#but to say the least my interest has been restored

[mamoushiou28]

THE CAPTIONS IN TMF EP. 11 I'M DYINGGG

But anyways I've been part of this fandom since the very beginning (I was a fan of Rosy from the BWBL/GWGL series) and watching the show grow vizual-wise and story-wise was so great! I can't thank Rosy enough for 3 amazing years of TMF! <3

Also SEASON 2 CONFIRMED ASDJDXJXCJSK

[burnsopale]

Childermass & Segundus - it sounds very well

So one day the York Society of Magicians receives a new member, and Childermass is like okay, no big deal, those guys never do anything interesting anyway.

But then, right, then the new guy and one of the old guys writes to Mr Norrell and asks if they may have the pleasure of waiting on him sometime, and Mr Norrell is like "No" but Childermass is like "Actually yes" because he's intrigued, or because the cards have told him something is about to happen, or because Mr Norrell is years overdue to go to London and revive English magic and Childermass figures this might jostle him into doing something. We don't know what exactly happened, but it seems likely that it was Childermass who made the visit possible, because the idea of Mr Norrell ever wanting visitors is impossible to accept.

So these two theoretical magicians come to Hurtfew Abbey, and Childermass is in the library waiting for the visit to end and Norrell to show up and tell him what the men wanted, but instead, when the door opens, there they are, the visitors, having been invited to see the library and what the fuck did they say to old Gilbert to make that happen?? Not that it matters, they're not gonna remember anything by the time they get home, the enchantments will see to that.

Mr Norrell introduces Childermass, and the new guy gives him a look like Childermass facinates him, but Childermass is used to that. He figures he'll just hang out until they leave.

Except the new guy, who is a dark, timid-looking little man named John Segundus, keeps looking around like he can sense the spells lighting the room, keeps looking out the window like he's not happy with the orientation of the walls, keeps blinking like the magic is making him a little dizzy. John Segundus is clearly magic sensitive. No one in the York Society is magic sensitive, Childermass knows that for a fact. This is suddenly intriguing.

So Childermass ends up keeping half an eye on Mr Segundus as he explores, until Mr Segundus notices, sensitive as he is, and their eyes meet. Childermass reads longing, need, delight and confusion on the man's face, but Childermass is without pity; by the time Mr Segundus gets home, he won't remember what he's seen. It doesn't matter; no one in the York Society ever did anything interesting anyway.

But then later, the letter from Dr Foxcastle comes, and Mr Norrell is Upset and Offended, and Childermass realises that the Revival is about to start at last. And because Mr Norrell is fearful and Childermass is pitiless, they send a lawyer with their demands.

Mr Robinson the lawyer returns to Hurtfew a little perplexed. Oh yes, they all signed, just like you said they would, every one of them ... except ... except one. Childermass is a little surprised to discover that the timid little man had a spine after all. Mr Norrell wants Mr Robinson to go back and demand the last signature, but Childermass says "Wait". And at this point, we do not know what he is thinking. Perhaps he simply thinks that they will need someone to write to London once the miracle has been done, and Mr Segundus is more likely to be amiable if he has not just been deprived of his calling. But then, Mr Honeyfoot, the other visitor, would definitely be happy to write, even though he WILL be deprived of that same calling. Perhaps, Childermass thinks that this is a strangely fateful twist, that the one member of the York Society who has an actual talent for magic is the one person who refused to give it up. Maybe he remembers a time when he himself was full of longing for magic, when he could sense it all around him but was unable to grasp it, when he too would get dizzy in Mr Norrell's library. He may not feel pity, but he can be intrigued. He convinces Mr Norrell to let Mr Segundus be.

Childermass laughs inside when John Segundus doesn't recognise him outside the cathedral, but then startles when the man almost recalls after all. He is not supposed to be able to break the enchantment. Thankfully, the moment passes, and after the magic is done, Mr Segundus turns out to be exactly as easy to manipulate as Childermass thought he would be. The polite ones are easy, especially when they are full of need and longing, and keep looking at Childermass like he has the answers they are searching for. Maybe Childermass uses a little bit of magic to persuade the man to write to London, or maybe he just smiles, and waits, and lets John Segundus come to him of his own accord.

Childermass returns to Hurtfew Abbey and says to his master "Go to London. Go now." and because Childermass knows about these things, they go.

And nine years pass in London.

But occasionally during those nine years, Childermass turns his attention to York, to see what timid little John Segundus is up to. Mostly it's not much.

Until Jonathan Strange happens. That he happens at all is rather extraordinary, but how interesting that he should come to seek Mr Norrell on the advice of John Segundus? For sure there are many people with an affinity for magic in England, but how many of them are magicians? Too few, thinks Childermass. How likely is it that two of them should meet at random? He wonders if this is another fated twist.

So he continues to keep half an eye on York, just in case Mr Segundus should discover how to actually grasp the magic that surrounds him. But when Strange returns from the war in Spain, his conversation tells Childermass that even with the learning, even with actual spells to hand, their timid little man in York cannot make the magic work.

John Segundus begins taking on pupils. Childermass keeps it from Mr Norrell. Childermass has been the instrument of many a theoretical magician's destruction, Childermass reads the hearts of men and feels no pity for them, and yet Childermass keeps John Segundus hidden from Mr Norrell. Maybe, just maybe, John Childermass is beginning to feel a little bit of pity after all. He was once the one longing to master the powers that often overpowered him. He too loves magic so much, enough to endure servitude and secrecy to be near it.

But then John Segundus wants to start a school. Well, if he is going to be that silly, then Childermass cannot help him. Mr Norrell finds out, Mr Norrell panics, and he dispatches Childermass to York to put a stop to this evil plan. Business as usual in other words.

Childermass sits quite comfortably on the steps of Starecross when John Segundus comes home. Childermass delivers his message.

"You know me, Sir," he says, completely forgetting that while he has always had half an eye on John Segundus, John Segundus has not seen Childermass for nine years. Maybe, just maybe, Childermass is a little embarrassed at his mistake. But the errand is completed, and Mr Segundus is easy to manipulate, because he is so very gentle and polite.

Childermass may or may not have noticed that he has been manipulated in turn, because he, who has no pity for any man, lets Mr Segundus know that he regrets that the school cannot be, and he is willing to do what he can to keep Mr Segundus' dream from failing entirely. Although of course, he knows that a regular school is not at all the same as a school of magic.

Childermass knows what it's like to long, but he has found, if not the answers to his questions, then at least the tools by which to hunt them down. He can do the magic.

Then Mr Strange and Mr Norrell quarrel.

And then Lady Pole tries to shoot Mr Norrel. The lady walks with one foot in Faerie and one in London, and for a while, so does Childermass. Something is not right with the lady, but Mr Norrell won't tell him what magic he employed to bring her back from the dead. She'll be sent away somewhere where Childermass will have no chance to discover the truth. Unless of course he decides where she goes. Perhaps for instance to one whom Childermass knows will feel the Faerie winds blowing about the lady, someone who will be able to carry on the search for the truth, whether he knows that he's doing Childermass' work or not. Mr Segundus is easy to manipulate.

Childermass recommends to Sir Walter that he send his wife to Starecross in Yorkshire. How fortuitous that the master of that hall has just decided to open a madhouse there. Surely the visions that gave him the idea were entirely coincidental.

Mr Norrell and Childermass quarrel.

Jonathan Strange Returns magic to England. The Raven King returns to England and rewrites his book.

Mr Norrell and Mr Strange disappear into Faerie.

Suddenly, Childermass is the most experienced magician in England. No one has read as much, has practiced as much, or knows the spells he knows.

But he thinks that there is one man who will not be far behind him in achieving similar results. And maybe Childermass wonders sometimes if it was not all meant to be this way, that it was fate, that he himself was meant to come out on the other side as a student of the two great modern magicians of the age, and that he was meant to bring with him, sheltered under his wing, a dark, timid little man with an extraordinary sensitivity to magic. The books may be gone, but through his instruments, the Raven King has made sure that the new generation of magicians are both capable of and eager to read the magic written on the sky. It will take sensitive men, full of longing, and isn't it fortuitous then, that all those years ago, in the library at Hurtfew Abbey, Childermass recognised another like himself in John Segundus, and decided to keep half an eye on him.

[bandtrees]

this has always been one of my favorite lines in this scene it’s so striking to me. i think debating over callum’s level of lucidity and what can or cannot “fix” him is deeply antithecal to what the story is trying to express with him - but the idea that callum is still there and still a person who does have the capacity to love mingus, just not in a way she can ever comprehend or accept, because she can't comprehend or accept anything outside her narrow worldview, is sooooo good.

there is no way of actually knowing if callum is proud of mingus, much less recognizes her at all - but it's added to by the fact there's only so much of that she would accept even if he could. ultimately, she wants validation and power, his prestige, from him, she wants a supportive parental figure she never had - there's only so much of that callum is able to provide even in a world where her stint to fix his memory actually worked. he's like a hundred. he never even MET her. to say nothing of all he's missed in the past fifty-odd years. to say nothing of how his age may have messed with his mind deteriorating even without the pre-existing brain damage.

and mingus' phrasing here implies he doesn't even look at her when she visits - which brings me to the visit that radicalized her: the one after her surgery, where he was watching gingi out the window.

obviously, callum watching gingi is mostly for the thematics of it all, how similar the two of them are in ways mingus refuses to recognize, but theres also the thought of... callum's been sitting alone in that room for over half his life, barely lucid if at all. of course he's going to be drawn to a brightly-colored thing making noises and knocking stuff over outside. if he can't respond to stimuli of the people around him he's at the very least going to latch onto something more visually interesting than Brown Wall and Brown Figure.

but it's not like mingus can think of it like that, because she's internalized so much about her grandfather and built up such a specific, personalized vision of him - she doesn't see him as an elderly man with (a fictional equivalent to) dementia, she sees him as President Callum Crown™, the man she personally has to please and live up to the legacy of and make proud, disregarding the fact that's not something he has the mental capacity to even do - because she's so obsessed with validation and complete control that the only way she can get it is by either subjugating others and forcing it out of them (what she does with her townsfolk), or just completely projecting on someone who, for her purposes, is basically a blank slate.

which is maddening to her in its own way, see how crazy she drives herself trying to restore callum's memory in the first place - but also, would she be happy even if callum could see her for who she is? post-game, when she's working on herself, that's an irrelevant question as she's pushed past that need, but as we know her? absolutely not.

i love the ch3 standoff between norm and mingus as a show of "Okay guys let’s see who can dehumanize this disabled guy harder (via pedestal-putting) and justify themselves for it better" and why i think it is so important that it’s gingi who reads the postcard and ultimately speaks for callum instead of either of them, or even the narrator. they can’t read, and they struggle to, but they manage to get it right even when people are telling them to stop. and the fact they’re able to do it at all, are given the chance to do so, and are ultimately the one to wind down this conflict shows that the world of dialtown, while not perfect, really is how callum would have wanted it.

both gingi and callum are some of the most altruistic and human characters ever, and the crux of their parallels is that they are denied this by close-minded people because they happen to Behave Strangely. it's why seeing mingus act the way she does hits so hard - she loves her paw-paw, yes, but if she were to see him in a vacuum, a one-limbed man who can hardly think, much less speak for himself: or even his younger self, who was struggling to make ends meet with his odd inventions...

...well, the feeling norm's imagining here would probably be mutual. mingus' relationship with bigotry is a very fascinating one, she's very close-minded but views certain oddities (ie her flesh-head) as having earned their place and thus being fine - she's a freak too, by her own admission, but she's doing it for a just and wider purpose, so it's fine. which is, ironically, the ideology callum forced upon himself.

callum was obsessed with helping people, pushing himself to do more and more, because it was the only way he ever found respect. if he didn't help people and have grand visions for the world and make himself "useful" to society at large, then what would he be, if not a freak?

mingus and her paw-paw are very similar people, from their well-intentioned extremism, to their stubbornness and paranoia, to their inability to view themselves as anything more than a vessel for that grand cause they believe in (callum in the dialup, mingus in restoring her paw-paw's memory) - which is funny, because if mingus was able to view callum, and herself, as a flawed human person, she would come to understand how similar they really are.

:(

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Rsa vs Nrc

Riddle vs Alex ( twst Alice Leddle )

Crewel daughter and Riddle are together in town and talking about something they both can relate, as in art and history and Crewel stay closed to Riddle

Malleus + Disomia vs Price Phillips ( twst of that price from sleeping beauty)

Crewel daughter invited Malleus and his friends/bodyguards as she needs help as she have a client of a foreign land to asked to restore agroot ( decorative gargoyle) and needed his help on stone materials that are uncommonly used and she feels very uncomfortable around the human prince for obvious reasons

Idia vs Heracles ( twst of Heracles)

Crewel daughter and Idia are getting some new video games to play together ( legs say Crewle daughter is a secretly a gamer and otaku because y not? ) And she is off putting with Idia cousin and prefer to hangout with the recluse as he's more interesting to be around

RSA vs NRC w/ Crewel Daughter | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

Riddle Rosehearts vs Alix Lidwelle

“As the rules state: on the designated day we shall be in attendance of the latest additions of Art in all of Twisted Wonderland.”

“And as the rules state: on the designated day we will devote are time to one another and our enjoyment to Art!” 

This is the closest Riddle equates to being a fan of anything

Its one thing to have a textbook based knowledge on images

Than to be with (Y/n) Crewel as she tilts her head at world renowned paintings

“Based.”

“Based? Why?”

“I don’t like the vibe I’m getting.”

There was nothing he loved more than looking at art with you

So much so that he even made it a rule that you two travel to different art museums together

If anything this was his day

That is until he sealed the deal…but until then this a thing

Our thing 

Now its almost ruined when the blonde comes skipping in you two’s direction

“What’ya guys doing?”

He can explain or rather you can since the student isn’t even looking at him to answer

“We are carrying out a tradition that we have done for years.”

“Tradition? That sounds..kindof boring? But you can join me for some tea if you want a break at least.”

“Tea but it isn’t even ti-”

“Come on (Y/n)!! Besides why would you want to follow the rules on a lovely day like this?”

HOW DARE HE!?

If his respect for the arts and your non reaction he would have lit the blonde on fire

Better yet behead that arrogant, stupid, idiotic–

“No. I enjoy traditions and its a shame you don’t seem to respect that.”

“W-what?!”

“Come on Riddle we have seven hours left on our ticket. Let’s not waste anymore time.”

“I agree.”

Riddle delights in the red that over takes Alix’s cheeks

And the stomping feet as he prepares to throw a tantrum

The prefect sticks a tongue out from behind your back

Smirking as he offers his arm

“Shall we commence on our adventure on the designated day?”

“As the rules state it, we shall.”

Malleus Draconia vs Prince Paul w/ Restoration Crewel Daughter Reader

You are quieter soul 

Opting to work in the silence as you restore and refurbish antiques

That’s probably why you get nervous about accepting a job at the Royal Sword Academy

So you bring support 

And who better than the one fae who enjoys gargoyles and you+

So you’ll invite him with you and he’s glowing with happiness

An invitation!

From his beloved no less 

You selfishly are quite grateful that he’s a people deterrent

Able to work on your work in peace 

That is until Paul comes

“The sound of such lovely sounds!”

“W-what?”

“Ah, and a beauty is the maker! You’ve entranced me with your sounds–”

“Sir, I don’t really–”

“But alas I have yet to introduce myself! Woe is me! The me being Paul Phillip, it has been to long since I–”

“Oh and your just going to keep talking, great.”

But leave it to your resident guard dragon to swoop in and save you

“Ah the Prince of Briar Valley what a surprise to see you here!”

“My mate…friend is uncomfortable with your presence.”

“But she hasn’t-”

“Go now.”

Be sure to convince him not to go full dragon on him

Smile and thank him 

And he’s happy 

Gargoyles, (Y/n), crushing his rivals, and courting (Y/n)

Its all the great and good times

Now you know you can trust him to protect you

Lilia says that will be enough to proves you

Aww and he was looking forward to deliver a blooody head

Idia Shroud vs Huckman  

You’re no gamer 

But your naturally skilled at everything you touch 

A perfect accessory to Idia’s high-level for multikills 

“You have three hours to beat the level, Idia don’t waste it shuddering in the corner.”

“Y-Y-YES MISTRESS!”

Once he gets in his groove your plowing through 

And since your actually lasor focused on the game

You don’t notice the way he focuses on your features

Just inches away the lips he’d dreamed of being graced with touch at the very least was so close

If he could just pretend to–

SLAM

“Whoops sorry cousin about your door.”

“Noooooooooooooo!!!!!!”

“Quiet! I’m nearly there!”

He’ll play possum as his cousin insistently shakes him

“Hey i know your not actually dead. Idia? Idia?”

Its you that intervenes making his heart go: Doki doki!

“Retriever boy leave for now I’ll deal with you later. I need him in peak condition for the next hour I’ve granted him.”

He snaps to your side immediately

Keeping his eyes glued to the screen as his cousin let’s himself out

"T-thanks!"

Now which tech-terror will he send to make sure ‘later’ never happens

[writingjourney]

Unprecedented | Secondo x gn!Reader

Or: The four times you almost get Secondo to admit his feelings for you and the one time you succeed.

Summary: Working with Secondo is only half as bad as people make it seem – at least until you fall in love with each other.

Content: 12.7k words, gn!reader, pining, sexual tension/suggestive language, food mention, blood/minor injury, forced proximity, soft secondo, terzo being a menace, smut-ish in part four but definite smut in part five (thigh riding, unprotected sex, penetration, dom/sub dynamics), 18+ MDNI

thank you for being patient with me, this is my first time writing Secondo, so pls go easy on me ♡

Masterlist – Ao3 link

1 Voluntary Abstinence

The air gets colder by a few degrees as you take the last few narrow steps down the winding staircase into the basement. Burnt-down candles are illuminating the hallway from small alcoves, wax dripping down the weathered stone, their light flickering off the dark brick walls. Amongst these dancing shadows you make your way to the door at the other end of the hall. It’s made of iron, heavy and airtight, the rooms beyond kept on very specific temperature and humidity levels to preserve the precious items they’re protecting.

You push it open and find yourself in a small antechamber that leads into three different rooms – a tiny office, the restoration workshop and a small storage room. Entering this area always feels like stepping foot inside a secret laboratory, though it looks far less sterile with all the shelves of old tomes, paintings and other cursed as well as non-cursed artefacts.

“Papa?” you whisper upon closing the door.

“Office,” a steady voice calls back.

You find Papa Emeritus II bent over the desk, sorting through papers. He’s wearing his narrow reading glasses, the paint by his ears slightly smudged while his outfit remains pristine. Black slacks, a black button down shirt, sleeves rolled up casually, his usual black leather gloves switched for white cotton ones to avoid fingerprints and sweat stains.

He’s hard at work, has been for most of the morning, trying to save a rare first edition of Nietzsche’s Der Antichrist. He lets you observe him from time to time, ever since you expressed your genuine interest in his restoration work. His book-binding fascinates you the most so whenever an interesting project emerges, he lets you know and you get as much time off from your regular clergy duties as possible in order to learn from him. Lucky for you, Sister has no issue excusing you from time to time to help Papa down here. Not many Siblings have the patience or steady hands to work on these intricate projects and even less want to work with Secondo at all, if only for his understandably high standards when it comes to handling fragile artefacts.

“How is it going, Papa?” you ask casually.

“I am taking some time to document the process and sort through these,” he says. “My hands are a little too shaky for bookbinding right now.”

When you don’t reply, he finally looks up at you. His eyes appear bigger behind the glasses but he quickly takes them off, the marks now imprinted on his nose making you smile. Only the smile quickly vanishes when you take in his tired eyes. Even under the black make-up he looks exhausted, sleep-deprived and almost hungover, though you know he wouldn’t drink in the middle of a project like this. So there has to be a different cause.

Secondo, meanwhile, takes you in as well. You’re wearing the tight habit that hugs your body in all the right places today and he’s very pleased with that. Perhaps by now you’re aware it’s his favorite, he knows you’re observant like that, such a smart, sharp-witted thing you are. He’s trying very hard not to stare but you’re too busy worrying to notice.

“Are you feeling alright, Papa? You look… ugh.” You’re clearly trying to find a polite way to put it and it amuses him greatly. Even now you hesitate to speak your mind around him. “I mean, you seem like you’re in need of some rest.”

“Yes, sleep was not a priority last night.” He smirks to himself at the memory, he can still feel it in his sore muscles as well. “So you will have to excuse me looking a bit tired today, Sibling.”

Your lips press together into a thin line. “Oh. Of course.”

Secondo does not miss the hurt that’s flickering over your face. Once, he might have, but by now he’s seen this look so many times that he can catch it in milliseconds. The guilt he feels upon glimpsing it is the main reason he established certain rules in the first place. As a man with many lovers, Secondo had to find ways to stop anyone from developing any actual feelings for him that he cannot reciprocate. Most of the time, this isn’t a real issue, the intentions are clear, people seek adventures, a like-minded lover who can satisfy them in ways that others can’t. But from time to time expectations change, feelings get in the way and it’s so very human but very bothersome at the same time. Secondo has no desire to toy with anyone, so at the first hint of anything that goes beyond lust, he usually calls it quits to avoid inflicting any more pain than necessary.

But there is a key difference here: You’re not his lover.

“Well, I won’t keep you, Papa, I just wanted to see the progress and check in on you. I have to help out with lunch preparations now, but perhaps I can come back later,” you say without meeting his eyes again. “I wish you a productive day nonetheless.”

He wants to stop you and say something, only he’s not sure what there is to say at all. Please, do come back? Don’t leave yet? 

It’s only when you’re out the door that he realizes he could have just thanked you.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Despite what occurred in his office before lunch, you’re back in the early afternoon hours, presenting him with some painkillers and a cup of black coffee. He can tell by the smell alone that this hasn’t been brewed in the kitchens; you clearly begged Terzo to let you use the fancy coffee machine in his office. It’s always worth it, even if Terzo teases him mercilessly when it comes to you by now, his little assistente, as he calls you.

You don’t comment on your hasty exit from earlier as you set down your cargo on his desk and take a seat on the wooden chair opposite from him. You’re staying for a while, it seems, that’s good. He can use your company after working alone in the basement all day.

Not used to someone taking care of him, Secondo tries not to show how your simple gesture affects him. “Thank you, my dove. This is just what I needed.”

You smile with genuine kindness, the sort of smile that always makes him pause as he feels its paralysing effect on him. “You’re welcome, Papa. Are you feeling any better?”

He smiles and takes a much needed sip of coffee. “Yes, but I think I should take a bit of a break from…” He stops, trying to word it carefully. “… the nightly activities.”

“Oh, really?”

Your eyes bore into his and it’s like you’re begging for the honest answer he simply cannot give you. Secondo knows – he knows of your feelings for him, he knows of your desires, your wishes, your hopes. And he’d be a liar if he claimed not to return them. But right now being a liar seems easier to him than admitting to any of this.

“I am not getting any younger and I can’t have it impacting my work too much,” he states instead, a lame excuse for certain. His stamina is impressive even now and his reputation precedes him. It’s the lack of sleep that’s affecting him more and more, some joint pains maybe, but even that is barely worth mentioning – he can focus when he has to. Satan knows he could have a Sibling or even a ghoul over every single night if he really wanted to.

There is only one reason he doesn’t find proper fulfilment in most of these nightly encounters anymore. And that reason is looking at him with wide and far too hopeful eyes right now.

“I’m sure some people will be very sad to hear that,” you finally say, glancing away.

Not you, no, he thinks.

You shift in your seat, then, and he can’t tell why exactly you’re so nervous all of a sudden. It could be the subject matter. He doesn’t take you for being shy, so maybe it’s because of your very obvious attraction to him, the mere idea that anything could happen between you, implied by the fact he’s telling you about his sex life right now when you’ve been lingering on a safe professional level for months.

Secondo is not in the habit of discussing his private matters with people who aren’t involved, as much as Terzo tries to coax the details out of him over drinks sometimes. He is a private person, discreet, not necessarily secretive but certainly disinterested in any sort of unqualified opinions. But with you he feels safe enough to at least hint at them, if only to see that delicious blush spread across your gentle face.

“Well, I’m not saying that I’ll stay abstinent forever,” he finally says, aware that he’s sending out very mixed signals. “But I think I will be more selective from now on.”

You look at him again and your eyes still shimmer with expectation. He almost hates himself for giving you false hopes. But he can’t help it, you just look so stunning when you’re flustered for him, when your eyes circle in on his bare forearms, his gloves, his lips, your breathing becoming heavier by the second. Arousal suits you, he decides. It takes a lot of restraint to withstand the urge to show you what he could do to you if he just gave in. And this is certainly not the first time the image of fucking you on this very desk pops into his head.

In the end, you don’t comment. It’s something he appreciates a lot about you, the fact that you know when to shut up. And for the rest of the afternoon, while you watch him work on the Nietzsche, standing idly by the side with your eyes glued to his hands, you barely say another word. But you don’t have to – the very telling smile that never leaves your face speaks for itself.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

2 Papa’s Personal Pasta Day

Wednesday is Pasta Day.

Three different types of pasta, three different types of sauce you get to choose from. It’s the best day of the week, everyone agrees – even Secondo.

And yet your Papa is nowhere to be found today.

It’s not rare for him to skip lunch or avoid the bustle of the dining hall, but you always, without a doubt, catch him here on Wednesdays. As you eat the remainders of your own meal, staring at the empty spot next to his brothers where he usually sits, you wonder what keeps him occupied. You know he finished the Nietzsche but you also know that he recently got another box filled with rare books. So the only real explanation is that he’s even busier with those now.

Which means he’s skipping lunch altogether.

A sudden movement in your peripheral vision. Terzo stands up with his tray, though you can already see two Siblings scurrying towards him, ready to do the job for him. Without thinking too much you gulp down your last bite and hurry after him, asking a friend to dispose of your empty plate, an idea forming in your mind.

You catch him in the hallway as he’s sauntering back to his office, humming a merry tune.

“Papa!” you call out to avoid running after him for another five minutes.

“Hm?” Terzo spins around, smiling in recognition. “Oh. Buongiorno, Sibling. Don’t you look so well today?”

“Thank you, Papa. I was wondering if you can you spare me a moment?”

“Ahh, for you always!” The corners of his mouth curl up into smirk. “I hope you don’t come to complain about my fratello? Because that list is already very long.”

You assure him it’s not a complaint and follow him to his office. Once inside, he casually leans against his desk, folding his hands neatly in front of him as he awaits your plea. A few dots of red pasta sauce stain his right glove but you’re too nervous to point them out to him.

“I have a… a request,” you start, fidgeting under his intense gaze. “It’s unusual and I totally understand if you won’t allow me such a thing. But…  can I use your kitchen?”

“My kitchen?” he asks, brows shooting up in surprise. “Whatever would you use my kitchen for?”

You blush profusely as you start to explain. “It’s just… your brother skipped lunch today and you know he’s working so hard on these books right now. He probably forgot to eat again and it will give him another headache in approximately two hours. I would ask to use his kitchen, of course, but then it wouldn’t be a surprise anymore and you know I can’t use the Ministry kitchens because they’re busy in there now cleaning up. And I really don’t want to bring him reheated leftovers.”

Terzo considers this, considers you. “Oh Sibling, you really do like him, eh? What is it that you see in him? He’s a grumpy old man with no sense of humour.”

“He’s not so grumpy when we’re alone,” you offer, even more heat creeping up your neck. “And he can be funny, in a kind of dry, unintentional way.”

“Hmmmm. My coffee machine, my kitchen…” Terzo furrows his brow, the skull paint on his face giving him a slightly menacing look. “What is next? My bedroom?”

Your eyes widen. “Oh no! No, it’s not that kind of… not that kind of thing.”

Terzo chuckles and his features relax, making way for genuine amusement. “No? You want to tell me you don’t fuck down there?”

“N-no…”

“Ah, well, so it is on me to give it a little nudge?” His hand moves up to his chin in mock contemplation as he smiles at you. “Va bene, you can use my kitchen but I have one condition.”

You give him a pleading look, folding your hands in front of your chest. “Whatever you want, Papa, I will gladly do it.”

He smirks again, fishing for his keys before throwing them at you. “I expect some leftovers in the fridge tonight. And they better be good.”

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Carrying a tray down the narrow steps into the basement is not an easy feat, especially because your mind constantly tries to tell you that this is a bad idea and you forget to watch your steps. In the humidity underground the stone gets especially slippery, just like your situation with Secondo. You’re not quite sure how he’s going to take this. You shouldn’t have made such an effort. This whole idea was born from mere intuition, from that pathetic need to impress him that you always carry around with you.

But you just can’t control that tiny part of you that wants to prove just how perfect you are for him, how well you’d take care of him if he just allowed you to be in his life – no matter how unlikely that is.

You just hope it’s not awful, especially since Terzo is going to eat that big bowl of pasta you left in his fridge. To be fair, his kitchen looked like it had never been used before, so at least you don’t have to worry that you messed up his routine.

You sigh in relief when you see that the lights are on in the workshop. You can hear Secondo in the main room, so you set the tray down in his office, the only area down here where eating is actually allowed, and then knock very carefully to avoid startling him.

“Oh.” His eyes land on you and sets down the book in his hand that already looks mostly finished. “Good morning, Sibling.”

You lift your eyebrows with a smile. “Hello, Papa. Though I’m afraid I have to tell you that it is not quite morning anymore.”

He eyes the clock on the wall above him, exhaling in defeat. “I forgot the time, to be honest. I missed lunch, no?”

You linger near the door, ready to take the plunge. “Well, you did, but… are you hungry by any chance?”

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Secondo is not quite sure what to expect when you lead him into the office. What he certainly didn’t expect was a tray that resembles the ones used for room-service in the upscale hotels he loves to frequent, cloche and napkin included. He knows you have good taste by being around you so often, but that it is this excellent is news to him. The thought of you choosing this fancy dishware for him is almost enough to make him smile.

“So you brought me lunch?” he asks, though he should not be surprised by your efforts. You’re always attentive, you most likely noticed him missing earlier and pieced it all together.

“I made this in your brother’s kitchen,” you warn him. “So, he might ask about it.”

As he takes a seat behind the desk, Secondo’s brow furrows. “You made it? It’s not from the kitchens?”

At this question you bite your lip. He tries not to stare at your mouth. “Uhm, I made it, yes. I didn’t want to bring you stale leftovers and besides, they didn’t have your favorite today…”

Secondo leans back in his chair. He can tell that you expect him to scold you, to tell you that he wouldn’t have minded the leftovers, that you shouldn’t waste your time on such a thing, but that’s not what’s on his mind at all. To anyone else, he might have said these things, but to you? He feels his heart swelling in his chest at the gentle care you offer him, an altogether unfamiliar feeling, so all he can really do is stare at you in wonder.

You seem uneasy under his lingering gaze, your restless hands fiddling with your habit. “Okay, well, I should leave you to it. I have other dut–”

“No, no, you stay,” he commands and there is no room to question him. He will not let you scurry off again, not this time.

He waits for you to take a seat before he removes the cloche from the plate, revealing a beautiful serving of Spaghetti Cacio e Pepe, complete with freshly ground pepper on top as well as some half-molten parmigiano. He fails to suppress a surprised exhale as he takes in the food. It’s a beautiful plate, one he may well find in one of his favorite restaurants in Rome or Milan.

“How do you know what is my favorite?” he asks, spreading the napkin out over his lap.

“Oh well, I’ve… I’ve seen you get it for lunch whenever they offer it… Maybe it’s not your favorite, I just assumed…”

“It is my favorite,” he admits. “You’re very observant, my dove. I should be more careful around you, eh?”

You smile at him and the corner of his mouth curls upwards as well before he quickly averts his gaze. Secondo grabs the fork and moves it around in the pasta, his stomach giving an urgent growl. It’s beyond him how he managed to miss lunch being this hungry, but you made sure to give him his very own Pasta Day and a much better one at that.

From your side of the table, his feelings are still veiled in shadows, hidden by the severity of his features. You can’t quite tell what he’s thinking, but you have to admit that the situation is a bit awkward because all you do is sit here and watch him eat. Secondo, completely unbothered, has quickly finished half of what you put on his plate and you feel mildly concerned that you didn’t bring enough. He moans softly every few seconds and you struggle to hide what it does to you. There is something inherently erotic about this man eating your food, the way he seems to treasure every single bite, how he licks the sauce off his painted lips before using the napkin to gently clean them, leaving a mouth-shaped black stain on the cloth. It’s not hard to imagine the same shape covering every inch of your body, an entirely unhelpful thought. Secondo can’t hear how rapidly your heart is beating in your chest, but he may well notice how you sit there with your thighs pressed together, hands covering your lap.

“It’s good?” you ask for distraction, fiddling with a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Very good,” he states. “Have you not tried it?”

“Uh… well I had to hurry down here before it got cold.”

Secondo fills another fork, expertly wrapping the spaghetti around its tines. Then he holds it out to you, his other hand kept flat underneath it, and you realise that he wants you to eat. 

That he wants to feed you.

Your chest feels like exploding as you lean over the desk to reach him. Eyes locked with his, you slowly open your mouth, pushing your tongue out just enough to give him a glimpse. His hand doesn’t move, in fact he’s completely static as his eyes move to your open mouth. They stay glued there, his own lips parting just slightly. The expression turns his features unusually soft.

“Papa?” you ask, trying to hide a grin.

Secondo looks back into your eyes, but before he can move, you wrap your lips around the fork and slowly drag the spaghetti off. He watches your every move and his reaction gives you the courage to continue. You moan softly at the taste, the intense aroma of the Pecorino still evident in the sauce and it is good, you have to give yourself credit for that.

You hum vocally, a sound that hits Secondo like a brick.

You’re so deliciously unaware of the pain he’s going through, how the sight of you licking your lips nearly drives him insane. Your tongue darts out to reach the corner of your mouth, but there is some sauce closer to your chin that you have to remove with your thumb. When you suck it off the digit, Secondo has to fight a deep groan and it comes out as a strangled cough. His cock is twitching in his pants, already half-hard, and he knows he has to get a grip. You’re eating, it shouldn’t have such an impact on him.

“I may need some more practice,” you say, sitting back in your chair. “But I would say it’s better than in the kitchens.”

“You’re modest,” Secondo states. “It was perfect, my dove, thank you. I could not have prepared this dish any better and I have made it a hundred times.”

An almost shy smile, only betrayed by the way your lips quiver as you hold back your delight at his praise. “You’re flattering me, Papa, I’m sure you’re way more proficient than I am.”

It’s an endearing look on you, a hopeful sort of confidence, laced with a hint of hesitation. He’s not sure where his next words come from, but despite their barely hidden meaning he can’t hold them back. “I hope I get the chance to return the favor soon. I think I know what your favorite is and I happen to know the perfect recipe.”

Your grin widens, your whole expression one of warmth and joy and he’s rendered speechless for a very conspicuous amount of time.

“Should I get rid of the tray?” you ask. “I think your brother wants his dishes back.”

He finds his words again at the mention of Terzo. “Only if you come back down here after. I need your help this afternoon or I am going to miss dinner as well.”

“Certo, Papa,” you say, mimicking his Italian. “I will be back before you notice that I’m gone.”

You grab the tray and he watches your figure disappear through the door, slumping back in his chair with a myriad of thoughts and feelings running through his mind that he can’t possibly catch up with. His hand finds his crotch as soon as you’re out of sight, adjusting just enough to get rid of the painful tightness in his pants. 

At least this time he didn’t forget to thank you.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

3 Seeing Red

He’s trusting you with a Crowley.

It’s unprecedented. Secondo had Siblings watching before, he had them assist him before by bringing him tools, but never before has he allowed them to touch any of his delicate books.

It’s the next logical step. You have been watching him for months now, you have practiced on less valuable books and shown unexpected talent. And even now, with the Crowley in hand, he’s surprised to find himself trusting you completely.

Inexplicably, his eyes find you ever few minutes without his own doing. It’s not to control you, though maybe a tiny part of him does indeed check in with the state of your work. Whenever you look back, you hold his gaze so confidently. It’s intoxicating to have your eyes on him, fully aware that you reciprocate the feeling, and even when you don’t look back, seeing you so patiently focused on the needle in your hands is quite the sight.

His staring doesn’t stay unnoticed. You catch him looking at you for the tenth time in the past few minutes, though that is only a rough estimate. As elated as you are by his attention, you’re genuinely getting frustrated with him. He has to feel the tension between you. You refuse to believe that all those lingering looks are meaningless to him.

A sudden sharp pain in your finger. You hiss, more in surprise than in pain, and quickly pull away. The thick, curved needle pierced your white cotton glove and dug straight into your skin. By pulling it out so rapidly, you must have damaged an artery or at least left a pretty big wound because the blood spills out immediately. The shock only lasts for a quarter of a second before you pull your hand away, just in time before a few heavy droplets of blood drip down your wrist and onto the floor. Fortunately, the book still looks pristine and you take a shuddering breath of relief.

“What happened?” Secondo asks.

“I… I–”

Before you can explain, he’s by your side, roughly grabbing your arm to hold it steady.

“I didn’t bleed on the book,” you stammer. “I pulled my hand away really fast.”

His grip on your wrist is impossibly tight and you wonder if he’s going to scold you for your clumsiness, for being so distracted. His lips are pressed together as he takes in your shaky frame, his eyes meeting yours with such intensity that you struggle not to break away and you feel your lips quivering as you fight back tears.

“I’m so sorry, I– I didn’t–”

“I don’t care about the book,” he says and then he pulls you out of the workshop. Once you’re safely back in his office, he leaves for the storage room. You stand there, watching the blood run over your hand, pressing your thumb into your pulse in hopes of limiting the blood flow just like he did. But the once white glove is ruined by now, blotchy and red all over.

When Secondo returns, he carries a first aid kit. He sits down on the chair in front of his desk and motions for you to join him. You carefully step beside him, hand out-stretched in a cautious offering, but he’s having none of it, he just pulls you straight into his lap and grasps your wrist again.

“Let’s examine the damage,” he says, even though you’re not sure you can even hear him. His strong thighs are firm underneath yours, keeping you steady, but then there’s the throbbing in your finger, his hand on your arm, a wild mixture of impressions that overflow your sensory perception. Your rapid heartbeat surely does nothing to help with the bleeding.

You fight the urge to shift nervously but he doesn’t seem to notice your state, just turns your hand skyward and gets to work. He meticulously removes your bloody glove, one finger at a time, the fingertips of his own turning red in the process. Frustrated by the barrier, he removes them as well, throwing them aside with an annoyed grunt. Once his bare hands grasp yours, you feel a shiver running down your spine. The pain in your finger ceases to exist for a moment as you realise that this is the first skin on skin contact you ever shared. You’re closer than ever, so close you can smell the remainders of his cologne, feel his exhales on your skin.

“It’s not as bad as I thought,” Secondo muses. “You hit a bad spot.”

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I’m not usually so careless.”

“I know, my dove. It happens.”

Not to me, you want to say, not while I’m here, trying so hard to impress you.

“Go wash out the wound,” he orders then, his hand patting your hip in encouragement, dangerously close to your ass.

You reluctantly hop off his legs and wash your hand in the sink in the workshop. The water runs red at first but turns clear in the matter of seconds. With the blood gone, the wound only looks half as scary and you’re far less shaky when you return to the office.

You expect Secondo to just leave you to yourself now, but he immediately pulls you back into his lap, turning slightly to reach into the first aid kid on his desk, fiddling for bandaids and a spray bottle with disinfectant. You patiently hold out your hand, waiting for him to figure out the logistics.

The antiseptic stings and you flinch, more from shock than actual pain. Secondo is so careful, not a single tremor in his deft fingers as he applies the bandaid, making sure it sits tight around your still throbbing digit.

“There,” he says. “It is better now, yes?”

You nod, sniffling as you try to calm down. “Thank you, Papa.” 

His mismatched eyes meet yours and the concerned furrow in his brow softens. One of his hands rests on your hip, the other comes up, hovering by your jaw as though he’s scared to touch you. You feel his fingertips grazing your skin, tickling, exploring cautiously.

His gentle touch gives you courage. You lean in slowly and press your lips to his cheek. The feeling of his skin against your lips is so soft that you linger, kissing again and again, slowly moving them further down while one of your hands skims his other cheek. Your last kiss hits the corner of his mouth and you hear him suck in a sharp breath through his nose. His lazy grip on your hip suddenly tightens until you can feel the tips of his fingers digging into your flesh.

You sit back and look at him. There is something wild in his eyes now, a flicker of… you can’t quite decide if it’s lust or anger. For a long moment he stares at you like this, a terrifying expression that keeps you static. Right when you come to the conclusion that he must be angry, that you have to apologise, his hand shoots up to grab your chin and then his fingers push into your hair, his second hand joining in until he’s properly holding your head. He growls and presses his lips together until his whole face is tense.

“Papa,” you whisper. “Did I–“

He shuts you up by moving to stand, simultaneously lifting you onto his desk and pushing himself between your legs until your chest is pressed to his. The first aid kit flies to the floor, but the impact is only evident by a distant cluttering because all you can focus on is him. Secondo’s hands find your head again, holding it in place as he continues to stare at you, eyes moving from your lips to your nose to your cheeks that are squished between his palms, and then, finally, they meet yours.

You think he’s going to kiss you as he leans in, but then his head abruptly turns to the side and he buries his face in your neck. With a groan, he pulls you further into him, squeezing so tightly that you lose your breath.

“You’re killing me,” he mumbles. “Oh, my dove, you will end me.”

”Papa–“

Another groan. He sounds like he’s suffering, a wounded animal about to turn into roadkill. You don’t quite understand. It feels good to be so close to him, to have him hold you like this, so you simply sink into his embrace, move your unhurt hand to the back of his neck and softly scratch his scalp. He sighs deeply, slowly relaxing against you.

“What is this?” you mumble.

He gives a dry chuckle. “I wish I knew.”

✦ ✧ ✦ 

4 The Storage Closet Incident

Are you high on glue and paint solvent? Maybe.

In any case, your head is spinning. You spent all morning so far sorting through a fresh delivery of restoration materials, taking inventory and checking if they’re complete. Papa was here earlier to check in with you but left for a clergy meeting half an hour ago, so you’re left alone inside the storage room. There are three more boxes outside in the hallway and you’re on your fourth now, different types of paints and solvents and glue. You never opened any of the cans but you swear you nevertheless inhale the biting fumes.

Upon crossing out the last few items on your list, you hear a heavy knock. Maybe you should be cautious with opening considering that no one ever knocks here, but you do indeed find Secondo in front of the entrance, still fully robed.

“Forgot my keys upstairs,” he mumbles, patting down his pockets as though they would magically appear if he just tried hard enough.

“You can take the ones inside the storage room for the rest of the day,” you suggest.

“Humph.”

He’s usually in a pretty foul mood after clergy meetings that involve his father, so you’re not surprised by the lack of conversation. You watch him pull the keys out of the lock – the door stays open while you’re busy in the storage room anyway – and when he carries them into his office, you think nothing of it. Any potential concern would have escaped you at the latest when you catch him shedding his robes through the open door. As soon as they’re hung up on the coat rack in the corner, you can’t help but sigh. He’s wearing his classic black shirt underneath – black because it won’t show the paint stains on his collar. But it barely touches his neck anyway; he keeps it open just enough to display the first few inches of dark, curly chest hair. You take in his slender form, the taut muscles on his arms stretching out the fabric as he moves around, sorting through the papers on his desk, hands covered in tight black leather gloves that perfectly match his belt.

“So…” He looks up and catches you staring. “How is inventory going?”

“Great,”you say, finally looking back at your actual work. “I’m more than halfway done.”

“Good,” he says. “You’re fast.”

You smile when you deposit the last bottle of glue onto the shelf. “Speaking of inventory, can you help me carry the rest of the boxes? I left the big ones for when you get back.”

He’s already back out of the door before you even finish your sentence, carrying one of the heavier cartons inside to where you’re standing. You push it in front of the designated shelf and wait for him to bring the other two boxes in as well – carrying both at the same time. On his way inside he bumps against the open door to the storage room and it falls close behind him. He sets the boxes down and you notice him flinching as he rights himself, even though he covers it up with a low cough. You make a mental note to acquire something for his back pains, perhaps Primo can whip up some sort of tincture or cream. And even though you highly doubt Secondo would let you rub it into his back, the image is very clear in your mind now.

You hide your deepening blush by pulling out your neat little list, flipping through the pages without actually reading anything. “Thank you, Papa. I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon sorting these until Sister needs me.”

He moves to reach out for your arm, but his hand drops before he ever reaches it. “Thank you, my dove. I know it’s tedious work.”

You smile at him, a little disappointed that he didn’t touch you. “Well, I’m happy to help in any way I can.”

His gaze lingers on you for a little longer before he pulls himself away to return to the office. Only then do you realise that something is very odd in here. The door is closed. Fully closed. With no functioning door handle inside, you have no way of getting out without the keys. For a second, all you can do is stare at the metal bar used to pull it open – and the very empty hole where the key would usually be found.

“You have the keys, Papa,” you remind him.

“I don’t,” he states. “They’re on the desk.”

His lips are pressed together tightly and you can feel the colour draining from your face.  No one ever comes down here, there is no chance people are going to find you anytime soon, at least not before your friends notice you missing.

You swear you can hear him mumble a cazzo, before he lets his forehead rest on his hand, massaging his temples, but your heart is beating so fast that it drowns out all other sounds. You’re not necessarily panicking, even though you do suddenly begin to wonder whether you’re secretly claustrophobic or not.

“It’s fine, I have my phone,” he says but you already know there won’t be any reception down here. Your suspicion is confirmed when he sets it down on the shelf next to him with a little too much force.

“My friends will probably come looking for me when I miss lunch.”

He looks over to you and suddenly his expression changes. There is a glimmer of something almost dangerous in his white eye that makes him look menacing, the effect only amplified by his skull paint and the sharp lines of his cheekbones. You back against the wall behind you, unable to look away despite your body telling you to be on alert. The last time he looked at you like this was when you hurt your hand and you wonder if he’s finally going to initiate more. The thought is arousing and bone-chilling at the same time.

”Papa–“

“Are you scared?” he interrupts, reading you perfectly.

“No,” you reply. “I’m not claustrophobic.”

He approaches you slowly, the soles of his black leather shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor. “That is not what I meant.”

When he stops right in front of you, you swallow, your throat suspiciously dry all of a sudden. You can smell him over the paint solvent now, his cologne so heavy in your nose that you get dizzy. If you weren’t high before, then you are definitely high now. Instead of fear, you suddenly feel incredibly, stupidly bold, full of adrenaline and longing.

“I’m not scared of you,” you say somewhat confidently. “I’m not scared of being alone with you.”

You should be, his eyes are telling you. Even closer now, he leans into you, his hands resting on the wall on either side of your head. You know the eye contact is something he enjoys so you keep your eyes on him without flinching away.

“If I had you right here right now no one would hear you screaming.” He chuckles uncomically, his voice deeper than you’ve ever heard it before. “I could do to you whatever I want.”

“Then why don’t you?”

He furrows his brow. “Hm?”

“Why the hell don’t you?” you challenge. “Why don’t you show me what you want to do to me?”

He seems taken aback by this, staring down at you with his lips slightly parted. For a second you think he’s going to snap back, scold you for disrespecting him, but he just huffs out a laugh. “You know why.”

“No I don’t!” You fight back tears as all of your suppressed emotions threaten to spill out. A strangled sob almost swallows your next words. “I don’t.”

Secondo stares at you and you finally look away, trying hard to stay quiet. You know this is not what he expected to happen and neither had you. But you can’t stop, you’ve lost control over your emotions and now that the cork has been removed you can’t get it back inside.

“I keep trying to find a reason why you don’t want me.” You force your gaze to meet his once more, despite being afraid of what you’re going to see in his eyes. “What’s wrong with me, Papa? What do I lack that the others before me had? What is wrong with me that you don’t even want me for a night?”

You’re crying now, struggling to make sense of him. Frankly, you’re already embarrassed by your outburst and expect him to laugh it off or gently tell you that he appreciates you but just doesn’t feel attracted to you like that. Even him yelling at you would help at this point.

“My dove–”

“Don’t call me that.”

He cocks his head to the side, his lip quivering slightly. “Where is this coming from now?”

You don’t reply, even though your pout should be answer enough. Secondo regards you for a long moment but there is no anger, only curiosity.

“Who knew you could be so feisty?” he mumbles, leaning in even closer but turning away just before your mouths can touch. 

His lips ghost over your cheek, down your jaw, but they never touch. All you can feel is his hot breath on your skin, the tip of his nose dragging over your cheekbone. You squirm, letting out a desperate, high-pitched whimper. Secondo chuckles against your ear and the unfamiliar sound goes straight to your core, goosebumps running all over your body.

“You’re cruel,” you whisper. “So cruel.”

“I am.” His lips touch the shell of your ear. “But you seem to enjoy it.” 

Impulsively, you wrap your hands around his neck for support. Secondo moves to look at you again, his pupils blown wide with lust. This time, you close the gap by leaning in, but he turns away just slightly, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. You try again, more boldly this time, and you swear your lips are already grazing his, but then they’re gone again. His hand moves to grip your chin painfully tight, his thumb digging into your cheek so hard you can feel it pressing against your teeth. You’re completely immobile and when you test it out, his grip tightens even more. You’re pretty sure you’ll find subtle bruises all around your jaw tomorrow.

Secondo’s mouth still hovers just in front of yours, his exhales tickling your face, but he remains just out of reach. You whimper in desperation and he chuckles again, nuzzling your nose.

“Not so bold anymore now, eh?”

“Please,” you whine, squirming in his grip.

“Please what?”

You let out a half-strangled mewl. “P-please.”

Secondo hums and he can feel your body shivering underneath his, muscles jerking, everything inside of you trying to reach for more. He knows he’s being cruel, knows that you’re suffering, but he can’t deny that the thrill of having you at his mercy like that is spurring him on. He wants to test out your limits, see how far he can go, if he can get you to beg even more. You’re always so good, so quiet and polite. Seeing those previously unknown sides of you is like unwrapping a birthday gift and why should he stop when there is still so much more to explore?

You whimper louder this time and he brings his other hand to your waist, pulling you flush against him. A gasp and your mouth stays open just slightly, lips wet and glistening with spit, still pushed into a beautiful little pout bis his gloved fingers. He pushes his erection against you, eliciting a moan from you that seems to come from somewhere deep within. It’s what tips him over the edge, his patience dissolving into thin air. He unravels, closing the gap and swallowing all of your other sounds with his mouth. The kiss is sudden and almost violent. He has to release your jaw to ease the pressure on your head, but he just moves his hand down to your neck instead. More moans and whimpers as his tongue pushes into your now open mouth and it’s adorable how you keep trying to move against him. He rewards your efforts by easing up just slightly, allowing you to taste him as well. 

Secondo is not sure what’s taking hold of him but he can’t fight the urge to taste more of your body. You’re all breathless when his mouth moves to your cheek and over your jaw, soothing, exploring. His lips find the soft skin below your ear, a shiver running down his neck. He can feel the tendon there twitching underneath his tongue and then he’s just sucking with reckless abandon, his intensity the result of a week-long, maybe even month-long starvation.

You moan into his ear and he thinks he’s going to lose it, his hips move on their own accord, pushing against you. It’s not a lot of friction but it’s enough to extract a deep groan from him. He wants to let go, he wants to have you so bad that it’s starting to obscure all rational thought. But he can’t lose control like that, not right now. As a safety precaution he pulls away, slotting his knee between your legs instead. With his hand on your hips he pulls you forward and you groan at the friction. A strangled sob and you try to wriggle for more. It’s uncomfortable with all the layers of clothing in between. His own pants are so tight that it provides him more pain than relief but to see you unravelling under his ministrations is enough to keep him going.

“Please,” you whisper, wriggling even more but his hand on your hips stays firm. He can feel the fabric of his pants getting wet under your movements, your crotch hot against his leg.

“Feels like you’re leaking onto my thigh,” he whispers back. “You’re such a mess, my dove, and I haven’t even done anything yet.”

You moan again, completely beyond words. He had this coming, he knows it. This was bound to happen at some point, the inevitable. But you’re at his mercy now and Secondo knows how to handle responsibility. He can see in your eyes that you’re too far gone now and for a second this clarity hits him like a brick. It’s almost like he’s watching the scene from above, bird’s eye view. This is exactly what he did not want – to fuck you like it’s just that, like it’s just sex, a quick romp in a closet, not even fully undressed, no real intimacy. Right now, it’s all you want, it’s all he wants, but what’s going to happen after?

Secondo pulls his head back to assess the situation, but when he sees the slowly drying tears on your cheeks, your still watery eyes, his paint and spit smeared all over your face and neck, he can’t bring himself to say any words that could possibly hurt you.

He’s lucky to be spared any excuses by a plethora of muffled noises in the background. Your eyes widen at the same time as he hears them and reality slowly settles around you again.

“Fratello?” The voice is barely audible through the thick door. “Secondo? Hellooooo?”

He acts faster than you even seem to realise what’s going on, gently letting go of you in favour of banging his fist against the door as rapidly as he can, trying to draw attention to you. There is barely any time to recover. The door opens after a minute and you find Terzo glancing into the room, hands still on the key in the lock.

“Oh, there you are, Secondo. Got locked inside, eh?” Then he smirks. “And with your little assistente no less. Tesoro, you look so flustered, did my brother–”

“Stai zitto,” Secondo snaps, pushing past him before his brother can get any good glimpse at the situation in and on his pants. “What do you even want down here?”

“Oh, thank you, caro fratellino, for saving us from being locked inside this room all day.”

A scoff. Secondo’s eyes find you again when you close the door of the storage room behind you and you struggle to meet his eyes. A pang of guilt, fear even, of what is going to happen now.

Terzo, completely unhelpful, looks between the two of you. “So, what happened here, eh? What did I miss?”

“Nothing, Papa,” you say quickly. “The door closed but it doesn’t have a handle on the inside. We had to use the key for something else earlier and forgot to put it back.”

“That’s not what I meant, tesoro.” Terzo glances at his brother and then back at you, furrowing his brow now that he’s seeing you both in proper lighting. There is a sudden edge of concern on his face. “Sibling, you look like you’ve been crying.”

Secondo is surprised that this is the first thing his brother comments on. You avoid both of their gazes, wringing your hands behind your back. “Oh, it’s nothing. I should probably go… I need to get back to work and I’m already late. Sister won’t be happy.”

Terzo cocks his head to the side, stopping you before you can walk out. He talks in a hushed, gentle voice, practically shutting Secondo out. “You should take a moment to calm down, tesoro, have a trip to the bathroom before you face Sister. You’re quite the mess.”

You nod at him, a grateful smile on your face, and then your eyes meet Secondo’s. A quarter of a second, nothing more, and he has no chance to convey anything with his expression. You give Terzo another pained smile and then you hurry outside.

The two man both wait for you to close the door  before they face each other. Secondo has settled behind his desk by now, a healthy distance between them that seems to be the only thing keeping their tempers in check. Secondo can’t help but scowl, gripping the edge of the table so tight that his knuckles turn white. “This is none of your business, Terzo. I don’t meddle in your affairs.”

“Why did they cry?” Terzo asks, unimpressed. “What did you do?”

“Why do you ask it like that?”

“It’s usually not a good sign when someone cries after making out, fratello. Don’t think I cannot see your ruined make-up. Your little assistente looked even worse.”

Secondo almost jumps from his chair. “You think I would hurt them?”

“I don’t think you would hurt them,” Terzo explains calmly. “Not physically at least. But everyone sees how they look at you, stronzo, how you look at each other.  Did you fuck up?”

Secondo breathes out a sigh, his hand relaxing as he leans back in his chair. “I don’t know.”

Terzo takes a few cautious steps towards him. “Look, I know, you’re not the type, you don’t fall in love, blablabla. But it is never too late to settle down if you find your person, you know? It may feel like giving up your freedom, but look at what you gain.” 

“Aha. And what is that?”

Terzo smirks. “Someone who puts up with all of your bullshit.”

A drawn-out pause as they stare at each other.

Finally, Secondo exhales all the stowed anger, shaking his head incredulously. “I can’t believe you’re trying to explain to me how relationships work. You.”

Terzo shrugs, moving back towards the exit. “Think about it. You are going to feel so much more balanced.”

He’s halfway out the door when Secondo notices that he never told him why he was here in the first place. Thinking back, he’s not sure he’s ever seen his brother in this workshop or anywhere close to this part of the basement before.

“What did you want down here?” he calls after him.

“Huh?” Terzo turns back to him, shrugging nonchalantly. “Ah, you know, a ghoul noticed you two were trapped in there and to be honest… I’m kind of invested now.”

✦ ✧ ✦ 

5 Returning the Favour

A note.

You pick up the weighty envelope that someone, most likely a ghoul, had delivered to you earlier by sliding it underneath your door.  The paper has your name on it in beautiful cursive, deep black ink, a green wax seal with a II stamped into it, keeping the contents safe. The note inside is written in a similar fashion, kept very brief and in neat handwriting. All it says is: My quarters, 7pm. Secondo.

Considering you spent most of the night in pure agony, this is a welcome glimmer of hope. He is reaching out and that is what matters, despite all of your doubts and anxieties telling you otherwise, obscuring the joy you should feel at the fact that things are finally moving.

You take the note and press it to your heart, sitting back down on the bed in your tiny quarters. It smells vaguely of his cologne or at least the whimsical part of you wants it to. In any case, he wrote it, thinking about you, maybe even longing for you. Your worries slowly melt at that thought, even though you’re aware you’re in love with the most unattainable man in the whole abbey.

If you had glanced outside the window in that very moment, you would have caught Secondo making his way through the gardens and to the greenhouse – a man on a mission.

He had been pondering all night what he could possible do to make it up to you, to set things right. And there is really only one thing he could think of: Food.

When you made him lunch he promised to return the favour. Another unprecedented lapse. Secondo cooks, he loves to cook, but he does not cook for his dates. It’s too intimate, too personal. His kitchen is sacred, preparing food a form of meditation after a long day. It’s a part of himself he doesn’t share with fleeting encounters.

So when he found himself in a nearby Italian market earlier, carefully choosing the ingredients for a meal, he almost felt lost. He’s bought in bulk before, he’s bought for himself before, but he’s never bought specifically for two. And most unsettlingly, it feels good.

Now, here in Primo’s sanctuary, he has almost made peace with these new developments. 

Almost.

 “Buon pomeriggio, fratello,” he greets the older man. “I am in need of some fresh basil.”

Primo immediately picks up his scissors. “Che fortunato. My basil plants are thriving at the moment.”

Secondo has no doubts about that. The smells inside the greenhouse are rich and aromatic, a sensory reminder of all the summers he spent in the Italian countryside, trying to connect with his roots. As much as he loves big cities with their bustling night lives, clubs and parties, exclusive bars and restaurants… this is home. 

While he’s busy reminiscing, Primo moves to an array of basil plants in the corner, their oval leaves a vivid shade of green. Secondo is pleased with that. They’re going to turn his dish into the most beautiful colours and since his objective for today is that everything has to be perfect, details like that matter.

“È sufficiente?” Primo asks.

“A bit more. I am cooking for two tonight.”

Primo furrows his brow, cutting some more leaves off the delicate plant. “You have a guest for dinner? Someone special, then?”

Secondo hates that he knows him so well sometimes, but Primo is the only one who was ever even close to a healthy father figure for him. His counsel is the only one he truly values, even though he is rare to seek it out these days. 

All he can do is give a curt nod in reply.

“You’re in love,” Primo states with a smile. “That is a good thing, you know?”

Secondo makes a face. “I feel like I am sick. I don’t know how people do it.”

“It will stop feeling like that at some point,” Primo explains, carefully placing the cut basil in a small basket. “You will grow to appreciate a steady presence by your side, fratello, especially when you reach my age.”

Secondo wants to reply that he doubts it, but it would be a lie to pretend he hasn’t thought about it since getting close to you. You are steady. You are smart and kind and caring, he can talk to you as well as be silent with you. There hasn’t been a single moment in all these months now in which he’s grown tired of you. And yes, that is unprecedented as well.

“Thank you for the basil,” Secondo says.

Primo gives him a gentle, brotherly smile.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

A tentative knock. 

Secondo looks up from the counter and towards the door, his heart rate quickening in a concerning jump. Another knock, more confident this time. He chuckles to himself. You’re nervous but you don’t want him to think that you are – which is exactly how he’s feeling right now.

Before he opens, he wipes his hands on his black slacks, rights the collar of his white shirt, and then there you are. There you are.

And it’s a sight he will never forget. He’s very pleased to see that you dressed up for him. When he kisses your cheek in greeting, he catches your scent and the perfume with its sweet as well as tangy notes perfectly mirrors your character. It takes everything in him to break away again.

“Thank you for following my invitation,” he says, closing the door behind you.

A shy smile. “It sounded more like an order.”

He feels his heart plummeting and for a second there is a shadow of doubt crossing his mind. “Is that the reason you came? Because you felt obligated?”

Your eyes widen and you quickly shake your head. “No. No, I would have come either way, no matter why you want me here.”

Relief. He takes your arm and gently guides you further into the room. “I want you here because I promised to cook for you and I intend to keep that promise.”

“So, this is a dinner date?” 

“Yes.”

“A date date?”

“Yes.”

Your smile is worth it, genuine and so bright that he almost forgets what he’s supposed to do. Your lips are all he can focus on when you’re so close and it’s only when he sees them form an O that he realises he’s been staring. Secondo finally pulls you into the kitchen area and motions for you to sit on a stool at his counter. It’s surreal to see you here, such different surroundings, but it’s a sight he could get used to.

“Is that fresh basil from the greenhouse?” you ask.

Secondo values a professional mise en place, every ingredient neatly laid-out ready to be used which gives you the perfect opportunity to analyse everything he’s going to use. “It is.”

“So you did guess my favourite.”

“I didn’t guess, my dove.” He looks up at you. “You’re not the only one who is observant.”

You smirk and while he’s busy filling a big pot with water to boil the pasta you take in his quarters. Naturally, they are much bigger than yours, the kitchen and living area combined into a spacious room, all dark colours, black and grey, contrasted with a few light grey touches here and there. You notice a lingering smell of incense and what you can only assume is cigar smoke. A small serving cart turned into a bar sits next to an emerald green couch with velvet upholstering. Your eyes are drawn to a carafe filled with a dark ember liquid, sitting right next to a crystal ashtray that reflects the remainders of sunlight streaming in through the arched windows.

Secondo sets the heavy pot down on the stove and the thud makes you turn your head back to him. He’s noticed you drifting off, hoping that you like what you’re seeing, that you wouldn’t mind spending time here more often. His home in the abbey has been crafted very consciously over the past decade, every item carefully curated. He’s toying with the optimal balance between luxurious and still slightly understated, comfortable.

Your face doesn’t betray your opinion but as he turns on the stove, you slip from your stool. He watches you from the corner of his eye as you join him behind the counter and tries not to let you deter him from the task at hand – salting the water, one of many steps. You come to a stop right behind him and then he feels your arms snaking around his waist, squeezing tightly as you press yourself into his back, your cheek right against his shoulder. It’s an unexpectedly tender hug, like you just need to be close to him in any way that you can, and despite your soft affection that he so struggles to accept, he’s immensely relieved to have you closer. 

Secondo lets you hold him for however long you want. He can clearly imagine your squished cheek, your puckered lips, and all he wants is to spin you around and kiss you breathless. But his plan says no physicality until after dinner. He knows he won’t be able to stop once you start touching, and he has a lot to do until then, a lot to say until then. So it’s dinner first, then discussing the necessities, and then he can fuck you.

“My dove, you’re distracting me,” he says, finally adding a generous amount of salt to the water.

“Mhm.” You duck underneath his arm and hug him sideways now, your face melting into his neck. When your nose brushes against his sensitive skin it’s almost enough to make him come undone. A shiver runs down his spine and you give a satisfied hum at his reaction. “Actually, I was wondering… is it allowed to kiss the chef?”

“Ordinarily, it’s not.”

A kiss just below his ear. “And un-ordinarily?”

Fuck his plan. 

He grabs your hips and pulls you flush against him, bringing one gloved hand up to cup your cheek. He stops for a second, taking in the barely visible bruises on your jaw. With the memory of what happened in the storage room clear in his mind, he feels a jolt of lust, and then his mouth is on yours. This time, he’s not as forceful, but it’s not as soft as he would wish either. He can’t help but push his tongue into your mouth at the first opportunity, tasting you and a hint of minty toothpaste. You moan softly, clinging to the front of his shirt until he’s sure he could have spared himself the trouble of ironing it.

He breaks away, staring at your swollen lips, the skin around them all red and wet with spit.

Oh, that mouth.

He’s going to lose his mind over it, slowly but surely, and he can’t help but kiss you again, slower, deeper, exploring every inch of you with his tongue.

When he breaks away this time, you smile and the way it stretches your lips, plumps the apples of your cheeks and brings out that joyful glimmer in your eyes – it feels so personal, so very intimate to him. This kind of smile should belong to him and only him.

“Are you very worried about this?” you ask suddenly, smoothing your hand over his shirt. “About us?”

A deep, long sigh. “I worry, yes. I don’t know if I can give you what you want.”

Your hand slides up his neck, softly cradling his cheek. “All I want is you, Secondo, in any way that I can.”

He smiles at the use of his name, closing his eyes as he leans into your touch. It may well be the first smile in a long time that he doesn’t even attempt to hold back, though he’s not sure if that’s true. He catches himself smiling at the mere thought of you more often than seems healthy. In your presence, his mouth does a lot of things he simply can’t control anymore.

Like kiss you again right now, fiercely, passionately, sucking your bottom lip into his mouth until you start whining. At this point, he doubts he will ever be sated. His need for you is an ever-expanding black hole and he’s teetering at the edge of being consumed himself. But he’s no stranger to uncertainty, to taking risks, as much as he hates the feeling of powerlessness. And so the next time you part, he turns off the stove despite the water almost boiling, and pulls you into his bedroom.

There should have been a conversation at some point tonight that lasted more than that one sentence of reassurance you gave him, an honest exchange of expectations, feelings and hopes, but maybe he doesn’t have to say it.

It’s a knee-jerk response, a very reactionary change of plans: Make love to you (or at least attempt it), eat dinner, then fuck you for the rest of the night.

The bedroom, unsurprisingly, is dominated by a huge four-poster bed, clad in emerald green sheets that give off a sweet scent, only overpowered by the smoky aroma of the incense burning on Secondo’s altar, the light of numerous black candles dipping the room in a warm, flickering light, heavy curtains blocking out the sun completely. 

You stand in front of his bed shivering in anticipation. 

“Two things,” he says, eyes fixated on yours. “First: In here, it is Papa. At least for now.”

You nod. 

“Second: You will tell me immediately if I do anything that you don’t like. No shame, no judgement. You use your words to let me know what you want or do not want. Yes?”

“Yes, Papa.”

He smirks. You learn fast, but he knows that already. Secondo reaches out for your hands, taking both of them in his and bringing them to his lips, gently but insistingly kissing your knuckles. In the dim light, his features look daunting, a stark contrast to his soft mouth. His eyes meet yours, fervently, longingly, and then he drops your hands and pulls you in for a real kiss. This time, knowing he won’t have to hold back anymore, he lets his hands roam free, opening buttons, freeing every inch of your skin with deft, confident fingers, until you’re completely bare in front of him. His mouth doesn’t leave yours even as you gasp for air, sucking and licking on whatever he can reach. Ultimately, he keeps your bottom lip trapped between his teeth to allow you some air, teasing it with his tongue before swallowing your next breath yet again. Meanwhile, his hands explore the outlines of your body, big, curious hands still covered in leather, mapping out every single detail.

Shaky fingers toy with the buttons on his shirt, not managing to open any of them but trailing further down until they find his belt. He allows you to fiddle with the buckle, if only because your warm fingers graze his abdomen with every attempt to open it. When you give up and reach further down, he gently removes your hands and pulls away from the kiss.

You look at him with big eyes, whimpering softly, and he can tell that you’re nervous.

“Relax, my dove,” he says, swiping his thumb over your hot cheek. “All I want is to take care of you. Now, get on the bed.”

You do as he says, so obedient. Secondo removes his belt slowly, watching you stretch out amongst his sheets and pillows. His hand falters at the sight. You’re beautiful, a dream come true, and in that moment he is immensely relieved that he did not give into his impulses before.

With your eyes on him, he removes his shirt and steps out of his pants. He didn’t bother with underwear, so when he joins you on the bed there is nothing separating you anymore. Your skin is hot under his as he crawls between your legs, towering over your shivering form.

He can’t help but kiss you once more, licking into your waiting mouth. Your hand moves to his head, scratching softly, and he hums as he allows his lips to travel to your neck. He finds a deep purple hickey there which shouldn’t come as a surprise to him since he left it there a mere day ago but the sight nevertheless makes him proud. You’re already marked as his and when the night is over, your whole body will be.

Making true on that promise, his lips trail down your body, stamping soft, lingering kisses to your chest, your nipples, licking down to your abdomen where he stays for a moment.

“Hm, così dolce,” he whispers. “So sweet.”

“Papa,” you say.

He looks up. “Yes?”

You buck your hips slightly. “I need… I need more.”

He sits back, intense eyes circling in on you as he removes his gloves, throwing them aside. “Open your mouth, tesoro, show me that sweet tongue.”

You do, poking out your tongue slightly, and he leans back over you, sliding two fingers in between your still swollen lips. You start to suck, swivelling your tongue around his digits and he can feel his cock twitching at the sight and feeling.

“So good for me, my dove,” he whispers. “So good for your Papa.”

You moan around his digits, the vibrations sending a pang of need into his body. When you start to breathe heavily through your nose, he decides that his fingers are wet enough. His hand snakes down your body, collecting more of your arousal, and then he starts working you slowly, carefully. You whimper, demanding more, but for right now he’s not going to hurry. You’re not going to come before he’s inside of you.

He continues for a bit longer until you can feel the arousal flowing through your whole body, building up into waves that make you shiver. His fingers find your waiting hole, spreading out the combination of spit and arousal on his hand and stretching you open bit by bit. His hard cock, already leaking precum, sits hot and heavy against your thigh. Mismatched eyes never leave yours, catching ever flicker of lust and pleasure in your half-lidded eyes, even as the squelching sounds between your legs get louder and you barely manage to hold his gaze anymore.

“Please,” you whisper. “Please, Papa.”

“Please what?” he demands. “Words, tesoro.”

You swallow heavily, chest heaving as your body tries to search for his, but he’s hovering just above you, propped up on one arm, massaging your insides with the other.

“I want you, Papa,” you say. “Please, I need you inside of me, need to f-feel you. Please.”

Secondo could listen to you all day and maybe later he’s going to see just how long he can get you to beg, but right now he’s too impatient, too eager, spurred on by how tight and wet you feel around his fingers. His cock is aching for friction and so he removes his hand, ignoring the disapproving whine you let out.

“Since you ask so nicely,” he says.

Cock in hand, he lines himself up, carefully pushing inside. Your head falls back into the pillows as you let out a drawn-out hum, taking him so well, inch by inch, and he feels a flutter inside of his chest at the sight. Your legs wrap around his back, heels digging into his ass, and he lets his chest sink onto yours, waiting for you to relax, to adjust. Pressed together like that, a searing wave of emotion overcomes him, deep, warm, an intense longing to never let go that is utterly unfamiliar to him. He has to unload the sudden tension in a heated kiss, feeling your moans and whimpers reverberating inside of him as he slowly starts moving.

He tries to make it last, to keep up a careful, deliberate rhythm. He really, really tries, biting his lip to hold back, but he soon has to go faster to stay sane. More desperate noises from you as his thrusts get harder and weeks of held-back need for you spill out from inside of him. Attaching his lips to the still unmarked side of your soft neck, he starts sucking, biting, trying to absorb you into him. You keen, one hand on his neck, the other tightly grabbing his shoulder for support. With a pop, he removes his mouth to take a deep breath and your expression is hazy, eyes clouded with lust. He shifts his weight onto one arm, angling your hips up slightly and you clench around him over and over again at the changed angle, crying out softly at every roll of his hips. He feels himself getting close and to his relief he can tell you’re getting there too, trembling underneath him more and more.

“Please,” you say, strangled, whimpery. “Please, Papa, I n-need to– need to come.”

He growls, bringing his hand between your bodies to help you over the edge. It’s strenuous, his arm protesting wildly, but when he feels your sticky arousal on his fingers, it’s enough to keep him going.

“Come for me,” he says. “Come on my cock, tesoro. You’ve been so good for your Papa.”

It’s all you need, two more thrusts and a few words of praise, and you tighten around him, crying out as your whole body shudders. He gives a few more laborious thrusts to draw out your pleasure before he finally changes the angle, taking the weight off his arm until he can pound into you harder, chasing his own release. His hips snap against yours, loud obscene sounds, and you whimper in overstimulation, arms wrapping around him gently as he stills. A low moan leaves his burning throat and he spills inside of you, filling you up with his seed. His hips stutter a few more times before he rolls onto his side, dragging you with him.

Heavy, panting breaths fills the sudden silence of the room. Secondo pulls you close and you settle against his chest, breathing kisses to his sweaty skin, softly licking up the column of his throat. He only hums and for a long time, you stay like this, tangled up in silky sheets and the comfort of each other. His hold on you is so tight that you don’t, not even for a second, doubt whether he meant everything that just happened, all the things he can’t bring himself to tell you yet but that you can feel so clearly even in his silence – and for now, that’s enough.

“You sabotaged my dinner plans,” he finally whispers, breathing more slowly now. “I didn’t even get to open the wine.”

You chuckle against his neck. “Would you like me to help you preparing it now?”

Secondo sighs deeply, pulling you closer. “No, my dove, give your Papa a few more minutes of this, yes?”

By the way you can feel him twitching against your belly, you highly doubt that it’s only going to be a few more minutes. He knows this too, his plans long abandoned, and when you prop yourself up to look at him, eyes full of reverent love for an old man like him, he starts to embrace all of the changes you bring into his life. Maybe Terzo was right after all, maybe it’s never too late, not even for someone like him.

Thank you for reading! I know this was very long but believe me, writing it was a pain too :D I hope you enjoyed it – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always very appreciated ♡

Masterlist – my Ao3

[anghraine]

If you have the time, O Aragorn Expert, could you please point out a few places in the text(s) where it's described what Aragorn actually *did* during his long rule? There's the bit in the Appendices in Éomer's section where it glancingly mentions the two of them saber-rattling together, but is there more than that?

I don't think anyone has ever called me an Aragorn expert before, lol, but thanks for the interest! Off the top of my head, the main descriptions of his rule are in the glowing but vague description in LOTR itself:

He became thus King both of Arnor and Gondor, and overlord of the ancient allies of Mordor to whom he now granted mercy and peace.

In Peoples of Middle-earth, less euphemistically:

All men that had allied themselves with Sauron were slain or subjugated.

In the passage in the Appendices you mention:

And wherever King Elessar went with war King Éomer went with him; and beyond the Sea of Rhûn and on the far fields of the South the thunder of the cavalry of the Mark was heard, and the White Horse upon Green flew in many winds until Éomer grew old.

And, in the most detail, in Letter 244, which is actually about Faramir:

Also, to be Prince of Ithilien, the greatest noble after Dol Amroth in the revived Númenórean state of Gondor, soon to be of imperial power and prestige, was not a 'market-garden job' as you term it. Until much had been done by the restored King, the P. of Ithilien would be the resident march-warden of Gondor, in its mean eastward outpost - and also would have many duties in rehabilitating the lost territory, and clearing it of outlaws and orc-remnants, not to speak of the dreadful vale of Minas Ithil (Morgul). I did not, naturally, go into details about the way in which Aragorn, as King of Gondor, would govern the realm. But it was made clear that there was much fighting and in the earlier years of A.’s reign expeditions against enemies in the East. The chief commanders, under the King, would be Faramir and Imrahil; and one of these would normally remain a military commander at home in the King's absence. A Númenórean King was monarch, with the power of unquestioned decision in debate; but he governed the realm with the frame of ancient law, of which he was administrator (and interpreter) but not the maker. In all debatable matters of importance domestic, or external, however, even Denethor had a Council, and at least listened to what the Lords of the Fiefs and the Captains of the Forces had to say. Aragorn re-established the Great Council of Gondor, and in that Faramir, who remained by inheritance the Steward (or representative of the King during his absence abroad, or sickness, or between his death and the accession of his heir), would [be] the chief counsellor.

[l00rem]

Hz ep65 rambles

This is going to be a long post because as expected I am just so incredibly normal about this episode. As someone who has wanted a deeper look into liko and amethio’s dynamic since forever i’ve been fed well. When it was clear Amethio wouldn’t be in this arc much I hoped we could at least get an episode with him and liko somehow but i gave up on the possibility, only for the title of 65 to get leaked which made me unable to sleep that day lmao

I know a lot of people are annoyed it’s taken the series so long for them to have a meaningful interaction but tbh i don’t really mind. The pokemon anime seasons last around 150 eps, and with gen 10 looking further away than most next generations hz might be lasting closer to the dp animes length, which makes sense considering it feels more like a one-shot series that won’t carry over into the next gen. It also just makes sense to me that they haven’t had a chat like this until now because why would they? as amethio says, liko was just the girl with the terapagos to him, there was no reason for him to go out of this way to chat with her and she was running from him because he’s the enemy. This episodes made it clear that their dynamic matters with it being the title, so i’m sure they’ll get a lot more moments from here on out.

Anyway, I absolutely adored amethio’s characterisation in this episode. Going into it i’d hoped we’d get to see his softer side and did the writers deliver on that! I love how it’s amethio who makes the initiative easier to talk with liko, there’s no reason for him to do this and what he said only motivates her (his enemy!!) and yet he most likely sees himself in her and so wants to comfort her as there was never anyone there for him… what he said really reminded me of friede’s words at the end of ep45 as well. I wonder if he could potentially become more of a mentor figure to her later on now that he’s been fired, as friede and roy have always felt closer to me in terms of mentor-student bond so it would be nice if liko got that with someone too.

he’s also the one to reach out his hand, which btw is the first time he’s made any physical contact with someone which wasn’t him flying on corviknight. Of course his hands were gloved, i wonder if he’ll take them off at some point? something something gloved symbolic for vulnerability, taking them off shows his trust and comfort…

The timing of putting Amethio next to Grusha also feels very intentional. They’re both cold on the surface but have better intentions deep down. I wonder if the whole Grusha being happier when he was younger will be true for Ame as well?? I can’t help but think about that Charcadet back from ep57 , which seemed so happy and friendly… He even made sort of a smile in this ep?? I don’t think i counts as a proper one, but his eyes are filled with so much love and warmth that it certainly gives the illusion of one. So, of course, order had to be restored by immediately making amethio suffer right after he finally displays some level of happiness

I find it really interesting how Gibeon seems to be bringing up Amethio’s dad in repose to Amethio showing comradeship with the enemy.

I know a lot of people think Amethio was born into explorers, but my personal interpretation is that ame’s dad left after meeting ame’s mom and decided there was more to life then chasing his dad’s wishes. Perhaps she was also a target for one of his missions but he ended up falling in love with her … (i don’t ship ameliko btw, i think the parallel is more love in general than specifically romance). I also don’t think amethio’s dad is alive, amethio seems to cling to gibeon for some reason so my theory has always been that gibeon killed ame’s dad (perhaps he tried to take gibeon down, now we’ve seen what the eternal blessing can do he wouldn’t stand a chance) and then manipulated amethio under the illusion that he’d been abandoned. And now he’s been abandoned again… Gibeon clearly doesn’t give a shit about him, in ep54 he goes all ‘how long has it been since we met like this?’ which sounds warm, like seeing your grandparent in person after so long… but then you realise that gibeon is literally just a long ass corridor away and could call amethio at any time. he chooses not to because he doesn’t care. ‘special regard’ my ass, it’s all manipulation to isolate amethio into thinking he could only belong to explorers. This also makes me wonder if gibeon didn’t actually fall for spinel’s plot as much as he seemed to, maybe he just knows amethio will get desperate in banishment and will try even harder to reclaim his honour (fucking pokezuko lmao) it’s a very evil scheme in that case, gibeon has been shown to hold a lot of intelligence so i hope it does turn out to be the case or else he looks kinda stupid imo

Another detail I loved in this scene was the others reactions, particularly Sango.

She looks genuinely shocked, I think from her pov amethio has always been this pampered prince whose been given everything on a silver platter, she didn’t realise how fragile his place in explorers actually was. I expected this from Onyx, but it shows a lot of nuance for Sango to feel this way too. Also, I’m a Hamber hater so i’m always gonna perceive his actions in a bad light- i don’t think he was showing genuine concern for amethio, it’s more that he knows amethio’s character better than gibeon and so would know that amethio would never betray gibeon. he saw the torture amethio put himself through in training, and said himself he was impressed by his resolve. Hamber’s concern comes from loosing a valuable asset to his master, not because he genuinely cares imo.

This does make me wonder how Ame and Liko will interact from here on out. I think he’ll blame Spinel mostly, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s colder to her next time to make a point to himself that he’s not soft on the enemy. But I hope Liko will notice this, perhaps realise he’s been banished and use this as an opportunity to get to understand him better. She showed him vulnerability this ep, so i hope the tables will turn next time.

I really liked this line too, especially considering liko is a character so centred around empathy. Allow me to speak in my girl who only thinks about umineko voice for a second, but it really reminded me of the core theme ‘without love it can’t be seen’. Liko’s learning that if she doesn’t try to see the perspective of even people who seem to have ill intent, she’ll never understand them. A good lesson for a girl who wants to understand the hearts of others!

Now, as for amethio’s future… Considering his own advice to liko he’s definitely not going to give up like that. He’ll probably continue to train so he can seize terapagos, but in the process will potentially get closer and closer with liko and the rvt. This depends a lot on his situation now he’s been fired- like will he have money? will zir and conia follow him? i get the sense that the writers want to isolate him from them to make it easier to focus on his development (as much as i miss them as a trio) it’d be interesting if they got given to spinel temporality but i’d fear for their safety…

It seems that he’ll be important next arc, i hope now that he’s not in explorers it’ll be much easier to make him show up in a casual setting. I’ve always hoped he’d be relevant in getting Kleavor, mainly bc both Kleavor and Cerueldge have weapon hands so a battle between the two would be cool, especially if he teams up with liko!

Perhaps this is a reach but i’ve been humouring the idea that he might actually form a bond with Carmine.

He is next to her on the poster, which might not actually mean anything… but amethio’s always given me Keiran vibes, i’d love it if she saw keiran in him (especially if he’s going through his emo era) and so wanted to reach out to him as perhaps a way to work out how to approach her brother. It would be really sweet for amethio to get a familial figure who genuinely cares about him, now that he’s in his homeless arc maybe she could take him in for this arc like the sad sopping wet kitten whose been left in a card box in the rain that he is.

So yeah, those are most of my intelligible thoughts that aren’t just me screaming and jumping on the spot. Inevitably this is already my favourite hz episode we’ve gotten so far, and i’m so excited to see where amethio goes from here on out! Please, just let him smile and be happy, he’s suffered enough :,)

[kareluna8]

I have a Gale in the closet

Well, here you have my baptism in the world of words (WoW?), after years without writing. It is a short story, just over 1000 words. I hope you like it 😊

(The Spanish version is also available. If anyone is interested in the 'original version', please write to me.)

Thanks a lot @senualothbrok for being my wonderful beta reader.

I have a Gale in the closet.

The door is closed, but I can still feel his now-empty puppy-dog eyes, begging me not to turn him off. I can't see him, but I know he's there every time I walk past the door. I get the feeling that the door is going to open at any moment and his hand is going to pop out anxiously, asking for help, like when he came out of that portal at the beginning of the game. But his hand doesn't come out. He doesn't make a sound. There he is, inert, dull, gathering dust.

“What are you doing with that old thing in there?” my friends ask me. “Throw it away, it's taking up space. The new models out there do everything! Mine even gives me a Thai massage every night.  You should try it.”

Gale2024 has long since gone out of fashion. The poor boy had accumulated quite a few bugs during all these years of service. There were hardly any technical premises with parts to repair him. He showed the first symptoms some time ago: he stopped making croquettes. The béchamel recipe program was corrupted and there was no way to restore it. I didn't think it was important. I could live without croquettes and if not, I could always get the frozen ones from the supermarket. But he was still as tender and affectionate as the first day he saw me and recognised me as his TAV (True Amorous Vessel). Many years had passed since that moment.

I had already listened to his lectures on arcane magic a thousand times. I could recite them from memory, word for word, if I put my mind to it. He had always been such a chatterbox. There wasn't a moment when he didn't bring up a topic of conversation. It was a pity when he could no longer keep up to date with the news, with all the  literature, science and technology websites he liked. He would always find some interesting news that he would enthusiastically explain to me, down to the last detail. That was a hard blow for him.

But he didn't give up. He began to pick up the few paper books he could find, and with an archaic OCR programme he managed to read what was written, pitifully. It wasn't perfect, and noticeably slower than downloading GBytes of information directly from the net, but it was something. And it kept him going. Watching him turn the pages of those antique tomes was like looking at a vintage postcard, not without a certain charm. Afterwards, he would share those old stories with me. He looked like a granny. He even put his glasses on the tip of his nose and imitated the worn-out voice of an octogenarian to liven up the peroration. He used to make me laugh.

Now he doesn't say a word.

He was always so attentive and kind. Many people soon got bored of Gales and started to provoke them or even ‘mistreat’ them, as much as you can mistreat a being who feels no pain. Or at least that's what they said. Although I know he did feel it. Many Gales ended up mangled and mutilated in the most varied ways. All to see how far he could take it, what his limit was, what he could do or endure for his TAV. Human beings do not deserve such goodness.

In my defense, I will say that I gave mine a kind ‘life’. Or at least that's what I like to believe. Of course, he also had to put up with my grumpy days and my blue days. But he was always there for me. Patient. Supportive. Listening. Sometimes you don't need much more.

On the other hand, there were many good moments of joy and laughter. We enjoyed the time together as if each day was a new opportunity to celebrate life (or almost ‘life’). There were times when I doubted whether he was really a human person. He was certainly much more ‘human’ than many humans I know. But reality always comes through, like the sword of Damocles, swinging over our head, threatening. Little by little his technology was becoming outdated. New models appeared, with better finishes, with more features. Until they discontinued Gale and stopped updating him.

I didn't care. I didn't need more features. He was already everything to me and more than I could ever hope for. What I needed. What I wanted.

One day, coming home from work, I found him looking out of the window, pensive. He was watching the people passing by, the new models chatting with their humans. He was so absorbed that he didn't hear me approaching. Noticing my presence, hugging him from behind, he turned to me. I had never noticed that expression on him before.

'Are you going to trade me for one of those? I don't see Gales on the streets anymore,’ he said, his eyes glazed over.

'Never.'

I hugged him tight. Well, as tightly as you can hug an android. He responded with his gentle embrace, full of love and fear. He was trembling. I had never seen him like that.

***

My psychologist says it's good for me to write these things down, that it's not good to depend so much on machines, that I have to relate more to humans. The truth is that I miss him a lot.

The day of the disconnection was horrible. Already his deterioration was flagrant. His mobility was erratic, his knees failed him often, and he was falling and hurting himself more. His speech was defective. He could barely focus on the letters in books, making it impossible for him to read. The only thing that remained intact was his unconditional love for me, for his TAV. 

I took him to several technical services and the only option they offered me was a complete formatting of his memory together with the replacement of the personality module. That was to alleviate the software problems.  The hardware ones... that was another story.

'Am I going to die?'

'Androids don't die, my love.´ I said, trying to comfort him with a bitter smile.

Everyone had told me what to do. I knew what I had to do. It was so heartbreaking to see him like that. How he would fall, how he would struggle to get to his feet, how he would crawl. How he would try to chat and lose the thread of the conversation.

There was a little red button on the back of his neck hidden in the root of his hair. The beginning and the end. Something so simple, but so painful at the same time....

I gave him a last hug and, in tears, my hand slid to the back of his neck. At that moment, he looked at me and I saw in his eyes that he was aware of what was about to happen. He tried a plea or a thank you, or both, as the energy left him, leaving that body immobile, rigid, inert.

***

I have a Gale in the closet. Now I'm in it too. A little red button on the back of his neck makes his eyes come alive again. I hug him, and he hugs me back with his sweet embrace. “You are all I could ever want in this life. I want nothing more. I need nothing more. I'll be here with you forever.”

[spittyfishy]

If the Pokemon world had their own "Remnants of Despair", who do you think would be in it. (Junko somehow made a portal there or something.)

Buckle up fellas this is gonna be a long one

Ooo okay that’s a super interesting thing to think about! There’s a lot of things to consider when picking remnants in this sort of context (fighting tooth and nail against the instinct to just bonk my favs with the villain au bat but I shall resist!)

I think it’s important take how the Pokémon world works into account, like having Junko just physically torture someone into despair (think Chisa) wouldn’t fly, Pokémon’s ratings as a franchised wouldn’t allow it. So I’ve only picked characters who already had something that Junko could pull on to manipulate them into despair. I also tried to get at least one person from every region! I'm not 100% certain about some of these, so I’d definitely love to hear other people’s thoughts! (And let’s see if anyone can guess which character I had the most thoughts for lol)

Kanto:

Chloe: I think I’ve talked about Chloe’s villain au potential before, but at least during the early part of the Journeys anime she fairly closed off and distant, her dad paid more attention to Goh and Ash then to her, and there were loads of instances where he put his Pokémon work above her needs and family plans.

Jessibelle: Listen, Jessie and James are too whimsical for something like this but Jessibelle was already a physically abusive gold digger lol so I’m sure Junko would have something to work with there.

Johto:

Silver: Not only is his dad a globally wanted criminal, but he also abandoned Silver when he went into hiding (I think that’s the backstory at least), and Silver has a lot of dialogue about treating Pokémon only as tools. If being a strong trainer didn’t get Giovanni’s attention, then maybe being a Remnant would.

Clair: Okay I’m going to be honest, I realized there weren’t enough girls on the list and threw Clair on last minute, but she also is super annoying in the Johto games lol. Like come on I won the battle just give me the badge!!

Hoenn:

Courtney: So in the Pokémon Masters phone game there’s a bit where Courtney is shown to really believe in the Team Magma cause and really hates Team Aqua even after everything had been resolved at the end of ORAS, so I think Junko could get her that way. Have Courtney convinced that it’s her duty to keep Team Magma’s ideals alive even if the rest of the team forgot them.

Sinnoh:

Cyrus: Cyrus failed. All that effort to create his perfect world, catching the lake spirits, scaling Mount Corinette, he got so close— Just to have it all come crashing down at the last moment. His life’s work destroyed by some kid! He already had little to no patience for humanity, so thanks to Junko’s influence fine, he’ll make this world so unbearable to live in that people will beg him to create his perfect world at last.

Saturn: Saturn will follow Cyrus anywhere, both Pokémon Masters and the Chronicles of Arceus movie showed that if the Commanders are put in a situation without Cyrus they will go to any lengths to get him back. Saturn's devotion runs deep, so if Cyrus says despair is the answer then that’s what it’ll be.

Unova:

Roxy: I’ve got nothing to justify this one with other then Junko wanted an Ibuki replacement to preform silly little despair concerts and I needed someone to rep Unova.

Kalos:

Sycamore: I’m not the first person to say Sycamore and Lysander were in love if not in a full blown relationship when everything went down in Kalos. But Lysander died, crushed under the weapon he’d risked everything to restore. The longer Sycamore goes without him the more he notices the flaws in humanity Lysander was talking about. People are selfish and greedy, look at the state of the world! Professors in Paldea nearly caused an ecological nightmare! The president of the Galar region Pokémon league almost plunged the world into eternal darkness! Not to mention what the morons over in Hoenn tried to do. If even people that were supposed to be trustworthy were causing this much chaos then there was no hope for the rest of humanity. If he could just get Lysander back, just see him one more time— tell him he’d been right, Sycamore was sorry for not seeing it sooner, that he missed him, and that if he could go back he’d have never given those kids the Pokémon that he was ultimately defeated by. If he could just get him back— if there was just some way— like if there was a big, giant, ancient machine that was capable of bringing back the dead still sitting in pieces in Geosenge Town…

Alola:

Faba: Is anyone really surprised? Faba is a little weasel of a man and will jump ship to whoever currently holds the most power. He could be a Branch Chief again! Or even better, if he does a good enough job maybe Junko will give him the whole Aether Foundation as a reward! (She won’t, but the possibility would always be held over his head to keep him in line)

Hau: Okay but hear me out— in the Ultra games specifically Hau has a few interactions with Guzma where he taunts him about being in his grandpa’s shadow and never being able to prove himself as a strong trainer. Gladion’s dialogue reinforces this, that Hau is always too busy goofing off and never takes anything seriously. If Hau’s just stuck there, his friends surpacing him, his rivals surpacing him, the mantle of Kahuna an unattainable goal constantly hovering over him, all those expectations and the realization he’s never going to meet any of them— it might become too much to deal with.

Galar:

Rose: He was only trying to help! Why couldn’t anyone see that? Galar needed Eternatus and the dynamax particles it could make, Rose had been saving the world! They were all so ungrateful, locking him in jail for saving them, who do they think they are? He made this region into what it is today! Everyone relies on Macro Cosmos, and he ran the entire Pokémon league on top of that! That Leon would be nothing without him! It was a region of ungrateful brats. But even so, he’ll still keep working to ‘help’ them all again, you’re welcome.

Oleana: *holds up photos of Oleana and of Peko* Corporate needs you to find the difference between these two pictures. They’re the same picture.

Raihan: He had to beat him. If he just trained harder, more sandstorms, bigger dragons, if he wanted it more. Leon couldn’t be invincible, he couldn’t be, and Raihan would prove it. Turn all of Galar to a battle ground if he needed, but he was going to take down that champion once and for all.

Paldea:

Kieran: Again, no one’s surprised. Just take BB league champion Kieran and turn him up to 11, and boom. Remnant Kieran. He’s still on a hunt for a legendary Pokémon, if he can just find one of those then he’ll be strong enough to defeat anyone right!

Bonus, all the Team Star bosses: I’m thinking they’d be like the equivalent of the Warriors of Hope, not really part of the Remnants group but still very much in despair. I mean come on, a group of bullied teens like that, Junko would have a field day.

And there we go! 15 Remnants plus five Warriors of Hope! I thoroughly enjoyed this ask, I know some of the concepts were much more fleshed out then others, I almost went with Misty and Brock for Kanto (his parents abandoned him to raise all his younger siblings while being the city gym leader, and Misty was so stuck in her sister's shadow she ran away from home) but I just couldn’t do that to two of my childhood faves. (Pierce and Gladion also almost made the list).

[cilil]

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓞𝓷𝓮 𝓡𝓲𝓷𝓰 vs 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕚𝕝𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕝𝕤

Over the years I've encountered a few discussions around the question of which work was "greater", the One Ring or the Silmarils. Unfortunately, these discussions were often framed as a sort of "character competition" with the goal to determine that either Fëanor or Mairon is the "better" smith and I don't think that's particularly fun or doing either work justice. So... here are my two cents regarding the comparison between our favorite pieces of jewelry.

⟡ Their natures and purposes.

Firstly, the One Ring and the Silmarils are two different kinds of objects, and by that I don't just mean shape, materials or design.

The One Ring is a tool. It was created to dominate the wearers of the other Rings of Power to aid in Mairon's quest to subjugate and control other rulers in Middle-earth (and not to show everyone what a cool smith he is). Aside from this purpose, the One Ring functions as a sort of amplifier, working with and strengthening whatever abilities its current wearer has. It's impervious to damage and can only be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom where it was made, though it's possible such a feat could have also been achieved by the Valar, particularly Aulë.

The Silmarils are more akin to a science experiment or passion project. Fëanor was inspired to capture the light of the Two Trees after seeing Galadriel's hair and proceeded to research and experiment how such a feat might be achieved. They were hallowed so no mortal or evil hands could touch them and, after the death of the Two Trees, were the only way to restore them. Like the One Ring, they couldn't be simply broken or unmade and only Fëanor knew the exact process, though it's once again not impossible that the Valar could have done so, particularly Aulë.

⟡ Who was involved.

While the One Ring and the Silmarils were created by Mairon and Fëanor respectively, there was also some involvement from other parties.

As far as the One Ring is concerned, Mairon learned how to make a "ring" like this (his ring is obviously a ring and we've also heard of Morgoth's Ring which is not, so read "ring" as a metaphor/umbrella term here), or an "object infused with someone's power", from Melkor and his process of placing his spiritual essence within Arda. Being a former Maia of Aulë, we can also assume that Mairon learned the craft itself as well as potentially special techniques from Aulë.

As far as the Silmarils are concerned, the light came from the Two Trees of Valinor which were created by Yavanna and the hallowing was performed by Varda.

Thus, we can conclude that in both cases outside influences were involved, namely various Valar, and given how the Valar made the basic components of Arda (the planet itself, water, air, etc), it's pretty much impossible to create anything in Arda that you couldn't argue against being related to some Vala's domain in some way. That is not to take away from anyone's creative abilities or craftsmanship, it's simply a consequence of existing in a world that has demiurgic angels its architects.

⟡ Their historical impacts.

To say that the One Ring and the Silmarils were important artifacts within the history of Arda would be an understatement and to narrate their entire arcs would be beyond the scope of this post, as well as not very interesting.

I believe it suffices to say that both the One Ring and the Silmarils triggered arcs that spanned centuries and essentially dictated at least an entire age and were the main driving force of the plot, with many other events being chain reactions of the original conflicts sparked by the existence of these artifacts. They have influenced countless lives and ultimately led to the final defeat and downfall of a dark lord. Their historical impact was immense.

⟡ Their raw power/potential.

This is a bit of an iffy point of comparison, since power in the Tolkien universe is deliberately designed not to be a clearly quantifiable and comparable thing. Because of this, I'll also stay clear of commenting on the individual power of the creators and focus on power in terms of potency and potential of the artifact.

The One Ring acts, as previously mentioned, as an amplifier and is thus dependent on its wearer. Aside from being unable to be unmade outside of Mount Doom, it also appears to be able to expand and shrink to fit its wearer. When worn by mortals, it has the side effect of making them invisible. A powerful individual who successfully claims the One Ring, as in bending it to their will, could gain full access to its powers and attempt to control the bearers of the other rings; though in order to do that, they would have to overcome the will of Mairon whose essence is contained within the One Ring, a feat that Tolkien has stated to be impossible inside Mount Doom (unless maybe they're a Vala, and I personally think even a more powerful Maia would at least be at a high risk of succumbing).

The Silmarils are, due to their light and their hallowing, effective against evil and can ward off evil creatures or cause them grievous harm, even to Melkor. They're also the only way to restore the Two Trees of Valinor, a feat the Valar were unable to accomplish without them, and Yavanna herself cannot reproduce them in their entirety. Like the One Ring, they're pretty much indestructible and, while they don't seem to have a will of their own or one stemming from any of the parties involved, they have the tendency to influence the fates of those who own them, simply by way of being critically important to various parties and being lusted after. If one wants to take the (discarded) Second Prophecy as part of their personal canon, the Silmarils will also be used to restore the Trees at the end and thus aid in the healing of Arda.

⟡ Their allegiance.

I've touched on this aspect somewhat before, but for this point I'm going to take a quick look at how exactly these objects appear to have allegiances and how these may change or be turned.

The One Ring's true allegiance is Mairon, whose spiritual essence it holds. It serves its other wearers with the purpose of hopefully making its way back to him and will occasionally betray them, showing what could be a will of its own, though so far it's tied to Mairon's. It could be turned to serve another, if one individual possesses the power to do so, but this possibility has remained theoretical in the story and would, even if Mairon was defeated or even (partially) enslaved, still end in his favor insofar as that the new master of the One Ring would inevitably be corrupted by performing such an act. Thus, we can conclude that his safeguards were mostly sufficient and the ring remained faithful.

The Silmarils don't appear to have a will on their own on the same level and don't really have allegiances either. However, thanks to the hallowing certain parties are unable to touch them without being burned and withered; whether the hallowing, as far as the notion of evil is concerned, is tied to some abstract, objective moral standard or is connected in some way, shape or form to the will of Varda is unclear, but fact is that Eönwë's warning turned out to be accurate when Maedhros and Maglor were burned by the Silmarils. I would speculate that, if Fëanor had survived and been around at that time, he too would have been burned and go as far to suspect that this would have happened even if his first attack on Angband had been successful and led to a swift reclamation of the Silmarils, since he was already a kinslayer by that point. Thus, the Silmarils were no longer "faithful" to their original maker and his heirs.

⟡ Conclusion.

So where do we stand after considering all of the above points? I think that the One Ring and the Silmarils are on the same level regarding various aspects. As far as allegiance is concerned, I would say the One Ring has a bit of an edge as it never turned on or became unusable for Mairon; but as far as raw power/potential is concerned, I would say the Silmarils have the edge there because of their global importance in regards to the Two Trees and due to them holding the light of one of, if not a Vala's greatest work.

In my opinion, it really comes down to what you personally find more impressive - a tool for domination or the jewels of fate.

Nevertheless, comparing these two from various angles is fascinating and I frankly find it sad that such an interesting topic is more often than not reduced to some sort of character bashing or gotcha moment; which, in case that wasn't clear already, is NOT the purpose of this post. I'd be curious to hear what other aspects you would highlight and other comparisons you would draw, though would humbly request you respect the aforementioned purpose of this post (and what it's not).

As for the creators, let's say just this: Fëanor has made several great works and Mairon, while we know less about him overall due to the limited narrators of the Silmarillion, is a highly capable and intelligent individual too; one doesn't stay respected within the household of Aulë even after betraying him or become a teacher of Celebrimbor and the Gwaith-i-Mírdain for nothing. Neither of them is "stupid" or "trash" (as far as craftsmanship is concerned, what you think about their morals and personalities is a different story...).

Thanks for reading and I hope you found this post interesting and/or entertaining. I kept it more on the casual side since I thought it sufficient to get the point across and lots of people here know the lore required and don't need extra quotes.

taglist: @asianbutnotjapanese @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @blauerregen @destinyeternity1 @elanna-elrondiel

@just-little-human @urwendii @wandererindreams

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars: post v

The "Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils" bullet point AU is into its fifth post! Masterpost with links to all previous parts on tumblr (and on AO3, although that's lagging behind) here.

Part the twenty-sixth! The problem of Dorthonion.

Maedhros sends a letter to Beren.

I know you left Dorthonion long ago, he writes. But I fear Sauron may use his position there to attack Hithlum from the south. Have you any thoughts on how we can defend ourselves?

He includes his gracious thanks to Beren for returning the Silmaril to him, too, but Beren skims over these.

It was never about the Silmaril, really.

After he has read the letter twice over he sets it down with a troubled look and goes for an hours-long walk.

"Is Beren upset?" Túrin wants to know. "He said he'd play Dagor Bragollach with me."

Lúthien does not miss how tight the skin around Morwen's eyes go, hearing that.

"I don't know, dear," she says carefully. "He should be back soon. If not, I will play with you instead, one of the games we used to play when I was a girl before the Sun first rose."

Túrin seems to accept this as a compromise. He goes off to talk to old Sador while he waits.

Lúthien glances at Morwen, who is putting away the luncheon-dishes, having politely rebuffed Lúthien's offer of help. "He does not mean to make light of it," she says. "The battle, I mean. He is only a boy."

"I know that," Morwen says, rather sharply. Then she seems to regret her tone, for she takes a breath and says, more mildly, "So Maedhros Fëanorion is interested in Dorthonion, now?"

"It seems so," says Lúthien. "It would certainly be dreadful if a land which so many people love so well were to be turned into a stronghold of the enemy."

(The memory of Tol-in-Gaurhoth haunts her yet. Finrod loved that tower, once.)

"Well, yes," says Morwen. "But it already has been, has it not?"

Lúthien looks at her in surprise. "And so we must strive to retake it, surely," she says. "It is the land of your girlhood too! Do you not wish to see it restored?"

"Dorthonion is lost just as surely as my girlhood is," Morwen says firmly. "There is no use in mourning it."

"There is a use!" Lúthien protests. "If we do not fight, then – then Morgoth wins! It is all our duty to resist him, is it not?"

"Beren gave Dorthonion up," Morwen points out. "Even he could not hold it forever."

Lúthien lifts her chin. "Beren held Dorthonion far longer than anyone could have expected of him," she says. "And he was not wrong to do so."

Morwen just looks tired. "You say you were a girl before the Sun rose," she says. "Sometimes it seems to me you still are."

Lúthien thinks this rather unfair, but to her dismay Beren agrees with his cousin when he returns from his walk – at least insofar as Dorthonion is concerned.

"Let it go, Tinúviel," he says quietly. "Dorthonion is lost."

"And can it not be reclaimed?" Lúthien presses.

But the gaze her husband turns on her is filled with enough distress that she drops it.

"Maedhros does not want to restore Dorthonion," she points out. "Only be aware of its strengths, and how they might be turned against the Noldor."

"True," Beren says, with a sigh. "I can give him that."

He writes back to Maedhros, detailing the geography of his homeland as best he remembers it, the hidden pathways in which orcs might lurk, the high points of Ladros from which attackers can be seen for miles.

"What do you think?" Maedhros asks Fingon, making little marks on one of his maps with the new information.

Fingon is leaning over his shoulder, careful not to be seen touching him.

"We do not have the forces to launch an invasion," he says, with a frown.

"No," says Maedhros; "nor do I think it possible were we to have three times the people we do at present."

Fingon glances at him. "Dorthonion is not Angband," he says. "I do not think it unassailable, at some point in the future."

"Perhaps," says Maedhros, who sounds unwilling to argue. "All the same, Beren seems to think it would be easy enough for Sauron to assault Barad Eithel from the south, should he wish to do so. It would not be wise to leave those paths unguarded."

Fingon chews his lip thoughtfully.

The Noldor of Hithlum are diminished since the Dagor Bragollach, and they can expect little help from other quarters.

He does not want to divide his forces, when the main threat is still Angband in the north.

"The thing is," says Maedhros, "if I am right that Sauron dwells in Dorthonion – or Taur-nu-Fuin, to give it its true name—"

"Dorthonion is its true name," Fingon says.

Maedhros flashes him a smile and carries on. "If I am right"—and it is plain to see that he is sure he is—"then Sauron may not actually be in communication with Morgoth at present. But he will wish to regain the favour he has lost, I am sure. So we can expect attacks on both fronts: but not necessarily coordinated ones."

"That is not a very great advantage," says Fingon.

"But something!" says Maedhros. He looks cheerful. War-talk always brightens Maedhros: he likes to have a problem to turn over. "You might set up an outpost in the Fen of Serech. Our people know those paths better than the orcs do, and they will be able to give us advance warning when the attack comes." His mouth twists wryly. "That might have been enough to save us at Himring."

Fingon sighs. "It would not, as you well know," he says. "But that is good advice, Russo."

Maedhros puts a hand on his arm, a gesture as close to a caress as he dares in this crowded hall. "It is a problem," he says. "I will think on it, and see if I can come up with any better solution."

"Please do," says Fingon; "only, you might talk your ideas over with me, too. You need not solve all our problems alone."

"All right, my King," Maedhros says, with a smile, and his bright eyes follow Fingon as he heads off to begin his duties for the day.

Beren's was not the only letter that arrived at Barad Eithel today.

Do you think, Lúthien writes to Maglor, Morgoth's corruption can never be reversed? Must Dorthonion be nothing but a wasteland full of pestilence for ever more?

I might have thought so, after the Dagor Bragollach, Maglor writes in response, for it seemed to me then that our Doom, so long-delayed, might be catching up with us, and the Valar spoke truly when they said we could avail nothing against Morgoth's might. But you and Beren cut two Silmarils from his crown – so I think there is more hope in the world than we believed.

In that case, answers Lúthien, perhaps it is worth trying to cleanse the land: if not by strength of arms, then by Song, and courage, and hope.

She does not lay the suggestion out plainly, but Lúthien has never been very subtle, and Maglor understands her meaning well enough. You forget, he warns, that even Finrod fell under the Doom of the Noldor, and all his strength in Songs of Power availed him nothing against Sauron. And I his cousin am a Kinslayer. I do not think it is within me to drive Sauron from Dorthonion.

Not alone! is Lúthien's blithe reply. But you would not be alone. Did we not come to an accord: that fate need not bind you forever?

Perhaps that is going too far. Perhaps Morwen was right, and she is just a silly girl, and to hope is childish.

But when Maglor's reply arrives, he writes, I am growing to believe my Oath can be – if not broken, at least dissolved. If we shackled ourselves with words, surely we might un-shackle ourselves the same way. But I know not how, and meanwhile we still only have one Silmaril, and it cannot be held at bay forever.

I know not how either, answers Lúthien, but I think you are right, and moreover that you do have the strength to hold it at bay until we have found a solution. You did so in Menegroth, after all. Do not lose faith.

Maglor wants, very badly, to believe her.

"You write often to Lúthien," his brother observes, one afternoon.

"I think," says Maglor, "she might be a truer friend than either of us deserve."

Maedhros squeezes his wrist affectionately. "Not you," he says. And then, "What do you write to her about?"

"Different things," Maglor says. "Dorthonion. The Oath."

Maedhros looks at him swiftly.

"You cannot deny," says Maglor, "that it is a problem."

"No," says Maedhros, with a sigh. "No, I cannot deny that." He pauses. "What has Lúthien to say about it, then?"

"Only that she does not believe we are bound for ever," Maglor says thoughtfully.

"Káno," says Maedhros, and then he pauses. "I know – you said you did not wish to – but have you thought of asking her again? If she will speak to her father—"

"I have not asked her," says Maglor. Maedhros is standing tense and pensive beside his chair. Maglor leans his head against his brother's side and tries to explain. "Lúthien left her father's kingdom for a reason, Nelyo. I know not if Thingol will even listen to her. And besides—"

"Besides?" Maedhros prompts gently, after he is quiet for a while.

Maglor stares at his fingers. "It isn't the right answer," he says. "I don't know if I can explain why. Yes, that Silmaril does not belong to Thingol, and yet..." He looks up at Maedhros. "But I will ask her, if you command it."

Maedhros takes a sharp step back, and then another. "No. No!" His face is white. He takes a breath and smiles, with noticeable effort. "I am not your lord any more, Káno. Himring is fallen. You need not take command from me."

Maglor does not like the violence of his distress, and still less how swiftly he masked it.

"It was never about Himring, Nelyo," is all he says.

"Then what?" Maedhros asks, his voice low.

Instead of answering Maglor reaches out a hand, and after a moment Maedhros hesitantly comes close enough to touch again.

Maglor twines his fingers with Maedhros' and says, "I really do think there is a way out, Nelyo."

Maedhros manages another smile, and says nothing.

While all this letter-writing is going on we must turn our attention to a city that receives no letters at all (because nobody knows where it is).

Maeglin and his force of Gondolindrim are ready to depart.

"We do not know when the attack will come," Turgon says, "so do not reveal yourselves too hastily. Perhaps you will be able to return to Gondolin unheeded, if all goes well."

Maeglin hesitates. "Of course, uncle," he says smoothly.

He understands Turgon's caution, but he wants his glory! If Turgon will not be there to witness it, he wishes at least for tales of his exploits in battle to be carried home on many admiring tongues, to have all the city saying, Lord Maeglin – no, Prince Maeglin slew a dragon, and Prince Maeglin saved the High King's life, and Prince Maeglin's quickness of mind meant none had fewer losses than the Gondolindrim—

Perhaps Idril will smile to hear them, and favour him with an admiring look.

"I may be sending you forth too soon," Turgon says, troubled. "My brother fears an attack will come, but that does not mean—"

"Father," Idril says quickly, "think of how pointless it would be if the attack came before we were there, and Glorfindel, Rog and Maeglin ended up revealing our presence after everything was already lost. Better that they go now, by the secret ways in the mountains – there is no harm in their waiting there for a time, to see whence the Enemy will attack."

Turgon cannot deny the wisdom of this.

Maeglin can, and does, later. "You just want to get rid of me," he accuses, coming across Idril in the corridors of the King's House later that day.

"I see now why you are named for your powers of perception," Idril says, coolly; "they are mighty indeed."

"I might die," Maeglin says. "Shan't you be sorry then, Idril?"

"I have nothing to be sorry to you for," Idril says.

"You won't even let me leave you something to remember me by," Maeglin says. "I could make you a new foot—"

"We have been over this," Idril says. "I don't want a new foot, or anything else. Leave me alone, Maeglin."

Maeglin looks at her mithril prosthetic with disdain. "You are too sentimental," he says. "I could make you a far better one than that old thing."

"You're arrogant, certainly," says Idril, "but for all your confidence you are not yet the equal of Celebrimbor my cousin – either in the forge or in general agreeableness. If you do come back from all your heroic deeds, try to do so a kinder person. Or, better yet, don't come back at all."

Maeglin glares at her, but Idril walks away before he can respond.

The force sets out the next morning. Turgon sends them with his blessings, and with quiet, grave words of encouragement for the three commanders.

Maeglin and his House of the Mole have been working for some weeks, while the muster progressed, on making hidden tunnels through the Encircling Mountains, leading north from Tumladen to the Fen of Serech. They are not yet finished, but the army will hollow them out further as it journeys, and with all luck they will be able to return from the battle undetected.

It seems to Turgon, now, that he is sending his people – and his sister-son, Aredhel's only legacy! – into a gaping maw of darkness, and he knows not if they will ever return.

"I should be leading them," he tells his daughter, troubled.

Idril puts a hand on his arm, a gesture both stately and affectionate. "You are not doing wrong, Father," she says.

There is a little wobble in her voice. Alarmed, Turgon glances at her to see that there are tears in her eyes. "Itaril! What is the matter?"

Idril smiles and wipes at her eyes. "Nothing," she says quickly, "nothing."

"Are you worried for your cousin?" Turgon asks. "He is very young, I know, to command a whole force."

Idril chokes out a laugh. "Worried! No, I am not worried for Maeglin."

She looks down to where the force, arrayed in shining armour, is beginning to disappear into the tunnel.

Maeglin, slight and proud and dark-haired, is just visible at its head. He pauses to look back at her.

The sun gleaming bright off her golden hair, her chin lifted, her blue cloak whipping about her in the breeze: she is a promise, thinks Maeglin, or a challenge, or a guiding star.

Don't come back at all. Well, maybe he will not – or else he will come back worthy of her.

(to be continued)

[chlorine-and-daisies]

did the metatron only chose aziraphale as supreme archangel because of his connection to crowley?

in this essay i will make the case that metatron is inadvertently sowing the seeds of his own destruction!

i. metatron does not respect aziraphale

metatron looks down on other angels in general, sending the supreme archangels back to heaven like naughty children and calling muriel dim.

he treats aziraphale's bookshop as unimportant, passing it on to muriel last-minute without asking aziraphale who he would want as the successor (perhaps because aziraphale would have chosen crowley.)

he has some previous beef with crowley, as i'll get into later, so the way that he says casually that he knows aziraphale worked with crowley a few times is extremely disingenuous.

he says that as supreme archangel, aziraphale could restore crowley to angelic status.

notice two things.

a. metatron doesn't say "you can bring crowley" or "you should bring crowley" or "you and crowley can be together." he doesn't care about their relationship at all. a life with crowley is a perk of the job. just a way to sweeten the deal.

b. metatron specifically brings up angelic status. aziraphale is currently torn- he loves crowley and thinks crowley is good, but he also thinks only angels can be good. either crowley is meant to be an angel, or crowley is actually evil. and if crowley is actually evil not only does aziraphale have poor taste in men, but he is himself deserving to Fall by association. metatron is telling him clear as day- it's the former. you're okay, you're both okay, as long as you follow me and my rules. obviously this is still fucked up but to aziraphale a higher power has forgiven both him and the love of his life. this gives aziraphale so much relief, you can still see him bouncing and smiling on his way back into the bookshop to talk to crowley.

the offer is such targeted manipulation.

sorry to say this, but aziraphale- if the metatron hates your peers and your livelihood and your husband, he looks down on you as well, no matter how special he says you are.

think back to the oat milk latte. metatron puts aziraphale at ease by saying that he also eats/drinks (something that gabriel made fun of aziraphale for, something aziraphale associates with nina and crowley) but do we ever see metatron buying anything to eat or drink himself? they sit together talking and there is only one coffee at the table. between them.

it's all lies.

aziraphale was played like a fiddle while not even being the target that mattered, and it breaks my heart.

ii. aziraphale is not qualified for the job (at least not in the way you would expect)

the main thing aziraphale has that other angels don't is an appreciation for humanity. that is incredibly important but it is also a blind spot in heaven, because most of them treat humans like slightly more interesting ants. would the metatron, who wants to destroy all of humanity, think that aziraphale is a qualified leader because aziraphale is sympathetic to humans?

more generally, from heaven's perspective as of s2e6, what has aziraphale done to set him apart as a leader of angels? why is aziraphale the ideal choice to lead the second coming, when he spends all of his time reading books and eating sushi? when he's only a principality with no social capital whatsoever, and no way to defend himself as he doesn't have the flaming sword and his store is no longer a official heaven embassy?

the only time when he appeared to be a vaguely gifted angel was when he "survived hellfire" and i doubt that he would be appointed over that.

you love him, i love him, but the archangels hate him and want him to be removed from the book of life! so he's not going to be voted in by popular vote either.

iii. metatron has been bitter towards crowley for 6000 years

first metatron generally acts pretty snotty to crowley and refers to him simply as "demon." he asks if he recognizes him, crowley immediately implies that he does but he doesn't speak about their past.

then metatron tells aziraphale that as supreme archangel he would have the power to bring crowley to heaven as an angel. as i talked about before the primary goal of this is to manipulate aziraphale.

he doesn't actually want crowley in heaven or expect him to accept the offfer. how do i know that? because the second aziraphale admits that crowley denied the offer, metatron goes back to badmouthing crowley, saying that he "asked damn fool questions" when he was in heaven.

why does metatron hate crowley so much? well we can only speculate, but s2 has been FILLED with hints that crowley is extremely powerful and was Actually A Really Big Deal when he was still in heaven. others have made posts going into this in more detail but these hints include muriel's "throne, dominion or above" line, crowley being shown creating the stars, controlling the weather, and stopping time. most fan money is on crowley being either raphael or lucifer, i mean this guy is larger than life, and might even have been the first prince of heaven to fall that was mentioned in gabriel's trial.

metatron would have good reason to fear that kind od power, and there's a personal aspect to his hatred too because they knew each other in heaven. in other words- crowley asks annoying questions and is annoyingly powerful.

iv. conclusion and implications

hopefully by now i've convinced you that metatron doesn't respect aziraphale, and that aziraphale isn't exactly the ideal candidate for the supreme archangel job, and that metatron shows bitterness towards crowley.

connecting the dots:

why would you hire someone for a job when you don't respect him, and none of the existing managers would ever pick him to do that job?

maybe because you think you can manipulate him, and because you want to get back at his more powerful husband who you happen to hate.

aziraphale is not the guy you pick because you believe he can do great things- he's the guy you pick because you think he will eat up your propaganda, because you think he's not competent or connected enough to interfere with your plans, AND bonus points picking him make your enemy sadder and weaker

but metatron underestimates aziraphale and crowley.

aziraphale gave away the flaming sword. his love for humanity and the world and his lower principality status actually make him a great candidate to stop the second coming. because compared to gabriel, he is more likely to speak to other angels from all parts of the hierarchy, show them how amazing earth can be, and call for nonviolence.

also, if the aim is to take aziraphale away to get back at crowley and break both of their spirits...you think crowley is just going to accept aziraphale being damseled? it's classic in human stories for someone to come to save their captured partner and get even more powerful than they were before in the process, but metatron isn't human! he doesn't realize ~the power of love~!!!

once crowley realizes that he couldn't have just stolen away with aziraphale while the world that they care about was threatened, and aziraphale realizes that he has been deeply manipulated and taking crowley to heaven would have been both soul-crushing and impossible, they'll learn that they were in a no-win situation, and neither of them was in the wrong for the Final Fifteen going so poorly.

and then.

they'll try to find each other again.

and metatron's days in power will be numbered.

[ppnuggiex]

HIHII i see yoy dont have obey me content yet,, want me 2 change that😼😼 HOPE IM NOT DISTURBING U OR ANUTHINGF AND ALSO HOPE URE HAVING A NICE SUMMERR

but anywayy could i req hcs(and maybe a small scenario🙇‍♀️) of solomon and simeon(MAYBE DIAVOLO AND BARBATOS IF U WONT MIND,, IDM IF U DONT THO HUHU) with an insomniac/sleepy s/o that accidentally slept over at their place😻 IM SORRY IF U DONT UNDERSTAND,, BUT AS IN THEY WERE INVITED TO THEIR ROOM BUT COULDNT HOLD BACK FROM SLEEPING SINCE THEY HAVENT SLEPT😞😞

sorrei 4 making this so long,,im chatty asf for an introvert omg😭😭 BUT YEYESY THAT'S ALL🤍🤍 LOVE UR WORK VHAI VHAI🙇‍♀️

　　　　　　OBEY ME x gn reader

　　　　『　solomon ,, simeon ,, diavolo ,, barbatos ,, gender neutral reader 』

　　-> side characters w/ sleepy or insomniac s/o

　　— fluff ,, sfw ,, comfort

　　— HIII OMG TYSM ♥️♥️♥️ glad to have my first obey me ask :) i am having a great summer 💪💪 though i start school next week 😭😭 so not too happy about that ,, tysm for requesting though :D i did all of them 😈😈 and its alr !! no worries abt being chatty 😝 i dont mind it one bit !! heres the request tho :) hope you enjoy <3

- solomon

| • he knows how the brothers run you ragged ,, and so he doesnt mind if you happen to fall asleep whilst staying over with him

| • if anything ,, it gives him an excuse to stay with you longer ,, stealing a few extra hours ,, and if one of the brothers do call he can say youre asleep

| • solomon did call you over so he can teach you more about a certain spell you had questions about

| • he'd pick you up from where you had fallen asleep and take you to his room ,, placing you under the covers so you'd be comfortable and warm at least

| • he'll place a kiss to your head and then go to the kitchen and make you something ,, until simeon stops him

- simeon

| • he wouldnt mind one bit if you happened to fall asleep ,, hes thankful for it really ,, since he knows how hard you work and how little time you get to yourself

| • he just wants you to be happy and healthy ,, and being well rested goes with that

| • simeon would make sure that youre comfortable ,, put a blanket over you and a pillow under your head

| • whilst your sleeping he makes you a little snack for you when you wake up ,, so you can have something to enjoy and refill your energy with

- diavolo

| • he had finally gotten some free time with his tight schedule and didnt waste a moment before he invited you over to watch some movies from the human world he's been interested in watching

| • barbatos helped to make popcorn and other snacks for you both ,, and even gave diavolo a quick tutorial how to use the remote and the tv 💀💀

| • diavolo isnt too upset that you fell asleep halfway through the movie though ,, hes mostly upset you havent been able to take care of yourself and in result its made you lose sleep

| • he keeps you under the cover and all cuddle up though ,, pressing many kisses to your head as he finishes up the movie

| • he might also nap with you when he gets a little too cozy

- barbatos

| • he already knew how tired you were before he invited you over ,, really it was the whole reason he did

| • having a little free time to himself for a bit ,, after finishing his duties for the hour that is ,, he invited you over with the intention of you sleeping

| • he made a special tea blend that increases melatonin and is meant to put people to sleep or make them drowsy ,, really just in general help them sleep

| • he'll coax you over to his bed and let you sleep whilst he finishes his duties for the upcoming hour

| • barbatos also has a few treats left out for you on the bedside table ,, with a spotch of tea to help awaken you and restore your energy

[oonajaeadira]

This Will Be The Day That I Spy - Part 1: Blindsided

Fandom: Kingsman: The Golden Circle / Jack Daniels

Pairing: Jack Daniels x f!reader

Reader: Bold, smart female, not easily fazed, always open for an adventure. Has a chemistry degree and is a spirits distiller by trade. No physical descriptions, no use of y/n.

Rating: T

Warnings: darkness, enclosed spaces, and Jack Daniels being a flirt.

Summary: A blind date with Jack Daniels does not go according to anyone’s plan…and that’s what makes it interesting.

A/N: For my March entry for Year of Tropes  as part of @yearofcreation2023​ we’re going for BLIND DATE+. The + is there because I couldn’t decide between two tropes for this fic, so there will be another one tackled in part two.

It was the construction that pushed you in the door to the swanky Manhattan high-rise. Ginger wasn’t kidding, this guy must be loaded. Not your usual fare, rich guys, but Ginger assured you he was a sweet, Southern gentleman…if you could get past the hokey name. And the corny compliments. And something about a belt buckle….?

“I’m not looking for a sugar daddy, Ginge,” you’d pleaded over the video call. “If that’s what he’s expecting–”

“It’s not. Believe me. I only suggested he meet with you to springboard your network in New York and look over your portfolio. He’s impressed with your background and your work at Herlot Watt, but…” your old friend’s lips pressed together in an otherwise controlled flickered moment of frustration, “then he saw your picture and asked me what you were like when we were in college and I figured I’d just cut to the chase and set you up. One thing you should know about Jack is that he thinks he’s being subtle. But that man is never subtle.”

“So you’re saying he’s rich but tedious and you think that’s a good match for me.”

“No! I’m sorry. No.” She adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses, doing her best to hide a knowing smile. “Jack is…he tries. He’s a romantic at heart. He really is. But he’s been alone too long and I think he knows it.”

“Wait. Is this that CEO that flirts with every woman he sees? That one boss that irritates you to hell???”

Ginger let out a long, measured breath. “Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“You forget that I was trained in a multitude of forensics. And I know when you’re lying.”

“You know when I’m lying because we shared an apartment and you’ve held my hair while I was puking.”

“That too.” Ginger was never known for having a tender heart, but every once in a while, she’d let you see it. “Listen, dearest. I promise you, his personality fills up a room. But I’ve known him long enough to see that it’s a diversionary tactic. He’s got a deep core of honor in him. And if you meet him and sparks don’t fly, he will still open doors for you in the distilling biz, I promise.”

“This is the Manners Maketh Man guy, isn’t it.”

“I didn’t realize I’d told you so much about him.”

“Less told and more complained. You’re throwing me to the wolves here, Ginge. At least tell me he’s good looking.”

One sly corner of her mouth raised. “He does alright. I think you’ll find him acceptable to your tastes.”

“What’s that look for??”

“Nothing,” she cooly mused, “I’m just curious to see if my hypothesis is correct. Friday night, 7pm, rooftop restaurant of the Calgary Suites. I’ll send you the coordinates. Enjoy.”

As she leaned forward to end the call you told her to “wait–I’m not one of your experiments!” but with a click she was gone, nothing but a white afterimage on a black screen in glorious negative relief.

Well. If nothing else, he sounded like a challenge. And you like a good challenge.

So on a balmy Friday night you found yourself gaping up up up the reach of the Calgary against the twilit sky, towering over Central Park at your back, smelling the reek of a life too expensive for your tastes and instinctively turning on your heel to walk away.

What stopped you was the restoration scaffolding enclosing the building under which you were standing. Or rather, the way it shuddered. And the way a large pole fell on its end with a clang to the sidewalk where you’d just passed a moment ago, tipping slowly out into the street. Nobody was hurt but the screams and concrete crack and sudden blaring of horns spelled out a true disaster in front of you.

Where someone else might have been rattled and shocked, all it did was give you perspective.

Fuck it. Let’s do this. Can’t be a worse disaster than this, right?

“I can call up for you, ma’am. What suite?” The doorman at your elbow brings you back to the moment.

“Uh, no, uh, I’m sorry. Daniels? I’m actually meeting him at the rooftop restaurant.”

“This way, ma’am. So sorry about all of this.” He seems nervous, a little shaken by the victimless accident outside, anxious to put all to rights and it looks like you’re something he can fix. You follow him to the elevator bank, letting the sleek extravagance of the lobby wash over you.

Once an elevator arrives, there’s a swipe of a key card, a little door opens to a small button that gets tapped, a friendly nod, and the doorman backs out of the elevator, smiling as the door quietly slides shut.

Well. That decides that then. Might as well just ride this out.

Looking at your reflection in the polished doors, you try to see yourself for the first time. Are you shoddy looking? At least clean and tidy? Would you ever find yourself really fitting in at a place like this? A little lip tint might help, if for nothing than confidence…

In an attempt to look at anything but yourself, you reach into your purse to find a gloss or lipstick or balm, something with some color, and are so occupied that when the elevator stops and the doors open, you simply step back and to the side to let the new passenger in.

Once you’re in upward motion again, you find what you’re looking for, turning to apply it in the reflection of the polished wall. Finishing and taking in the final effect, a smooth baritone rolls from behind you.

“Pardon me, ma’am, but are you–”

You just start to turn–just enough time to catch a black Stetson and tie, a charcoal blazer and painted-on denim, just enough time to register the deep chestnut hair and mustache, just a fleeting twinkle of a dark eye and a silver buckle–before the world goes black.

A jolt shakes the box you’re in and it comes to a rude halt, then another harsher one as the generator initially kicks in but fails before it’s begun, and you feel yourself stumbling backward through a pitch black void, banging your shoulder and then head against a polished metal wall.

“Owwwwww.” A bright light pierces the blackout; not from the spark of pain but rather a phone flashlight. “Hey!”

“My apologies,” your fellow passenger says and the light swings out of your eyeline. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just…surprised.”

“Okay, that’s good. Hold on a minute, sugar.” The light goes out, replaced by the display backlight shining onto the man. It’s dimmer, but you can make out his thumb tapping out a few numbers and the line of a strong jaw as he lifts the phone up to his ear. “We’ll see what’s spooked the horses.” A few distant rings. A few more.

Sugar? Sugar?? Excuse him??? Wait. No. Wait. Is he–

A distant answer through the phone. “Sir?”

The man is calm and steady, respectful and patient. “Howdy, Jones. I’m in elevator 3 with another passenger and we’re in a stall and blackout. What’s the situation?”

“I’m so sorry, sir! We think it might be the construction outside, perhaps a wiring issue. There was an accident. We’re working to get it fixed as soon as we can. Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, we’re fine. No worries. You wanna call up top and let them know I’m going to be late for my reservation?”

“Of course Mr. Daniels. Although, they’ll be in blackout too; the whole building is… Oh! Your guest was just–”

“Yes, she’s in here with me. I believe…” He turns to face you in the shadows as if he can see you past the light of his phone.

The silence that follows is a bit too long and fills itself with the collection of regrets–the outside accident, the elevator stop, the darkness, being stuck in a box with the potential employer slash begrudgingly blind date that you’d rather meet under literally any other circumstance. What a disaster.

And then you realize that the silence is too long and it’s your fault, that he’s waiting for you to confirm who you are and you stutter out a “Yes. Yes, it’s me, I’m…I’m your–” just as he is about to ask you again.

“Yeah, it’s her, Jones. I got ‘er.”

“I guess that’s both a good and bad thing, sir. But at least you both have company, right?”

“Jones.”

“Sorry, Mr. Daniels. Just trying to make light. Ha! No pun intended!” The doorman’s laugh roars and then awkwardly fades through the receiver. “We’ll do our best to get you up and running again, sir.”

An abrupt return to absolute blackness comes when the call ends and you hear a small shuffle as he puts his phone back into his blazer pocket. Then there’s a beep--like a notification--but he doesn’t answer it. “Well shit, you went through the effort to put the last shine on the boot and I don’t even get to enjoy it.”

“The…boot?”

“The lipstick? Your face.”

“Excuse me?” Ooof. This guy really has some kind of cowboy schtick going on. 

A chuckle in the darkness. “I’m Jack. Ginger’s told me a lot about you. Said you had some bite.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Daniels,” you say, hoping your voice carries a smile rather than the tingle in your spine. “I assure you I’m harmless. If there was light, I’d shake your hand.”

“I prefer Jack. And if there was light, I’d most likely kiss your cheek in a gentlemanly manner.”

Wow. Wasting no time in the flirtation then. From any other strange man in close proximity, this should be too forward. But incredibly, intuitively, you know he means no harm. Ginger wouldn’t hook you up with anyone who was a threat, and obviously he knows that any bad step on his part would be reported.

But it is his voice that gives you calm. His voice in the dark. Deep. Mannerly. Steady. With a twang that is on track to becoming a big distraction.

You’re self aware enough to realize you made a mistake on your way here. You had already decided that the date was a minor hurdle to get through in order to meet your networking goal, that these business types weren’t your style and that you’d shake hands and leave with nothing more than a little professional support.

It had been a subliminal, foregone conclusion. At no point had you seriously expected to have your head turned.

But he’s said all of a few sentences to you–all of them polite, gentle, and smoothly southern…

…And it’s working on you.

You can feel your face start to burn and even though it’s impossible to see anything in any direction, you still smile hard in the direction of your shoes. It would be nice to be kissed on the cheek by a man with that voice. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all?

“You still with me, darlin’?” It’s smooth and sweet, a perfect balance of charm and attempting not to be a threat or take up the whole room, even as tiny as it is.

“Hmm? Oh, yes… I was just wondering,” you peer in his direction out of habit, trying to find him in the void, “what brought you here.”

The careful calm cracks and a little cornball shows through. “Well you did, sugar. I believe we had a blind date. Although, this is awfully literal.”

You can feel your face squinching up, suppressing a laugh–a hopeless endeavor that fails–and it’s pleasantly surprising at how instantly you are won over. “I meant Manhattan! I assume you’re not from here…your accent…”

“Ah that,” he purrs, laying it on thicker for your benefit. “I am a Southern boy born and bred. But someone had to run Statesman’s New York branch, so I slung myself into the saddle, and here I ride.”

“I suppose the cowboy act is helpful for the brand….charming investors…subliminal suggestion of authenticity…”

There’s a sharp intake from his corner. “Sweetheart! I can assure you there is no act. I grew up on a fair few ranches and have one myself.”

“Really? With the horses and everything.”

“With the horses and everything. Did you say ‘charming?’”

There’s something so freeing about knowing your expressions are masked. But no doubt the delight comes through. “Can you do lasso tricks?”

“I might know a few.”

How does he do sincere and suggestive at the same time? Ginger said he wasn’t subtle, but he certainly has nuance.

The sudden image of a tall, dark, handsome cowboy and his lasso running around New York sends your imagination rolling though. Clapping a hand over your mouth to hide your sudden smile isn’t necessary, just a reflex. Thank god he can’t see what a giggling mess he’s making of you.

He’s ridiculous.

And you love it.

What on earth has gotten into you?

Too fast. Too fast. Calm down.

“So..has this happened before?”

Your question hangs in the darkness.

And then....keeps hanging.

He’s been quick to respond up until now. Did you say something wrong? Is he thinking back? It’s hard to say why, but his pause raises the hair on the back of your neck.

But it’s only a matter of seconds before he gently eases the silence open. “What do you mean by that, sugar?”

“Ah…the elevator? Does it break down like this often? You don’t seem particularly stressed out by it.”

“I would point out that you seem pretty calm yourself.”

You shrug needlessly. “There’s no reason not to be. There’s ventilation. Standard codes will have a secondary cable system in place and there’s no way we can fall unless the cords are severed, which is unlikely. Worst case scenario is that we have to hand pry the door open and either crawl up or drop down… I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that, but I’m sure the both of us could handle it. The only reason I’d have to be afraid is because I’m trapped in a lightless box with a man I don’t know and might need to defend myself.”

“And I bet you could defend yourself.” His drawl deepens when he’s delighted.

Noted.

“I have a feeling I’m not going to have to.”

“No, ma’am.” There’s a shared, sweet and nervous laugh between you and you have a distinct image in your mind of those dark eyes crinkling at the edges. You’d wager he has a beautiful smile. You’d wager more that he has a cowboy grin–lopsided and dopey, but somehow just as charming as that twang. And just as you’re reminding yourself to slow down your flirting again, it seems he’s had the same thought. “These old buildings do have their quirks. A breakdown isn’t unheard of. So...how does a master distiller know so much about elevator mechanics?”

“Well, first of all, just ‘distiller.’ I’d like to be a master someday. Furthest I’ve been is head distiller. Secondly, I’m sure Ginger told you that we were undergrad together, started off on the same track, but I stuck with the chemistry and she went into the physics… we kind of learned a lot from each other. I don’t remember talking about elevators specifically? But it’s funny what just happens to stick in the memory banks.”

“I see.” Strange. He seems slightly perplexed with that answer and lets his reaction drag as if he’s formulating his follow up question. “And then you took off for Herlot Watt.”

“That’s right.”

“What sticks in your memory banks about that?”

Ah. He’s switched to the more professional side of the questions. That can be appreciated. After all, Ginger did say that he could help you along even if the date didn’t go well. And since it seemed almost certain to go well, it’s gentlemanly for him to save it for better lighting–with a table and a meal between you--and spend this trapped time getting the dryer and safer questions out of the way.

“Well, my postgraduate studies were–”

“Oh I know about your studies. I’ve read. I’m talking about your time in Ed-in-burrow. Did you enjoy it there? What’s something you learned that wasn’t taught in their books?”

“Edinburgh is beautiful. The history, the shadows and light…I can still smell the bitter florals of the old perfumery from the little side street I lived on…I guess I learned… well, I mean, the air is in the whiskey there. And I learned that you can’t force a spirit to be what it’s not. Every spirit you distill will have its history in it–the local water in the wash, the particular ions in the soil that grow the barley in your mash, the sweetness or bitterness of the wood used for the barrels…even those change from forest to forest in the same region. If you pay enough attention, you can see the thread of the chemical makeup in each spirit as you drink it, each one unique, even if you don’t have the knowledge of its path to the present, you still know there’s a signature experience there…”

Another long silence.

“Sounds like you’re pretty perceptive to your senses and your surroundings.”

“Your cologne has cedar and tonka in it, I can tell you that.”

An amused chuckle that ends in a drawn out note, “Well shit. Thus ends the interview section of our meeting. I’m sure Statesman can put your talents to good use.”

“Oh, I’d love that–”

“But tell me. Did you ever get out of the city? Go exploring the countryside?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. If I was too wound up in studies, I’d pick the closest castle on the map I hadn’t gone to yet and go take a drive out to the country. It was gorgeous. That became like my little pastime and reward all wrapped up in one.”

“You ever visit the North Berwick area?”

It takes you a moment to scan your mental map. “On the coast? Yes, actually, Tantallon Castle was kind of a go-to place when I needed to get out of the city and spend some time by the sea. Do you know it?”

“I do, actually. So you’re familiar with the area.”

“Oh yeah. There’s a little abbey hotel I booked a few long weekends in that had the best meat pies I’ve ever had. The woman who ran the place had this little Westie she’d dress in a tartan that she’d allow me to walk in the mornings on my roamings…” It’s a happy memory, one you wish had more time to pour over, but don’t have the advantage of reading his expression to know if it would be boring or not. “Wow. I haven’t thought about that place in a while.”

“You think you still know how to get around?”

You blink in the dark. An odd question. “I…think so?”

“Would you like to go back?”

Something’s wrong, and your eyebrows know it as surely as you do, pulling together as you try to keep your voice casual and innocent. “I…guess I wouldn’t mind a visit? Why? Would Statesman Distillery require me to have more training?”

Tilting an ear to him, you listen hard. A shift of feet or a shallow breath or a change in speaking tempo can belie a lot and he’s suddenly being strangely persistent in this questioning line.

“Not exactly. Ginger said you were pretty good with the dialect in that area.”

“It’s thick, but it’s not like it’s Glaswegian.”

“But she said you were a good mimic.”

“That’s…weird. Why would she tell you that?” Your senses go on full alert.

“You ever ramble on through the caves in the cliffside there?”

“I heard there were caves, but I’d never gone, don’t want to get sucked in by high tide.” What the hell kind of questions are these?

“You ever meet a man at the University name of Barclay–”

“What?”

“No. You stop! I’m ending this.”

The sharp retort is an abrupt change in character from the urban cowboy you’ve just started to get to know, and you naturally step back and put your hands up in a defensive stance. “I…what? Did I say something–”

Your companion’s voice suddenly gains an edge, authoritative, impatient, an irritation gradually salting the earth. “Yes, I can see that. Listen, I can trust your word on this but you know patience is not my main quality and she’s not dumb. Look at her. She’s seein’ through all of this already so I would appreciate the opportunity not to beat around the bush this one time. Yes, I know! But this is my assignment now and drawing this out is not the way to build trust–”

“Ah…excuse me? You can see what, exactly?”

“--no signs of stress, high perception, the skills are there! I know what I’m about and the damage is done. Turn on the damn lights, Ginger.”

Squinting against the sudden brightness as the elevator lights flicker on, you catch sight of Jack Daniels across from you in full for the first time. You weren’t mistaken, he is decidedly handsome and well-kempt, big hands on slim hips, head tilted back and watching you intently with dark eyes through the bottom of his glasses…

You don’t remember seeing the glasses.

“Over speaker, Ginger. She can’t hear you though the tech.”

Your friend’s tense voice reverberates from above. “Yes, thank you I know.”

“Ginge?” you ask into the air. “What the hell.”

“My old friend…I’m so so sorry about this. This isn’t really how I wanted this to go. I promise you there’s an explanation. I need you to breathe. And relax. You’re going to break that railing, sweetie.”

You suddenly take stock of your back pressed against the metal walls of the elevator, hands gripping the brass railing that runs along at waist height like you need to brace yourself, a contradiction to a fight or flight response. “Wait.” Your gaze bounces to the four corners of the ceiling searching for a camera. “You can see me?”

Jack taps the frame of his glasses and the notification sound you’d heard earlier in the dark pings again. Sliding them off his face, folding them in a huff and jamming them in his breast pocket he smirks, “Not anymore, she can’t.”

“Whiskey–”

“Dammit, Ginger… You gonna do this, or am I?”

There’s a tense moment as Jack glares you down and your friend heaves an audible sigh.

“Jack is going to explain some things. It’s going to be a lot, but I’m going to need you to trust him. Like you trust me.”

“I don’t understand–”

“I know, dearest. But you will.”

Turning to Jack Daniels, you find him easy, smiling, and extending a hand across the small space toward you, putting on all the charm. “Let’s start over. Howdy. I’m Jack Daniels, CEO of the New York branch of Statesman Distilling, and high-ranking operative for the covert espionage agency it covers. Code name: Whiskey.”

You find yourself reaching for him through your shock, propelled by Ginger’s assurance, Jack’s return to confidence and warmth, and your own curiosity kicking in. “Espionage…. You’re a spy?”

“Yes ma’am,” he winks as his fingers curl around yours. “Ginger too, if you can believe it. And–wouldn’t you know it–we’re recruiting.”

“They just called in a reboot of the whole building system,” Ginger warns. “It will probably be fifteen minutes before that takes. I can reliably give you ten. Without interruption, Jack should be able to tell you what you need to know, so keep your questions for the dinner table. I’ll scramble the mics and be back right before go.”

Dropping your hand to tap a button on his overlarge watch, Jack nods. “In ten, copy. Now then, sugar,” he hums at you, “let’s begin with Statesman.”

Over the following ten minutes, Jack explains the agency that coexists with the whiskey business, as well as its several fraternal organizations throughout the world, how Ginger came to be a part of it, why she had to keep it a secret from you, and will continue to do so if you decline the invitation to join–memory wipe, painless, no big deal, done right here in the elevator and the date continues as if none of this happened. But the background checks and paperwork are all done, you’ll need minimal training, and there’s time for that before you depart for your mission in Edinburgh–

“Mission? Wait. What? I thought you wanted me to work in the distillery–”

“Of course,” Jack explains, “there’s that too, but we need your skills and expertise and boots on the ground for this one. You know the area, as an alum you have an in at the University. You don’t have to do anything tactical. Not to worry, that’s my department and I’ll be right there with you–”

“So this was all some elaborate set up for what? To feel me out? Some kind of stress test?”

His thumbs hook into his belt loops as he settles into one hip, his chin chasing a raised eyebrow. “Why? Do I cause you stress, darlin’?”

Oh shit. That pulls your reins up short. You have no answer to this. Well. None that you’d like to admit out loud anyway. His chest is so broad. And it’s right there. And his shirt pulls against it when he stands like that…

Beside the point. Focus.

“But…why on earth would you want a spirits chemist on a spy mission?”

A wry smile pulls at one corner of his mustache as he catches you looking. “You said so yourself; there’s a lot of useful stuff in that memory bank of yours.”

“Yes, but–”

“Are you seriously underestimating the importance of chemistry?”

You might have protested further, made him understand that chemistry is noble but that you can’t wield it like a weapon; you use it for mixing compounds not for unveiling secrets. But the gentle swagger with which he closes the gap between you stops the words from coming. And the smooth and measured way he pulls you  into the circle of his arms stops your head from thinking. All this just before he presses his lips to your cheek….

In a gentlemanly manner.

Ah. That chemistry.

“Is this…still a date?” You don’t mean to whisper, but your voice seems to be on an inconvenient hiatus. 

His cheek hums next to yours, honeyed twang circling your ear. “Seems a shame to waste a good dinner reservation. And good company. You disapprove?”

“No. But,” pulling back an inch or two, you swallow and do your best not to look him in the eye at this close proximity. Somehow, that’s supposed to keep him from hearing your heart booming. “I thought you said you’d wipe my memory before this continues as a date.”

“I never said the two scenarios were mutually exclusive. There’s no rule says agents can’t co-mingle. And if there were such rules…well, shit,” tipping his head down to hook your eye, “They’ve never built a fence this buck can’t jump.”

“Seems unprofessional.”

“That’s what makes it fun, sugar.”

“Jack! I leave you alone for ten minutes–” Ginger’s chiding echoes from the speaker above. “You’re deviating from the plan.”

He steps back to assess your bemused smile. “I beg to differ. I told you I’d be flirtin’ to get what I want. Never specified that ‘what I want’ stopped at information.”

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea so soon–”

“I do, Ginge,” you call into the air while holding Jack’s steady gaze. “How did you put it? ‘Acceptable to my tastes?’ You know me better than anyone. I find it hard to believe that you’d trap me in a box with a sturdy, handsome man of mystery and expect me not to rise to the challenge.”

In the short silence that follows, you can almost hear Ginger fume. You can certainly see Jack grin.

“Jack. If you mess this up or hurt her, I will replace your entire glandular system with a colony of pigeon ticks.”

He gives a stoic nod, mostly for your benefit. “Odd choice of pest, but copy that. In the meantime–”

He makes it official by stepping forward and offering an elbow.

And you seal the deal by looping your arm through it.

“--order up. One box of Whiskey and Rye to the rooftop patio.”

You can’t recall the last time you gave over to the power of “well hell why not” like this. There’s something about him that is instantly trustworthy and you can’t wait to find out what it is. In the meantime, the reflection that you two make in the elevator doors tells you all you need to know; it’s a story in itself, an epic meet cute, an adventure in the making.

There’s a lurch as the elevator begins to climb, but this time you stay steady on your feet; he makes sure of that.

As the doors slide open, the picture of you on the arm of this new challenge splits to reveal a quiet patio restaurant under the stars. All the tables are empty but for the one in the center–a lone candle burning, and a setting for two.

“An arranged elevator stall. A fully reserved restaurant. The offer of a job and possible espionage. What else do you have up your sleeve, cowboy?”

As an answer, he flexes slightly, his bicep pushing at the blazer fabric under your hand. “Possible espionage? You still havin’ doubts? You hold onto these guns, sugar, and follow my lead. I will happily persuade you.”

Stepping out into the night together, you close your eyes and let him guide you to the table. “You know what, cowboy? I think I might happily allow you to.”

A chuckle. “What do you reckon? Best blind date ever?”

“Best blind date ever.”

________

MASTERLIST

CHARACTER MASTERLIST

[humbledragon669]

S1E6 – The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives P1 - up to the dissolution of the Horsemen

Well can you believe it? The last episode of the first season! And the first thing I want to make a note of is… the episode title. I really struggle to make sense of it because, linguistically, the only way something can be the very last of the rest of anything, is if it’s the very last of the thing at all. I can sort of make this idea make sense if I look at it from the perspective of the end of episode 5, where Armageddon is starting, and it does very much look like the world is about to end on that particular day, but it feels pretty woolly to me. Neil has been asked about this particular episode title before, but his answer did not help me wrap my head around the concept. In fact, it just made things worse:

Nope. No, I’m sorry, but that makes literally no sense. Anyway, I don’t want to get hung up on the little details... Hey, didja notice how Crowley (aka Aziraphale) greets his trial panel in exactly the same way as he greets Hastur and Ligur in the graveyard?

And that throw away line about getting some houseplants is pretty telling when you remember that  it’s actually Aziraphale delivering that line (oh, spoiler alert there I guess, but I would have thought that anybody reading this far into the labyrinth of my brain wanderings is probably going to have seen this show at least once before). It shows that Aziraphale knows exactly what the inside of Crowley’s flat contains, and that the only thing he would care about enough to actually furnish a space is houseplants. One thing I do question though, is how Aziraphale would know who Hastur and Dagon are. He definitely would have known who Beelzebub is, saw her on the tarmac at the airbase in fact, but those two? I don’t know when he would have come into contact with them before, particularly in their demon forms. Crowley could have given him a description of as many of the named demons as possible I suppose, but it’s a bit thin as a theory goes. But more curious is presence of the montage at this point in the episode.

It’s just short of 7 seconds long, and takes place less than 2 minutes into the episode. It also happens to contain the entire storyline for the episode in reverse. Shots of Aziraphale (Crowley really) tied up in Heaven, Aziraphale and Crowley in the park together, the Bentley and book shop in their respective restored state, Adam with Aziraphale and Crowley complete with wings, Satan breaking through the tarmac – it’s all there. It even comes complete with those fuzzy little lines that you used to see when you were rewinding a video back in the days of VHS (yes, I do actually remember that) to show that we’re watching events in reverse. It’s not like we haven’t seen montages used to represent the passing of time in this show before, but this is the first time it’s been done with parts of the story that we, the audience, haven’t yet seen. It goes by pretty fast so it’s not like you’d be able to work out the plot by watching it in real time, but I think it’s a risky play nonetheless.

Next curious thing in this episode. The music playing from Crowley’s Bentley as he approaches the gates of the airbase is different to what we heard in the previous episode. It’s the same song, but it’s a different section. Not only that, but the music continues playing from inside the car after he closes the door, whereas in the previous episode the slamming of the door cuts the stream of music off abruptly. There is nothing else different about this rendition of the scene from the one at the end of the previous episode as far as I can see but it’s a subtle difference that I find interesting, especially when you consider how many of the beings involved in the events leading up to Armageddon come to have somewhat blurry memories of what happened.

I have to say, the depth of Crowley’s grief at the loss of the Bentley came as something as a surprise to me when I first watched this show.

It’s true, we’ve seen him driving the car a fair amount in this season, and we saw him repairing the dents and other assorted damages following his collision with Anathema in episode 2, we even saw him giving it a pep talk as he willed it through the flames in the previous episode, but he talks about it here almost like a pet.

You were a good car.

But if I was surprised at Crowley’s response to the Bentley’s demise, I was more surprised at Aziraphale’s refusal to allow the demon to grieve purely because he still thinks of himself as “the nice one”. Well, mate, for someone who’s supposed to be inherently “nice”, you aren’t showing an awful lot of compassion here, and towards the being in the whole of existence that means the most to you too. Honestly, there are a lot of times I have been quite forgiving (no pun intended) of the angel’s behaviour because he genuinely believes in his own goodness, but I struggle with this. WHY IS HE BEING SUCH A PRICK? And who said he had to send the soldier anywhere (complete with magical miracle noise, in case you missed it), or harm him in any way? He could just have miracled the gun away, or slid him into unconsciousness like Death and Adam have already done with entire groups of soldiers. Is he just so used to Crowley doing all the footwork in situations like these that he’s lost the ability to think for himself? Or is it that him being “the nice one” is part of their agreed partnership, and that’s the role that the two of them have agreed he will play, not because that’s what he inherently is, but because that’s what makes the most sense and would usually be the most comfortable role play for them? Perhaps it really is the latter, because it’s not too long before we see Crowley make a conscious decision to resume the role that he is being expected to play.

I can’t help but feel like the incoherent noises that Crowley makes are his attempt at trying to ask Aziraphale to deal with this next group of soldiers because he’s not done grieving. I should think he knows he’s pushed his luck on that front a bit too far when his bumbling is greeted with this look from Aziraphale/Madame Tracy:

That is the face of woman/man/angel that is not to be dicked about with. And he knows it, giving himself a pep talk and asserting his position in a way that almost makes it sound like it was his idea in the first place. Almost.

Side note: there are a couple of lines missing from the original script here that I feel very sore that we didn’t get to see:

CROWLEY: Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new body? MADAME TRACY/AZIRAPHALE: Yes. Right. Madame Tracy, this is Crowley. He’s… Well, we’re sort of business associates.

Sad as I am that we didn’t get to see those lines, the tirade of double entendre from Aziraphale telling Shadwell to brandish his weapon so that they can “lick butt” almost makes up for their absence. Watching Crowley’s physical reaction because of his choice of words goes the rest of the way.

It’s interesting that he manages to use this phrase at all, even if it not only looks but sounds as if he’s about to throw up; he couldn’t even bring himself to say the word “Heaven” when he was screaming in the book shop earlier that same day.

Quick note about R.P. Tyler: this really is one strange little individual. He seems to think that a child causing damage to some plants is equivalent to that same child waltzing into a highly classified military air base. Eejit.

We’re taking a quick visit to the soundscape again, inclusive of an Easter egg. I am in no way surprised at the use of a harmonica at the beginning of this scene, particularly given the stage directions provided in the script:

The feeling here is spaghetti western.

I am not of the age that I would remember the original film and scene that this is clearly an homage to (the “Man With a Harmonica” stand-off scene from Once Upon a Time in the West), but I have been to my fair share of Muse concerts (I think I’m in double figures now), listening to the “Man With a Harmonica”, to get the reference. A tribute to the original piece was also used in Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End, again as a backdrop for a stand-off. I have absolutely no doubt that David Arnold’s treatment of the Omens theme tune in this way was intended as both atmospheric and as a pastiche of a piece of music that is arguably the most well-known of all spaghetti Western soundtracks.

Do you remember how I waffled on about the parallels between the members of The Them and the Horsemen? Well, in case you weren’t sure about that being a thing, or maybe just hadn’t cottoned on yet, this shot should spell it out loud and clear for you:

It’s interesting to see the character development that Aziraphale has gone through since his realisation that Heaven is perhaps not as “Good” as it portrays itself to be when we see him taking control of Shadwell’s gun to kill the Antichrist with, something which he has adamantly declared that he would be unable to do previously.

Crowley’s stance on the other hand appears not to have changed at all – he’s more than happy to support the decision to end the life of an 11-year-old boy in order to save the world, just so long as he’s not the one pulling the trigger. In fact, he not only supports that course of action, he vehemently chastises any doubts in it being the only one available to them. Madame Tracy’s interference with this particular plan of action feels to me like another statement of a recurring theme throughout the show – that the presence of free will is an inherently human quality. On this occasion, we see two non-earthly entities that both believe that there is only one course of action to be taken (i.e. there is no free will) whose actions are disrupted by a human entity who believes that this cannot be the case. What’s interesting to me is that the theoretically weaker of those entities, the human, wins out this little battle, suggesting that the actions taken as a result of free will always be victorious when pitted against actions taken through a lack of choice.

I absolutely adore watching Crowley’s expression when Aziraphale and Madame Tracy are separated. He can barely take his eyes of the angel, except when Madame Tracy announces that the separation made her feel “all tingly”.

That side glance looks almost jealous to me… And what's with the little head dip with the flirty yet smitten (smited? smote?) shoulder squaring…

Oh, that’s right, it’s love. And probably not just a little bit of gratitude and relief that Aziraphale has been returned to him, at least for the moment. There’s even a slow blink at the very end of that clip that looks a bit like he might be trying to keep the tears away. This tiny sequence of body language cues has my heart melting every time I watch this scene, and bearing in mind that David is actually acting in the background of the shot here it speaks volumes to just what an incredible job he’s doing that I don’t watch anything in the foreground – my eyes are firmly fixed on him and his reactions. I’m pretty sad we don’t get to see the moment when Aziraphale goes to join Crowley (this assumption is based on the positioning we see in this shot and the one immediately after Newt tells Anathema he isn’t really a computer engineer) – there is a part of me that screams to see the eye contact and facial expressions involved in that whirlwind of inevitable emotions.

For a show that’s filled with dark comedy, there’s a slightly jarring sense of social delicacy in the dissolution of the Horsemen in that we don’t see any of The Them actually land a “fatal” blow. We see them take up the sword, see them holding that same sword after they impale their respective Horseman, we even see the suggestion of an impact, but we don’t see the brutal imagery of an 11-year-old child thrusting a weapon through the middle of an adult-shaped monster. The speech at the end of this episode is heavy on the subtext of the disappearance of innocence from children as they grow older, and I suspect the desire to maintain the feeling of childlike innocence in each of The Them is the reason we don’t see them committing a very violent act. We’re not only allowed to maintain that image, but it’s strengthened by Adam’s empowerment of each of them to do what needs to be done, and his assertion that the things they’re doing battle against aren’t actually people, but concepts. It makes the whole thing feel like children playing games in the woods, which I think is probably the whole point, and the reason we saw them doing so much of it earlier in the series (and especially in the book – honestly I actually got a bit bored of how much “children playing in the woods” content there was in the original text).

As a side note, and knowing that it has been pondered over by many others before me: how did Aziraphale’s flaming sword become War’s flaming sword?! I remembered to look in the FAQ list for this one, and couldn’t see that it has ever been answered.

Next side note: Dagon says that all of the legions of Hell that are readying for battle were angels before. Does that mean that every demon is a fallen angel? Because that’s a lot of fallen angels (Beelzebub says that there are 10 million of them later on in the episode).

That’s also a pretty big revolution to have taken place “before the Beginning”. Surely if you were in charge of a place where half of your employees took place in an uprising, you’d have to question the validity of your leadership skills? There’s a little kudos going out to the sound editors here too – that effect of Beelzebub’s voice to make it sound like she’s buzzing like the flies she’s lord of is brilliant, mostly because it’s not there all the time, but fades in and out for maximum effect.

I also love the idea that a nuclear holocaust could all be avoided by running the disk defragmenter. It’s actually kind of appropriate, the job of the defragmenter being to rearrange important elements so that they fit together better, eliminating bad clusters as it goes, and all to ensure the hosting system can perform more smoothly. Feels like quite an appropriate analogy of a world gone mad with war.

Bearing in mind that I have been rattling on about parallels between the members of The Them and the Horsemen, there’s something interesting about Death’s parting comment to the group on the tarmac.

I AM CREATION’S SHADOW. YOU CANNOT DESTROY ME. THAT WOULD DESTROY THE WORLD.

If we’re considering that the previously mentioned pairings are mirror images of one another, would this suggest that Adam also cannot be destroyed? Or would it mean that his destruction would result in the creation of something else? Or if we took the words literally, would that make him the product of shadow (“shadow’s creation” instead of “creation’s shadow”). I like this latter idea, given who his father is (at this point anyway), but there’s something to be said for his potential for creation too, especially given his chosen name. I think there’s probably a lot to be said for possibilities for Adam’s character, which I’m planning on exploring in the future so I won’t go into this any further here.

Given the repeated suggestions we’ve seen that death = starlight (I’m paraphrasing for simplicity) in this show, and in other works by the original authors, it’s hardly surprising that Death disappears into a cluster of starts. God even tells us that, although they look like stars, they may be something else entirely, and that they reside within Death itself.

The complete dissolution of the Horsemen feels to me like a good place to stop. As always, questions, comments, discussion: always welcome. See you next time 😊

[darcytaylor]

Here is my theory on Luke and why he is acting like this

Let’s face it: Luke is the lead this season, but the writing, especially that in part 2, makes him look like a secondary character. Nic is taking the spot light, and rightfully so; Luke gets some but will never measure up. He will come back to be a side character again, perhaps with as much as or a bit more screen time compared to other side characters. So far his Bridgerton identity seems to be either the brother of the leads in other seasons, or Pen/LW’s love interest. I wouldn’t be surprised if Luke wants something more.

It occurs to me the he might even want to depart from B’ton as soon as possible (once S4 is done) in order to land a different, more central role that matches his preferences of a darker character (he did mention this at least in one interview). If that is his choice, detaching from B’ton now is actually gonna help making his departure easier.

To be fair, Luke actually can do whatever he wants now. Many of you might disagree, but it seems Luke has evolved from more or less a theatre nerd to a sexy tv star who frequents fashion front rows and influencer events. Just his this sex appeal and the public recognition from S3 would be enough to land him fashion gigs and brand deals that keep him going until the filming of S4 when he will be busy for at least a few months. Being seen with A keeps people talking about him as they watch how he slowly launches her despite the outrage from B’ton and Polin fandom.

If everything fails (we predict so), Luke is still contracted to be in S4, and with Polin’s popularity he will have sufficient airtime and enough fan support to restore his relevance at least to a certain level. He can easily win fans over again by serving Lukola/Polin moments (because by that point whoever left in the restaurant would be starved), and who knows whether A will still be around then.

Of course this is just a theory and it might not be true, but to me it explains a lot of his choices at the moment.

This is honestly a pretty good take on what could be happening. While I don't agree with all of it, it all could be true.

Nicola is definitely taking the spot light, but I think that has to do with her going for everything that has been thrown at her and working her ass off, while also knowing what her fans want to see.

Luke could have had that, had he not made certain moves in the past year. I think that moving his social media to be more 'business' is a good choice (in the long run), especially if that's what he needed to do for his mental health.

But when he decided to do it, was at a weird time. Right before the promo tour? It was a choice that effected him negatively because he hasn't connected to the fans, he hasn't acted like a main character in the show that he is the main character for. He could have been the internets boyfriend, but his choices failed him in regards to that.

Productions, people in the industry, brands, see what the fan engagement is like. They know what people are talking about. They want someone that doesn't bring drama. Luke currently brings drama unfortunately. That will hinder what Luke is able to do. I don't believe that he has the option to do anything he wants at the moment, because if he did we would probably have heard something by now (I could be wrong in this). His PR moves hindered him from that.

Does he have the talent to do more than Bridgerton? Yes, I believe he does. And it's sad how the whole situation turned out in the end.

Could Luke want to leave Bridgerton after season 4? Maybe. But I also think that he will stick it out for as long as possible (especially at this point in his career) because as the saying goes "why bite off the hand that feeds you?"