#like in other cases conceding and agreeing to use a specific word in conversation is totally fine and easy

[cats-in-the-clouds]

it’s important to try very hard to be as patient and understanding and reasonable as possible and i tell myself aw c’mon how hard can it really be to just chill out and be nice? but every now and it hits me again how we’re all being subjected to a mass gaslighting campaign and then i’m like ah that’s why i’m exhausted deep in my soul all the time. i’m being made to think i’m utterly insane for wanting words to have actual meanings so maybe that makes me a bit cranky y’know

[drmaqazi]

EQUAL RIGHTS IN ISLAM

According to Islam,God Almighty has given man this right of equality as a birthright. Therefore no man should be discriminated against on the ground of the colour of his skin, his place of birth, the race or the nation in which he was born.

Gender Equality in Islam

In gender equality conversations it is often insinuated that in Islam there is no gender equality.

The crux of Islamic teachings is that as men, we’re hardwired by nature and confirmed by divine design and historically through the ages to do three main things: to provide, to protect, and to lead. We do this not for our own sake, not to feed our egos, but in service to others; our families and society and country. Human beings are not identical units. 

The fact that we are similar also means we are not the same. We’re not interchangeable pieces of social machinery. Equality is based not in political ideology but in the reality of the differences and mutual dependencies of real men and women. As men and women we are designed to need each other, not replicate each other. Because we have deviated from divine design and intent, it is the key reason why modern culture is so conflicted about equality of men and women.

In this article, I will explore some of the issues often raised and address the general question: Does Islam discriminate against women or men in its teachings? [*]

What is equality?

In order to understand this issue, we first have to determine what it really means to be equal? Are we talking about absolute equality when it comes to gender relations? If we are talking about absolute equality, it must be clear that many (perhaps, all) atheists, secularists, and feminists do not propose absolute equality of genders. 

Virtually everyone concedes that the two genders need to be treated differently in at least some life activities. Take sports for instance. If absolute equality was the goal in sports, we would be having tournaments with men and women playing together or against each other. But this is not the case at all, as sex verification tests take place to ensure there is no inequality by having a man pretending to be a woman playing in a given sport. 

Here, “equality” would be defined as women playing against women for a level-playing field. Had equality been absolute, such tests would not have existed. Their existence shows that all of us are agreed that nature has given different tendencies, aptitudes, strengths and personalities, to men and women.

Now, let us take a more specific example that is also related to sports: Physical strength. In this regard, it would be wrong to say that all men are stronger than women, but it would be correct to say that men in general are stronger than women, given that the term “strength” here is being used to refer to physiological, muscular strength and not to other kinds of strengths like dealing with trauma, surviving illness, etc. where women are in fact stronger. 

Hence, if men entered into sports competitions against women, they would have an unfair advantage. The issue is not then one of gender equality in the absolute sense. Instead, it is an issue of gender equality in the best sense.

What that means is that it must be acknowledged that each gender has strengths and weaknesses that may or may not overlap. In certain respects, one gender has an advantage over the other, while in other respects, the other gender has the advantage.

 As one psychiatrist, Dr. Neel Burton, puts it, “biological advantages and disadvantages are more or less equally distributed between the sexes”. In spite of these differences, God Almighty declares in the Holy Quran:

وَ مَنۡ یَّعۡمَلۡ مِنَ الصّٰلِحٰتِ مِنۡ ذَکَرٍ اَوۡ اُنۡثٰی وَ ہُوَ مُؤۡمِنٌ فَاُولٰٓئِکَ یَدۡخُلُوۡنَ الۡجَنَّۃَ وَ لَا یُظۡلَمُوۡنَ نَقِیۡرًا

But whoso does good works, whether male or female, and is a believer, such shall enter Heaven, and shall not be wronged even as much as the little hollow in the back of a date-stone (Holy Qur’an 4:125).

In other words, as far as one’s spirituality and relationship with God is concerned, there is indeed absolute equality between the genders.

Understanding Gender Roles

What many see as inequality between the genders in Islam is actually equality in the best form. Due to the fact that women are born with the ability to give birth to children, and are naturally better equipped to care for a newborn’s needs, Islam has assigned them a more central role in terms of the upbringing of children. 

This does not mean that men do not have any role in this regard. It only means that the father has a supportive role while the mother has the primary role and responsibility in taking care of young children.

Conversely, Islam assigns the role of supporting the family financially on the husband/father, and the husband bears the heavy responsibility of ensuring that the family is well taken care of. This is laid out in the following verse of the Holy Quran:

وَ لَہُنَّ مِثۡلُ الَّذِیۡ عَلَیۡہِنَّ بِالۡمَعۡرُوۡفِ ۪ وَ لِلرِّجَالِ عَلَیۡہِنَّ دَرَجَۃٌ ؕ وَ اللّٰہُ عَزِیۡزٌ حَکِیۡمٌ

The husband is responsible for providing all the needs and amenities for his wife”, clearly stated in the following section of a verse of the Holy Qur’an:

(Holy Qur’an, 2:234) وَ عَلَی الۡمَوۡلُوۡدِ لَہٗ رِزۡقُہُنَّ وَ کِسۡوَتُہُنَّ بِالۡمَعۡرُوۡفِ

While the man has been bestowed certain abilities that lay this responsibility on him, he is also taught to treat his wife with the utmost kindness. 

The Holy Qur’an enjoins that if a man has given his wife a mountain of gold as a gesture of his affection and kindness, he is not supposed to take it back in case of divorce. This shows the respect and honour Islam gives to a woman; in fact, men are in certain respects like their servants. They have been commanded in the Holy Qur’an:

(Holy Qur’an, 4:20)وَ عَاشِرُوۡہُنَّ بِالۡمَعۡرُوۡفِ

i.e., consort with your wives in such a manner that every reasonable person can see how kind and gentle you are to your wife.

In other words, this teaching of Islam shows the tremendous amount of respect and dignity that is granted to women in Islam. In one way, the men are taught to be like servants of women. If anything, this teaching can be argued to have placed men at a disadvantage, a far cry from suggesting that women are being mistreated here. 

In essence, Islam respects the different capacities and abilities of men and women, and provides them roles that are best suited for them.

The man’s role then is to be the breadwinner and provider of the family, while the woman’s role is to ensure the family unit is strengthened and children are brought up in the best environment. 

These are the primary roles of men and women, which of course does not mean that their other roles should be completely dismissed. 

As their primary roles are being fulfilled, women can work in a profession of their choice if they wish to earn a personal income. Similarly, men should play their part in the proper upbringing of children and providing their family the best treatment, as the Holy Prophet (SallAllahu ‘alaihi wa Sallam)  said:

“The best among you is the one who is best in treatment of his family”

[vintagedolan]

hands to yourself (gbd)

ethan is sick of the pda and challenges you and grayson to a 3 day no touching bet. but what happens after 72 hours is a different story...

word count: 4.9k

warnings/tags: smut (it’s about damn time ladies), angst, lots of sexual teasing, lets have some fun shall we

feel free to send in requests! and check out my masterlist if you wanna :)

Many things happened when you were making out with Grayson. Getting clocked in the side of the head with a pillow was not usually one of them. 

“Will you two keep it in your pants for two fucking seconds,” Ethan grumbled, obviously the perpetrator of the flying pillow that had connected with your face a few moments prior. He had good aim, you’d give him that.

“Fuck off,” Grayson grumbled, but he detached his lips from yours, settling to lay on you instead. It wasn’t an unusual position for you to find yourselves in - Ethan in the chair, you and your boyfriend sprawled out on the couch while you watched a movie. Most times you’d be laying on top of Grayson, cheek on his chest, his hand running gently up and down your arm or back. Sometimes he’d lift your shirt some so he could scratch your back, skin soft under his fingers. Other times - like now - he’d be wanting the attention, scooting down and nuzzling up on your chest so you could play with his hair or trace shapes on his skin. 

Either way, it seemed to get under Ethan’s skin. 

“You fuck off, I live here too I don’t need to see you two all up on each other 24/7,” Ethan shot back, obviously annoyed. It didn’t usually bother you - he went through phases where he’d get lonely and be a bit more annoyed at the PDA - Grayson was quite handsy if you were honest. On the other hand though, it could get annoying sometimes. You would like to be able to make out with your boyfriend on your own couch without the comments from the peanut gallery. And it annoyed Grayson 10 times more than it did you.

“Chill guys,” you sighed, not wanting it to get any worse. 

“Nah, we’re about to take a trip in the van and I’m not about to wake up to you two fucking next to me cause you can’t keep it in your pants,” Ethan huffed back, movie long forgotten as he got heated. “You literally cannot keep your hands off each other, it’s gross.”

For some reason, that comment got under your skin a bit more than anything he had said prior. You were a mature adult who could control herself if she wanted to. And you could prove it too. 

“Bet.”

Grayson stiffened, lifting his head. He knew how competitive you could be - it was one of the many reasons he loved you - but combined with Ethan’s inability to lose, it got dangerous sometimes. Bets were never good when they were between you and his brother, and you could tell he was worried.

“What are we betting?” Gray murmured, not liking where the conversation was headed.

“Okay fine.” Ethan perked up a bit, loving an idea of a challenge and completely ignoring his twin. “One week, you all can’t touch each other when I’m around.”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Grayson immediately shut it down. You put a hand on his arm, calming him a bit. This was between you and Ethan now.

“A week is too long. I’ll give you three days,” you offered. Grayson turned to you, incredulous. 

“Absolutely fucking not?” He said it to you this time, but you squeezed his arm again, signaling for him to hear you out. 

“I can do three days,” Ethan offered. “But if it’s only three, then you all can’t touch each other at all. Like even when I’m not around. Strict no touching policy for three days. It’ll be a good cleanse for you horny fucks.” 

“Fine,” you agreed, narrowing your eyes at him.

“What?!” Grayson balked. You just grinned.

“But. If we make it the three days, you’re never going to say another snide comment about us touching. Ever.”  

Ethan paused at that, really considering what he would be giving up if you managed to pull off the bet.

“Fine. But, if I win, I get to say whether or not you can be all lovey dovey and shit, and you have to listen.” There was a wicked look in his eyes; if he won he’d be ruthless, no doubt. 

There was a whole lot at stake. But the prospect of being able to do whatever you wanted with Grayson, wherever you wanted, without Ethan’s commentary was too good to pass up.

“Deal.” 

“Oh, so I don’t get a say in it? Cool, cause this doesn’t affect me at all,” Grayson chimed in, obviously annoyed. 

“Okay, but how nice would it be if he couldn’t say shit about us,” you quirked an eyebrow at Grayson and he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

You were right, and he knew it. 

“Fine,” he conceded, knowing you’d get your way no matter what he said. “I’m in.” 

“Shake on it,” Ethan said, getting up from his chair and walking over to you. You reached out, giving him a firm handshake and a nod. When you let go, he turned his wrist, looking at his watch.

“Alright, it’s 11:35. Time starts now, disperse,” he grinned, gesturing to the two of you. Grayson moved off of you with a huff, scooting to the other end of the couch. 

As soon as he was gone, you realized just what you’d signed the two of you up for.

It was going to be a long 72 hours.

day one

It was only 9am, and tensions were already running high. Ethan wasn’t giving up any ground - he hadn’t even let you and Grayson sleep in the same bed the night prior. Which meant Grayson, being the gentleman he was, let you take the bed and he took the couch. 

So, feeling well rested and in a good mood, you headed for the kitchen. Grayson was there, as you expected, typical avocado toast in hand. But when he saw you, he immediately groaned, dropping his head to the counter as you opened the fridge. 

“What?!” You asked, laughing a bit. When he looked up, you could see the frustration in his eyes.

“Could you at least try to not make this any more fucking impossible than it already is?” 

“I’m just getting yogurt...” you said innocently, holding up the cup you pulled from the fridge only a few moments prior.

“Yeah, but you could at least wear a fucking bra,” he pointed out, eyes trained on your chest. You hadn’t really thought about it - you were in one of Gray’s shirts, which was oversized on you. But now that you looked, you could tell that the cold air of the fridge had made your nipples hard, the ghost of them obvious through the fabric.

“Bras are uncomfortable,” you countered, pointing your spoon at him.

“Yeah? Well so are blue balls.” 

His voice was so serious that you both just stared at each other for a minute, and then you couldn’t help it. You broke first, starting to giggle and then both of you were cackling like middle schoolers. 

Once you’d finally calmed down and wiped away the tears you were crying, you continued eating your breakfast, perched on the counter by the stove. Grayson’s eyes were on you, specifically on your tongue as you licked yogurt off the spoon. 

“You know, Ethan won’t be up for another few hours. He’d never know,” Grayson wiggled his eyebrows at you.

“Nah, we don’t cheat in this house. A bet is a bet.”

“Well this bet sucks.” His voice was garbled around the last bite of toast that he was chewing.

“I know. But hey, it’ll be worth it. Then we can do whatever we want, and he can’t say shit,” you reminded him.

“We’re gonna drive him nuts,” Grayson grinned, and just those words sent goosebumps rising across your skin. Stop. Stop that. You couldn’t let yourself get lost in a daydream, especially when you weren’t allowed to touch him - that would just be self torture. 

But it was too late. Now all you could think about was how normally right now, he’d be standing in front of you between your legs, hips pressed against the counter, his hands in your hair, lips on yours.

“Uh... babe? You good?” Grayson’s voice pulled you out of the image. His brows were furrowed, and you watched as he nodded to the floor, where a small dollop of yogurt had splattered. It must have slid off your spoon while you were lost.

“This bet sucks,” you repeated his earlier words, suddenly very much regretting your decision.

“Friendly reminder that you started it,” he grinned deviously. “Were you daydreaming over there?”

“No.” You answered too quickly. Dammit.

“Oh... well in that case, I guess I’m just gonna keep myself busy then. Might go build. Or lay out. Not sure yet.” That mischievous glint was in his eyes and you groaned. He knew exactly what he was doing - something about the focus he had when he was working on a project, with his tool belt low on his hips, sunglasses on and shirtless - it got you weak in the knees every damn time. 

And he knew it too. 

All you could do was glare at him as he got up and washed his plate before heading back to your room. Sure enough, 20 minutes later he was outside, carrying wood across the yard to where his saw was set up. 

You sat in the living room, watching him work while you drank your coffee. Watched his muscles ripple under his skin as he hoisted 2 by 4′s over his head, powerful arms doing it with no effort. He could hold you up with those arms, hold you up while he-

“Good morning, this just in from pining central-”

You turned at the voice, glowering when you realized it was Ethan with a smug grin on his face. 

“Shut the fuck up,” you grumbled, sticking your tongue out at him. 

“Ooooo, touchy,” he teased, reaching out and ruffling your hair. You reached back to slap his shoulder, but you were smiling. “Or... no touchy.” Ethan cracked the joke, obviously proud of himself.

“That was actually terrible,” you shook your head.

“You’re just mad cause you’re gonna lose this bet,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he headed back towards the kitchen to make his breakfast. 

“Not a chance in hell.”

day two

Sleeping on the couch wasn’t ideal, that was for damn sure. Not because it wasn’t comfortable, but because you didn’t have Grayson next to you. After his long day of building you knew that he was sore, and you’d insisted that he took the bed instead. 

But that also meant that he had slept in for once, making your morning mission a little bit harder than usual. You snuck into the bedroom, tiptoeing at first, then walking normal when you realized that he was still snoring. He was curled up on his side, shirtless and sleeping soundly, his left arm curled around a pillow that he was holding to his chest. It took you a minute to realize that this was how you usually woke up, with his arm wrapped around you before you turned over and eased him onto his back so you could cuddle. 

Stupid pillow. You pushed the thought from your mind as best you could, going over to your drawer and picking out a bikini to wear. It was beautiful out, the perfect day to get some sun. You changed quickly, grabbing a towel from the bathroom and your sunscreen before you headed out to the pool. It would at least help you kill a few hours. You were discovering that things were boring when you couldn’t make out with your boyfriend.

It was two hours later when you heard the doors open, signaling that someone was coming out of the house. You peaked over your sunglasses, unsurprised to see Grayson there.

“Did you just wake up?” 

“No. I’ve been awake.” His tone was short, and you frowned. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Don’t play innocent,” he grumbled. You sat up further on the yellow lounge, confused.

“What?” 

“You’re doing this on purpose. Out here, all laid out in a tiny bikini when there’s nothing I can do about it. You’re a tease.” He sat down on the other lounge, staring at you. You could tell he was hard underneath his gym shorts.

“I just wanted to get some sun... But, two can play that game. You’re telling me you building all day yesterday was innocent?” You looked at him accusingly, expecting him to laugh. Instead, his eyes just darkened. 

“Oh, does me building do something to you?” He knew the answer to that. It fueled his ego that him doing something so simple could turn you on so much, and you hated that you had no control over it. “What exactly does it do to you, hmm?”

“Stop it,” you muttered, but your body was reacting anyways. Your skin was flushing just from his words. 

“Stop what? Stop making you wet?” 

“We can’t do anything about it, don’t make it worse,” you pleaded. He was right, you were wet, and you wanted nothing more than for him to fuck you right then and there. But you were more strong willed than that. It was only another 30 or so hours. You would make it.

“I’m going to shower,” you said, standing up and heading into the house. You knew his eyes were on your ass, and you were unsurprised that he got up to follow you, carrying your towel in wadded over his dick in case Ethan was out of his room. 

You tried to ignore him as you headed to the bathroom, taking your hair down and starting the water to give it time to warm up. To your surprise, he lifted himself up and sat on the end of the counter, giving himself a perfect view of the glass shower. 

“What’re you doing?” 

“Watching.” There was a heat in his voice that went straight through you. You swallowed heavy, turning to him. He got like this sometimes, where his dominant side would come out. Usually it was halfway through sex, when he was pulling on your hair, or when you had a particularly bad attitude and he corrected it quickly with a rough fuck. 

But there was an intensity to this that had your mouth dry as you started to undress under his gaze. You reached behind your neck, pulling on the string that kept your top together. When the bow came undone, the fabric began to fall, though it didn’t fully reveal your tits until you untied the back and it fell to the ground. 

Grayson said nothing, eyes unwavering as you moved to your bottoms. You shimmied out of them quickly, kicking them to the side. Unfortunately, they landed directly in front of him. You knew he’d see the wetness that had pooled in them; it was obvious. That wasn’t going to help matters. 

“We can call off the bet. If you want.” You blurted it out - until the last few minutes you didn’t realize how desperate you were to have his hands on you.

“No. We can’t. Now shower, before we run out of hot water.” 

You did as you were told, walking over into the water and letting it run over your skin. You kept your eyes closed mostly, but you could feel him watching your every move. As you washed your body, your hands lingered over yourself for just a moment, desperate for relief.

“Don’t you dare.” Grayson’s voice was deep and demanding, making your eyes snap open. He very rarely took that tone with you.

“Touching myself isn’t against Ethan’s rules,” you pointed out, knowing it would piss him off to hear his brother’s name right now. If he wasn’t already going to destroy you when he could, he definitely was now. 

“It’s against my rules.” 

Just those words were enough to almost make you cum right there.

Why, why had you made this bet.

day three

Getting out of the house was the only option, you couldn’t take it anymore. Especially after the pent up energy established yesterday, you couldn’t handle the stares and the constant need to have his hands on you. If you stayed too long, you’d break the bet. 

So, you treated yourself to a bit of a shopping spree for the day. You picked out new clothes from a few stores, even picking up a shirt for Grayson you knew he would love, and some shoes for Ethan. You went to lunch, taking your time, even going to get coffee later on. It was a nice break from the tension, though every time you looked at your phone and saw your lock screen - a picture of you and shirtless Grayson in the mirror - it sent tingles down your spine, reminding you of what you were finally getting back tonight.

Your final stop was a lingerie shop. It was always fun to look at all the pretty lace patterns and colors - usually you just window shopped, but you were trying to draw out the process as long as you could. An emerald green number caught your eye, laid out on one of the tables. It was lace and silk, delicate but sexy at the same time. On a bit of a whim, you bought it, adding the bag to those already on your arm as you headed home. You took the long way, happy to see that it was already 7pm by the time you pulled in the driveway. 

Four and a half more hours. That was it. Just four and a half more hours. Surely, you could do it.

When you came in, Ethan was eating cereal, and had already begun sulking. That lifted some of the tension that was hanging over the house, specifically coming from the direction of the living room where Grayson was practicing handstands.

“Awe, is somebody sad they’re going to lose the bet?” You teased, sitting the bags down and digging around for his shoes.

“Time’s not up yet,” he grumbled. 

“Well, I got you a pity gift,” you smiled, passing him the box. “Enjoy.”

“Thanks, I’ll need a distraction from you all sucking face constantly,” he rolled his eyes. You knew he’d be grateful for the shoes once he got over his loss. 

“Hey Gray, I got you something,” you called, heading to the living room with your bags. He was still in his handstand and he brought himself down slowly, a smooth landing. 

“Lemme see,” he smiled. The frustration he’d had yesterday was still there, but he was trying to be helpful, as were you. Spending the day apart had made it easier, and with the finish line in sight the both of you were in higher spirits.

“I can’t remember which bag it’s in,” you mumbled, starting to sit them down so you could look through them. Grayson picked one up, and before you could say anything his hand was in it, no doubt feeling the lace and silk. 

He froze, eyes darkening again.

“Is this for later,” he practically mouthed the words, barely speaking so Ethan didn’t hear him.

“It can be,” you whispered back, blushing. He only nodded, a wicked excitement in his eyes. 

After the teasing and tension yesterday, you were a bit worried that your new set wouldn’t even survive the night. He had a bit of a habit of ripping things when he got dominant. You supposed you could just buy another one if you had to.

You kept yourself busy after giving him his shirt, looking for distractions anywhere you could. You ate a quick dinner, then decided to take a nap.

“I’m going to sleep,” you announced to the boys, heading towards your room. 

“It’s 8:30,” Ethan said, confused.

“Well, I’m probably going to have a long night, so,” you grinned at him. Grayson choked, looking up at you. 

“Gross. Go to bed,” E grumbled. You obliged, heading to your room. You killed another hour or so on your phone before realizing that you might actually fall asleep. Not wanting to ruin the surprise, you changed into your lingerie, looking yourself over in the mirror. It was just as flattering as you hoped it would be, accentuating all your favorite areas.

Grayson was gonna lose it. 

You climbed back onto the bed, comforted by the feeling of the soft cotton on your exposed skin. You curled up, getting comfy and eventually drifting off to sleep.

The next thing you felt were two large hands on your waist, putting you on your back.

“What the?” 

“It’s 11:36.” It was Grayson’s voice, and it clicked.

The bet was over. Thank fuck. 

You were suddenly wide awake, and you couldn’t get your hands on him quick enough. His skin was soft and warm as you reached up to his shoulders, running along the muscles until you got to his neck. You pulled his face down to yours, crashing your lips together. You’d never felt anything so good in your life.

“We’re never doing anything like that ever again,” you mumbled against his lips, hands back on his skin, at his waist now, curling around his back trying to pull him closer to you.

“Agreed,” he said, kissing you again before he bailed to the side, reaching over and pulling you on top of him.  And suddenly you were touching everywhere. His thighs were against yours, and you could feel his dick against you, his torso wide and strong beneath you as his hands roamed down your side, over your hip and around to your ass.

“Fuck, you look so good,” he groaned, fingers toying with the fabric of your thong. Your hips bucked at the feeling of his hand on your ass, and it created a delicious friction against his dick that had you starting a rhythm in no time. He sat up then so you were on his lap, gravity causing more pressure as you kept grinding, both of your breathing picking up at the sensation. After the pent up hormones of the last few days, you were sure you could cum just like that, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he did too. 

He reached behind you, unclipping your bra with ease, pulling it off your arms and tossing it across the room. Then, his hands were at your hips, fingers digging into your skin, lips at your neck as you worked him over.

“Surprised you aren’t punishing me for being a tease,” you mumbled, then gasped at the bite that resulted from your words.

“Don’t tempt me, we’ve got all night,” he groaned, moving you a bit faster. You clung to him tighter, grateful that he’d decided to just focus on pleasure tonight. 

“Just wanna feel you.” His words were hardly a warning as he rolled over, putting you back on the bed. He reached behind himself, unlocking your legs from around his waist before he moved down the bed. His hands went to you hips, scooting you up a tiny bit before he hooked his index fingers into the waist of your thong, swiftly discarding it after it was off. 

“Look even better like this,” he hummed, crawling up to kiss you again. You chased his lips when he broke it off, only to gasp a bit when you felt him press a kiss to your collarbone. He moved down, cupping each tit and licking and sucking along your nipples until you were squirming. His progress down your torso was painfully slow, each little nip with his teeth making your whole body jolt. By the time he got to your inner thigh, you were begging.

“Please Gray, please fuck, give me something,” you whined, practically writhing underneath him.

“As you wish.” And then his mouth was on you. He knew you better than anyone - and he wasted no time. He worked you over like the expert he was, tongue flat then fast, with just the right pressure. You never lasted long like this, with your hands in his hair and his hands pinning your hips down to the bed. But this might have been the quickest - it couldn’t have been a minute before you were cumming, pulling on his hair as you let go. Your legs were actually shaking, and he pulled back, thumbs rubbing along your skin as you came down, catching your breath. 

“Holy shit,” you choked out, trying to swallow as you gasped. 

“That was hot as fuck. Didn’t even know you could cum that fast,” he grinned, obviously a bit proud of himself. You didn’t blame him - with that tongue he could have an ego as big as he wanted. He pressed kisses to your hips, then your ribs, the middle of your chest, giving you time to get your breathing back to normal before he caught your lips with his again. 

Now it was your turn. You reached down into his boxers, wrapping a hand around his dick. It was heavy and hard in your hand, but his hiss made you stop your movements. 

“Baby, I’m already not gonna last, don’t need you making it any shorter and bruising my ego,” he huffed, obviously trying to calm himself down a bit. You moved to the waistband of his boxers instead, pushing them down his thighs. He took them the rest of the way off, throwing them in the same direction your lingerie had flown earlier. 

You spread a little wider, reaching for him as he positioned himself over you, his weight on his forearms which were on either side of you. He dipped his hips, teasing you for just a moment, before pushing in. You sighed at the feeling, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, holding yourself steady so that he didn’t push you up the bed. When he was balls-deep, he kissed your forehead. 

“Missed you,” he whispered, and you could have melted right there. “You ready?”

You nodded - it didn’t matter how many times you did this - he was still big, and it always took you just a minute to adjust. Grayson always gave it to you, making sure he didn’t cause you any pain. 

He lowered himself down so that some of his weight was on you, and then he snapped his hips back, driving into you with a groan. He was everything you could feel and see, his chest against yours, bodies touching everywhere that they possibly could as he started a quick rhythm. 

“Fuck you feel so good,” he groaned, voice deep as he went deeper with every thrust, hitting the spot that had your toes curling, nails scraping down his back.

“Jesus fuck Gray, I’m gonna cum again, fuck,” you said, pleasure loosening your tongue. He moaned at that, burying his face in your neck, biting at the skin he found as he sped up his hips.  

“Fuck, fuck fuck,” you squeaked out as your next orgasm hit, every muscle you had clenching up in pleasure. 

“God,” Grayson moaned, somehow moving even faster, holding himself up with one arm while the other wrapped around your waist, pulling your hips up to get another angle. “Oh fuck,” he groaned. “Jesus baby, fuck.” 

And even in your blissed out state, you felt him cum, cock twitching inside you before his weight lowered onto you for a moment, arm still wrapped all the way around you. As soon as he could function, he rolled the both of you over so he didn’t crush you. You didn’t separate at all as you laid on top of him, weak and satisfied as he stayed seated inside you, both of you fucked out and content. 

You knew you were probably making a mess and you neither of you gave a fuck, not moving an inch other than Grayson’s hands wandering, fingers tracing patterns on your bare skin. Eventually he rolled over, sliding out of you gently with a kiss to your forehead before he got up and went to get a washcloth. He cleaned you up, as well as what was left on the sheets before tossing the rag in the laundry. He pulled his boxers back on before climbing back in bed.

“All good baby girl?” He gave you a soft smile as he laid down. You used the energy you had left to climb back onto him, unwilling to have any space between you at all after the last three days.

“I am now,” you sighed, content just to have his skin on yours. You just enjoyed each other’s presence for a few more minutes, and then you felt Grayson laugh a little bit underneath you, making you sit up just enough to look at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“I just realized that we won the bet. I kinda forgot, I was just ready for it to be over. But now we can literally do whatever we want and E can’t say shit,” he laughed, hugging you a bit tighter. 

“We could literally have sex in the living room and he can’t say shit,” you grinned, quirking a mischievous eyebrow.

Grayson just shook his head with the biggest smile, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and kissing the top of your head. 

“Nah. All mine.” 

[k-s-morgan]

I get really disappointed when a large part of the fandom rejects that Will is on the spectrum. Actually it is a form of internalised ableism and these fans aren't even aware they are doing it. Many people on the spectrum function ok, can't tell them apart unless very specialized tests (like FBI screening), they can make eye contacts when required and can communicate if required. When people reject it like this it becomes an issue to diagnose a real case. We don't have many representations.

Anon, I’m sorry, but I’m the wrong blog for this ask because I also don’t think Will is on the spectrum! The best I can do is concede that it is up to interpretation, like Bryan Fuller said. Please skip the rest if you aren’t interested in my view of it.

I don’t always agree with Hugh Dancy, but I share his opinion that Will contributed to the wrong perception of himself in the minds of other people as a part of his person-suit. He was hiding his darkness by putting on different masks, letting people speculate and believe what they prefer. We largely hear about Will being on the spectrum only in the following scene.

Jack: I understand it’s not easy for you to be sociable ... Where do you fall on the spectrum?

Will: My horse is hitched to a post closer to Aspergers and Autistics than narcissists and sociopaths.

Will’s words choice is very careful here. It is Jack who makes the assumption about the spectrum, Will just vaguely goes along with it without saying anything specific. We know he has darkness, and not just a righteous kind. So it can be said that he is closer to “narcissists and sociopaths”, who in this context mean killers. But of course, he would be unwilling to admit it - Will has been hiding the truth for a long time. Jack treats Will like he’s vulnerable, and Will goes along with it, too, even though he clearly finds it annoying. This is echoed in later discussion between Hannibal and Will, when Hannibal says that Jack views Will as a fragile tea cup and Will laughs. Later, when Will is a little closer to accepting himself and taking his person suit off, Jack makes another remark about his “brokeness” and Will allows himself to be sarcastic and rude in response. We can slowly see the parts of his mask, which was created by people who surround and misunderstand him, falling apart, revealing someone dark, confident, and cold. 

In the same discussion with Jack, this happens.

Jack: But you can empathize with narcissists and sociopaths.

Will: I can empathize with anybody. Less to do with personality disorders than an active imagination.

But does Will’s gift really apply to everyone? Because we never see it. From what is shown, he can only use his super-empathy (which differs from normal empathy) on murder scenes. But when Jack suggests this, Will denies it by claiming that he can empathize with everyone. Can he really - or is he lying  because if he admits that he can only really empathize with killers, it could give people a clue about what he is? His half-truths create a fog that blurs clarity and births several interpretations. 

A similar talk happens here:

Jack: You make jumps you can't explain.

Will: No, the evidence explains!

We know the evidence doesn't explain his leaps, so it also can be seen as a part of his suit. Will really doesn’t want to be seen as someone who has such an intense affinity with darkness. 

There is no consistency in what could be classified as symptoms: Will himself chooses what to show to which person, and the more he accepts his darkness, the more his quirks disappear, revealing a person who we’ve been getting glimpses of from the start of the show. 

With controversial things like this, when it’s not clear what’s a lie and what’s the truth, I look at discussions between the characters who are unlikely to lie to each other. Neither Will’s autism nor his gift as applicable to everyone are discussed between Will and Hannibal or Hannibal and Bedelia. On the contrary, in related conversations, they reveal the opposite truth.

I side with Bedelia and Chilton on this issue, even though they aren’t aware of the entire situation when they speak, because I think they unwillingly uncovered the truth.

Jack: I don't know how to help Will. I worry that he's a psychopath. And I worry that he isn't.

Bedelia: Psychopaths are narcissists. And narcissists often masquerade as sensitive introverts.

Obviously, Will is not a psychopath, but he has some vivid narcissistic qualities, so the overall message fits him. 

Then there is Chilton.

Chilton: Will Graham manifests publicly as an introverted personality. He would have us believe he places on the spectrum somewhere near Asperger's and autism. Yet, he also claims an empathy disorder. Will Graham has never been diagnosed. He won't allow anyone to test him. He has carefully constructed a persona to hide his real nature from the world. He wears it so well, even Jack Crawford couldn't see past it.

While he made conclusions about Will on the wrong basis, they are still pretty much correct. This is how I see Will, too, and I think the evidence from the show supports this view a lot. Will constructed a persona, knowing people would attribute his quirks to autism and empathy disorder and subtly fuelling this vision, and all this went away when he accepted who he is.

This is how I see it.  

[missjanjie]

Better Than Revenge | (2/?)

Title: Better Than Revenge Summary: Karma Inc.’s business structure is simple - clients hire them when they’ve been grievously wronged and they send one of their revenge mercenaries to right them. As painstaking as their efforts to remain ethical may be, that may be tested when former detective, Rosé, enlists the squad to pick up where she couldn’t on a much higher scale, with potentially greater consequences. Word Count: ~2.6k (this chapter) | ~5.3k (total) Relationship(s): Rosnali (Rosé/Denali Foxx), Jankie (Jackie Cox/Jan Sport), Halldoll (Nicky Doll/Jaida Essence Hall), Gimone (Gigi Goode/Symone), Gottlux (Gottmik/Olivia Lux) Rating: T

TW for this chapter: implied domestic abuse, attempted sexual coercion of a minor, deadnaming/transphobia

Read on AO3 | Ko-Fi

Chapter Summary: Rosé learns Nicky, Jan, and Mik's revenge origin stories

-

Milwaukee, WI - 2007

“I think my parents are starting to get suspicious,” Jaida quietly confessed, her gaze downcast to the floor while Nicky sat behind her, braiding her hair.

Nicky frowned, her brows furrowed as she tied off the braid she’d put Jaida’s hair in with a hair elastic. “What is making you say that?” she asked, moving so she was facing the other girl and taking her hands into her own.

She shrugged, fumbling with the hem of her shirt until Nicky’s grasp stilled them. “Just feels like they’re snooping around more, suddenly real interested in my life. And you know they’re always acting weird whenever we’re at my house together. Last time they made us keep the door open, remember?”

“I had assumed that was an American thing,” she confessed. She had only moved to the states a couple of months ago, at the start of her and Jaida’s junior year of high school, and she was still learning how to differentiate cultural differences from people behaving unusually to her specifically.

“You think everything you don’t understand is an American thing,” Jaida rolled her eyes with a fond smile, “though I guess you’re right most of the time,” she conceded.

Nicky shrugged it off, redirecting back to the topic at hand. “But you’re worried they’re going to find out about us and poop will hit the ceiling.”

“Shit will hit the fan,” she corrected, then sighed. “I mean, think about it — my mom’s a Sunday school teacher and my dad’s the son of a preacher, they take ‘traditional family values’ very seriously. And I don’t know how things are in France but there’s nothing traditional about this,” she explained, gesturing between the two of them.

She frowned, her brows knitting together. “But we are happy together, surely once we graduate, we can—”

“It’s not that simple, Nicky!” Jaida tossed her head back and groaned. “I love you, but in a place like this, sometimes love just ain’t enough.”

And maybe it was denial, or maybe it was blind optimism, but Nicky had refused to take that answer lying down. She fought for Jaida and fought even harder to keep the relationship away from her disapproving parents. For a while, it seemed to be working, they had their beautiful, fleeting moments that let them believe that everything would be okay.

It was the first day back after spring break and Nicky immediately noticed a change in her girlfriend. It was like the life and light had been drained from her like she was only present physically. And despite the warm weather, she was dressed for late fall. She rushed towards her, taking her hand. “Ma chérie, what’s wrong? You look so unwell.”

Jaida hesitated before pulling her hand away. “I can’t hang around you anymore,” she replied. “Though I’m not gonna see anyone around here for a while starting real soon,” she mumbled.

“What do you mean?”

“My parents found out, Nicky,” she choked out, forcing back a sob, “and they were mad, I ain’t never seen them so mad. They’re sending me to military school… well, they gave me a choice between that and conversion therapy… seemed like the better option.”

Nicky bit down on her quivering lip. “But you can find me when you are done, right?” She reached out to her again, but Jaida backed away to step out of her grasp.

“I can’t. Besides, you won’t want me anyway, I won’t be the same person.”

She tried to grab for her once more, desperate to keep her, looking at her with watery, pleading eyes. “Jaida, I can’t—”

“Please,” she sniffled, “don’t make this harder than it’s already gonna be.”

And perhaps Nicky should have let it go, accepted losing her first love, and moving on with her life. Sure, she would eventually. She would move around for school, for work, meeting many beautiful women along the way, but none of that happened until she made sure Jaida’s parents experienced at least a fraction of the hurt they had caused the both of them.

Her plan had been elaborate and convoluted and would require a heavy amount of stealth work and computer literacy to pull off. But as it turned out, her plan of convincing the two parents that the other was cheating on them was quite easy when her snooping unearthed the fact that both of them already were. All she needed to do was bring it to light.

Present Day

“When you think about it,” Nicky mused, “I did them a favor. There are worse ways they could’ve found out than having an envelope full of proof dropped off at your workplace. At least no one made a scene… as far as I know, at least.”

“Does Jaida know?” Rosé asked. “Now that you guys have reconnected, have you caught her up to speed? Because it seems like something you should tell her.”

Nicky winced and looked away. “It… has not come up yet,” she murmured. “There is no easy way to inform someone that you were the catalyst in their parent’s divorce. Unless you have a way, in which case, feel free to share with the class.”

She shrugged, putting her hands up in surrender. “I got nothing, but my point remains. It’s gonna bite you in the ass badly if you wait too long to say anything.” When Nicky shrugged it off, she decided to move on. “What about you, Bubbles?” she asked, looking towards Jan, “what sort of scathing revenge does someone as bouncy as you come up with?”

Jan pressed her lips into a fine line, holding back what was either a smile or a grimace. “Well, this also happened in high school, an all-girl Catholic school, of course…”

Old Bridge, NJ - 2009

Jan was nothing if not brave. Coming out in tenth grade, especially considering the environment she was in, was a choice that couldn’t be taken lightly. While she had the support of her family and closest friends, the school environment had been a different story.

“Janice, could you stay back for a moment?” her math teacher, a conventionally attractive man in his early thirties, prompted as the final bell rang.

With math being her weakest subject, Jan was instantly concerned and nodded. “Of course, sir. Is something wrong?” she asked as she walked over to his desk.

“I think something is very wrong,” he replied as he got up. “Janice, I am highly concerned with your mental wellbeing.” He stopped in front of her, cupping her face with both hands. “You’re such a bright, beautiful girl. It would be such a shame for you to throw that away because you’ve chosen to shun God and live in sin.”

Jan felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach and her throat tighten. This was inevitable, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. She started shaking her head. “N-No, I’m… I’m not, I—”

“Shh…” he pressed his thumb to her lips to quiet her, then swiped it across her bottom lip. “Part of being a good Christian is overcoming temptation. And that’s what you want, isn’t it? Isn’t it what your parents want for you?” His hands move to her shoulders, squeezing them gently. “God gave you this body to lay with a man, you just need to be put in the right direction before it’s too late. I could help you, I could save you.”

Jan felt sick to her stomach. She hated every moment of the interaction; she hated the feeling of his hands on her, the way he was leering at her body, undressing her with his eyes. But at the same time, it was hard to lean into that hate, because he did pick on every insecurity she had in regards to her faith. But her sense of self won out and she was able to free herself of his grasp and run out of the room as fast as her legs would take her.

Any shame or guilt she might have felt was quickly replaced by anger and a desire to stop the man that tried to rob her of her innocence from harming anyone else. But she was still cautious, she knew there was a risk of retaliation if she spoke out alone, that was when her plan formed.

She created a fake Facebook account of a fifteen-year-old girl who was ‘planning on transferring to her school’. That was why she messaged the teacher, and after a few days of exchanging messages, ‘Samantha’ had agreed to meet up with him, the conversation in no uncertain terms making his intent clear.

Now, the obvious path from there would have been to go to the police, but that wasn’t good enough for Jan. Instead, she went to her godfather, who had promised he’d always help her ‘by any means necessary’. So, it was neither the police nor ‘Samantha’ that met the teacher at the park. Instead, it was two burly men who drove home a rough lesson that he was to turn himself in the next day, lest he face even worse consequences. He’d been given a flash drive with a copy of the whole exchange and was told he had exactly twenty-four hours and that the police would be expecting him.

Of course, those details weren’t in the subsequent news story of the teacher’s arrest. The conviction, however, was disappointing to Jan, as it was only two years and a thousand dollar fine, as well as losing his teaching license and having to register as an offender.

Present Day

“But rest assured, people are keeping an eye on him these days. You know, should he ever try and act up,” Jan explained with a shrug.

Rosé’s mouth was hanging open by the time Jan had finished her story. “So, you put a hit out on a pedo. I mean, shit, color me impressed,” she chuckled softly, then quickly followed up with, “I’m so sorry any of that happened to you, though. I’ve had people in my life try to weaponize religion against me after I came out. It’s never an easy pill to swallow.” She then looked at the group curiously. “Are you all…”

“Mik’s pan but yeah, the rest of us are gay,” Gigi confirmed with a nod. “At first, I thought that’d be the only thing we all have in common, but here we are now.”

“Chosen family is super important,” Mik agreed, “you never know who you can’t trust in your bloodline.”

Rosé quirked her brow. “That what happened to you?”

Scottsdale, AZ - 2015

Mik had been sitting across from his parents in dead silence for the past five minutes. There was no easy way to break it, let alone a correct one. On the coffee table in front of them were printed pictures of screenshots from his private Twitter account, where he presented himself as his true identity, but the precautions he took weren’t enough.

“Kady, sweetheart, I’m sure Uncle Joe brought this to our attention with your best interest at heart,” his mother said in as sweet of a voice as she could muster, which only served to sound fake to her son.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh please, don’t give me that. If it was ‘concern’ he would’ve told you privately. He sent it to the family group chat then told you that, and I quote, ‘your daughter thinks she’s a tranny’,” he struggled to keep his tone even, but he knew he needed to coddle his parents’ feelings if he wanted a chance of being taken seriously.

“I’m sure it just caught him by surprise,” his father offered.

Mik groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Even if he did, he wasn’t treating it like a fun piece of gossip, he hunted down my private account and outed me to humiliate me, and it would mean a lot if you guys had my back on this.”

This brought another wave of silence upon his parents. He couldn’t get a clear read on them, but they seemed stressed, confused, and most painfully, they seemed sad. His mother slowly picked her head back up. “Kady, I—”

“My name is Mik.”

“Listen, honey, you’re going to have to give us some time to adjust,” his dad tried to ease the tension, “you’re still our child, but this isn’t an easy thing to process, your mother especially is mourning the loss of her daughter.”

Mik felt his chest tighten in anger and hurt. “But I’m not—” he got up, shaking his head. “Right, fine,” he mumbled and escaped to the sanctuary of his bedroom. Left alone with his thoughts, the anger he had towards his parents dissipated and the rage shifted solely onto his uncle. After all, this was his fault. He was the one that robbed him of the opportunity to come out on his terms, and with the active intent to cause harm.

The anger didn’t go away over the following weeks. Instead, it built up, it festered inside of him as the summer after high school began. He had downloaded Grindr out of casual curiosity, and it was only a matter of minutes before a profile caught his eye. “No fucking way,” he grinned.

Of course, it was Joe, Mik realized how much of a cliche it was, but that didn’t change the fact that his bigoted uncle that tried to ruin his familial relationships was soliciting male escorts on a gay dating app. The opportunity for revenge essentially fell into his lap. He made a fake account and exchanged messages with him, just enough to get the evidence he needed.

The last step was simple, he dropped the screenshots into the same group text without any comment and removed himself from the group chat right after. He didn’t need to see the chaos unfold, Uncle Joe’s absence from the next family gathering was all he needed.

Present Day

“Just to be clear,” Mik added as he finished the story, “I’m against outing people, for the most part, obviously it should be something done on your terms. But shit, sometimes it’s gotta be an eye for an eye, you know?”

“Wait, I have a question,” Jan chimed in, “is he out now? Do y’all even talk to him anymore?”

He shook his head. “He moved to Alabama, I guess he wanted to go somewhere to double-down on the bigotry. No idea what happened after that. But, you know, good fucking riddance.”

“Amen to that,” Rosé agreed. “I don’t know how you guys have figured out that line of deciding what’s morally sound and what’s ethical enough. It seems to work, but it seems hard.”

“Jackie helped a lot with that,” Jan told her, her face lighting up and her smile broadening as she continued, “she has this pragmatic take on these things while still understanding that there’s so much ambiguity and morally gray areas. She’s honestly the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

Rosé nodded as she listened. “I’m glad you guys have someone like that on your team. How long have you two been dating?”

Jan turned bright red, worsened by the way the rest of the group laughed. “Oh, um, we’re not dating. She and I are… very close friends,” she explained.

“Ah,” the corners of her lips tugged into a smirk, “you’re just fucking, got it,” she observed, causing another eruption of laughter from the others, much to Jan’s chagrin. Once it died down, she redirected her attention to the half of the group that had yet to recall their stories. “Alright, who’s next?”

[fang-wolfsbane]

Transformers Generation One: A Seeker’s Triangle: Chapter 16: Theories

“Give me one good reason.”

“One reason? I’ll do you one better. I’ll give you a multitude of reasons.”

“Considering that it’s you, I highly doubt it.”

“Oh? Well in that case I suppose we’ll simply have to put it to the test, won’t we?”

“Indeed we would.”

“Me Grimlock no understand. Me Grimlock processor hurt from big bot talk.”

Both Perceptor and Wheeljack paused from their game of Earth chest and bickering to look over at their Dinobot companion, who had insisted on playing a round with them. Explaining the rules of a normal game to the artificially created bot was one thing but explaining a three-player version of it had proved even harder than unravelling the mysteries of why humans enjoyed both melted and un-melted versions of the yellow dairy product they received from the mammals they called ‘cows’. They had both agreed that it was similar to flavoured energon, just far more… sticky.

“Does this mean that you concede to losing the game?” Perceptor inquired. He didn’t look like it, but the red bot wasn’t the type to easily admit defeat. Wheeljack had to admit that he felt similar to is fellow scientist. It was simply a common trait amongst bots in their field to be stubborn about something until they were proven right. Primus knew how many explosions it took him within cycles to prove his point, much to his fellow Autobots’ dismay.

Grimlock gave Perceptor such a tired look that Wheeljack almost felt sorry for his creation. Almost. He had never sired a sparkling before, constantly claiming that he wasn’t ready for the responsibility that came with it. That was all before he left Cybertron.

He still didn’t feel like he was ready, but ever since he and Perceptor collaborated in the creation of the Dinobots, the two of them had taken on father-like roles for their creations. Naturally they weren’t born in the natural sense of the word, because despite the lack of femmes on Earth, he was almost certain that no reasonable femme would have agreed to the thought of carrying five Dinobots within her frame simply so that they could be used for soldiers in the war against the Decepticons. Not even the more submissive mechs had agreed to the thought.

That was one difference he found absolutely fascinating when it came to the differences between Earthlings and Cybertronians. On Earth, only the females, save for a couple of species, carried the offspring but with Cybertronians, femmes aren’t as big a necessity in terms of reproduction. For Cybertronians, creating life between two mechs wasn’t at all impossible, just far more difficult.

With femmes it was simply easier, given their biological structures, but there were still mechs that had the same reproductive organs inside of them. The question was simply figuring out which mechs had those organs. It was something that wasn’t visible on the outside frame, but the mechs with those specific organs usually exhibited similar symptoms, their submission towards purely mech-mechs was one of them.

As a scientist, it was utterly vexing not knowing how the process originated, but there were still theories that had drifted through those in his field that it was because even though femmes took to falling pregnant easier, they were still rare. One scientist had even proposed that it was because of that rarity that certain mechs had physically developed the biological reasons for their reproduction methods.

He had never bothered to ask Perceptor about his theories on the subject. He thought that it would have come up in conversation when they first started on their artificial form of live creation, but the red mech had remained tight-lipped about the whole thing despite his enthusiasm about the subject.

A thought did plague his mind though, if he and Moonracer were still able to come into physical contact with each other, would she have asked him for a child? Interfacing had been a regular occurrence back when they first met. Frag, they could barely keep their servos off each other at first, but as the war progressed, their time together had simply decreased. He was too busy with his projects, and she was out on the front lines, ever the sharp shooter. Time together at home had become a luxury, one neither of them had a chance to indulge in anymore.

His spark sank from the unease he felt. It was one thing he hated with an absolute passion. He would often find himself questioning if she still even remembered his existence, if she were even still waiting for him to return to their home planet, scoop her up and declare his true feelings for her.

She knew he loved her. He had said it to her multiple times, but the day he told her that he was to leave Cybertron in the hopes of finding new forms of energon to ensure their survival, something had flickered across those light blue optics of her. He had asked her to tell him if something was wrong, but being as strong willed as she was, she had simply taken a step back and wished him luck on his journey. To this day he didn’t know what had bothered her, never mind figuring out how to bring up the subject in the first place.

He must’ve gotten lost in his thoughts, based on the fact that Perceptor was clicking his digits right beneath his ol’ factory sensor. Wheeljack blinked, snapping back to reality.

“Is everything alright? You have been sitting so still, I feared you fell into a stasis nap,” Perceptor frowned, showing his clear disapproval. That was one thing he envied about the other bot, his ability to express himself through simple facial expressions without needing to actually tell anyone how he truly felt about something.

Wheeljack shook his helm. “Ah, I’m fine Percy. Just a little drained. It’s been a long cycle.”

Perceptor’s lips pulled into more of a frown over the nickname Wheeljack had given him shortly after their first meeting. It served as a kind of comfort to know that in all the cycles he had been an Autobot, that some things hadn’t changed at all.

“In that case, I propose that we end this match for now. You should go fetch a cube and then get some recharge. I cannot tolerate a tired laboratory partner,” Perceptor lectured, already rising from his seat.

Wheeljack was just about to protest before Grimlock joined in. Where he got his sudden energy boost from, Wheeljack was almost afraid to ask. “Me Grimlock come with! Me Grimlock hungry!”

The two of them exchanged looks with Perceptor nodding his helm in what Wheeljack could only assume to be confirmation. “That settles it. Go and refuel and go to your room. I want you up bright and early tomorrow morning if we are to perform our latest test.”

Knowing that it was no use trying to argue with the other, Wheeljack let air pass through his vents, conceding as it were, to Perceptor’s logic. Losing to another scientist was frustrating, but if there was one bot he didn’t mind losing to, it was his old friend. Rising from his seat as well, Wheeljack looked to the board in front of him, his queen piece lying discarded on her side, defeated.

Transformers Generation One, Perceptor, Wheeljack. Grimlock, Dinobots, Primus, Autobots, Sparkling, Cybertron, Decepticons, Moonracer and energon © Hasbro A Seeker’s Triangle © Fang Wolfsbane

[soshesighs]

Fic: Set The Bad Day By The Bed

Fandom: @speakergame

Pairing: Li/Speaker/Seb poly

Note: Title from the song “Orpheus” by Sara Bareilles. The line I wish I could use (but alas, you cannot use a whole line from a song for a title, as much as I might want to) and that I wanted to vaguely attempt to capture the feeling of in this little ficlet was “If the bottom drops out / I hope my love was someone else’s solid ground.” This is based on a conversation in the Speaker discord about which ROs would enjoy having their hair played with, so the original idea isn’t mine. (I imagine this being set when their relationship is all fairly new feeling, for some context.)

Lily Version here!

---

You startle suddenly from your daydream, feeling as much as hearing the front door slam, almost hard enough to rattle the house. Deft fingers briefly halt their ministrations as you strain to hear who it is that's arrived; you weren’t expecting any of your friends to drop by this afternoon.

A slight jingling, a heavy thunk as boots are set next to the door, and you instantly know who it is.

"He sounds upset," Sebastian murmurs, voice heavy, seconds from falling asleep. For a fleeting moment, your heart dances between feeling rightfully concerned and quietly pleased that you both immediately recognize your partner's footsteps; you can't help but be a little pleased at how far the three of you have come.

Concern eventually wins out, however, and your eyebrows furrow together as you hum a noise of agreement, leaning down to press a kiss to Sebastian’s brow as you think.

"It’s not like him to slam things around,” you agree. Your eyes bounce between the door to the bedroom and the man curled up by your side in bed, a debate warring internally. Sebastian is so content - finally allowing himself to relax some, even if he is still reading through your currently compiled case research - that you don’t want to disturb him.

But Sebastian, also ever observant, reaches a hand up to still the one of yours that’s still trailing through his hair, tilting his head up until his eyes meet yours. “Go,” he says simply.

You slump a bit, worrying your lower lip unintentionally. “But you just settled down,” you protest, sighing. “Besides, you know how he is. He needs his time. I imagine he’s heading to the library.”

As if a manifestation of your unease, your fingers begin to twirl a long strand of his hair again, unable to hold completely still. You respect the fact that Li needs time to himself to uncoil whatever aspect of his day has gripped him so harshly, but that doesn’t make it any easier to sit idly by.

The two of you sit there in heavy silence, the only sound the muffled turning of pages as Sebastian reads on for a solid 7 minutes, before he sighs and sets the file aside. After a pause, he says, not unkindly, “Your unease is slightly smothering, not that I’m able to focus much either. How about I make coffee and you can take some to him? If only one of us goes in, it shouldn't feel too intrusive."

If you practically bolt out of bed in eagerness, he doesn’t mention it, just chuckles to himself as he pushes up off the bed to follow.

---

A short while and one pot of hellish coffee brewed later, Sebastian sends you on your way. As you suspected, you spot Li’s silhouette curled up in a tight ball on a couch in the library. Not wanting to startle him by just appearing at his side, you knock softly on the archway until you get his attention.

His head snaps around harshly, deep, black eyes meeting yours from across the room. Even from here, you can see the bruise-like shadows beneath them, and you try to hold back from wincing sympathetically. To his credit, when he realizes it’s you, his eyes slip shut on a slow exhale, the slightest bit of tension leaving his body. After a second, he nods - the okay for you to come in.

You pad over, socked feet making only the softest muffled sound on the rugs. Coming up behind him, you slide a hand down over his shoulder from behind the couch and lean down to press a kiss to his hairline. His fingers grip the notebook and pen in his lap so tightly that his knuckles turn white, but you’re glad to see him writing. Hopefully it helps, you think to yourself, filing the information away to ask about later, if he’s willing to share.

“I won’t keep you,” you say, voice equally as quiet as your steps so as not to disturb him more than necessary. “But Bas made you coffee, so I wanted to bring it in while it was warm.”

He takes the cup and opens his mouth like there’s something he wants to say - like part of him wants to overflow and spill out whatever it is that’s strangling him inside - but nothing comes out. After a second, he gives the barest shake of his head, and you know for certain now that he needs more time.

You turn to go, but his hand rises up to cover yours on his chest, giving it a quick squeeze. “Thanks," he finally manages, his voice a bit hoarse from disuse.

“Of course, love. Anytime,” comes your gentle reply, and you hope he can hear the slight smile in your words and know that you’re fine - that everything is fine - and that you both understand. “Come find us in a bit, okay?”

He doesn’t reply again, but you don’t expect him to. Instead, you wait until he takes a sip and then head out, sliding your hand free of his embrace, content to leave him to his quiet meditation now that you’ve seen that he’s (at least physically) okay.

---

You barely step foot into the bedroom before you hear, “How is he?”

With a shrug, you crawl back up onto the bed, resuming your previously situated position against the headboard. “Exhausted, tense, locked up more than I’ve seen him in a while. But he was writing, which brings me some comfort. He says thank you for the coffee, by the way.”

Sebastian nods, a bit of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Not in so many words, I presume.”

“No,” you concede, reaching out a hand to will him closer. “But I could tell he was grateful. And thank you for humoring me. I know you were about to nod off.”

He settles against your side once more, head resting in your lap. “It’s not humoring you if I’m just as concerned. It’s hard leaving someone you care about alone when they’re struggling. Besides, I can sleep whenever."

“You’d think after all these years, I’d have gotten used to it. He’s been like this ever since we were kids, but…” you drift off, struggling to find the words. After a moment, you shrug, shaking your head. "And don't give me that, Mister 'I'll sleep when I'm dead'! You have no idea how proud I was to get you to stop pacing and lie down."

He grins, hand reaching up to cup the nape of your neck and pull you down for a kiss. "I'll rest once I've read through all of this - how's that sound?"

"I'll believe it when I see it," you reply, lips still brushing against his in the ghost of a touch as you do, and you swallow down his replying smirk with another kiss.

Eventually - when the need to take a deep breath begins to win out over the need for each other - you separate, fingers smoothing a lock of his hair back behind his ear despite the fact that its currently messy state is entirely your fault. “I know what you’re trying to do,” you whisper, a sly smile working its way onto your face.

“And what is that?”

You sit up fully and tap a finger on the tip of his nose. “You’re using me to stall. Get to reading, mister. You promised me you’d rest after, and I fully intend to see that through.”

With an over-exaggerated roll of the eyes, Sebastian picks the file up off his stomach and flips back to where he previously had stopped reading. “What exactly are you going to be doing while I’m reading your notes then, hm?”

“Providing incentive, of course,” you reply, as if it should be completely obvious.

Eyebrows raised and feigning indifference, he asks, “Incentive, huh? Remunerative, coercive, moral-?” He flips a page, eyes trained coolly on the words before him and looking for all the world like he’s completely disinterested in your current conversation. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

You laugh and don’t even bother to reply, merely beginning to scratch at his scalp, focusing on where his hair had previously been gathered into his trademark ponytail. He bites back a moan, but very quickly makes every attempt to school his features into their previously neutral position. “You drive a hard bargain,” he admits, meeting your eyes and pursing his lips to bite back the smile threatening to reveal itself. “I suppose I have to accept.”

“I suppose you do,” you agree, blatant triumph shining through every word. In time, he relents and pulls his gaze away from yours, focusing back on the work that, unfortunately, must be done.

You settle swiftly into a routine after that, with Sebastian reading and flagging specific aspects that seem particularly important or promising and you bouncing between massaging his head and simply playing with his hair, humming softly as you do - a lullaby from your childhood, you realize, having subconsciously gone for something low and soothing.

Just when it seems that Sebastian might once more be about to nod off, a quiet knock sounds from the other side of the room. You immediately freeze, eyes wide and hopeful, as the door slides open.

“Liam,” you exhale, tension you hadn’t realized you were still holding flooding out from what feels like your very bones at the sight of him.

He holds up the now-empty coffee mug and gives it a shake before setting it down on the dresser, his long and lanky frame leaning heavily against the door jamb. “Finished. Thank you again.”

Sebastian yawns - a rare sight in and of itself - and nods in acknowledgement before turning to angle his body more towards him. “You don’t have to knock, you know. I don’t know how many times we have to tell you that we want you here before you believe us.”

And Li finally cracks a smile at that: a crooked, barely there thing, but it’s there all the same, and it feels like daylight breaking through a monsoon. “Thought someone might’ve finally convinced you to sleep. I didn’t want to wake either of you.”

“Working on it,” you reply faintly. In an echo of your earlier request to Sebastian, you hold out your hand to him, silently beckoning him forward to join the two of you - if he’s ready.

He hesitates a beat too long, and in those few seconds you convince yourself that he’s going to decline.

"It's okay," you whisper, letting your hand drop back to the bed. Liam's eyes follow, watching as you reflexively clench the comforter in your fist; sitting still, especially when stressed or upset, has never been your strong suit.

Adam's apple bobbing harshly, Liam swallows and shakes his head. "I'm sorry for shutting you out earlier."

He pauses again, and you try not to let your heart catch hopefully on that last word.

Sebastian also immediately picks up on the careful phrasing, knowing as well as you do that Li of all people rarely minces his words or says what he doesn't mean. "And now?" he asks simply, setting the file to the side. "Feeling any better?"

Liam ducks his head, hiding his softening expression. When he glances back up, his trademark tilted smile is back in place. "Got room for one more?"

---

“Do you want to talk about it?” you eventually ask, voice barely audible even in the quiet of the darkened room.

Liam tenses a bit from his position now lying at your other side, head pillowed on the thigh opposite Sebastian who has, at long last, finally fallen asleep. “No, not… not yet.”

“Alright, I understand.” You trail off, finding it hard to voice exactly what it is you want to say. Between the three of you, Liam is the one who has the gift with words; you’ve never been particularly eloquent in expressing your feelings. Ultimately, you settle on saying, “Just promise me you’d tell us if it was something serious - if you were hurt or you needed our help? We love you, Li.”

You look down to meet his eyes, holding his intense gaze in the hopes that you can impart how serious you are with every lingering second.

He tears his eyes away after a moment and reaches out to your hand lying in front of him on the bed, slowly and deliberately running his fingertips along your palm as if trying to memorize every dip and line and callus. “I’m not good at asking for help, you know that,” he admits carefully, somewhat reluctantly. “I take care of people, not the other way around. That’s how it’s always been.”

“You have us now,” you reply, gently combing the fingers of your free hand through his forest green locks, attempting to untangle the knots you know he must have formed earlier by anxiously tugging at it. “You don’t have to bear anything alone.”

Liam glances back over his shoulder at Sebastian, whose face is more relaxed and at peace than he’s looked in days now that he’s finally crashed, who is the first to sacrifice caring for his own well-being to do whatever he can to help the two of you and all of your friends, who quickly and quietly wormed his way into both your hearts until he was so deeply entrenched that neither of you can imagine life without him now. And then, he nods.

“Yeah, I think I’m starting to understand that now.”

[fancytrinkets]

Brandy in the Library (Trevelyan/Dorian)

Note: Flirting and friendship features heavily here. Content warning for excessive alcohol use. And if you’ve read it before it’s because I’m repurposing pieces of my recent fic for 30 Days of Dorian. As a courtesy for potential readers, this is probably one to avoid if you don’t want to read about a mage Inquisitor who didn’t support the mage rebellion.

On his way to see Leliana, Trevelyan passes through the library — though it's not much of one yet, stocked only with a handful of books scavenged from Haven. A team of scouts went back three days ago to sift through the rubble. They returned with whatever they could salvage.

Dorian's sitting at one of the library tables, paging through a half-scorched book. He looks up as Trevelyan approaches, and smiles in a way that makes Trevelyan's heart beat faster.

"I see you've found this place," Trevelyan says. "Have you been to the other library?"

"There's another library? Does that one have more than eight books in it?"

"In fact it does. If you're free in two hours, I have a break between meetings when I can show you."

"I have a better idea," Dorian says. "Let's make it later this evening. I hear the tavern's expecting its first shipment of supplies. I'll nick a bottle of something good. You can have a drink with me in this secret library of yours."

That same evening, he finds Dorian waiting for him in the upstairs library with a bottle of Antivan brandy in hand.

The man looks even more attractive than usual, if that's possible. He's clearly taken extra care with his hair and clothing. He's chosen robes with an uneven cut, alluringly designed to reveal the contours of his chest and shoulders. Trevelyan has to force his imagination away from its preferred course — conjuring up vivid imagery of Dorian taking off those robes and climbing into bed with him.

Instead he focuses on the brandy.

"Always a good choice. Shall we get started?"

"Lead the way," Dorian says.

Trevelyan endures a pleasant case of nerves as he takes the stairs to the cellars and unlocks the lower library. He's been looking forward to this all afternoon, and now that the moment is here, he hopes Dorian won't find fault with his choice of venue.

His worries disappear as soon as the door shuts behind them.

"Very interesting," Dorian says. "A mage's library."

He pauses at a shelf near the entryway to have a look at the spines of the nearest books.

"Old, but not ancient," he says. "I wonder who was living here several hundred years ago."

Trevelyan doesn't have answers. While Solas seems familiar with Skyhold, he doesn't speak as freely and generously about it as he does when he's asked about the Fade.

"Hard to believe we found this site just when we needed it most," Trevelyan says.

"Or you were, in fact, chosen by Andraste." Dorian doesn't sound like he's joking.

"I can't rule it out," Trevelyan says. "But I'm not claiming it either."

"Fair enough. Here."

Dorian pours for both of them and hands Trevelyan a glass. The first sip warms his throat delightfully. He takes a seat and Dorian pulls up the other chair, moving it closer to Trevelyan before he sits down.

"Here we are in a southern mage's library," Dorian says. "I think you should tell me what it's like to be a southern mage."

"What would you like to know?"

"About you? Probably everything," Dorian says. "But start with what it was like to learn magic at your Circle."

Trevelyan shares a few stories from his younger days at Ostwick — of learning magic along with his peers, and being cautioned all the time about its dangers. In contrast, Dorian offers some details about his own elite, but tempestuous magical education in Tevinter. The differences in their training are vast, and yet the more they talk, the more Trevelyan appreciates the similarities in how they both turned out.

Openly and without shame, Dorian loves being a mage. It's obvious just from watching him. He loves the way it feels to use magic — and he's exceptionally good at it. Trevelyan knows that feeling also. Not the total lack of shame, of course. But in the months since he's left the Circle, he's grown to love his own magic in a way he never truly did before. The chance to use it fully for a good cause, to push himself to the limits of his capacity, and to see, for the first time in his thirty-five years, what a powerful mage he is — it's an unparalleled experience.

One that Dorian understands.

Trevelyan reaches for the bottle and pours them both another drink. He can feel the warmth in his belly, relaxing him.

Dorian smells good, he thinks. He'd like to hold this man close — press him against the bookshelves and kiss him, perhaps — all the while breathing in deeply to appreciate his scent up close. Trevelyan is far from anything he'd find so embarrassing as being fully aroused by nothing more than conversation and fantasy — he's not a teenager, for Maker's sake. But he is aware of the early stages of that particular reaction, and his close-fitting robes don't help him. He shifts in his chair for better comfort and discretion, and tries to stop the flood of mental imagery from pouring in.

Soon enough, he and Dorian are falling back into the friendly give and take of a conversation in which they don't quite agree.

The topic is templars — more specifically, the need for the power of mages to be held in check by a group of trained professionals with the ability to suppress magic when needed. Trevelyan finds it essential, given Tevinter as the cautionary tale. Dorian finds the south to be an example of a system both poorly designed and horrifically implemented — "hence the mage rebellion, yes?"

"Well, obviously the Circles here need to change drastically," Trevelyan says.

"And yet you were loyal to yours," Dorian points out.

"It's complicated."

"How so?"

Their exchange continues over drinks refreshed a third and fourth time.

Trevelyan replies with some details about Ostwick, but witholds others. He explains it as more lenient than most, without dragging his family into it. He may be keeping things back, but it's mostly because he wants to stay on topic. He likes these conversations.

He's being pushed, yes. But in the process, he's clarifying his thoughts — revising and rethinking them. Sometimes he agrees that he's wrong, or concedes that he's too accustomed to one way of thinking to change it immediately. And Dorian takes as well he gives. He's got a certain arrogance about him, sure, but when they start talking this way, he often yields a point and backs off without rancor when he knows he's mistaken.

It's refreshing and interesting to speak so candidly.

"Alright," Dorian says after the fifth drink has been poured. "If your Circle wasn't abusive towards you, then what about your peers who voted to rebel. What did they want?"

By now Trevelyan's thoughts are feeling nicely fuzzy.

"I don't know," he says. "More from their lives? The chance to move freely, live where they choose, visit families, get married, have children, that sort of thing."

"And that didn't matter to you?"

"I agreed with them. We all deserve those chances if we want them."

"But?" Dorian asks.

"Complacency? I'd begun to accept my life for what it was. A limited one."

Dorian shakes his head, disbelieving. "You don't strike me as complacent at all."

"Oh?" Trevelyan asks. "How do I strike you?"

Dorian smiles, but doesn't answer. At least not at first. He finishes the last of his drink, holds the glass forward, and then watches as Trevelyan pours him another.

"You strike me," he says. "A lot of ways."

"Good ways, I hope."

Dorian tilts his drink until it shines with reflected candlelight. He studies it a moment, then looks at Trevelyan.

"You're not as well-read as some, but more clever than most. Good-natured, though I suspect you have a temper under there somewhere, and that's intriguing," he says.

"Also, you seem to genuinely care about everyone. Including the people you don't like — which I can't even fathom. What sort of forbidden magic granted you that ability? Please tell me so I can avoid it — it looks exhausting!"

Trevelyan laughs. "And here I was expecting insults about southern mages with our backwards ideas."

"Yes, I was getting to that part."

Drinking and laughing with Dorian is a wonderful way to spend the evening. As the haze of intoxication sets in, Trevelyan finds he's happiest to talk about the battles they've won while fighting together.

"Do you know," Dorian says, "how thoroughly I underestimated you when first we met? I thought I'd have to look after you at Redcliffe castle — get you through the ordeal with my superior knowledge and abilities."

"Hah! How altruistic of you."

"Not at all. You were very nice to look at — I considered it a pleasant burden."

"Wow, that's– I'm speechless." Trevelyan can hear the drunken slurring of his words. It only makes him giggle.

Dorian's still lost in the story.

"When you took down that first guard with one hit, I thought, alright, perhaps this one can handle himself. And that was before we stumbled into the large hall full of Venatori."

"Ugh, there were nine of them, I remember."

"Yes, and I didn't like our chances," Dorian says. "But then you said, 'You take those three, I've got the rest,' and I started to think that between the two of us, maybe I wasn't the unbearably arrogant one, after all."

"No, hold on," Trevelyan says. "Did I not get all six of them?"

He knows he did. And he's sure it doesn't count as arrogance if you're actually capable of doing the thing you claim you can. But he thinks he might have that backwards. Thoughts are increasingly difficult to keep hold of.

"You did get all six!" Dorian says, sounding delighted. "I was very impressed."

"Glad I wasn't too much of a burden for you."

"I'm honestly surprised you trusted me. I doubt I would have."

"I didn't," Trevelyan admits. "I was expecting a double cross. But I was desperate enough to risk it."

Dorian grins at him and raises his empty glass.

"Here's to desperation!"

"To being wildly desperate for things," Trevelyan says, and clinks their glasses together.

Dorian tries to drink, only to find nothing left of alcohol.

"Fuck, I'm drunk," he says.

"I'm the same. And I should go to sleep," Trevelyan says. "I have meetings in the morning."

And so the evening ends with friendly words of goodnight and a hazy walk upstairs to his quarters.

.

When Trevelyan wakes in the morning, the sunlight is painful and a headache sets in. On his way to the kitchens to grab a late breakfast, he runs into Dorian doing the same. He looks perfectly groomed, as always, but Trevelyan can see the exhaustion in his eyes.

"Didn't sleep well?"

"No," Dorian says. "And you?"

"Terribly," Trevelyan admits. "But that was fun. We should do it again some time."

"Find a strange old room that frightens other people and go there to get drunk off stolen brandy?"

"Exactly," Trevelyan says.

The hangover is worth it for the way Dorian smiles at him.

[illfoandillfie]

5 Simple Rules For A Successful Fake Relationship: The Perfect Match (Epilogue)

5 SIMPLE RULES MASTERLIST

Pairing: Ben Hardy x Reader

Summery: What happens after you tell Ben you love him?

Warnings: SMUT (18+), oral sex (f receiving, implied male receiving), fingering, nipple play, it’s mostly just fluffy bullshit lmao

Words: 7129

A/N: Epilogue time! Apologies for taking so long to get this written, it’s been a rough few weeks. But we’re finally here!

Taglist:  @laedymoon  @dtfrogertaylor  @vee-ndetta @kellypenac @labessieisallama @deakyclicks @jennyggggrrr @drowseoftaylor  @hannafuckingsucks  @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming @queenmylovely @supersonicfreddie  @taron-egrotten @johndeaconshands @borhapbois

@coni-martina @hardforbenhardy @cubedtriangle @vicouscirce @arianabrashierstuff @pattieboydwannabe @maggieroseevans @theprettyandthereckless​

Being in Barcelona with Ben was like having a fresh start. One without intrusive photographers or the pressure of being walking advertisements for a movie. You almost had to physically push Ben out of the hotel on the first morning you were there. He was reluctant to leave you but, being lead actor, couldn’t exactly skip work. At any rate, you wouldn’t let him. It wasn’t so bad spending the day holed up in his suite. You went back to bed after he’d left and then, once properly rested, put music on as you caught up on emails and the like. In the afternoon you popped downstairs to explore the square the suite looked out on, visiting a quaint little bookstore, a shop full of touristy knickknacks, and a cute café that sold maybe the strongest coffee you’d ever had. Having so much time to yourself also gave you a chance to call Felicity and have a long conversation with her, filling her in on exactly what had happened after you got on the plane. She was thrilled to hear it had gone well and took a large part of the credit for herself. 

“Afterall, I was the one who told you to get off your arse. If I hadn’t you’d still be crying in bed,” You laughed and conceded she had a point, “but you’re not the only one who gets credit,” “Fine, but it’s like 90% down to me.”

But, even with so much to occupy you, by the end of the day you were eager for Ben to get back, bored of being on your own, ready to have the conversation you’d both been too tired to fully have the previous night. When he di[d finally walk through the door it was obvious he was just as keen to see you. You heard the thump of his backpack hitting the floor just inside the door and then him calling your name. He found you on the couch and rushed up behind you, leaning in for a kiss when you tilted your head back to greet him. “I love being able to do that,” he said softly as he sat down, making you smile. He asked how your day had been as you shuffled closer, letting him drape an arm around you and pull you against his chest. And for a while that was all you talked about, your day and his, everything you’d got up to. His had been a little busier, working with the stunt coordinator and fight choreographer in the morning so they could film the scene in the afternoon. Completely different from the prep you’d done for The Perfect Match, but you could tell how much he enjoyed it from the way he spoke about it. Even if he did end up with a few bruises as proof of his hard work. Before long though you had to address the question hanging over your heads, had to have the talk. It wasn’t an easy conversation. It took some time and meant being open about the previous few months – the insecurities and fears that had kept you from recognising and acting on your feelings, the impact being in the public eye had on you, the pros and cons of dating another actor and, perhaps most importantly, potential challenges you would face because of your previous history. You both readily admitted there’d been some rough moments when you’d handled things poorly and the question had to be asked of if you’d be able to move on from those patches and any wounds they’d caused. Any lingering reservations you had about Ben and his willingness to make it work were quickly put to rest. He was the first to offer up his vulnerabilities, both personal and professional, and discuss the space where they intersected with you. It was all you needed to be fully assured he was in it for the long haul. Of course, you reciprocated his openness with confessions of your own, harder to get out than you’d imagined, but he was patient and leant you a reassuring hand squeeze when you needed it. It wasn’t exactly fun but it was a necessary evil. And by the time you were done you both knew exactly where you stood and were in agreement about how to move forward, making it all worthwhile.

Neither of you felt much like going out afterwards though so you ordered room service, making sure to get a bottle of wine with the food, and celebrated quietly. Ben ran down to the nearest store and bought a few candles to make it seem a little more romantic and promised to take you out on a proper date the next night. “So would that be our first date? Or does everything from before count too?” you asked around a mouthful of food, looking at Ben across the candle lit table. “Huh, good question. I think it counts,” “Really?” you laughed, “I was about to say it doesn’t. It was all planned by other people and not really…real,” “Hey, not everything was planned out for us. That date where we painted mugs was all my idea and, might I add, something I’d thought about specifically to impress you. It was on my list of potential dates in case I got the chance to ask you out after we wrapped. Same goes for that brunch place I took you and the ice skating rink. Also those dates were part of what me fall for you so they kind of have to count.” You had to smile at that, “When did you know?” “Uh,” Ben dropped his gaze to where his hand lay on the table, “Our first date.” “Really?” “I’d already liked you for a while and then you went and decorated a mug with lyrics from the song I heard every time I looked at you.” It wasn’t until after he’d finished speaking that he lifted his eyes again, giving a small shrug. “That’s so ridiculously sweet, Ben, I might have to kiss you about it.” “Well I’m a sweet guy Y/N,” he was almost laughing when you made good on your threat, standing up from your side of the table and nearly pouncing on him. He just pulled you further onto his lap, the dinner forgotten as you revelled in the knowledge that making out was allowed now, encouraged even. “You wanna move this to the bedroom?” Ben asked, illuminated by the dancing flames more than the lights you’d left on. “I don’t normally sleep with a guy on the first date,” you said, pretending to weigh up your options as you twirled a strand of Ben’s hair around your finger. “We just agreed it’s not our first date. Closer to our fifty first probably.” “Hmmm, you make some good points, babe,” His face lit up and you nearly fell of his lap as he sat forward, “are we allowed to do pet names again?” You groaned into his shoulder but he just chuckled “You wanna move this to the bedroom, cuddle bunny?” “I hate you,” “No you don’t,” you could tell he was grinning, even with your face buried in the crook of his neck. “Little bit.” “Aww c’mon cuddle bunny, don’t be like that. I’ll make you feel real good.” “I don’t know Ben, you’ve got a lot to live up to.” “I do?” “You don’t remember? First night I stayed over at yours you made some pretty big claims about what you were capable of. Said if anyone asked I should tell them I came like three times,” you put air quotes around his words. “So you’re saying if I prove that I really am that good, you won’t complain about cuddle bunny or any other nickname I come up with?” “I never said that,” “You basically did and the challenge has been accepted.” You broke into giggles as he pushed you from his lap, only to lurch forward and kiss you, smiling himself. He led you into the next room, discarding clothes along the way.

                                                        ***

You laughed as you sat on the bed, watching as Ben hopped through the doorway on one foot, trying to kick his pants off his other leg as he went. Your shirt and bra had been lost somewhere between the table and the bed, his shirt discarded even earlier. He gave you a slightly sheepish smile as he finally managed to free himself from the jeans and followed you towards the bed. You leaned back, still on the edge of the bed, propping yourself up on your hands to keep your eyes locked on him and he followed, caught your lips again though softer than before, one hand hovering just above your shoulder, fingertips barely grazing you. It was miles from the first time you’d slept with him, when you’d both been full of alcohol induced confidence and a lack of clear thought. You pushed yourself closer to try and let him know he could be firmer, that you’d like it if he was. Instead he pulled back even more. “Is something wrong? Do you not want to do this?” “No, no I absolutely do. Just,” he smiled again, the shy half smile that made him seem even more boyish than usual, “you’re gorgeous and I kinda can’t believe this is happening. Again. Just give me a second to let it sink in.” “Benjamin I swear, if you start crying,” “I’m not going to cry,” he chuckled, “probably.” You waited, watched his eyes roam over every inch of you from your hairline to your waist, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Finally he kissed you again, already almost breathless, his hand cupping your jaw as if he had to work up to touching you elsewhere. Slowly his touch fell lower, neck, collarbone. When he grazed your breast he pulled his hand back again but you hummed at the contact and he replaced it. You stopped holding yourself up, let yourself lay back against the mattress as his lips moved to your throat, his thumb teasing the nipple it found to a stiff peak. It left your hands free to wrap around him, hold him against you. “Do you mind if I leave some marks?” “Go ahead,” you said, far more concerned about losing the feeling of his mouth on you than what would be left when he was done. You felt him nuzzle his nose against the underside of your jaw, and then a tingle down your spine as he found a spot to leave a large purple bruise, close to where he’d first given you a hickey at your request. You made a low hum and tilted your head to the side, exposing more of your neck to him, and he delighted in filling the space with more marks. Three along the column of your neck, one on your sternum and one on your right breast. “How’s it look?” you asked, as he raised his head from your chest. “Perfect. But that could just be because your boobs are right in my face. Very nice view.” You gave him a light pinch for his cheek but he didn’t react, far more interested in creating another hickey on your chest. “Hope you weren’t planning on filming any topless scenes anytime soon,” he mumbled, moving to repeat the process on your other breast, “makeup’ll have a hell of a time covering all these.”

By the time Ben was ready to continue his trail lower you were aching for more. Your underpants were slick with your need, nipples hard as Ben’s saliva caught the cold air he blew over them. Again you were struck by how different to last time it was. Then it had been fast, only minutes between being pushed up against the door and having his fingers in you. But now? Now Ben was taking his time. You understood why, of course. Back then you’d been trying to reach the end before either of you could think for half a second about it being a bad idea. You’d been drunk and clueless about how much you’d both wanted it to happen. All you’d had to do was palm him over his pants and he was raring to go. Not so much this time. He was certainly worked up, you’d found as much when you’d tried to cop a feel. But he stopped you before you got too far, laced his fingers through yours so you couldn’t stroke him off. He responded to your whine with a line about having a reputation to live up to and then let go of your hand as he slipped off your lap to the floor. He made you wait as he tugged your pants from your legs and then left another mark on your hip. You opened your legs wider for him, earning a small nip against your thigh. “Wish I’d done this for you last time,” he said softly, kissing the spot that was still tingling from the scrape of his teeth. You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch, “If you’d done this last time I’d have confessed my love a whole lot faster. Could-coluld’ve saved me the cost of the flight here.” You voice shook as he pressed his tongue to your soaked underwear and you briefly wished you’d packed some actual lingerie and not just your every-day sensible cotton knickers, but Ben clearly didn’t mind. “Cute panties,” he said between sucks through the material, “that wet patch from your pussy or my mouth?” He laughed as he pulled them off you, dropping them unceremoniously to the side as he sat up higher on his knees.

The next thing you knew was Ben’s fingers on either side of your lips, pulling you open. He glanced up at you, grinned when you whined softy, didn’t break eye contact as he dragged his tongue over you. No more build up, no more playful comments as he took his time exploring you. Just his mouth on you, determinedly pushing you to the edge. You let your head fall back with a squeak as he nudged your clit with his nose, following it up by sucking the nub into his mouth, pulling a moan from you. Your breath caught when he slid two fingers along your slit, coating them in your arousal and a whiny expletive was your response to one entering you. Ben pulled back and gave you a wink as he added another finger. You’d have told him off for being so cocky if you hadn’t felt so good. Instead you fell back to the mattress completely. “That feel good baby?” He asked between licks, stretching you out, trying to find the same spot he’d reached last time. “So good Ben,” “I love the way you say my name.” He pressed a third finger into you, shifted the angle slightly, and without thinking you twisted a hand into his hair, let him hear his name again. He hummed though you weren’t sure what caused it, only that it felt incredible, his lips wrapped around your clit. With soft encouragement he made you tip over the edge, squirming under him as you rode it out. He was gentle when he pulled his fingers from you and left a kiss against your thigh, waiting for you to come back to earth before he began gloating. “That’s one. How do you want the next? Same thing?” It took you a moment to figure out what he meant but he filled the time by kissing a path back up to your lips, shorter than the trip down had taken. “Well? What next?” he asked again when it seemed like you weren’t going to reply. “I could blow you,” you said, once again dropping your hand to try and rub him through his underwear. “Save that for another time. I’ve got a promise to make good on and an adorable nickname to give you.” “I was hoping you’d say that. Really want you in my pussy.” Ben laughed and leaned in to kiss you again, evidence from your orgasm still on his lips and chin, before pushing himself away to finish undressing. You watched him closely, taking in the V that was exposed and the light trail of hair leading under his waistband, the way his thumbs hooked into the material, the slightly theatrical wiggle he made to shake his pants off, how the second he was free of the fabric his hand came up to stroke over his length, seeking some brief relief. He turned away to grab a condom and you made yourself comfortable on the bed, moving to lay back against the pillows rather than hanging over the edge. And then Ben was practically diving on top of you, making you giggle as he kissed you again and again and again. Until he stopped to sit back on his legs, tearing open the condom with his teeth. “Can I?” you asked, pulling your lip between your teeth. “Sure,” As Ben nodded you sat forward, took the condom from him and closed your other hand around him. “Shhhhit,” he breathed out,” “C’mon babe, ‘m already h-hard. Just wanna be in you.” You hummed in agreement but took your time rolling the latex down his shaft as you pulled him into another kiss, thoroughly enjoying the noises he made in response. Soft throaty sounds, little whines muffled by your lips. You would have been happy just jerking him off except for the needy throbbing between your legs that made you hyper aware of how empty you were. “Lie back for me,” he said softly as soon as you pulled your hand away. You did as requested, settling back against the pillows once more. Ben nudged your legs open wider and finally sank into you, both of you gasping at the feeling. You moaned softly when he slowly pulled back and thrust forward again, wrapped your legs around him because it was the only way you could think of to get him closer. Carefully he took one of your hands in his, laced his fingers through yours and then repeated it with the other hand, holding them against the mattress as he fucked into you. His forehead dropped to yours as he let a curse slip into the air, “Didn’t a-appreciate your pussy enough last time. So fucking tight.” You couldn’t think how to respond, just squeezed his hands, your breath catching in your throat as he rolled his hips against you.  He kept the pace steady as he caught your lips again, less coordinated kisses that didn’t always get you full on the mouth as you moved with each measured thrust. Each one seemed to make it harder for you to breathe, your breaths coming in short pants, often accompanied by small whiny noises as you felt yourself getting close again. “Yeah?” Ben asked against your ear, a response to a particularly drawn out whine, “that good, huh?” If you’d been able to form coherent sentences you would have come up with some sort of witty way to tell him you needed more stimulation to actually get off. Instead all you managed to do was stumble through the words close, please, more as he nibbled on your earlobe. “Show me,” he rasped, releasing one of your hands so you could slip it between your bodies. I wasn’t long before the speed of your fingers on your clit outstripped Ben’s movement, your growing need to finish pushing you to rub faster, press harder. He groaned into your neck as you finally hit the edge and pulsed around him, pulled out before it became too much. You let your legs fall from where you’d hooked them around him though you whined at the loss. “Don’t worry,” he said softly as he took your hand and lifted it from your cunt, “more where that came from.” Ben pulled your hand towards him, leaning in to close the gap and suck your fingers into his mouth. You were sure you could have cum from that alone if he hadn’t already made you cum twice.

It didn’t make it easy to catch your breath or calm down entirely, but Ben was content to wait, thoroughly cleaning your fingers before he released them. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your wrist before he let you take your hand back. You let out a shaky breath as you looked up at him and almost laughed, “Jesus,” He stroked your leg gently, “Still one more to go, if you’re up for it. Not too sensitive?” “A little but I should be okay.” “Good. I really wanna give you that nickname. Annoy everyone else with how fucking adorable we are” “Shouldn’t have reminded me what the stakes are, maybe I am too sensitive,”

“What if I said I just wanted to fuck you until I cum then? More acceptable?” That did make you laugh, “Much more acceptable.” Ben grinned, his tongue darting out from between his teeth, and then readjusted your position. His arm wrapped around your hips, pulling you up into the air, as he leaned on the other and slid back in, deeper than before. “This okay?” “Y-yeah, yes,” As soon as he knew you were okay with the new position he began moving, faster than before. The angle he held you in meant he was hitting your sweet spot consistently which, aside from feeling good, meant your clit got a bit of a break. It felt even better when he dropped his head forward and gently tugged on your nipple with his teeth. You brought one hand up to grab his hair as he switched to soothing the nipple with his tongue. You had a hard time getting out anything other than a few curses and his name as his thrusts became more urgent but Ben had no trouble telling you how good you felt. Well, some trouble. His words came out stuttered and breathless and interrupted by curses of his own or sometimes muffled by your breasts. But that was a turn on in itself. Hearing Ben losing control, coming apart, because of you. It was enough to make you want to cum faster so you could hear him moan through his own release. You remembered what he sounded like last time and were eager to hear it again. So once again you let your fingers find your clit, shivering at the slight discomfort as you tried to match Ben’s rhythm. “God I’m gonna,” you managed to choke out, fingers tightening in Ben’s hair. “P-please Y/N, cum. I ne-ed you to cum.” Your voice caught in your throat as you tipped over the edge again, Ben doing his best to hold you up as he lasted about a second longer, pretty moans spilling from his lips.

                                                       ***

Afterwards you could barely find it in you to move. You stumbled on jelly legs towards the bathroom as Ben cleared away the condom and straightened the sheets, ready for you to curl up with him. You had just enough energy to fall into bed and lean your head on his chest. He pulled the covers over your legs and stroked your hair with one hand, his fingers catching in the odd tangle though he was careful not to pull too hard. His other hand smoothed up and down your arm, so gently it took you a few passes to notice. He was quiet for a while, watching you relax against him. And then, seemingly out of nowhere, “Think that means I win, right cuddle bunny? Or do you prefer honey bunch? Snuggle bug? Sugar bear? I could go on,” “I think cuddle bunny might actually be the lesser of all those evils,” you mumbled. “You sure that’s not cause you got used to it and now you kinda like it?” You gave a non-committal hum in response. Ben’s chest shook as he laughed but he protested when you made to sit up, assuring you he liked having you leaning on him like that, “Told you before, I like being the boyfriend and what kind of a boyfriend would I be if I didn’t let you use me as a pillow?” You couldn’t help but smile when you heard Ben refer to himself that way, happily settling back against him. He was right, the title suited him. You couldn’t wait to introduce him as such to Felicity and your other friends.

You stayed in Barcelona with Ben for a few weeks. Once or twice you snuck a peek at a gossip blog or a twitter hashtag, but most people’s attention seemed to be diverted from you onto other unlucky couples. There were a few threads about you not being home and a handful of photos of Ben and other cast mates taken from their Instagram accounts, sometimes accompanied by speculation of if their relationship was purely professional, but nothing much else. You were both thankful for that. It was easier to find your feet as an actual real couple without being hounded about it or seeing speculation about yourselves. You were free to visit restaurants and tourist spots on dates, explore the city together on days Ben wasn’t filming, just be more or less normal. A few times you accompanied Ben to set or out with the rest of the cast, listening in as they teased him for how much happier he was now that you’d arrived. There were a couple of sticky beak questions about the breakup the first time you joined them for dinner, but you laughed it off as nothing more than misinformed rumours and they readily believed you. Aside from being contractually obligated to keep the secret, it was just easier to pretend the previous few months had been real than try to explain it all. Of course, pretending was made all the easier by Felicity and Joe knowing. Joe had been happy when Ben told him the good news. He’d been a little annoyed too and threated Ben with the silent treatment, claiming it’s what he deserved for being so stupid, the sudden click of him hanging up startling you both. Ben’s phone rang again about thirty seconds later as Joe called back to claim responsibility for your reunion. “I totally knew you idiots liked each other and if I hadn’t helped, Y/N never would have got to Spain.” Ben leaned in to where his phone rested on the table, speaker on, “If you knew why didn’t you tell me she was into me?” “Pretty sure I tried! But you were too hung up on being all heartbroken to listen to me.” “Umm incorrect,” “Should have heard yourself man, boo hoo Y/N doesn’t love me like I love her, wah wah wah. Didn’t want to hear anything else.” Ben flashed you a disapproving look when you let out a snort of laughter and then turned back to the phone, “You’re such a dickhead,” “Call me cupid, Benny boy, I’m the reason you’re not crying in the shower anymore.” “You’re fucking full of it, cupid,” “Go on Y/N, tell him I’m right,” “Well,” you said, trying not to laugh again, “Joe did tell me where to find you,” “Exactly!” came the shout from the phone, “Y/N, I’ll give you some of the credit for actually flying to Spain, but It’s like 85% down to me.” “You should meet my friend Felicity. You’d get along.”

On quieter days when everyone was doing their own thing and neither of you felt much like leaving the suite, you’d sit around and help Ben learn his lines or stretch over his lap and work on a crossword puzzle together. Although, that was if you made it out of bed. Ben ran through his condoms in the first week you were there, both of you eager to make up for the missed opportunities and all the time you’d spent pining for each other. More than once he came back to the hotel to find you wearing nothing but one of his shirts, which invariably ended with him between your legs in one way or another. Or, when he was flushed and sweaty from whatever action scene he’d been filming that day, he’d slyly announce he needed a shower and suggest you join him. But eventually the real world called, quite literally, in the form of Mary letting you know you’d got the part in the witch movie. It deserved a celebratory drink out at a bar the cast had found, where you and Ben riled each other up so much you had no choice but to relieve the tension the minute your door was shut behind you. And then again first thing the next morning. Unfortunately, you couldn’t stay more than a few days after that. You had to fly back home and begin prepping for your new role. Thankfully it was being filmed around London, saving you from having to head out to the US straight after getting home from Spain. But it did mean leaving Ben, an occurrence neither of you were thrilled about, feeling like you’d not had as much time together as you would have liked. You decided to do something special for your last night so Ben booked a table at a nearby restaurant. He met you there straight from set, wearing nice pants and a dressy shirt rather than the trackpants and ratty tee you'd seen him in that morning, where you surprised him with a bouquet of flowers similar to those he’d given you on your make-up date so long before. “I love them,” Ben laughed, kissing your cheek as he pulled you into a hug, “I think the colours make my eyes pop,” You playfully shoved him away towards the restaurant but he grabbed your hand and pulled you against him. He was about to kiss you when a familiar clicking sound distracted him. Both you and Ben looked around, surprised and confused, and saw a young woman walking down the street, fingers quickly taping against her phone. Ben ushered you inside the restaurant and, as soon as you took your seats, pulled out his phone. “Bad news. She tweeted it.” “Guess that means the honeymoon’s over,” you sighed. “And we were so close too. Fucking busted with about 10 hours to go.” “Oh well. S’pose everyone was gonna find out anyway. If it wasn’t now it would have been in a few weeks when you get back home.” “Not like we aren’t used to it. So how about,” he poured you both a glass of water from the bottle on the table, “a toast. To being so fucking interesting the whole world wants to know if we’re fucking.” You laughed as you clinked your glass against his a took a sip.

The pre-production part of your new movie kept you busy which had its pros and cons. On one hand it was tiring and a lot of new information to take in. On the other it kept you distracted from the distance between you and Ben and the barrage of questions you were receiving about him daily. You met the women who were playing your sisters and spent a lot of time rehearsing with them, particularly focused on learning how to pronounce the spells you’d be casting and the names of the potions you’d be mixing. Ben chuckled when you told him you’d spent an hour being coached on how to pronounce a single word, a process which included a basic Latin lesson and lots of repetition. “Well at least I didn’t end up with a black eye from it,” you said, pointing at him through the video chat screen. Over the weeks you’d been apart you’d relied heavily on phone conversations and face time calls to keep in contact. There’d been a visit or two when you had the chance but both of you were busy and keen not to be splashed through every gossip rag around so they were few and far between. The calls were easier, more private, and quickly became part of your wind down routine – come home, snuggle up on the couch, and talk to Ben for a few hours. “Hardly having fun if you can’t accidentally get knocked out by a poorly thrown weapon,” “I beg to differ, but you do you Benny,” you laughed, reaching for your coffee. The mug Ben had painted for you. He smiled when he saw it. “Aside from learning Latin and not being beaten up on a daily basis, how’s the movie going?” Ben asked as he reached behind him to adjust the pillow he was leaning against. “God it's been so good so far. The girls are so lovely and fun to be around. Plus, y’know, as someone who spent a lot of her childhood making mud potions in the backyard and playing Harry Potter, getting to run around throwing spells and stuff is kind of a dream come true.” He laughed again, “you’re such a nerd, I love you.” “Shut up. How’s it going in Spain?” “Well I have a black eye and I miss you so... Nah, it’s all going really well. Copped a bit of shit after you left,” Ben rolled his eyes, “apparently I was depressed. But this shoot has been so good. Gonna be kinda sad to be done.” “How much longer have you got?” “Couple of weeks, I think.” “You should come over to mine when you land, I’ll cook you dinner,” “Yeah? I’d like that.” “Course you will, nice home cooked meal, a blowjob, what’s not to like.” “I’ll let you know when my flight is so you can prepare – buy ingredients, do jaw stretches. What’re you laughing for? I’m serious, we both know how big I am.” He laughed, breaking the façade of seriousness as his tongue stuck out between his teeth. “Are you ready for it?” “Beyond ready, I miss sex.” “Not what I meant. There were a few paps waiting for me at the airport last time I was coming back from visiting you. Mostly yelling questions about if we’re really back together.” “How bad is it?” “Not as much attention as we were getting while we were doing press for the movie but it’s pretty annoying.” “They’ll calm down. After they see us a few times and they find someone else to lose their shit over.” “Yeah, probably. But you’re still good with this happening, even with the extra attention?” “Y/N, babe, we talked about this already. We always knew it was likely to happen and nothing’s changed since then. I still want to be with you.” “Just checking,” “I know. Now, I don’t have to be on set for another half hour so why don’t you tell me more about this blowjob I can expect.”

Ben was right, though it took longer to die down than you’d have liked. Felicity alerted you to a number of articles both in print and online after Ben got home. It almost felt like the days of promoting The Perfect Match – photos of you walking hand in hand and sitting at cafes and sneaking kisses on street corners being tweeted and commented on, articles about your latest date and speculation on if another breakup with imminent. The difference was this time you didn’t recognise the people taking the pictures. But, after a month or so, when it became clear you weren’t going to start arguing in fancy French restaurants again the magazines and websites started posting less and less. “It’s like Mary said,” Ben shrugged when you brought it up, “people like conflict and we’re not giving them any.” And that was true. Without the pressure of keeping your feelings hidden from each other or yourselves you were less prone to sulky silences and terse words. Plus no one was telling you to break up for attention. In fact, the months after Ben came back from Spain were better than you’d let yourself believe they would be. You were still working on the witch movie, working title: Toil and Troubles, spending most days and some nights bent over cauldrons of smoking liquid nitrogen and pink slime, or running through forests hoping your pronunciation was correct. Ben visited, sometimes to take you out to lunch or to drop off items you’d left at his place that you were bound to need. Convenient excuses. But welcome nonetheless. At the very least it was good practice for when you introduced him to your friends and family. Felicity insisted on meeting the man who’d caused her best friend so much heartache within the first week of his arrival, a situation that gave you more anxiety than any of the paparazzi ever would. But your worries were for nothing. Ben was perfectly charming and took Felicity’s one or two snide comments with good grace and a suitable amount of remorse. She pulled you aside later to let you know she approved and could see why you liked him so much. You breathed a sigh of relief at that, not needing her approval but glad to have it anyway. That first meeting made you less nervous about the ones that followed, even when it came to your blood relatives. And then, of course, you had to make good on your promise to his mum. He’d had to smooth things over with his family first, having made such a big deal about breaking up with you before he took off to Spain. They’d been surprised when he told them things weren’t working, having believed you quite happy during your visit, and more surprised when they saw you were back together. But if they thought Ben was making a mistake with rekindling the romance they didn’t show it. Angela and Keith welcomed you back to their home with warm smiles and more food than the four of you could eat. You left, still giggling at some of Ben’s baby photos, with a plate of leftovers in one hand and an invitation to come back soon.

It wasn’t until after Toil and Troubles wrapped that you decided to move in together. Ben suggested it casually one night while you were eating dinner in front of a rerun of Friends, the one where Chandler moves in with Monica. The suggestion was accompanied by a joke about how you’d been dating for nearly a year if you counted all the Perfect Match stuff, but you knew he wasn’t really joking. You’d been thinking about it too. You flipped a coin to see who’d be selling their place and didn’t complain when it was you. Ben’s house was already your second home, might as well make it your only one. Luckily, with your movie having started post-production, neither of you were filming and so were free to jump into the process of packing and decluttering and moving. It wasn’t long before you were carrying a box of your clothes up the stairs of Ben’s house, your house now. He followed with another, dumping it in the middle of his living room and telling Felicity to put hers down with it as he ran out to help one of his mates with a bookshelf. The requisite pizza was bought for lunch and beer provided as thanks for everyone’s help before they left, leaving you and Ben with a living room full of boxes and no inclination to go through them. Instead you weaved your way through the blockades, flopping, exhausted, onto the couch. You stretched out, Ben laughing as he lay on you, his head on your chest. “Just a little break,” he said with a yawn and before you knew it you’d both dozed off, warn out from the days exertions.

You woke to Ben digging through the box closest to your head. “Which one of these has all your kitchenware?” he asked when he saw you watching him. “Should say kitchen on the top in blue sharpie, why?” He stood up and walked to another stack, shifting a box off the top of the pile, muttering the word kitchen to himself over and over. You let him search, taking a moment to stretch out the stiffness from napping on the couch. “Did you see those magazines Felicity left?” he asked as he moved another box out of the way. “No, where are they?” “Kitchen bench. You’ll laugh.” You ducked into the kitchen and opened the first one, a copy of Woman’s Weekly, flicking through the pages until you were met with an image of you and Ben walking down the street together. He was looking at his phone and you were talking, head turned toward him. A red circle drew attention to your hand and underneath it was a slightly blurry close up of the same section. Scanning the paragraphs beside the photos the word engaged jumped out at you making you snort. “Knew you’d find it funny,” Ben said, peeking over your shoulder. “It’s not even a proper ring, just some cheap costume jewellery. And it’s on the wrong finger. Bloody hell they’re desperate.” “Look at the other one,” Ben stuck the kettle on to boil, glancing over to watch you as he opened his cupboard of mugs. You pulled the issue of Heat out and riffled through its pages too. “Oh my god,” Ben laughed, “I know right! Pregnant, really?” “I’m never wearing that dress again. In fact I’m going to go find whichever box it’s in and throw it in the donations bag right now,” Ben caught you around the waist before you could take a step, “Don’t do that cuddle bunny,” he pouted, “I love you in that dress. One of my favourites.” “Because it’s easy to take off?” “Because you look cute in it. Being easy to take off is just a bonus,” he pulled you in close and kissed you as you laughed, “speaking of, with you moving in we’ll have to give you a proper welcome. I’m thinking start up against the front door, work out way through every room,” he pinched your bum suddenly, just to emphasise what he meant. “Cool your jets horndog, gotta move boxes out of the way before we can even get to the front door. And I think I need a coffee before I even think about sorting boxes.” “It’s a good thing I was about to make us coffee then. I found your kitchenware by the way.” You looked for the first time at the counter where Ben had set out the makings of coffee. There, amongst the canister of sugar and bottle of milk sat two mugs. The two mugs you’d decorated for each other, side by side.

[foreverlogical]

In his continuing quest to remain president despite having lost this month’s election, President Donald Trump has been trying to wrest electoral votes away from Joe Biden in states that Biden won. Among the most aggressive tactics that the President might use is a direct appeal to the Republican-controlled legislatures of Michigan, Wisconsin and Pennsylvania to hand him those state’s electoral votes.

On Thursday, the post-election narrative seemed to edge further down that path, as the Republican leaders of Michigan’s two legislative chambers—Senator Mike Shirkey and Representative Lee Chatfield—agreed to take a meeting with the President in Washington tomorrow. Until that point Shirkey and Chatfield were signaling that they didn’t intend to second-guess Michigan’s voters, who chose Biden by more than 150,000 votes. But by taking the White House meeting, they indicated their possible openness to changing their minds.

Politically, it’s possible that they see taking the meeting as a smart move, showing unhappy Michigan Republicans that they’re on the president’s side.

But as a matter of statesmanship—and, legally, for their own sakes—they’d be smarter to cancel it.

The scheduled meeting threatens two kinds of danger. At the largest level, it threatens the system of democratic presidential elections: If state officials start claiming the right to overturn elections because of vague claims about “fraud,” our democratic system will be unworkable. But in a more specific and immediate way, it threatens the two Michigan legislators, personally, with the risk of criminal investigation.

The danger to democratic elections is well-understood. The Constitution authorizes state legislatures to decide how states choose presidential electors. For more than a century, every state legislature has chosen to do it by popular election. According to one school of thought, though, a state legislature could choose to set aside a popular vote if it doesn’t like the result and choose different electors instead. This is a pretty undemocratic idea, as well as one that misreads the history of election law: the National Review recently described it as “completely insane.” (State legislatures have the power to change the system for choosing electors in future elections, but not to reject an already-conducted election just because they don’t like the result.) Nonetheless, the President is pushing for it. By so far refusing to go along with Trump, Republican state legislators have been standing up for the idea that fair, democratic elections are more important than any individual president. If Shirkey and Chatfield are reconsidering that view, they are playing with the possibility of throwing out the results of a free and fair election. That’s not something that the system comes back from easily.

The scheduled White House meeting also poses another kind of danger—one hanging specifically over the two Michiganders whose minds Trump seeks to change. Consider: Why, exactly, does President Trump want to see these two men in person, in his office? It isn’t to offer evidence that Michigan’s election was tainted and should therefore be nullified. If he had any such evidence, his lawyers would have presented it in court, rather than abandoning their Michigan lawsuitas they did today. It’s also unlikely that Trump is planning to persuade the Michiganders through subtle legal arguments about their constitutional role. Subtle argument isn’t really Trump’s way of doing things.

The president is a dealmaker, and it’s far more likely that his agenda is transactional. When considering a course of action, he doesn’t think about principles; he thinks about what’s in it for whom. So it makes sense to think that he is inviting Shirkey and Chatfield for a private meeting to offer them something. If they help throw the election to him, he can offer a lot. Give me Michigan’s electoral votes, he might say, and I’ll give you a cabinet post or make you Ambassador to Spain. President Trump is also not above offering cash: Give me the votes, and I’ll see to it that lots of money flows to places where you want it—to your state, or to you personally. (That would be an outrageous allegation to have made about Barack Obama or George W. Bush. But the president who paid illicit cash to Stormy Daniels to protect his first presidential run shouldn’t be presumed to scruple at paying more illicit cash to protect his second one.)

The danger for Shirkey and Chatfield, then, is that they are being visibly invited to a meeting where the likely agenda involves the felony of attempting to bribe a public official.

Under Michigan law, any member of the legislature who “corruptly” accepts a promise of some beneficial act in return for exercising his authority in a certain way is “forever disqualified to hold any public office” and “shall be guilty of a felony, punishable by imprisonment in the state prison not more than 10 years[.]”

To be sure, there’s lots of horse-trading in politics that doesn’t amount to bribery. There’s nothing legally wrong with “You vote for my turnpike project, and I’ll vote for your dam.” But the prospect before Shirkey and Chatfield isn’t legislative logrolling, with representatives negotiating policy or even pork-barrel spending. It’s the prospect of a promise to deliver something of value to the officeholder personally. In other words, we aren’t talking about Trump’s saying “Here’s what’s in it for your constituents.” The prospect, in a one-on-one meeting with this president, is Trump’s saying “Here’s what’s in it for you.”

Shirkey and Chatfield are already on record—admirably—as being against a legislative intervention to ignore the popular vote and reallocate Michigan’s electors. If they take a meeting with a man who desperately wants them to change their minds, and who has no scruples about what kind of leverage he might use to get it, and then they do change their minds and try to send Michigan’s electors to Trump, the possibility that they were bribed will be screamingly obvious.

To be sure, it might not be true: Maybe Shirkey and Chatfield fear Trump’s supporters in the next election so much that they’d change their minds without a direct bribe on the table. But the bribery possibility is strong enough that a responsible prosecutor might feel compelled to pursue it. And the relevant prosecutor—Michigan Attorney General Dana Nessel—is a straight-shooting Democrat who does not pal around with Shirkey and Chatfield. If she thought the facts justified an investigation, Shirkey and Chatfield would be investigated.

If the risk of prosecution were federal, the two men might figure they had little to worry about: President Trump, in his second term, would tell the Justice Department to lay off. But the president can’t stop a state prosecution, and he can’t pardon a state crime. Nor would the president’s conversations with Shirkey and Chatfield be shielded from investigation by any sort of executive privilege: Shirkey and Chatfield are not members of the president’s federal policymaking team. So if the Michigan attorney general decided to proceed, Shirkey and Chatfield would be looking—in the best-case scenario—at the pain and disrepute of subpoenas and a criminal investigation. In a less-good-case scenario for them, they’d be looking at the loss of their office and their liberty.

The point here is not that Shirkey and Chatfield are shady characters who might be involved in bribery. Let’s assume that they are honorable and upstanding public servants. But one thing that people who try to stay clean know is that it’s unwise to put yourself in a situation where it will look like you’ve broken the law—or, worse yet, where you might be induced to do so. “Lead us not into temptation” is well known as a religious precept: it’s also excellent legal advice.

The Trump Administration is nearing its end. Any other president who got these results on Election Day would have conceded gracefully and now be cooperating in a peaceful transfer of power—giving his successor’s team the information it needed so that from the stroke of noon on January 20, it could begin protecting American national security, fighting the Covid pandemic, and so forth. President Trump is choosing to block all of that constructive work so that he can avoid admitting that the other guy won. He is doing a fair amount of damage on his way out. That damage is hurting the country in general, and it will also hurt specific people.

A drowning man grabs at anything, and a strong drowning man brings other people down with him. To this point, Republican legislators in Michigan—and in other states where Trump might try to tip the scales, like Wisconsin and Pennsylvania—have wisely kept their distance. That’s good for them, personally, and it’s also good for democracy. If they’re smart, and the country is lucky, that’s how things will stay.

VISIT WEBSITE

[kiarcheo]

It’s All Coming Back to Me Now    3/?

On tumblr : Part 1 here  and Part 2 here

This chapter is more than 3000 words so if you want to read it on Ao3 click here.

The changed relationship between Catalina and Katherine remains pretty much a secret, even if not on purpose. It's just that nothing really changes for them. They are already living together (they will realise later on that nobody mentions it because they don’t know). Katherine calls Catalina mum or mamá only occasionally, and only when they are alone. She is working on the irrational fear that by showing how close they are, how much she loves Catalina, she will somehow lose her, but habits are hard to break. And while it always gives them a thrill to refer to the other as their mother/daughter, it’s something rarely needed as they don’t meet that many new people. Their now legal bond is as cherished as much as it is not talked about.

If you were to ask them why they never said anything to the other queens, they would just reply that it simply never came up. And it’s not like they don’t talk to the others. Things are much more relaxed since moving out. Distance and space definitely made for better relationships in their case. Of course, some grow closer more than others. Katherine, in particular, made an effort to stay in touch with all the others and build a relationship with every single one, but she quickly made it an unofficial rule not to talk about the other queens. Tired to spend half of their meetups providing updates about the others, she had finally sent a message to the group chat very politely saying that if they wanted to know how someone was doing they should ask the person in question and not her.

And it’s on that very group chat that Cathy requests a meeting, the first time they would get all together since they moved out of their shared house.

They are catching up when Catalina speaks up. ‘Not that this isn’t nice-’

‘Try not to sound so surprised. I’m a freaking delight to be around.’  

Catalina’s glare at Anne lacks any heat. Just because she made Katherine laugh. You are supposed to be merciful towards the court buffoon, after all. It’s not like she suddenly likes her.

‘But is there a specific reason we are all here or....?’ all remaining chatter peters out  and attention turns to Cathy.

‘Have you looked...read what they say about us? Yourself,’ she corrects herself. They have a sort of implicit agreement not to look into each other’s lives. As much as possible, at least, considering how interconnected some of their stories are.

Everyone nods, mood getting sombre.

‘From your faces I guess you don’t necessarily like what you found?’

‘It’s not about liking. Some things are just plain wrong.’ Jane’s comment gets another round of nods.

‘I agree. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you...Since we got a second chance, why don’t we make things right. Tell people what really went down. Like, I was not a glorified, old nursemaid.’

‘I was not ugly.’

‘You have always been stunning.’

Anna’s scowl turns into a soft smile towards Katherine.

‘I was not a witch. And I had a normal amount of fingers. And I definitely never did anything weird with my brother and-’

‘We get it, babe.’

Everyone – Catalina included – stops, surprised by the term of endearment. Maybe absence does make the heart grow fonder.

‘What if we could change that?’ Cathy jumps in, recovering. ‘If history remembers us wrong, we have the chance to make it right. Give our own version of the facts.’

‘I thought we were not supposed to talk about it? Like, tell people who we are?’ Jane points out. ‘We made a deal.’

‘A limited-time deal.’ It’s Anna who seems to catch on what Cathy is saying. There is still quite some time before it expires, but still...

‘Exactly. And when the gag order is done...I think it’s time we speak up.’

‘How?’

Everyone nods. They are not against it in principle, not at all, but they haven’t actually thought about the possibility before, so it’s a brand-new concept for them.

‘At first I thought about writing a book.’

‘Of course, you did.’

It might actually work, Cathy thinks looking at the queens, who all said it at the same time and are now sharing amused glances. And she’ll happily takes the teasing if that is what is needed.

‘But then I thought...how many people are actually going to read it? And what kind of people?’ Cathy continues. ‘I would like to think that nobody already interested in...history? The period? Us?...well, actually believes that Anne was a witch, for example. What we need is to change popular misconceptions and as much as it pains me to say it, I don’t think books would do the job. Then I thought...interviews. They surely would have more reach. But how would we choose? How many? Would we have control over the questions? And then Kat gave me the perfect idea. A fun, engaging one to take control of our narratives.’

‘Me?’ the youngest queen asks surprised.

‘Hamilton.’ It’s all Cathy says.

Catalina groans. ‘She got you too?’

Cathy has to guess that she has been subjected to the topic one too many times (Cathy doesn’t know that in the Trastámara house there is a limit of once a day per soundtrack...because Catalina appreciates music as any normal person does or even more, but Katherine gets obsessed. For weeks she had listened to those 46 songs – yes, she counted them – on repeat, and she had to put a stop to it. Once a day is enough, thank you very much). The other queens are nodding, so it seems that everyone has at least heard Kat talking about it.

‘You want to write a musical about ourselves?’ Anne asks, sounding intrigued.

‘I want us to write it. But yes. If we do it well, it would have a bigger audience than an interview or a book could ever reach.’

‘Except that not anyone can write a musical.’ Anna points out, sceptical.

‘I seem to remember some people having quite the musical skills.’ Cathy didn’t read up on the others, but being the last queen means that she had heard stuff about her predecessors. And while she knows to take with a pinch of salt (or a whole handful of it) what people were saying, even at the time, she doesn’t think that would be something worth lying about. What’s the point of spreading false rumours about Catherine of Aragon or Anne Boleyn being accomplished musicians and talented singers? Cathy herself had vocal and instrumental music training, just like them and Kat too.

Cathy chances a glance at the youngest queen. Hopefully the others will think that it’s knowledge from the past – which mainly is – and not related to anything Kat had shared with her. Like the fact that despite some hang-ups, she had decided to take up music again, not wanting bad memories to ruin forever something she loved. She had started with the ukulele figuring it was the most similar she could get to a lute, before moving to guitar. Then on keyboard…money and space wise a piano was just not feasible for where she lived, Kat had explained. Similar issues, along with the noise, are the ones keeping her away from drums (Catalina has been extremely supportive but putting up with her learning how to play drums might be a bit too much even for her). So she had settled on a woodwind instrument as the next one to pick up. Kat credits her past life’s experiences with flute, lute and virginal, and the wonders of internet for her ability to teach herself. She is even considering whether going for it more seriously. Well, not that she isn’t taking it seriously now, she spends long hours practicing, but more like...academically or professionally. They had various conversations about it, about her maybe joining a school or getting a degree or if she should just try to get a jig or something like that. Cathy won’t lie and say that their chats didn’t play a part in her proposing the musical idea, knowing that at least one of them had enough music knowledge and talent in this new life of theirs to pull it off, but she isn’t sure how much Kat had told the others so she doesn’t want to bring it up if Kat doesn’t.

While Catalina and Kat are looking thoughtful, and Anne interested, Jane and Anna still look unconvinced.

‘We can always ask for professional help.’ Cathy concedes. ‘But we should be the one deciding what to say. That’s the whole point. Let’s just try writing something. Ideas. What we want people to know. Type of music. Inspirations. Then we can see what we have and go from there.’

‘What are you proposing exactly?’

‘Let’s try to write a song each.’

.

They all agreed on going in order but now Catalina is deeply regretting it. Because she has to stand up in front of the others and tell them that she doesn’t have her song ready. She has been dreading the meeting. She knows she doesn’t have to be perfect all the time in this life lest something terrible happens. She knows she can’t be perfect all the time. But she still feels uncomfortable showing any kind of weakness. Especially in front of her fellow queens. And the only one whom she allowed herself to be vulnerable with is not currently there. Katherine had texted the group chat saying that she was on her way but was going to be late. Indeed, the catching up part is now over and all the attention shifts to Catalina.

‘So...’ Queens do not fidget. That has been drilled into her and any instinct to do it eradicated centuries ago, which is the only reason she is not fidgeting as everyone looks at her. ‘I have some words,’ she doesn’t dare to call them lyrics, ‘but I don’t really have anything music-wise.’

‘I do!’ Kat bursts into the room, panting. ‘Sorry I’m late, I lost track of time.’

‘You do?’

Kat smiles at Catalina sheepishly. ‘I had some ideas when you showed me what you wrote and thought I’d try them out. I wanted it to be a surprise, but not like this. I was planning to let you listen to it first, but I sort of just finished it? That’s why I was late. Of course, you don’t have to like it. Or listen to it at all. You know what? Let’s forget about it. I’m sure you’ll come up with something much better yourself and you don’t need-’

‘Breathe.’ Catalina waits until she sees the girl taking a couple of deep breaths, short-winded both from running there and then her ramblings. ‘Let’s hear my song.’

‘Are you sure? Because-’

‘I trust you.’ She does. Katherine has talent, she knows it better than anyone else. She is the one witnessing the ease with which she picks up new instruments or how she can play music by ear after listening to it a handful of times. The one who has the privilege to listen to her playing and singing around the house (and now she knows why lately it had happened less, if Katherine had been working on the song for her). But most importantly she trusts her because Katherine knows her. Better than anyone else. She knows her tastes, musical ones included. And she knows her story. Her side of the story.

Katherine takes out her laptop. ‘It’s quite rough, obviously. And the key is-’

‘Just let us hear it.’

Kat nods. She looks down at the papers full of scribbles in front of her. Takes a breath. Then starts the music.

You must agree that, baby, in all the time I’ve been by your side I've never lost control, no matter how many times I knew you lied Have my golden rule Got to keep my cool, yeah, baby

And even though you've had your fun Running around with some pretty young thing And even though you've had one son With someone who don't own a wedding ring No matter what I heard, I didn't say a word No, baby

Katherine looks at Catalina to gauge her reaction at the first part of the song. She has a small smile and she is nodding to the rhythm. Encouraging.

I've put up with your sh- like every single day But now it's time to shh, and listen when I say

It’s Katherine’s spin on Catalina’s words. She isn’t sure she will want to leave the ‘swear’ in, but she just had to do it and try. She knows it’s not something people would expect from the first queen, but she had in mind the Catalina she knows rather than the one people think they know. And her Catalina is not shy about swearing as long as they are alone.

You must think that I'm crazy You wanna replace me, baby there's N-n-n-n-n-n-no way If you think for a moment I'd grant you annulment, just hold up, there's N-n-n-n-n-n-no way

She had needed something to make the tempo works, and then she had remembered Catalina calling Anne babe during the last meeting, and she decided to try it out. Also it makes for a slightly condescending tone towards Henry, calling him baby, which Katherine likes and thinks Catalina will do too.

So you read a bible verse that I'm cursed 'Cause I was your brother's wife You say it's a pity 'cause quoting Leviticus "I'll end up kiddy-less all my life" Well, daddy, weren't you there, when I gave birth to Mary?

That had been a struggle to work out, but Katherine had really wanted to include it because it was so important. The reason Henry adduced seeking the annulment was completely unfounded and people had to know it.

You're just so full of sh-, must think that I'm naive I won't back down won't shh, and no, I'll never leave

You must think that I'm crazy You wanna replace me, baby, there's N-n-n-n-n-n-no way If you thought it'd be funny, to send me to a nunnery, honey, there's No way

Catalina doesn’t seem to hate it and the others are nodding along to the beat, Katherine notices as she looks up from her notes.  There will be work to be done for sure, but maybe they have a good starting point.

‘Dance break?’ Katherine speaks up as the music continues.

‘You always loved a good dance.’ Anne points out, remembering her time at court with her, Jane nodding along.

It’s true. What they don’t know is that she had taken it up again. Encouraged by Katherine pursuing her love for music, she had decided to do the same with her passion for dancing. It’s not something she could see herself doing seriously as Katherine does with playing instruments, but she is loving attending classes and practicing on her own in the privacy of their living room, sometimes making up new routines, sometimes involving Katherine when she needs a partner.

You got me down on my knees Please tell me what you think I've done wrong Been humble, been loyal, I've tried to swallow my pride all along If you can just explain a single thing I've done to cause you pain, I'll go No? You've got nothing to say? I'm not going away

You made me a wife, so I'll be queen 'til the end of my life

Catalina had considered herself married and the legitimate queen until her last days…and Katherine with her. It’s only recently that she had considered how her life would have been different – if at all – had she joined Anne’s household like her step-grandmother had been planning. She is quite sure that at the time she would have been less than happy to be around the ‘usurper’ of what she still thought of as her queen, even months after her death.

There's no way

‘Not sure about the end. Maybe another chorus? Or...I don’t know. Like I said, it’s quite rough, I rushed it a bit, especially the last part, I can think about it more and see-’

‘This is rough?!?’

‘Well...yeah? I just took what she wrote and tried to put it in music, but it could be so much better. Like harmonies! Or, you know, add stuff, take it out...change it completely if you don’t like it.’ She is now talking to Catalina.

‘Some bits and bobs, but honestly? I loved it.’

‘Really?’

‘Do I make a habit to say things I don’t mean?’ Catalina looks at her with a raised eyebrow. She shakes her head with a smile at the mumbled sorry she gets.

‘How did you do it?’ Anne interrupts the exchange. ‘Like, the backing track?’

‘Oh. Well, I recorded each instrument separately. Then overlapped the individual tracks. Which was honestly the hardest part. Learning how to use the software.’

‘Would you mind giving me a hand?’ Anne asks her cousin. ‘Once I have the lyrics down, I mean. I’ve been messing around with a keyboard and got myself a guitar, but it was going to be a stripped-down version, like, acoustic, with whatever it worked better for the song. But if you can do the other instruments and put everything together...’

‘Of course! Just let me know what you need and when!’  

‘I might look into some practice rooms. Possibly with instruments. I’ve been dying to get my hands on some drums!’

‘Me too!’

‘Really?’ Catalina hopes her dread isn’t too obvious. She isn’t going to stop her, but she isn’t looking forward to it, if she has to be honest.

‘It’s not going to happen, don’t have the space. Or soundproofing.’ Kat reassures her.

‘We can learn together!’

‘I have been thinking...about a possible structure.’ Cathy says, encouraged by the enthusiasm of the cousins. ‘We said one song each, then I’m thinking maybe one for introduction and one as conclusion? An introductory song to explain what we’re doing? And one last song so that we don’t end with my song. Kind of a final message? About us reclaiming our stories or something?’

‘We could sing them all together!’

‘Oh!’ Kat perks up at Anna’s words. ‘We could add some chorus and stuff in Catalina’s song, like backup singers?, so that it’s not just her singing and us waiting around-’

‘Wait. Her. US? Are we supposed to sing ourselves?’ Jane stops her.

‘I thought so?’ Kat looks around. Jane does the same. It does seem like that’s what the others thought too.

‘Let’s worry about that later.’ Cathy can see that Jane is not particularly convinced about that, but she doesn’t want her to worry about it now. ‘We can get professional singers just like we can get professional writers, if needed.’

‘Another thing…not sure if it’s relevant now, because Kat sort of already did it. But I was going to say that we should make it modern?’ Anna suggests. ‘If it’s just a history lesson, it’s gonna be boring. Not saying that Catalina’s song was boring. At all. But. I don’t know. It’s something I wanted to bring up before hearing it, so...’ she shrugs.

Upon Catalina’s suggestion, they agree on not having set deadlines for when a queen is supposed to deliver her song. It had stressed her out quite a lot having to come up with something by a fixed date, especially when she couldn’t. And without a delivery deadline, Kat would have had the time to show her what she was doing, and they could have worked on it together. They are going to do it now, so it’s not that much a problem, but there is no reason they have to do things in a hurry.

 ________________________

As usual, started as something turned out so much more…included a take on how the musical was born. I always love reading fics about it…guess it was inevitable I’d take my shot at it too. I don’t know much about music and I’m aware that’s probably not how writing a musical works…but this is fiction so please bear with me.

[tinyshe]

Witchcraft 101

by Michelle Arnold  • 7/1/2008 Catholic Answers

What springs to mind when someone mentions “witchcraft“? Three hags sitting about a cauldron chanting “Double, double, toil and trouble”? A pretty housewife turning someone into a toad at the twitch of her nose? Or perhaps you think of Wicca and figure that it is witchcraft hidden beneath a politically correct neologism.

Witchcraft has become a hot topic in recent years. From J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books to self-described witches agitating for political and social parity with mainstream religious traditions, Christians have had to re-examine witchcraft and formulate a modern apologetic approach to it.

In an age of science and skepticism, it may be difficult to understand why intelligent people would be drawn to witchcraft, which encompasses both a methodology of casting spells and invoking spirits and an ideology that encourages finding gods and goddesses both in nature and within the self. In her “conversion story,” self-described Wiccan high priestess Phyllis Curott, an Ivy League-educated lawyer who was raised by agnostics, describes her journey from secular materialism to Wicca as a rejection of the idea that humans are made for mammon alone:

I discovered the answers . . . to questions buried at the center of my soul . . . How are we to find our lost souls? How can we rediscover the sacred from which we have been separated for thousands of years? How can we live free of fear and filled with divine love and compassion? . . . How can we restore and protect this Eden, which is our fragile planet? (Curott, Book of Shadows, xii)

These are indeed important questions that deserve answers, answers that can be found in their fullness in Christ and in his Church. In a homily then-Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger gave at the Mass just before his election to the papacy, he famously observed:

How many winds of doctrine have we known in recent decades, how many ideological currents, how many ways of thinking. The small boat of the thought of many Christians has often been tossed about by these waves—flung from one extreme to another: from Marxism to liberalism, even to libertinism; from collectivism to radical individualism; from atheism to a vague religious mysticism; from agnosticism to syncretism and so forth.

Witchcraft has been around for centuries, perhaps even millennia, but is emerging once more from the shadows as one answer to skepticism, to materialism, even to self-absorption. It is, so to speak, the wrong answer to the right questions; it is, as the Catechism of the Catholic Church says, “gravely contrary to the virtue of religion” (CCC 2117). Catholics should not discourage these questions but must be prepared to offer the only answer: Christ and his Church.

Witchcraft’s apologists like to claim that they are the misunderstood victims of centuries of religious prejudice. Unfortunately, all too many Christians make such claims credible when they misunderstand witchcraft and craft their rebuttals of it based upon those misconceptions. If someone you know is dabbling in witchcraft, here are five things you should know before starting a conversation with him.

Witches do not believe in Satan.

If there is one belief common to witches everywhere, it is that they do not believe in Satan and that they do not practice Satanism. Witchcraft’s apologists are quick to point this out.

Denise Zimmermann and her co-authors of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Wicca and Witchcraft emphasize, “Witches don’t believe in Satan! . . . The all-evil Satan is a Christian concept that plays no part in the Wiccan religion . . . Witches do not believe that negativity or evil is an organized force. . . . Neither do Wiccans believe there is a place (hell) where the damned or the evil languish and suffer” (13).

Christian apologists should acknowledge that witches do not consciously worship Satan and that they do not believe he exists. But this does not mean that Satan needs to be left entirely out of the conversation. A Christian apologist should point out that belief in someone does not determine that person’s actual reality.

One way to demonstrate this is to ask the witch if she believes in the pope. “No,” she’s likely to answer. “The pope is a Christian figure.” True, you concede. But there is a man in Rome who holds the office of the papacy, right? Your belief or disbelief in the papacy does not determine whether or not the papacy exists. Put that way, a person will have to acknowledge that something or someone can exist independently of belief in its reality. That’s when you can make the case that Satan exists and that he does not require belief to determine his reality or his action in someone’s life. In fact, disbelief in him can make it easier for him to accomplish his ends.

In the preface to The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis notes that “There are two equal and opposite errors into which our race can fall about the devils. One is to disbelieve in their existence. The other is to believe, and to feel an excessive and unhealthy interest in them. They themselves are equally pleased by both errors and hail a materialist or a magician with the same delight.”

While it is true that witches do not directly worship Satan or practice Satanism, their occult practices, such as divination, and their worship of false gods and of each other and themselves—which they explain as worshipping the “goddess within”—can open them to demonic activity. To make the case though, it is imperative to present it in a manner that won’t be dismissed out of hand.

Witchcraft and Wicca are not synonyms.

Wicca, originally spelled Wica, is the name given to a subset of witchcraft by its founder Gerald Gardner in the 1950s. Although some claim the word Wicca means “wise,” in her book Drawing Down the Moon, Margot Adler states that it “derive[s] from a root wic, or weik, which has to do with religion and magic” (40). Adler also says that the word witch originates with wicce and wicca. Marian Singer explains the difference between Wicca and witchcraft this way: “Witchcraft implies a methodology . . . whereas the word Wiccan refers to a person who has adopted a specific religious philosophy” (The Everything Wicca and Witchcraft Book, 4).

Because witchcraft is often defined as a methodology and Wicca as an ideology, a person who considers himself a witch but not a Wiccan may participate in many of the same practices as a Wiccan, such as casting spells, divining the future, perhaps even banding together with others to form a coven. This can make it easy for an outsider to presume that both the witch and the Wiccan share the same beliefs. But, if someone tells you he is not a Wiccan, it is only courteous to accept that. The Christian case against witchcraft does not depend on a witch identifying himself as a Wiccan. (There are also Wiccans who reject the label “witch,” but this is often a distinction without a difference. Even so, use the preferred term to avoid alienating the person with whom you are speaking.)

Several strands of Wicca attract followings, including: Gardnerian, Alexandrian, and Georgian, which are named for their founders; Seax, which patterns itself on Saxon folklore; Black Forest, which is an eclectic hodgepodge of Wiccan traditions; and the feminist branch known as Dianic Wicca after the Roman goddess Diana. Knowing the distinctions among these traditions may not be important for the Christian apologist, but he should keep in mind that there are distinctions and that he should not make statements that start out with “Wiccans believe . . .” Rather, allow the other person to explain what he believes and then build a Christian apologetic tailored to that person’s needs.

Witches question authority.

When dealing with self-identified witches, remember that no two witches will agree with each other on just about anything. Witches are non-dogmatic to the extreme, with one witch apologist suggesting “[s]ending dogma to the doghouse” and claiming that “[r]eligious dogma and authority relieve a person of the responsibility of deciding on his or her own actions” (Diane Smith, Wicca & Witchcraft for Dummies, 32).

Generally speaking, witches prefer to give authority to their own personal experiences. Phyllis Curott, author of a book titled Witch Crafting, puts it this way: “Witches, whether we are women or men, experience the Goddess within us and in the world all around us. I love what Starhawk [witch and popular speaker and writer] said about this: ‘People often ask me if I believe in the Goddess. I reply, Do you believe in rocks?’” (121, emphasis in original). In other words, witches know “the Goddess” exists because they can experience her by at least one of their five senses. Faith in such a material deity calls to mind the demon Screwtape’s longing for hell’s “perfect work—the Materialist Magician” (Lewis, The Screwtape Letters, 31).

Throwing a bucket of cold water on a witch’s “personal experiences” will not be easy, particularly since one of the frightening.aspects of witchcraft is that some witches do have, and blithely report, extraordinary preternatural experiences. Incidents that could and should scare away many dabblers from playing with forces beyond their control are recounted by witchcraft’s apologists as affirmative of their path. Curott tells of a man who once dreamed of “being prey” of a monstrous creature; ultimately, in the dream, he was captured by the creature. Rather than taking this as a sign he should reconsider the path down which he was heading, he awoke “deeply transformed” by the dream’s ending because he believed “tremendous love” was felt for him by the creature. He eventually became a Wiccan priest (Witch Crafting, 154–155).

How can a Christian argue against a belief like that?

Ultimately, it may be that a Damascus-road moment might be necessary to sway someone that deeply entrenched in traffic with preternatural creatures. To those who are not as enmeshed, a Christian can point out that sometimes apologists for the occult have warned their readers not to be taken in by their experiences with spirits.

In a section of his book titled “Practicing Safe Spirituality,” author Carl McColman gives a checklist of “some common-sense precautions” occultists should be aware of “while meditating, doing ritual, reflecting on your dreams, or doing any other spiritual work that may involve contact with spirits.” The first item on the list is “Don’t automatically believe everything you hear. Just because a spirit says something doesn’t make it so” (The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Paganism, 129).

Witchcraft is an inversion of Catholicism.

Observers of witchcraft have claimed that it is remarkably similar to Catholicism. Catholic journalist and medievalist Sandra Miesel called it “Catholicism without Christ” (“The Witches Next Door,” Crisis, June 2002). Writer and editor Charlotte Allen noted that “Practicing Wicca is a way to have Christianity without, well, the burdens of Christianity” (“The Scholars and the Goddess,” The Atlantic, January 2001).

It’s easy to see why the assertion is made. Allen notes that as witchcraft cycles through its “liturgical year,” many of its adherents honor a goddess who births a god believed to live, die, and rise again. Fraternization with apparently friendly preternatural spirits is encouraged and eagerly sought. The rituals of witchcraft call to mind Catholic liturgies, particularly the libation and blessing ritual alternately known as “Cakes and Wine” and “Cakes and Ale.” Like Catholics collecting rosaries, scapulars, statues, and prayer books, witches have their own “potions, notions, and tools” as Curott calls them —some of which include jewelry, statues and dolls, and spell books and journals.

But to say that witchcraft has uncanny similarities to Catholicism is to understate the matter. Witchcraft is an inversion of Catholicism: Catholicism emptied of Christ and stood on its head. This is most readily seen in witchcraft’s approach to authority.

In his book Rome Sweet Home, Scott Hahn compares authority in the Church to a hierarchical pyramid with the pope at the top, with all of the members, including the pope, reaching upward toward God (46–47). With its antipathy to authority and its reach inward to the self and downward to preternatural spirits, witchcraft could also be illustrated with a triangle—every adherent poised at the top as his own authority and pointed down in the sort of “Lower Command” structure envisioned by Lewis’s Screwtape.

Witchcraft is dangerous.

In my work as an apologist, I have read a number of introductory books to various non-Catholic and non-Christian religions. Never before my investigation into witchcraft had I seen introductory books on a religion that warn you about the dangers involved in practicing it. The dangers that witch apologists warn newcomers about are both corporal and spiritual.

In her book, Diane Smith includes a chapter titled “Ten Warning Signs of a Scam or Inappropriate Behavior” (Wicca & Witchcraft for Dummies, chapter 23). Her top-10 list includes “Inflicting Harm,” “Charging Inappropriate Fees or Demanding Undue Money,” “Engaging in Sexual Manipulation,” “Using Illicit Drugs or Excessive Amounts of Alcohol in Spiritual Practice,” and “Breeding Paranoia.” Smith claims that such a need to be wary is common to religion: “[U]nscrupulous or unstable people sometimes perpetrate scams or other manipulations under the guise of religion, and this situation is as true for Wicca as for other religious groups” (317).

However true it may be that there can be “unscrupulous or unstable people” involved in traditional religions, most practitioners—Christian or otherwise—do not experience problems with these behaviors to such an extent that religious apologists see the need to issue caveats to proselytes. That Smith does so suggests that these problems are far more widespread in witchcraft than in traditional religion.

We noted one paganism apologist who warned his readers to “practice safe spirituality.” McColman goes on to caution that the “advice” of spirits “must be in accordance with your own intuition for it to be truly useful.” He goes on to say, “You remain responsible for your own decisions. Remember that spirit guides make mistakes like everybody else!” (Paganism, 128).

Catholics concerned about loved ones involved with witchcraft may not be attracted to witchcraft themselves, but there is danger for them in pursuing dabblers down the road to the occult in hopes of drawing them back. In preparing themselves to answer the claims of witchcraft, they may feel the need to read books like those mentioned in this article. If they are not fully educated and firm in their own faith, such Catholics may find their own faith under attack. Three suggestions are in order.

Not all are called to be apologists. If you are not intellectually and spiritually prepared to answer the claims of witchcraft, leave such work to others. Search out knowledgeable Catholics with whom your loved one can speak.

Prepare yourself. Common sense indicates that if you are about to rappel down a cliff, you do so with safety ropes firmly attached and in the presence of someone you trust who can help you if you are in danger. Don’t even think of rappelling down a spiritual cliff without seeking to fortify yourself intellectually and spiritually—particularly spiritually. Inform your confessor or spiritual director of your plans to study and answer the claims of witchcraft. Ask trusted Catholic friends to pray for your work. Regularly receive the sacraments of confession and the Eucharist. If you need to stop or take a break from this area of apologetics, by all means do so. And, most importantly:

Pray. Whether or not you are called to personally minister to those involved in witchcraft, the most fundamental thing you can do to help witches and other dabblers in the occult is to pray.

Saints whose intercession you can seek include Bl. Bartholomew Longo, the repentant former satanic priest who returned to the Church and spent the rest of his life promoting the rosary; St. Benedict, who battled pagans and whose medal is often worn in protection against the devil; St. Michael the Archangel (Jude 1:9), invoked especially by the prayer for his intercession commonly attributed to Pope Leo XIII. And, of course, there’s St. Paul, who reminds us: “For I am sure that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Rom. 8:38–39).

SIDEBARS

The Catechism on Witchcraft

There are a great many kinds of sins. Scripture provides several lists of them. The Letter to the Galatians contrasts the works of the flesh with the fruit of the Spirit: “Now the works of the flesh are plain: fornication, impurity, licentiousness, idolatry, sorcery, enmity, strife, jealousy, anger, selfishness, dissension, factions, envy, drunkenness, carousing, and the like. I warn you, as I warned you before, that those who do such things shall not inherit the Kingdom of God.” (CCC 1852)

God can reveal the future to his prophets or to other saints. Still, a sound Christian attitude consists in putting oneself confidently into the hands of Providence for whatever concerns the future, and giving up all unhealthy curiosity about it. Improvidence, however, can constitute a lack of responsibility. (CCC 2115)

All forms of divination are to be rejected: recourse to Satan or demons, conjuring up the dead or other practices falsely supposed to “unveil” the future. Consulting horoscopes, astrology, palm reading, interpretation of omens and lots, the phenomena of clairvoyance, and recourse to mediums all conceal a desire for power over time, history, and, in the last analysis, other human beings, as well as a wish to conciliate hidden powers. They contradict the honor, respect, and loving fear that we owe to God alone. (CCC 2116)

All practices of magic or sorcery, by which one attempts to tame occult powers, so as to place them at one’s service and have a supernatural power over others—even if this were for the sake of restoring their health—are gravely contrary to the virtue of religion. These practices are even more to be condemned when accompanied by the intention of harming someone, or when they have recourse to the intervention of demons. Wearing charms is also reprehensible. Spiritism often implies divination or magical practices; the Church for her part warns the faithful against it. Recourse to so-called traditional cures does not justify either the invocation of evil powers or the exploitation of another’s credulity. (CCC 2117)

Prayer to St. Michael the Archangel

St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.

Further Reading

Charlotte Allen, “The Scholars and the Goddess,” The Atlantic, January 2001 (Available online: www.theatlantic.com)

C. S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters (HarperCollins)

Sandra Miesel, “Who Burned the Witches?” Crisis, October 2001 (Available online: www.catholiceducation.org)

Sandra Miesel, “The Witches Next Door,” Crisis, June 2002

Catherine Edwards Sanders, Wicca’s Charm: Understanding the Spiritual Hunger Behind the Rise of Modern Witchcraft and Pagan Spirituality (Shaw Books, 2005)

Donna Steichen, Ungodly Rage: The Hidden Face of Catholic Feminism (Ignatius, 1991)

Alois Wiesinger, O.C.S.O, Occult Phenomena in the Light of Theology (Roman Catholic Books)

[obscure-sentimentalist]

flommy (or felicity + tommy), “It’s okay, you don’t need to talk now.”

[Well, I’m not entirely sure what this one is, other than the fact that I had a ridiculous image in mind and just kind of rolled from there, but I hope it’s fun.]

From the Comforting Cuddles Starters list

Follow-up to this

“It’s okay, you don’t need to talk now,” Felicity says gently, doing her level best to keep her voice from giving way to the rising giggles. The effort is helped along when she clears her throat and steps closer. “Well, not that you… I mean… hang on.”

Carefully dropping to her knees on the rug, she reaches for Tommy’s face, grazing a thumb lightly over his right cheekbone before her hand settles just past the corner of his mouth. Readying herself, Felicity raises her eyebrows and gives Tommy a questioning glance, awaiting his acknowledgement. 

The forceful exhale through his nose and subsequent screwing shut of his eyes are the closest things Felicity will get to a go-ahead. Without further ado, she slips one pink nail under the edge of the purple butterfly-printed duct tape and pries it up as fast and hard as she can. 

She can’t help but wince at the tearing sound of separating adhesive from flesh and Tommy’s inadvertent whimper of pain, but soon enough the tape is completely loose and easily crumpled into a ball. 

“Guess it’s a good thing I shaved this morning,” Tommy quips weakly, contorting his lips in an assortment of odd expressions to ease the pain. “If I hadn’t, I’m pretty sure that would have ended any chance I had of future facial hair growth.”

Felicity runs a finger softly over the reddening skin lower on Tommy’s cheek. “You could still use some moisturizer,” she notes, tapping twice before withdrawing her hand to rest in her lap. With that urgent matter settled, she takes a moment to fully process the scene before her, amusement bubbling in her chest until it threatens to overflow. “Did… did you have a nice chat with Thea?”

Tommy’s lips twist into a playful pout as he heaves a deep sigh, the expansion of his chest one of the few movements his current predicament will allow. “Would you believe that this is one of the better-case scenarios I could have expected?”

“Considering you’re trussed up by jump ropes on your living room floor instead of helping her out with target practice? If you didn’t already come from a place of wealth, I’d call that winning the lottery.”

Tommy wriggles in his bonds to free his right hand enough to raise his index finger. “Hey, don’t joke about that second option. Oliver has been taking this a little too well, and it also hasn’t escaped my notice that he’s acquired some new trick arrows. Just wait, I’m going to get too comfortable and let my guard down, then bang! Boomerang arrow clocks me on the back of the head.”

Felicity wrinkles her nose at that. “He’s come up with some weird ones, that’s for sure, but I don’t see what would be the point…”

“Boomerang. Arrow.” Tommy just stares wide-eyed back at her, solemn in the face of his fear. 

Figuring it best to leave things at that, Felicity changes direction. “I’m guessing there’s a story behind this?” she prompts, running a hand over the long, rainbow-colored woven cloth jump rope wound around Tommy’s torso and arms. A smaller plastic one binds his feet together at the ankles for good measure, which Felicity immediately begins to work at undoing. “Not that I’m doubting Thea’s ingenuity in combat, but this seems more like inside joke-material than a new move Speedy plans to rain on the Starling City criminal underground.”

“Oh, yes, this is classic vengeful seven-year-old Thea Queen, a tactic employed in many a game of ‘extreme’ hide-and-go-seek,” Tommy confirms. Feet freed, he shuffles them over the rug to try to push himself upright, Felicity’s hand guiding his back to prop up against the couch. “I don’t know how she got it in her head, but one of the rules of the game was that, when found, the seeker gets to wrap up the hider like a birthday gift left in the hands of a toddler with a ball of ribbon, to gloat about their superior finding skills. And seeing as Thea liked running around and doing the seeking…”

Felicity gives that a small wince, before settling in next to Tommy in front of the couch. “Well, you were a very good big brother even then for playing along,” she says, bumping shoulders with him. 

“Ollie and I both were,” he adds hurriedly, as if afraid to take that credit solely for himself. His brow furrows as he thinks back, though, and he continues slowly, “Although, most of the time he went for the most outrageous hiding spots so that Thea’d come across me first, and by the time she found him—or he waited her out—she’d have had her fun and want to move on to something else.”

Felicity can’t help but let out a short, unsurprised hum of laughter at that—it figured that the Arrow’s ability to keep perfectly out-of-sight when needed was something Oliver cultivated even before the island. That’s the only acknowledgment she gives the idea, though; anything else, and Tommy could so easily take that as an invitation to spiral into more bits from the Adolescent-Ollie-and-Tommy Comedy Hour. Still such an inherent reaction for him, even on the verge of realizing something meaningful.

“I… I guess this really was more of a thing between just Thea and me,” he finally says, body going lax as the truth of the words settles in. His head dips slightly in a weak attempt to hide the bright, goofy smile cracking at the edges of his lips, as if he thinks it isn’t allowed.

Sometimes, Felicity almost forgets that, up until the last few years, Tommy was also an only child. “Almost” is the key term—the two of them resonate in all the same lonely places that it’s nigh impossible not to be aware, even without directly thinking about it. But seeing Tommy with Thea and hearing old stories always had a way of dialing back, or even muting altogether, that recognizable echo for a time.

Even before having blood-relation confirmation, Tommy was Thea’s older brother in every way he could be, stopping just short of whatever big, waving banner declared her as Oliver’s little sister. Learning the truth just meant Tommy’s name got slapped up right next to Oliver’s, and he now had permission to venture across the territory that lay beyond that marker. 

Felicity’s long had the impression that Tommy still quietly divides his relationship with Thea into a “before” and “after” because of that, but she can hardly see any change beyond the two of them openly calling each other sibling. Their rapport is too familiar and comfortable to be written off as a fairly recent evolution, and Thea would surely object (and call Tommy an even bigger dumbass than Oliver) if she knew about his classification system. 

With the way this conversation has turned, though, Felicity can start to see his rationale, flawed as it may be.

“Just because you didn’t know it back then doesn’t mean you weren’t her brother,” Felicity points out. She flicks a finger under Tommy’s chin until he tilts his head back up and glances over at her, surprise cutting into that adorable grin. “You’re not retroactively taking anything away from Oliver for having an inside joke with just you and Thea. You can have this.”

Tommy’s expression freezes as shock flashes across it, but a few moments later it melts into something soft and thankful. 

“And,” Felicity continues, ever so slowly leaning in, “I think Thea wants you to have it as well, seeing as this was a very specific reaction to finding out that we’ve been dating and hiding it from everyone.” She tugs on a piece of the jump rope still wrapped around Tommy’s upper body for emphasis, fighting a grin.

Tommy almost knocks himself back over with the laughter that bursts out at that. 

“I didn’t even question it!” he gasps in between bouts. “She came over with lunch, we had a nice chat like adults, she took my explanation of us wanting to take things slow and quietly before telling anyone with ease, and then…” He breaks off there, voice pitching high in a giggle, “Then she just nodded, said, ‘Okay then,’ and flying-tackled me. And I didn’t do a thing about it, because I just saw that rainbow jump rope and instinctively thought, ‘Ah, darn, Speedy’s found me again!’ like she was still that cute little brat.”

“I’m sure some part of Thea always will be, between both you and Oliver.”

“Oh, no question there,” Tommy agrees. “The duct tape alone earns her that status back—that was a new development. I think it was her version of giving me a shovel talk over you? You know, even though I’m her brother, if I hurt you…”

“Well, I appreciate the sentiment,” Felicity admits, “but I think I had to hurt you first, in order to rip it off.” 

Tommy shrugs, conceding that point. A beat, and then a mischievous glint comes to his eyes. “It still aches a bit, you know, around my mouth.”

Felicity raises her eyebrows at that, giving him a particular look even as she drops an arm over his shoulder. “Is this your way of asking me to kiss it better?”

“Figure it couldn’t hurt,” he returns with a sly smile, leaning forward until their noses graze.

Only when the two of them fall backwards and sideways a few seconds later do they remember the loose end yet to be tied. 

(Rather, untied.)

[mnthpprt]

Chapter 29: Seeking The New Normal

When I enter the dining room, Isaac and Napoleon are both there, as well as le Comte.

“I am glad to see you are feeling better, ma chérie,” he greets me, looking up from his plate. “I did not want to bother you while you rested.”

“Thanks,” I say with a smile, sitting down next to him. There is an extra plate and cutlery on the table for me. I assume it was set in case I woke up. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”

“Boeuf bourguignon and vegetable flamiche,” Napoleon chimes in. “Sebastian’s out getting rouge, so I made dinner today. Here, try this.”

He scoops a slice of flamiche onto my plate, and I immediately cut a bite sized portion and bring it to my mouth.

“Holy shit, Napo, this is amazing,” I moan with my mouth full. I quickly chew and swallow before speaking again. “I had no idea you could cook.”

“What can I say, I’m good for more than just sword fighting,” he winks before changing the topic. “I am so sorry I did not visit you, Anaïs. I tried to as soon as I got back the other night and found out what happened, but you were unconscious. You should be more careful, nunuche.”

“Hey, j’suis pas nunuche!” I complain in French with a laugh. I know he uses the word as a term of endearment, so maybe it means something else to him, but in my time it translates to stupid or silly.

“You are, though,” Isaac mutters. “What you did was reckless and stupid,” he quietly scolds me, his eyes fixed on his food. Le Comte awkwardly clears his throat. I can tell he agrees with Isaac, but he’s too polite to say it.

“Look,” I say. “I already got the talk from Leonardo, okay? The last thing I need is you all acting like concerned parents. I am a grown woman, and I’m fine.”

To signal the end of this conversation, I angrily shove a forkful of beef stew into my mouth. Napoleon and le Comte exchange a look, but I ignore it, choosing to focus on the delicious dinner instead.

“So, Anaïs, I would like you to go into town with me and Isaac when you feel well enough to leave the mansion,” Napoleon says. Isaac looks up from his plate, and to my surprise, he doesn’t protest. “We thought it would be a good idea for you to get out, and there’s something we’d like to show you.”

Isaac nods quietly. Okay, now I am really intrigued. I wonder what it is. I better heal quickly, then. Suddenly, a thought pops into my head.

“What day is it today?” I ask. Le Comte tilts his head.

“Thursday, why?”

“Shakespeare’s new play premieres tomorrow,” I explain, relieved that I didn’t miss it. “I promised him I’d go to the opening night.”

“Ma chérie, are you sure you’re well enough?” I nod. “In that case, you’ll need a new dress.”

“Oh, no! There is no need, I can just wear this one.”

“I insist,” he smiles. “It is the least I can do. Please, my chérie, allow me.”

“Okay,” I sigh. “Thanks, Comte.” I turn to Isaac and Napoleon. “I guess I can go with you two and leave before the play starts, no? Do you think I could make it in time?”

“I don’t see why not,” Napoleon shrugs. Isaac, who has been quietly listening, resumes eating, and I mimic him. The table is taken over by a comfortable silence as we finish our dinner.

Afterwards, I head to the library, hoping to see Leonardo. I want to let him know I’m feeling better. I find him smoking by the window, sitting cross legged on the armchair, absorbed by whatever’s in his notebook. I wrap my arms around him from behind and start kissing down his neck.

“Surprise,” I purr into his ear, before walking around the chair to sit on his lap. “What are you working on this time?” I ask, recognizing the look of concentration on his face.

“A self-winding watch,” he states. He does not say anything else. No romantic greeting, no ‘cara mia’. I lean into him, begging for attention, and return to laying kisses all over him, but he gently swats me away. “I’m busy, cara mia.”

Ouch. Normally, he’d be all over me by now, and have no qualms about leaving whatever he was doing aside, but this... His attitude, though gentle, is unusually cold. I don’t know what I did wrong, but I know he would not tell me if I asked, so I resign myself to believing he is just busy. With a displeased sigh, I climb off of him and pull out a random book from the shelf to pass the time.

For the next hour or so, I quietly watch him from the table as I pretend to read. Leonardo glances up once and catches me, but quickly goes back to pretending I’m not even there. It hurts. He does not say a single word, and I eventually get bored of this stupid game and leave him to his own devices, opting to take a bath instead. I need to clear my head.

“Mind if I join?” I ask, approaching the water. I was hoping to find the thermae empty, but I don’t mind the Van Gogh brothers’ company. If anything, I need a distraction.

“Uh... You don’t mind that we’re here?” Vincent stammers. I shake my head and look at Theo for approval.

“Come on in, hondje,” he says, rolling his eyes. I coincided with him and Arthur not too long ago, so he is already aware of my lack of bashfulness when it comes to nudity. I take no pleasure in showing off my body, but I think it would be silly to miss out on bathing just because a boy might look at me. 

I discard my robe and step into the warm water next to them. Like last time, Theo does his best to ignore me, while Vincent shuffles closer to gently lift my arm.

“Is that...?”

“Yeah,” I say simply. I don’t often see the back of my arm, so I tend to forget that tattoo is there at all.

“You weren’t kidding when you said I was your favorite,” he laughs. “Why did you get it?” I turn my back towards him so he can better see it, and his fingers lightly trace the black and grey flower.

“Well, I wanted a sunflower,” I explain, smiling, “and I just happened to really like yours. But color washes me out, so that’s why I got it in black.”

“It looks... different,” he mutters. “I like it.”

Theo, who has been relaxing with his eyes closed a few feet away from us, perks up to glance at me. I lift up my arm to show him the tattoo, and he nods, pleased.

“You have good taste, hondje.” Of course he would say that. It’s his beloved broer’s piece, after all.

“I know,” I chuckle. I hear a splash, and my eyes widen when I spot something moving behind him. “Um, guys...” I tap Vincent’s shoulder, slightly panicked. “Why is there a racoon in here?”

The racoon, meanwhile, gives me a blank stare and continues to splash water onto its face with it’s little hands.

“Brush! You’re not allowed to be here!” Vincent exclaims, swiftly standing up and climbing out of the water to pick up the animal in his arms. I look away, amused, to give him some privacy. He seems to have forgotten that he is, indeed, completely naked. “How did you get in, buddy?”

He runs out into the hallway like that, cradling the racoon like a baby. Seconds later, he returns. Alone.

“You have a racoon,” I state, incredulous, as he sinks into the water once again, nodding with a bright smile. I raise my eyebrow, confused. All I know about racoons is that they like getting in people’s trash and are considered a pest in some places. “Uh, okay... Why?”

“Why do I have him? Well, I found him as a baby and the mother never came back, so he just stuck around,” Vincent explains. “His name is Brush.”

“Aw, that’s adorable! Like a paintbrush?”

“No, like that thing that you and Sebastian use for cleaning,” he corrects me. Oh, he’s serious. I can’t help but start laughing uncontrollably, earning a glare from Theo.

I finally calm down, feeling a bit lightheaded. Must be the heat from the bath, making the blood loss I suffered much more evident. I ignore it.

“Theo, do you know Émile Zola? He was at the exhibition the other day,” I change the topic, remembering the encounter.

“I know of him, but him showing up was a surprise,” he says. “Why do you ask?”

“He said he wanted to write about it,” I explain. “Specifically, Vincent’s portrait of me. We had quite an interesting conversation about it, actually.”

Theo narrows his eyes. I can practically hear the cogs turning inside his head, wondering how he can make a business opportunity out of this casual acquaintanceship.

“I suppose I could put you in contact with him,” he finally concedes, thoughfully. “I’m too busy to meet, but if he wants to know more you wouldn’t mind to go in my place, would you, hondje?”

“Not at all,” I reply with a smile. The slight movement of my head makes the world around me start spinning, causing me to grip the edge of the pool. “I better get out, I’m getting dizzy.”

“Do you need help, Anaïs?” the older brother offers, reaching for my hand.

“Thanks, Vincent, but I think I’m fine.”

I manage to climb out of the water and slip into my bathrobe before making my way out, wobbling slightly. The fresh air of the hallway hits me, reinvigorating compared to the hot steam of the thermae. I slowly walk back to my bedroom and throw myself on the bed, nod bothering to get dressed before I fall asleep again.

[basicsofislam]

ISLAM 101: 5 PILLARS OF ISLAM: ALMS AND CHARITY: FIQH OF ZAKAT IN DETAIL:

WHO IS OBLIGED WITH ZAKAT

WHO IS LIABLE FOR ZAKAT?

Before collecting zakat from the obliged, it is essential to first ascertain who these individuals are. This requires certain prerequisites, like the knowledge of Islam, freedom, wealth, sanity, maturity—in addition to the requirements concerning wealth, namely ownership, augmentation, nisab, an elapse of a year and the exclusion of basic necessities.

Moreover, there are additional points pertaining to the collection of zakat that must crucially be observed. In sum, zakat must be requested strictly of those who are eligible, and eligibility demands certain requirements relating, in part, to the person in question, and in part, to the person’s wealth.

WHAT FEATURES MUST ONE POSSESS TO BE OBLIGED WITH ZAKAT?

These requirements can be encapsulated as follows: being a Muslim free of any constraints, possessing the ability to obtain basic needs, being free of debt, and having reached maturity, all of which demand a separate elucidation.

ISLAM

Before anyone, Islam addresses the believer, constructing its precepts on this solid foundation of belief. Therefore, as is the case with other responsibilities, the first requirement for zakat is being a Muslim. The requirement of those who have not accepted Islamic teachings but continue to live in Muslim lands is a simple tax, or jizya, identified by the government.

FREEDOM

Zakat has not been ordained compulsory on those enslaved or incarcerated; conversely, those in this situation are advised, firstly, to utilize their wealth, if they have any, to obtain their emancipation. From this perspective, slaves historically were not compelled with zakat, owing to their lack of physical freedom and their financial constraints.

BEING DEBT-FREE

Falling into debt, in normal circumstances, is something a Muslim should avoid, as it may involve entering the domain of subverting another’s personal rights. The Prophet (upon whom be peace) had conceded to perform the funeral prayer of a deceased Companion only after another Companion agreed to finance his outstanding debts.1 As the time and place of death of any one of us is unknown, the attitude of a wise Muslim would be to avoid, if possible, going into debt in the first place, as the hadith makes clear that dying while in debt can incur a difficulty for the community and a serious burden on our souls.

Critically, of course, Islam has never burdened man with obligations that exceed his capacity; contrarily, it has incessantly promulgated what is easy. This principle is also valid for zakat. Even though a person in debt may possess wealth which surpasses nisab, he is first advised to resolve his debts, and thus excused from zakat. People who find themselves in this position are, in fact, eligible to receive zakat, as testified by the Exalted Creator in the Qur’an.

SANITY-MATURITY

Maturity is the point where obligations start, and in effect, a child is not responsible until he or she reaches that phase. Perhaps some voluntary duties may be taken up for the sake of becoming accustomed to servanthood, although this does not imply an obligatory activity. The advice of the Noble Messenger, for example, is to accustom a child to salat (prayer) at the age of seven, and impart gentle words of encouragement if the child is still not offering salat at age ten. Yet again, the Messenger has pronounced that the pen (responsibility) has been lifted from a child until maturity, from a sleeper until he is awake, and from the insane until sane.2

WHAT ARE THE REQUIREMENTS OF THE PROPERTY SUBJECT TO ZAKAT?

Offering zakat necessitates the prior fulfillment of some requirements pertaining to wealth. Thus, as mentioned above, a person is obliged only to pay zakat on the possessions that meet these terms—namely, a person must possess the entire ownership of the wealth; the wealth must be augmentable; it must have surpassed the set amount well above the basic necessities; and a full year must elapse since its attainment. This description needs to be elaborated further at this point.

OWNERSHIP

In calling upon those obliged to perform their duties of zakat, Islam does not want them to pay zakat on the wealth they are yet to possess, a demand that would indubitably inflict people with financial hardship. Wealth is generally obtained by virtue of legitimate methods like earnings, inheritance, mutual agreements, donations, and so forth; hence, a person can freely dispose of and orchestrate his wealth, and take full responsibility in doing so. This, in turn, verifies the full ownership of wealth and therefore, within this framework, whichever method may be used in attaining this wealth, the owner meeting the requirements of full ownership must unavoidably pay its zakat.

Should zakat be given on loans?

In a case where a person is the creditor, that is, he possesses money that is temporarily lent to somebody else, we are faced with two outcomes in ascertaining the necessity of zakat.

Firstly, if the money that is expected to be paid back is under guarantee, like a check or promissory note seen as certain repayment, then this wealth is virtually commensurable with the wealth at hand, and as a result, its zakat must immediately be paid. Given that the chances of repayment are doubtful or improbable, then the zakat on this money should be delayed until reimbursement takes place. When the repayment does take place, we are then faced with another two alternatives: some scholars believe that as well as not giving zakat for previous years, the current year’s should also be withheld, because in a sense, it resembles newly acquired wealth. The others, who approach the issue from the perspective of the rights of the poor, maintain that its zakat should still be offered. Insofar as caution is concerned, undoubtedly, the additional payment of the previous year’s zakatis more appropriate, both as a means of steering clear from breaching the rights of the poor, as well as taking a step towards attaining the pleasure of God.

AUGMENTATION

(THE INCREASE OF POSSESSIONS)

Islam does not necessitate zakat on property that by nature does not increase, though conversely, it targets augmentable possessions. Augmentation or nama denotes valuables that increase and attract revenue and earnings, and is classified into two: absolute augmentation and relative augmentation. Absolute augmentation is basically the increase of property or possessions through birth, reproduction, trade, or the like. Accordingly, animals or livestock, gold, silver and commercial merchandise fall under this category. Relative augmentation, on the other hand, is the wealth possessing possibilityof increase at the hand of its owner or agent. Irrespective of whether the owner increases it or not, he will effectively be asked for zakaton that wealth, owing to its potential. However, in Islam, if the property is lost or stolen, and the owner consequently becomes powerless in its management, then he is not obliged with zakat.

NISAB

(MINIMUM EXEMPTION LIMIT)

As mentioned earlier, nisab is the minimum extent which wealth must reach to become eligible for zakat. Zakat must imperatively be given of wealth that has realized that amount. As zakat is a critical means of social assistance, it would be meaningless and beyond its aim to either fail to implement such a measure or to demand everyone to pay from whatever trivial wealth they might possess.

Accordingly, the Prophet of Islam (upon whom be peace) has clearly identified the amount of nisab for each item. The nisab has been identified as 5 for camels, 30 for cattle, 40 for sheep, 8 5 grams for gold and 595 grams for silver. The nisab for commercial merchandise is established in concordance with gold and silver. As for agricultural harvest, the ratio is one- tenth for crops grown by rainwater or streams, or one-twentieth for crops grown through personal irrigation. For storable crops like wheat, barley and raisins, the nisab is 5 wasq (approximately 653 kg), and the prevalent conception is that no zakat is required for vegetables such as onions and lettuce. Abu Hanifa, however, maintains that regardless of theirnisab, all agricultural goods, more or less, are subject to zakat.

Insofar as minerals and marine products are concerned, they do not possess a specific requirement for nisab and therefore their zakat, at any rate, must be paid. Because we have thoroughly handled the matter of nisab in the chapters concerning the recipients of zakat, those who desire more information are advised to throw a glimpse there.

THE WEALTH MUST EXCEED BASIC NECESSITIES

Another prerequisite for zakat is that the wealth should surpass the amount needed for sustenance, which may vary depending on social, economical and current circumstances. Nonetheless, there are always aspects on which all can mutually agree on, enumerated by the Hanafi scholars as consisting of basic food items, clothing, housing, enough wealth to see to one’s debts, work utensils or apparatus, furniture, a means for travel—or, in today’s conditions, a car or books needed for education. Moreover, the needs of those who, in Islam, are required to be taken care of—such as children, spouse, parents etc.—are similarly allowed basic necessities which are not liable to calculations of zakat upon the person providing their care.

THE ELAPSE OF ONE YEAR

For one to become obliged with zakat, at least a year has to elapse on the earnings beginning from the date of their attainment. This elapse of a year, called hawalanu al-hawl in Islamic terminology, is calculated in reference to the lunar year. However, this requirement does not necessarily aim at all types of wealth: it does pertain to livestock, money and commercial merchandise; but it does not affect agricultural crops, fruit, minerals, treasure, honey and similar items.

Another aspect needs to be elaborated. A person who continues to acquire new wealth in addition to the base wealth which has reached nisab and is thus subject to zakat, no longer needs to wait for the elapse of a year on these possessions; on the contrary, these augmentations need to be progressively included in the base wealth and calculated accordingly. This point is overwhelmingly agreed upon for commercial merchandise and for the offspring of livestock, although there is a minor difference of opinion between the schools pertaining to increases in different types of livestock. The general consensus, however, is that under such circumstances, one must start anew; for instance, if a person owns camels equivalent to nisab, for which he is paying zakat, and acquires a further 30 cattle or 40 sheep, he would wait a year for these new acquisitions, and then pay their zakat, owing to the difference of type. However, if the person isdoing business with these animals, then without waiting for the elapse of a year, he must pay zakat on them. For this reason, if a person buys a further 100 sheep, for instance, in addition to the 40 sheep for which he is paying zakat, according to Abu Hanifa, he must provide zakat on 140 sheep without waiting for a year to elapse.

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 78

Okay, I checked. This is actually chapter 78 :)

Thank you, again, to @zommbiebro for the name of the colony. This will be way more important than people realize.

As runners-up, @baelpenrose and @iguessthisisme, thank you for the names of Else’s new habitats. While the reason isn’t given (you are free to mention them in the comments), they did rank as the runners-up.

I made an appointment with Miys to continue our talk about other species next week and sent messages requesting a small meeting in my office.  When I arrived, Alistair already had everyone seated and was handing out drinks. Dropping into a chair, I grabbed the one Tyche passed me and took a deep sip, narrowly avoiding a sputter when I realized my coffee had at least one shot of whiskey in it.  “Geez and fuck, Worthington, what are you trying to do to me?”

Taking the cup from me, he inhaled deeply before apologizing. “It was meant to be coffee with Irish crème, not Irish coffee.”

“Whatever, give it back.” Pinching the bridge of my nose to avoid the looks I was inevitably getting, I made a blind grabbing gesture with the other.  “By the time this conversation is over, I may need this to be sans coffee.”  I inhaled deeply before looking up.  “We have a problem on the Ark.”

“That’s nothing new,” Tyche pointed out.  Beside her, Antoine gave a regretful look of agreement along with an eloquent shrug.

Groaning, I arched an eyebrow at Arthur Farro, who sat across from Tyche, on my other side. “You see how often this kind of shit happens?”  With that, I launched into what happened in the corridor with Miys, specifically the crowd of people plowing into us. When I finished, I held up a hand to stop the outpour of questions from Farro and focused on Antoine. “Can the update to receive proximity alarms be disabled?”

“In theory, yes,” he answered hesitantly.  “But I’m uncertain if the entire implant would have to be disabled in order to do so.”

“Our hosts should be able to tell us if the implants can be turned off,” Alistair pointed out.

“Mmmmm… you would think so.  But I asked, and apparently they didn’t even think we would be able to understand any of their technology, much less futz around with it on the scale needed to create the proximity alerts in the first place,” I explained.

Tyche nodded firmly. “That means we use our secret weapons.”

“Derek?” The question came from our resident former-warlord, who was still not used to our shorthand.

“And Zach to run herd on him,” I confirmed.  “If we can determine whether it’s just the update or the entire implant that’s disabled, Derek can turn the right thing back on and lock user privileges down so they can’t be messed with again.”

Raising one hand for attention, Antoine ventured a point. “Are we - is the Council - okay with the ethics behind forcing people to use the translation implants?”

My head dropped heavily onto the tabletop. I hadn’t even thought about that, but he had a point.

“We can argue ethics later,” Tyche interjected. “First, we have Zach and Derek determine what part of it isn’t working.  If it’s the update, there isn’t anything to worry about, since the Council already agreed that it was in the best interest of the ship as a whole to make the receiver software compulsory.”

Thank you, little sister. When I lifted my head after a silent prayer, I saw Farro giving Tyche an evaluating glance before turning to me. “So. Were these the same people you two mentioned at the dinner?”

“I think so.” Opening my datapad, I pulled up the questions he sent me. “So, on that note, since that’s why you’re here…. ‘How large are the groups?’ I would say three to seven people.” I tipped my hand back and forth in a vague gesture.

Tyche nodded. “I tend to watch my data pad as I walk but the groups aren’t too big. Five-ish? Sometimes more sometimes less? Not suspiciously big though, that I can say for sure.” She opened her own copy and tackled the next question. “Any frequent meetings...The clusters seem to be everywhere, but it's the whispering and watching that make me uncomfortable. I'm face-blind, though, so I couldn't tell you if these are the same groups.

“To be honest, meetings happen all the time on the Ark.  Granted, there are generally fewer after the misunderstanding with Else - “ Alistair scoffed so hard I was worried for his sinuses, but I ignored him and plowed on. “but I would definitely say nothing overt enough to stand out.”

Before I could reference the next question, Farro pre-empted me. “Have you noticed people from these smaller groups interacting with each other? Or groups combining, mixing?”

I had to roll my eyes that one. “Dude.  It’s literally my job to get people to interact, so the only answer you’re getting to that one is ‘all the damned time’.”

He turned to Tyche, eyes hopeful. She just gave him a smirk. “What do you get when you mix an elephant and a rhino?”  When he looked perplexed at her non sequitur, she leaned forward. “Ellephino. Faceblind, remember?”

Scowling, he shook his head. “You handle staffing… how the hell do you do your job?”

"I do it damned well, if I do say so myself," she waved off his complaint. "Which I do. Voices, body language, key accessories... Been doing it my whole life."

“Fair,” he shrugged, seemingly satisfied. “Sophia, have you noticed if it’s always the same people who are clustered up?”

I couldn’t stop the groan that question elicited. “Arthur. There are over nine thousand people on this ship. It would be nearly impossible to be sure.”

He grumbled something about ‘no self preservation’ and ‘what happened to proper paranoia’ before asking the last question. “Please tell me someone at least noticed if they got noticeably quieter when any outsiders came near them?”

My sister and I exchanged glances before I responded. “Eyeah. Kind of why they stand out.”

How did Farro avoid getting dizzy when he rolled his eyes that hard?

Antoine cleared his throat, catching everyone’s attention. Leaning forward in his seat, he ran a tired hand through his hair. “Tyche mentioned these groups to me a few days ago. I’ve been keeping an eye out and while they aren’t the same groups, there are the same people with new groups, sometimes two at a time in the larger gatherings. Much like a very hushed spreading of word about….something. I have no idea what of course. I’m usually on my way to either medical or a client.”

“Wait,” I held my hand up for a moment. “Same people with new groups? What do you mean? Like, intermingling groups of these people?”

“Think of a social butterfly, but more secretive. There are some I recognize from other groups, but surrounded by different faces. Mingling but spookier.”

Tyche nearly choked on her drink. “You’ve been around me too much. ‘Mingling but spookier.’”

“At least someone noticed something useful,” Farro grumbled.

“Hey!” I complained. “I get that you’ve got a theory, but you don’t have to be rude.” I scowled at him.

Okay, maybe I pouted.

After a moment of deadlock, I took a drink of my coffee and arched a brow at him. “You know. If you told us what exactly your theory was, this would go a lot better. I get that you’re used to working on your own, but you’re asking questions that are leaning into things we aren’t going to notice.  It’s like… asking a vet if they’ve noticed any fleas lately.  Even if they don’t just ignore them outright, it’s nothing remarkable.”

“A cult,” he admitted, sitting back and taking a drink of his tea, only to glare at it like it betrayed him.  Getting up, he went to dispose of it and asked the console for a hot, fresh cup. “People suddenly acting weird, closing off others unless they make the first move? Cult, all day long.”

“That’s pretty overt for a cult though. Most of the time, it’s hard to tell when someone is part of one. They were surprisingly common back Before,” Tyche immediately interjected, having suddenly gone eerily serious. “I’ve known former members. They creep in.”

“Not that overt,” he pointed out. “Scientology.”

“A fake religious movement, that if not for a certain celebrity wouldn’t have gotten so much attention.”

“Oh, completely fake. Not even the founder believed the bullshit he was slinging,” Farro agreed. “But, it was also a very overt, definitive cult.” He started counting on his fingers. “There’s also Jonestown and the Manson family, as far as cults that withdrew from society, although the somewhat limited space of the Ark makes it easier to just get quiet instead of trying to isolate.…” he trailed off before seeming to snap out of his thoughts. 

Tyche groaned at the point. “And the non-religious ones, such as multi-level marketing and pyramid schemes.”

“Of which there were several in the latter half of the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries,” I pointed out. “Very famous and popular ones, actually.  So.  Being overt doesn’t mean this couldn’t be a cult.” My stomach twisted at the idea of something like that forming in the midst of our chance to be everything good we had the potential for.  It felt like someone doused the Mona Lisa with acetone.

“To be fair, it could also be a more harmless, mysticism based situation like the legionary sect of Mithras in ancient Rome, so we don’t necessarily need to assume the worst - just plan for it, in case.”

“If we concede that this could be a cult,” Alistair volunteered, “I feel it would be wise to discuss the matter with Councillor Hodenson.”  Deafening silence followed his statement, broken only when he squinted at our group in confusion. “Grey Hodenson? The Councillor for Research and Sciences? Who was raised in a cult?” Another emphatic squint before he sighed and threw his hands up.  “Unbelievable.  For a group of supposed geniuses, you all show a breathtaking capacity to overthink things.”

“I believe we should also include Councilor Kalloe,” Antoine advised. “As the Councillor for Health and Safety, it is imperative that she is kept abreast of the situation, even if it is unfounded.”

“It would also give us a stronger likelihood of a majority in the Council if it came to a vote,” Tyche confessed. “We’d already have three out of six, would just have to convince one more.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I groaned.  “But yeah, subject tabelled for now, until we can reconvene.” I forced myself to sit up straighter. “Now, enough bad news.  Tyche, Antoine, someone, give me some good news.”

Antoine spoke first. “The portion of Else that is not in coldsleep is adapting well to its new habitats.  It is quite pleased with the compromise, and reports excitement at the opportunity to speak to more humans.”

My eyebrow arched before I could stop myself. “Do I even want to know why that is in your purview?”

“Therapy is therapy,” he shrugged eloquently. “Adjusting to new environments is stressful for all living creatures, even those not known to be sentient.”

Alistair added, “Additionally, a nebula has been located that is determined to be sufficiently large and ferrous enough for Else to colonize.  They have determined to name the nebula Esperia, to symbolize their origins with humanity and their hope for the future. When we locate a similarly suitable planet or planetoid, they have decided upon Redemption, or the equivalent in whatever language they have evolved by that point.”

“Wait,” Farro stopped my assistant. “You mean to tell me that a bacteria decided on a name for two colonies before we could decide on one?”

“Only by a breath,” I smirked, opening an alert on my datapad.  “Apparently the name for our new home was just approved by the Council. Good news indeed.”

Several seconds of silence followed as everyone stared at me intently, with Tyche and Alistair pointedly ignoring the similar updates they had just received. Finally, my sister broke. “Are you going to share, oh mighty Councillor, or does everyone have to wait for me to leave and spill the details?”

Laughing, I gestured my concession.  “The name that was agreed upon, by a five to one majority within the Council, is Von. ‘In Norse religion, Ragnarok is the end of the world, followed by a period of rebirth and renewed hope.  Our world has already ended, this we agree upon to point that we have all simply named the chain of events Before, The End, and After.  The new colony will be our renewed hope, our opportunity to be reborn as a better people.  In that spirit, I put forth the name Von, which simply means hope or expectation in Icelandic.  Nothing could be more fitting for our new home, after our own Ragnarok’.”

Heads nodded in agreement. “That’s a good name,” Alistair admitted. “Not my suggestion, but still good.”

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