, didn’t raise his head, he just stared at the stained cotton of the mattress below him. I have to get out of here. Swallowing a groan of pain when the wounds on his back flared, he pushed on his trembling arms in the hope of straightening up in a sitting position. 

Move away, it was absolutely necessary that he move away, put a distance between him and the thing behind him, examine the environment in which he was, focus. Right now, Dean was operating on pure survival instinct.

Even before he could lift himself completely off the ground, a pair of strong arms came to grip him from behind and forced him back down. Dean let loose a hoarse scream and kicked out, ignoring as best as he could the burning bolt that ran through his sore body. He fought like a wildcat, trying as much to escape Alastair’s grip as to hit him with all his strength. The man behind him was now calling his name, but he could barely hear it over the frantic pounding of his own heart. His opponent was stronger, though Dean had the horrible feeling that maybe if he wasn’t so weak and beat to hell, he might have won. He began to choke; in panic, he almost forgot to bring air into his lungs.

The man called his name again with a supplicating voice before grabbing his shoulders and turning him sharply around. The air left Dean’s body completely when he thought of those iron-grey eyes, chips of dirty ice in an evil face. He was convinced that seeing Alastair so close to him would be the end of him. 

But after an unexpected flash of beautiful blue, his heart fell to the bottom of his chest. Dean planted his nails in the forearms of the man but stopped struggling, as if he didn’t know if his gesture was intended to hurt the other or to hold him back. Castiel let out a deep breath at Dean’s sudden change of behaviour.

“It’s me…” he hushed in the now silence, his voice cracking slightly at the end.

Castiel was looking at him with pained eyes, clutching Dean’s shoulders with all his human strength. He was short-winded because of the struggle, and the dark circles that drooped under his eyes made him look like a living dead man; that and his pale skin, his few days worth of beard and his trembling shoulders. Dean reduced the pressure of his nails in Cas’s skin.

As he was still saying nothing, his breathing still irregular, Castiel began to restart a slight movement of friction on his shoulders. His hands were warm.

“It’s me, Dean.” He repeated in the same soft tone.

Dean gasped in air.

“I… you are…” Castiel bit the inside of his cheek briefly. “We came to get you, Sam is driving and I… I wanted to be here when you woke up.”

Sam’s driving… As he glanced over Cas’s shoulder, Dean finally recognized the walls of a truck shaken by the irregularity of the road. They were in the back of the vehicle, plunged in the dim light with the mattress held to the floor of the van  only by their weight and a woollen blanket thrown haphazardly lying where he had thrown it.

We came to get you.

“Dean?” Called the once-angel, seeing the devastated expression of his companion. “You have nothing to fear, you know that, right?”

And those simple words unlocked something in Dean. Suddenly, his breathing resumed and he took the biggest breath of his life, like coming up from a deep dive. His muscles relaxed and if Castiel hadn’t been there to hold him, he would have fallen back with all his weight against the mattress. Without thinking further, he tilted forward and buried his face in his friend’s neck, taking a deep breath, tasting the smell of Castiel like he’s starving, which he probably is, but that thought was far away right now.

When he nuzzled deeper into Cas’s shirt, tasting the salt of his own tears, Cas seemed to come out of his torpor and hugged Dean back, whispering reassuring words to try to calm him. 

It’s over. Everything is fine. I’m here now, Dean. He’ll never hurt you again, I promise you. We’re going back home. You are so strong.

They remained that way for several long minutes, his violent sobs gradually subsiding under Castiel’s touch. Strangely, he no longer felt the need to pull away at the slightest touch, in fact, it was the only thing he was certain that he wanted. Dean stammered nonsensical apologies that Castiel patiently dismissed with a reassuring “hush”, one by one.

“I thought you wouldn’t come.” Dean croaked out, the final thought that had haunted him for so long.

Castiel tightened his grip.

“I… we spent three atrocious weeks trying to find a track you down. Oh Dean, I’m sorry…”

Dean shook his head against the angel’s neck and exhaled with relief. The panic had finally stopped imprisoning his throat in a vise and breathing seemed easier. The room became silent again, punctuated only by the vibrations of the vehicle.

“I should have come earlier,” muttered Castiel, his breath dampening Dean’s neck.

“It’s alright Ca-”

“No!”

Dean closed his mouth and pulled away slightly, uncertain. Castiel seemed angry now.

“Sorry,” he said, dropping a trembling kiss on Dean’s skin.

“Everything’s fine,” repeated Dean, unsure how to approach things.

“I would have given everything to spare you that, you know that, don’t you?”

A rush of anxiety mounted in Dean when Cas pronounced the word “that”. Did Castiel know what had happened? In what state was he when he and Sam found him in his cell? He fervently hoped that it was a coincidence and that Cas was only talking about the wounds he could see. Dean finally moved away from Castiel and met his bright, sincere eyes.

“I love you.” Castiel murmured, so full of feeling that it seemed to tremble.

Dean nodded. He gently nudged his lips against Cas’s and kissed him tenderly. He tried to convey everything he had into that kiss, all his emotions, his fears, his confidence, his love and his questions. When they separated for lack of air, there was barely an inch between them.

“I know.” Dean finally answered, his voice low.

Everything is fine, repeated a voice in his head. Now all is fine. He can’t reach you anymore, everything is fine. 

Castiel’s next kiss dragged out his first smile in weeks.

“Me too.”

He was finally warm.

Hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to reblog or to leave a comment, it would means the world to me! And special thanks to @tibbinswrites who did an incredible correction on it, love you

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