#this took an hour and a half so i hope its relatable to anybody even a little bit

[hobgirl]

recent events wouldn't leave my mind until i made this

[incorrectbandofbrothersquotes]

Dear Heart - Chapter 10

Dick Winters x Melanie Davis

Summary: Melanie Davis is a nurse from North Carolina who has lived a sheltered life since her father died. Her father’s best friend, Colonel Sink, invites her to experience more as a regimental nurse for the 506th PIR of the 101st Airborne. She embarks on the adventure of a lifetime.

Tag list: @thoughpoppiesblow​​​​ @primusk​​ If you’d like to be added, let me know!

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: First of all, sorry this update took so long! I’ve got a new OC to introduce here and I wanted to get her right. I hope you guys enjoy Juliet as much as I do :) Thank you again to @mercurygray​​ for being a wonderful beta reader, as always <3 

Warning(s): None for this one :)

Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7  Chapter 8  Chapter 9

Chapter 10 here we go!!!

Haguenau, with its slushy streets and unpredictable explosions, was a welcome reprieve from the hellish woods of the Bois Jacques. The improvements were small, but they had roofs over their heads, food in their bellies, and rumor had it that later there would be showers. Unfortunately, danger still lingered close by - right across the river. 

Melanie slipped and slid all the way to the company CP to check on Lipton. She was keeping an eye on his pneumonia so he wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. Dick had objected to this at first, but she assured him she could manage. Lip was too valuable to leave the company now, and Dick couldn’t argue with that. 

When she arrived, she saw Webster - clean and fresh from the replacement depot. She nearly did a double take when she spotted him. Holland felt like years ago now. Though he looked much the same as he did then - a handsome young Harvard man. 

“Oh! Hello, David,” she said pleasantly. “Glad you could join us.”

“Thank you,” he returned earnestly, for he knew she was the only person who said that without any sarcasm behind it. “How are you, Melanie?” 

“Oh, just fine,” she said. “How’s the leg?”

“Good, thanks,” he replied. 

Melanie had tended to him herself. It was a flesh wound, so she didn’t need a doctor. Just disinfectant, stitches, and a bandage, and he was good as new. She offered to cover for him if he wanted to get back to the line, but he refused. Now that she had seen combat first hand, she couldn’t say she blamed him.

She turned her attention back to Lipton. “Now, Lip, can I ask you to set those papers down at least long enough for me to take your temperature?”  

Lip nodded and let the papers in his hand fall into his lap. Luz pulled up a chair for her. She thanked him and took a seat while the thermometer did its work. She leaned closer to feel Lip’s forehead, which was still burning up. 

The temperature climbed and she frowned. “Still a fever. How’s the cough?”

“It’s okay,” he said, but then lost himself in another fit.

While she waited, another new face entered the room. A lieutenant she did not recognize. He introduced himself as Jones, and explained he was looking for Captain Speirs. As if summoned by the mention of him, the new Easy CO appeared. Melanie wasn’t quite sure how she felt about Speirs yet. There was no denying he was successful, but there was something frightening about him. He was so...intense. And she’d heard the rumors about what he did on D-Day, though she didn’t know if she believed them. Even having spent more time around him, she couldn’t make up her mind about whether he was capable of it or not. 

Lip began to introduce Jones, but Speirs cut across him. “Listen, for Christ’s sakes, will you go back in the back and sack out? Lieutenant, tell him he needs to be in bed.”

One thing Melanie appreciated about Speirs was his indifference to her presence in regard to her gender. Ever the practical leader, he seemed to just appreciate that she was there. Man or woman, if there was help, he took it. She did wish he would call her Melanie, but that sort of familiarity took time. 

“I can’t order him around, Captain, but I do agree with you,” she said, casting a stern look at Lip. 

“I will, sir,” Lip said to Speirs. “I was just trying to make myself useful, sir.”

“You can do that by listening to the nurse,” Speirs replied.

“And you won’t be useful to anybody unless you get better,” she added. “Do try and get some rest.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said tiredly. 

“Very good,” she said, patting his arm. “I’ll come back by and check on you later.” 

With Lip seen to, Melanie headed back to her billet. Now that they weren’t cut off, she had a stack of letters from her mother to sort through. She had only made it through about half of them so far, and though their contents steered more and more toward questions about her and Dick, she was eager to hear the news from home. She also had a few letters from her friend Rose, so when her mother’s letters got to be too much, she had something to fall back on. 

When the first letter from her unread stack from Lilian began with a question about Dick and his intentions, Melanie gave up. She could never make her mother understand what was between her and Dick, and so there was no use trying to explain it. She picked up Rose’s letter and began to read. She made a face at its contents. 

“Bad news?”

Melanie looked up to see Dick in the doorway. For a fleeting second, she took absurd notice of the bit of scruff on his face and admired it. He looked rather devil-may-care. So much so that for a moment she forgot her distress entirely. She shook her head to clear it, set the letter down, and nodded sadly. 

“I’m afraid so,” she said. “My friend, Rose...her husband is missing somewhere in the Pacific.” 

“This is your high school friend?” he asked. 

Melanie so rarely spoke about her loved ones back home, but she had mentioned Rose more than once. Rose was married to Patrick, a Marine. They had a little boy, Jonathan, and Melanie was his godmother. She nodded again.

“Yes,” she said. “Oh, how awful…Poor Rose…”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Dick said, trying to sound convincing. “Could be captured.” That was certainly wishful thinking. He’d heard that the Japanese rarely, if ever, took prisoners. But he wouldn’t poison Melanie’s mind with that information.

She didn’t reply for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the letter, deep in thought. Then she sat back against her chair and sighed. Almost dreamily. His brow furrowed as he watched her. She turned her face to look out the window, and the light illuminated the bruises that still faintly clung to her skin. 

“This might sound like a horrible thing to say,” she said. "But you know, I sort of envy her. Husband, baby. Everything is...decided, it’s there. I know deep down that it worries her, having Patrick gone, but I...I envy that she had those things to lose." She looked at Dick. "Does that make sense?"

He knew exactly what she meant. Dick listened to the way some of the other men talked about their wives, and he did sometimes feel a little jealous that they had someone who was so counting on their return. True, it made the stakes higher - his frequent reasoning for not admitting his feelings to Melanie - but there was a certain beauty about that risk. 

“It makes sense,” he told her. “And I think it’s only human. She may envy you that you get to be part of the action, while she has to stay behind. Or that you don’t have something so heavy to worry about.”

Melanie considered arguing this. If anything happened to Dick, she’d be devastated. But of course, that was not something she could say. And besides, he was not her husband. Losing him would not put her in the same position as Rose socially. She would only have comparable heartbreak. She decided to change the subject, distraught at the very idea. 

“Did you need something?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” he said. “There’s a patrol tonight. Sink wants you and Roe on standby in case of any casualties.”

“A patrol?” she questioned. 

He nodded, his own displeasure at the idea clear in the slight downturn of his mouth. She wished there was something she could say to comfort him, but unfortunately, they both knew it was no good. 

He explained the basics. Fifteen men from Easy Company would cross the river and try to capture a few Germans they knew to be residing in one of the buildings near the shore. Hopefully, they would have information to help the Allies push further into Germany. Melanie didn’t think the risk was worth it, but she didn’t have to say so. She knew Dick felt the same. But orders were orders. 

“Alright, I’ll try and have some things prepared,” she said with a sigh. If she had time, she might have gone to Colonel Sink to ask him about this patrol and if it was really necessary, but it seemed decided. “Would you like me to come to the briefing?” 

“Up to you,” he said. “I was just going to tell you to get some sleep while you can. Patrol sets off at 0100 hours.” 

She expected him to go then, but he lingered, looking at her as if there was something on the tip of his tongue. She searched his face for what it might be. 

“Is there anything else, Dick?” she asked.

There was, but he wouldn’t say it. Truthfully, he felt he related to Rose. After almost losing Melanie to a crumbling building, and wondering what she’d been through before those five days in the woods (which he still wondered), fearing that whatever it was had cost him his closeness to her, he realized he had done a lot more worrying about her lately. He was at the relative safety of battalion, while she had taken a position much closer to danger. The tables had certainly turned since D-Day. 

He shook his head. “No, that’s it. Get some rest. I’ll see you later.”

He turned to leave, but was blocked by the appearance of a striking blonde woman. He stopped just before colliding with her, his surprise evident on his face.

“Crikey, sorry!” she gasped. She was English, based on the accent. “My fault!”

Melanie’s brow furrowed with confusion as Dick shuffled out of the way of the newcomer and her face came into view. She was beautiful with thick, wavy blonde hair, eyes the color of rain, and an enchanting smile. She clearly wasn’t military since she was in civilian clothes. Her presence was all charm and warmth, from the second she entered the room. 

“Juliet Fletcher,” she said, extending her hand. “You’ll have to excuse the sweat, I walked all the way through town. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to get a cab out here.” 

Melanie and Dick both chuckled and shook the woman’s hand. “I’m Melanie Davis, and this is Captain Dick Winters.”

“I see I’ve made it to the right place,” Juliet said. “I’m a reporter with the London Pursuit, and Colonel Sink said I can bunk with you while I cover the regiment.”

Melanie blinked, surprised by Colonel Sink allowing a war correspondent - especially one who was both female and English.  

“Most of my colleagues went to cover our own lads, but I thought I’d see what the Yanks are up to,” Juliet continued. “I hate to be unoriginal.”

Melanie and Dick exchanged an amused glance as Juliet stepped further into the room and set her bags down. 

“I promise you’ll be glad of the company,” she said. 

“Why do you say that?” Melanie asked, curious. 

“Well, there can’t be too many other women out here,” Juliet said. “With all the whistles I got on my way here, I’m quite certain we stand out.”

Melanie smiled again, feeling seen. Though the men knew better than to whistle at her. She thought it was out of respect for Colonel Sink, but really most of the men understood Melanie to be Dick’s girl, whether Dick and Melanie were aware of it or not. 

“I’ll let you get settled,” Dick said, then he turned to put his hand on Melanie’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

“Of course,” Melanie replied, her gaze lingering on him just a moment longer. Her eyes flicked down to the stubble on his chin again for one last look at it. 

“Nice to meet you, Juliet,” he said, and then he was gone. 

Juliet glanced between where Dick disappeared and Melanie’s face. “You two seem rather smitten, is he your boyfriend?”

Melanie flushed. “Oh, no, nothing like that.”

“Would you like him to be?” Juliet asked. 

The pink in Melanie’s cheeks deepened. “Well - I mean, I care for him, but -”

“What’s the matter?” Juliet pressed. “Family doesn’t approve?”

“We’ve never met each other’s families, so -”

“Oh, is he married?”

“No, he’s -”

Juliet’s nose wrinkled as she interrupted again. “Does he want you to do unusual things in the bedroom?”

The color drained from Melanie’s face and her eyes went wide as an owl’s. “No!”

“These are just routine questions,” Juliet said. 

“Are they?” Melanie wondered, shocked. 

“Of course,” Juliet answered, appearing completely earnest. Until she burst out laughing, which put Melanie at ease. “I’m joking, Melanie. We only just met, I’d never ask what your boyfriend likes in the bedroom. Unless of course you need to talk about it, in which case, I’m all ears.” 

Melanie blinked. She hadn’t met many reporters so she wondered if they were all as fast-paced as Juliet, whose mind seemed to run a hundred miles a second. She felt like she should be offended by the remarks, but she wasn’t. She found it all a bit silly. Which she appreciated after the news from Rose and the impending patrol. Juliet was like sunshine in this bleak and gray winter. She retrieved a cigarette from the box in her pocket, struck a match, and lit it, taking a long drag, and looking very graceful in Melanie’s opinion. 

“Dick and I are strictly platonic,” she said. “But I appreciate the offer for a confidant.” 

“Anytime,” Juliet said with a puff of smoke around the word. “I hope we can be friends.”

“Me too,” Melanie agreed. 

“Seriously, I don’t have any friends,” Juliet said. “People hate reporters.”

Melanie softened. Juliet was not teasing now, she was being honest. Melanie saw it in her eyes, the loneliness.

“I assure you, I have no such prejudice,” Melanie said. “Now, what can I do to help you settle in?”

Juliet had packed light, which was to be expected. But she had brought along her typewriter, which Melanie was surprised Juliet was able to carry at all. It was heavier than lead, and would have had Melanie tipping over if she tried to travel with it. As they got Juliet set up, they got to know each other more. Melanie did enjoy being in the company of a woman again, and the friendship she felt reminded her of her time with Renee and Anna, who she missed a great deal. Juliet explained that she had met some of the 101st before while they were in Aldbourne, which was part of what drew her to covering their unit now. 

“You didn’t make any friends?” Melanie asked. “I’ve found our boys to be rather friendly, especially with beautiful women.”

Juliet smiled. “Oh, they were perfectly kind. But it is hard to keep up once they’ve shipped out.”

“I understand,” Melanie said. “Why, my friend back home - her husband is in the Pacific and she gets so impatient for his letters. Of course now, he…” she trailed off, reminded once more of Patrick’s danger and Rose’s heartache. 

“Was he killed?” Juliet asked. 

Melanie shook her head. “Missing.”

“Crikey, I don’t know which is worse,” Juliet said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“That’s not the only bad news,” Melanie confessed, and explained about the patrol. Juliet listened carefully, brow knitting over her eyes as she took it in. 

“It’s quite risky,” she remarked. “From what I’ve read, the war’s supposedly almost over.”

Melanie bit back a scoff. “Not quite. I wish it were, though. These men have been through enough.”

“You have too, I expect,” Juliet said. “Were you with them in Bastogne?”

“I was for the last week or so,” Melanie told her. “And I barely made it through that little.”

Melanie shuddered to recall those days. Not only because of the grueling nature of the battle, but also her distance from Dick. Things were beginning to get back to normal between them, but she could feel that he was still curious. She appreciated that he wouldn’t push her, but it made her feel guilty to keep something from him. 

“I’d love to get your story, if you’re up to sharing,” Juliet said. “I’m sure you’ve got a unique perspective.”

“I’m sorry, but I’d rather not,” Melanie told her. “If anyone’s voice deserves to be heard, it’s the men who were out there for weeks.”

Juliet shrugged. “I understand. I hope you know your voice matters too, though.” When Melanie didn’t reply, she continued. “Besides, I’m more interested in this patrol you mentioned. D’you think I’d be allowed at the briefing at least?”

Melanie pondered this, grateful for the change of subject. “We can certainly ask Dick. Or Easy’s CO, since that company will be executing the operation.”

“Great! When can I meet him?” Juliet wondered. 

Melanie admired Juliet’s eagerness. “I’ll be going by the company CP this afternoon to check up on Sergeant Lipton. Come with me, and I’m sure we can find out.”

“Perfect!”

The girls set out for something to eat. And Juliet was constantly making Melanie laugh. Not because Juliet was necessarily trying to be funny, but her remarks were unusual and amusing. Melanie felt like she’d been sent a sweet blessing - she couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed this much. This winter had been the hardest of her life, and not only because of the weather. So much had happened to her. But now she felt like spring was right around the corner. 

Neither Dick nor Speirs were at the CP when Melanie and Juliet stopped by, and Lipton was about the same as far as his illness went. Melanie introduced her new friend, and Lip was welcoming to her. Melanie once again stressed his need for rest, and he promised her he would sleep within the hour. 

“I think Winters and Speirs are out by the river,” he told them. “They’re checking things out for the patrol.”

“Thank you, Lip,” Melanie replied. “We’ll go find them.”

She turned to go, but quickly realized that Juliet was not following her. The reporter was glued to her spot, and some of the color had drained from her face. She looked...rather frightened. 

“Did you say...Speirs?” she asked Lipton. 

He nodded. “Yeah. Captain Speirs has been our CO since Foy.”

She swallowed. Melanie’s brow furrowed. She guessed that perhaps Speirs was one of the people from the regiment Juliet met in Aldbourne, but judging by her face, it would not be a glad reunion. Juliet looked as if she were braced for impact. Melanie grew concerned. 

“I understand if you’re a little afraid of Speirs,” she said. “He’s -”

“Hey, I ain’t afraid of nothin’ except spiders, which is completely normal,” Juliet interjected, somehow both defensive and joking. She took a breath. “Okay...okay, you may see some things…”

Melanie immediately formed a hundred questions about that, but Juliet marched out of the building and into the street. Evidently, there would be no explanation of what Melanie might see upon finding Speirs. Melanie eagerly followed Juliet outside. She tried to strike up conversation again, but Juliet remained silent. Her eyes looked straight ahead, and yet, they were unfocused. Melanie gave up trying to talk before they finally reached the river bank, where Dick did in fact stand with Speirs, looking out at the water and the enemy on the other side. Melanie cleared her throat, and both men turned their heads. 

As soon as Speirs’ eyes landed on Juliet, the already thin air suddenly became colder and sparser. Melanie cast Dick a sideways glance and saw on his face that he felt it too. The tension was like a dam about to break. Juliet shifted uncomfortably under Speirs’ icy glare. 

“Hi, Ron,” she said quietly. “You look - you look good. I know you probably don’t think so, since - well, you know. Not that you were ever terribly concerned about things like that - I mean, that’s not to say you aren’t nice looking - I was just - you know what? I’m gonna stop now. You look well. War suits you.”

Juliet bit her lip, clearly regretting the last remark, but she didn’t try to correct herself again. Speirs did not reply. He only stared at her, his gaze alone seeming to order her away. Melanie stepped closer to Dick, for a shiver had gone up her spine. Beats passed in strained silence. 

“I wrote to you,” Juliet went on. “Several letters. Did you -”

“I didn’t read them,” he cut across her. His tone and expression were alarmingly blank.

She swallowed the sting of it. “That’s alright. I understand completely.” He continued to look at her in stony silence so she changed the subject again. “So, you’re a captain, now, are you? That’s nice! Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” he said hollowly. 

“You deserve it,” she said. “Really.”

Speirs did not answer that. He only scowled.

Dick leaned over to whisper in Melanie’s ear. “What is going on?”

“No idea,” she breathed back. “They’ve got some sort of history, but I don’t know what.” 

Dick only nodded and looked back at Juliet, who was becoming more and more despondent by the second. He decided to rescue her. 

“Did you two need something?” he asked, so the group could hear. 

“Juliet was wondering if she could be present at the briefing in order to cover the patrol tonight,” Melanie said, eyes darting between Speirs and Dick. 

“No,” Speirs said shortly. 

“Please don’t make this personal, Ron,” Juliet sighed. “My editor is really counting on me getting a story out here, and -”

“Well, she fucked up, Jules, she trusted you!” he snapped. 

Juliet blinked, taken aback and wounded by the biting reply. Melanie got the distinct feeling Speirs was not talking about the story when it came to a breach of trust. Her mind was swirling with questions now. How did Juliet and Speirs know each other? What had happened to make him hate her so much? And could it be fixed?

Speirs took a deep breath and let it go slowly, his shoulders relaxing as he exhaled. He looked at Juliet again. “Your mother, is she feeling alright?”

“Mhm,” Juliet said with a nod. “Yeah, much better.”

“Good,” he replied. 

With that, he walked off. Melanie was completely bewildered. Speirs seemed like he was about ready to spit at Juliet, but then he asked about her mother? It was all so odd and complex. Dick watched Speirs’ disappearing form. 

Melanie had a horrifying thought as she watched Speirs depart and Juliet’s expression sink. When two people miscommunicated, and things shifted between them, the relationship could easily come to a devastating and tragic end. Melanie examined the change in her and Dick’s relationship since Terry assaulted her. If she couldn’t find the courage to share with him, would they become like Juliet and Speirs? All hurt feelings and unsaid intentions? What would happen to them if she gave into her fears and didn’t trust him with her heart?

[alia-turin]

Request:  I wish you would write a fic where Caranthir and Imlerith are being requested by their commander to capture a human sorceress, who is known for her healing powers, compel her to divulge her secrets and spells and then kill her, but things take an unexpected turn

Honestly guys I feel so bad because you sent these awesome requests and I feel like butcher them and turn them upside down :D 

In any case couple of notes - big HC that I was introduced to is that despite everything Imlerith has soft side for animals, so I’m sorry if he sounds a bit OOO, but that whole thing is really about his soft side. If you want more Imlerith + animals, please check out @erinbeast . I have also put some ideas for Caranthir that come from an old fic I posted and another fic I’m currently working on (which I might never post but there is that). I hope y’all enjoy tagging you 

AO3 Link

Warning: mentioning of injured animal 

Caranthir stepped through the portal and Imlerith followed. Neither of them was wearing their armor, at least not in full. His friend still wore gauntlets instead of gloves and some of the metal around his legs and torso. Caranthir on the other hand was more practical, no amount of armor was going to protect them where they were going so he was just wearing his normal clothes and a cloak. He knew roughly where their final destination was supposed to be, but he wasn’t sure so he ended up getting them in the forest and they were going to figure the rest.

“I still don’t understand what Eredin’s problem with that particular sorceress is.” Imlerith groaned as Carathir led the way. He could sense the bitch so it wouldn’t be that difficult to find her at that point.

“Does it matter?” they were alone, even the usual forest sounds were somehow dulled around them. He couldn’t hear birds, just the wind brushing against the leaves. “She is a human sorceress, she is better off dead.”

Imlerith raised an eyebrow but the younger man did not see him as he was leading. Since Caranthir had joined the Red Riders the two of them had become friends. He had trained him to use a sword and spear, art Caranthir never mastered, but he had become damn good with that staff of his even when he was not using magic. He had also seen him grow, become more of a Red Rider compared to the skinny kid who left Avallac’h.

“For someone who uses magic you hate other mages way too much. Jealous they might be better than you?” He mocked but also that was something Imlerith never fully understood. One day something had snapped in Caranthir. The man never showed any real hate to anything but Avallac’h, at most he would just show lack of interest in things which in Caranthir’s cold mind was probably equal to hate. But then something happened, first it was just the darker mood but then during one of their raids he saw the Navigator break the skull of a human sorcerer. Imlerith liked violence, he inflicted it however he could, it made his blood running, but that had been something new from Caranthir. Maybe their friendship was rubbing on him or maybe it was just the Eredin effect.

“There isn’t anybody who is better…” Caranthir suddenly stopped. “Do you hear that?”

Imlerith looked around and focused, he could hear it. It sounded like a dog whining somewhere close. Without thinking Imlerith traced the sound and Caranthir was following.

It didn’t take them too far until they found the wolf lying on a bed of leaves and dirt. It was injured, an arrow was sticking from one of its hind legs and another one from its abdomen. Imlerith’s jaw clenched. He liked hunting, but he never did it for sport, it had always been for food or fur and he always made sure to finish his kill fast. He had no issue killing humanoid creatures in an extremely painful way, he even took pleasure in it, but animals were innocent. Whoever did not finish that kill deserved slow and painful death.

The wolf looked at them and showed them his teeth but he looked weak. Imlerith stepped closer, the arrow in the leg did not seem so bad, but the one in the abdomen...that was nasty wound.

Caranthir just looked at the other man as he approached the wolf, the animal was growling, but there was no bite, no danger to it.

“Imlerith, it’s dying, mercy is the best thing you can do for it.” He knew his friend felt some kinship to animals. Everyone always thought Imlerith to be mindless brute, Eredin’s rabid dog, but that was just part of the story. There is a side that almost nobody had seen.

“Maybe Avallac’h should have shown you some mercy.” the other man pointed at his face where Caranthir’s scars were.

“Maybe your mother should have shown some mercy when she saw you are barely intelligent to get dressed.” the Navigator bit back without hesitation. That’s what they did, Imlerith made fun of the scars on his face, the only person he tolerated to do that, and he made fun of Imlerith’s intelligence, just like true brothers.

Caranthir sighed. He wasn’t heartless, he just didn’t see a point in letting the poor animal suffer. He knelt next to Imlerith and placed a hand on the wolf’s head despite the sharp teeth that were barren.

“What are you doing?” Imlerith grabbed his wrist and squeezed.

“I’m not killing it. I can relate to the need to protect innocence and purity in its clearest form.” Imlerith had no idea what that meant. Caranthir had the habit to speak like Avallac’h at times, half of a conversation that made no sense to anyone. He made fun of him for that, but not now. The navigator freed his hand and placed it on the wolf again. Second later the animal was asleep and the laboured breathing was calmer. “We can break the arrows, but we should not pull them out, we need to deal with that bitch, which would be a quick job and then we can take it to Tir na Lia. It should be asleep for about two hours and it doesn’t feel pain, just make sure it doesn’t lose any more blood, because that will kill it.”

Caranthir didn’t have much hope for the animal surviving, judging by the blood around, it had been like that for some time, and his healing powers have always been the weakest from his many talents.

Imlerith scooped the wolf in his arm and followed Caranthir. He constantly looked at the animal to make sure it was still breathing. He decided he would name it Treise, a strong name for a beast like that. It wasn’t too long when they found an old log cabin deep in the woods. Caranthir did not stop, the man had no fear from some human witch, Imlerith followed but left the wolf outside, to prevent any further harm. He had seen mages fight and he also knew the pleasure Caranthir felt in making them suffer.

The Navigator was the first to enter the log cabin, bending his neck in an awkward position to get through the human sized door. Nothing impressive inside, wooden table, chairs, a bed in the far corner. The bitch was sitting next to the fireplace and turned in surprise when they walked in.

“Who…” she started a question, but he never allowed her to finish. His first attack knocked her on the ground, he wasn’t going to kill her, he was going to take his time.

Imlerith watched as Caranthir attacked the witch, she was a pretty thing for a human, small and fragile. A predator grin decorated his lips. Maybe he would let Caranthir have his fun using her to mop the floor and then he will have his type of fun.

“Wait!” the woman was on her hands and knees, her hair was a mess and there was blood running from her mouth. “I can help you.” Caranthir laughed mockingly. “I know you brought an injured animal with you, I can sense it, I’m a healer, I can help.”

Without hesitation Imlerith placed a hand on the navigator’s shoulder. Caranthir turned toward him, there was cold fire burning in his eyes. Funny how usually the roles were reversed. It had always been the younger man stopping him, but now Imlerith had other concerns than simple bloodlust.

“Why would you do that?” he asked, digging his fingers a bit deeper in the other man’s shoulder, his hand sinking in the soft first of his cloak.

“I cannot beat him.” she nodded at Caranthir. “And I don’t know why you are here but it isn’t for fortune reading. I help your wolf, you let me live.”

“No.” Caranthir said, almost offended.

“Deal.” Imlerith spoke at the same time and they both exchanged looks.

The woman wasn’t stupid and she did not wait for the two of them to sort their small differences. She got on her feet with visible effort and slowly limped toward the door.

“Please tell me the plan is to let her heal the wolf and then we kill her?” Caranthir said through his teeth, his jaw clenched. Imlerith did not answer. He wasn’t sure what the plan was. “You will tell Eredin. I’m not dealing with that.”

When they went out Caranthir walked to the nearest tree and pressed his back against it, his arms crossed over his chest, his cold eyes just pinned on the woman.

“It’s very weak.” the witch said as she placed her hand on the animal.

“Oh great, it’s very weak. Must have missed that.” the navigator said sarcastically, Imlerith couldn’t stop the smile on his lips.

The woman ignored them and started working. She pulled what was left from the arrows, thick blood started pooling on the fur but she worked quickly. She chanted a spell and pulled some herbs from her pocket that she applied to the wounds. Couple of minutes later she got up, the animal was still asleep and Imlerith got worried for a moment. Did she trick them? Did she kill the wolf as a final ‘fuck you’? If that was the case, whatever Caranthir was planning to do to her, would be nothing compared to what he would do to her.

“I cannot do anything about the lost blood.” she finally said. “And I cannot wake it up because of his spell. But once it wakes up it will be weak, it won’t be able to take care of itself until its body recovers from the loss.”

Caranthir forced an arrogant smile on his lips. Of course she couldn’t she was just a stupid human mage. It was surprising that Imlerith had been so...soft, between the two of them he had always been the nicer one, had he changed so much? No, it wasn’t that. He felt pity for the animal as well and didn’t really want it to die, but he was the logical one, Imlerith was impulsive. Where was Avallac’h now to see him? Where was his old teacher to call him rash?

“Am I free to go?” the woman asked, her eyes shifting between the two of them. Imlerith nodded, Caranthir was not really sold on the idea, but nodded as well.

He opened a portal and waited for Imlerith to grab the wolf and step through it, then he followed. They went straight to Imlerith’s apartments in the castle in Tir na Lia.

“We are not telling Eredin.” his friend finally said as he gently placed the wolf on his bed. He had never seen Imlerith being gentle with anything.

“We are not telling Eredin.” Caranthir repeated. “You are telling Eredin.”

“No.” Imlerith was still looking at the wolf. “We are waiting for a couple of days, and then we will do what we were supposed to do.”

After Caranthir didn’t speak for a while, he turned to make sure the navigator was still there.

“Why?” the younger man finally asked.

“Because that wolf means more to me than any other life out there and I’m paying her by giving her a couple of days.” Imlerith wasn’t sure if the navigator understood, neither of them was affectionate to anything. He expressed his emotions with violence and Caranthir...emotions did not come easy with him.

Caranthir nodded. He could relate, probably the reason he reacted the way he did was just because he did not expect Imlerith to be so...kind. But he could understand the desire to protect something.

[blackvelvetwriteson]

Hi, could I get a one shot fem! black reader x Kakashi, please? (can be nsfw or fluff, it's your choice)

Hey there! Thank you for the request 🥺🥺 I had a bit of a roadblock with this one simply because I couldn’t think of a prompt, BUT I eventually thought ‘why not write about the holidays’ so I got into a groove with it! Once I got into it, it was a really fun write! I hope that this is what you expected and/or lives up to your expectations! 

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐒

                                            (  ~ Kakashi Hatake x Black Female                                                                   Reader Insert ~ )

GENRE: Fluffy Fluff!                                                                  

FANDOM: Naruto Shippuden

TRIGGER WARNINGS: There really are none for today, it’s pretty fluffy for today!

SUMMARY: Reader-Chan wants to celebrate the holiday season this year because she never got to, but she doesn’t necessarily know how to approach Kakashi about it since he never celebrates the holidays (or ever even heard of them for that matter.

WORD COUNT: 4303

(Headers are mine, but the art inside of them are not! Please don’t steal or repost without credit!)

     For some reason, you were in an incredibly festive mood this time around. Maybe it was something about how the gilded sunlight made yours and Kakashi’s home feel more… Well, home-y. Maybe it was the remnants of your food that you’d made earlier for your lunch still lingering around the house, or the kids of the village running around outside of your windows, whether subliminally training or not undeterminable, reminding you of your youth. Time had gone by so fast, and already you’d been in Japan for about two years and a half. You already knew that, in general, the people of the area didn’t celebrate Halloween, and actually it was a week AFTER Halloween would’ve taken place in America, but something about today… Something about today made your festive bone quiver and you decided to do SOMETHING to celebrate. 

Since you’d picked up on the shinobi not celebrating American holidays like you were used to, you avoided asking Kakashi about it. Come to think of it, he never really did anything you were accustomed to besides the staring thing; and when you got together he tried to give you food related nicknames. You had to sit down and explain to him why it wasn’t okay and why it made you uncomfortable and then he thoroughly apologized and left it at that. He didn’t really have any nicknames for you, and from research you found that most women in Japan (and men) only go by their given names with -chan/san at the end which was cute, but if everyone had to call you that then it’d lose meaning and it wouldn’t be as cute.

Even still, though, you decided that today would be the day that you participated in the festivities of the holiday season that, in America, would be fast approaching. The only question for you was who you were going to dress up as and suddenly a thought formed in your head as you popped up from the couch and scurried to your guys’s room. You’d dress up as your hero, your boyfriend Hatake Kakashi! He wouldn’t expect it, you’d be able to see how everything fits, AND it’d be cute- at least you thought- and it’d give you something to do so that the crisp, perfect day didn’t go to waste.

You sifted through the closet with eager eyes as you hummed softly, some of your curls coming loose and falling down by your face, your dark brown beautiful eyes twinkling as you pulled out the parts to the outfit he wore from day to day, your eyebrows knitting a little as one corner of your lip lifted a little. “This man, so help me black Jesus,” you whisper softly noticing how much heftier your wardrobe was than his. He had the same outfit to go over about 5 or 5 times, black sweatpants, black shorts, and 3 different headbands all crushed, neatly, together on one side of the closet while your clothing took up the other half. You shook your head and closed the door with your hip once you were sure you had everything you needed for your little plan. You looked it over excitedly, your slender auburn fingers contrasting almost perfectly against the colors of his uniform. “Damn… I never noticed that till now,” you laugh softly as you remove your shirt and start to pull on articles of the outfit, trying to mimic exactly how you saw Kakashi wear his so you didn’t accidentally disrespect him. Of course he only had 2 masks and a shirt with a mask that you’d sewn onto it, and you decided not to mess with any of it. You didn’t want to hide your face at all whatsoever, especially behind masks that might’ve well have been your boyfriend’s comfort items. You had pretty much everything on, the worn out navy blue bringing everything together, the green brightening your pretty almost black eyes. You giggle softly as you look in the mirror and decide to do something with your hair before it dried completely- you’d taken a shower only 30 minutes prior and your hair was a little damp. You scurry off to the bathroom with the bandage and garter in one hand, your yellow hair pik in the other. You looked extremely excited, for once taking a moment to completely love and indulge in yourself. Being in an area where your existence was offensive to others to suddenly going to a place where absolutely nobody looked even close to you was an extreme shift, but Kakashi made it okay, literally brawling with anybody that so much as looked at you the wrong way. You had a small bit of tummy, but he loved that about you; and it’s not like it slowed you down any, made you unreliable, or made you any less attractive than you were. In fact, to some people it wasn’t even really noticeable unless you were wearing certain things. You also had to drop the American style and adopt the Japanese locale and honestly, while that was a HUGE shift, Kakashi helped with that too. Sometimes you’d get yourself in trouble with how you spoke though; that American lingo that’d been generationally passed down to you finding its way showing up and showing out, especially when someone wanted to make fun of your hair, or your physique and compare you to the other local girls, most noticeably Ten-Ten, Lady Tsunade, Sakura, and Hinata. They argued that the more pale girls were more attractive; because you could play in their hair and you wouldn’t have to worry about one slowing you down- at which remarks you stuck the shit talkers to a tree with your kunai for hours after you thoroughly cussed them out and ribbed them a little, telling Kakashi what’d happened so he could go cut them down. On the flip side, the kids absolutely adored you and loved when you were out so they could play tag or ask you unnecessary questions or get some treats from you.

You quick-washed your hair in the sink and started to blow-dry it deciding that you’d give yourself an at home blowout so that you could complete the look. Being the multitasker you were born into being, you found something to prop the blowdryer up while you piked your hair out quickly, smiling as you watched your hair fluff up, watching your coils straighten and then get bigger until it couldn’t anymore. Then it hit you; Kakashi hadn’t seen your hair blown out except once and that was while you were braiding it back and his eyes were fixated on your fingers as he wondered how a person could do that. At this point, your hair was halfway done, and while you let the tool dry your hair even more, you attempted to wrap the bandage around your thigh and it only BARELY made it, your thigh utterly choked in the process. You looked down at your leg and then pensively looked at the garter and decided that wouldn’t fit around your leg and you let out a frustrated sigh. “That man, is fine as fuck, but why he built like a bean pole,” you huff quietly as you let the bandage loose from trapping your thigh before your mind wandered to him. “…. Aight so maybe he got a LITTLE bit of muscle, but we aint talkin’ about that right now,” you laugh softly before looking at your phone seeing that he sent you a text signifying that he was on his way back from training for the day and that he was fine. You smiled cheerily at your text and tilted your head some at yourself, using your pik to fluff your hair out more before you scurried back to your guys’s room and snatched one of his spare headbands up, securing it quickly and tactfully. You looked at yourself in the mirror, your hands coming up and sliding into the arm holes of his navy green vest. You turned to one side, then to the next, then finally you looked at yourself from a front profile and your eyes glistened a little. “You’re… so heroic,” you mumbled under your breath before you heard some clatter coming from outside of the room.

“Oh right… You can do that,” you say as you open the door and watch him freeze completely in his spot, his eyes slowly raking over you from head to toe then back up again, his stoic expression unchanging from what you could tell. “H-Heyy… Honey,” you smile nervously as you wave with one of your gloved hands. He walked towards you and slipped one side of the headband over one of your eyes and then he stifled a soft grunt under his breath.

“It’s Kakashi. We’ve talked about this,” he said softly before he looked over his shoulders, his hands sliding in his pockets again as his back straightened out some. “….Why are you wearing my clothes,” he asked with a slight edge to his voice, meanwhile you were still frozen in place, your legs starting to quiver some. You didn’t know why he was being so cold to you and it made you just a little insecure. “Particularly… Those,” he said as he stared at the wall below the TV you both had, his legs crossed as he leaned back into the couch.

“Damn so you not gonna say ‘hi.’ Or ‘I missed you,’ or nothin’ like that hm? Well… My bad, I guess I’ll just go take it off,” you say softly, the spirit of the day becoming crushed. He mused softly and his head only tilted a small bit. He didn’t even look at you and you noticed this. The whole time you were here… The whole time you were together the only thing you wanted was his eyes on you and his praises. You were struggling and it was on you for the most part because you hadn’t reached out to him for help. He was a real big one for “say what you mean or need,” or something like that. You LOVED the idea behind the last stretch of the year; the days designated for giving thanks, hanging out with the ones you love, amazing food, and gifts, and movies, and music. All of it… But having come from where you had, you never really had good times or a good chance to make memories. Now that you were old enough to have someone of your own and actually be able to create memories, you wanted to… But instead you’d been trying to force it out of your life to make your man happy, however you weren’t having it anymore. You just didn’t know how to bring it up.

“Mm.. What’s-“

Before he could even finish speaking, you’d vanished back into your guys’s room and shut the door behind you. He sat back in the seat and he let out a low drawn out breath and then stood up. Within one second he vanished from the living room and appeared right in front of you with his arms crossed.

“I asked why you were wearing my clothes, not that you had to take them off,” he said as he looked blandly at your hurt expression. “And I was trying to ask what was up with you,” he said as he reached one hand out and gently tipped your head up, his free hand reaching for where your bangs covered your eye but then he stopped as he usually did and he tilted his head some. “May I?” He spoke from behind his mask. You push his hand out of the way and move your hair out of your face by yourself, your sharp eyes peering into his. This time his eyebrows rose a bit more noticeably and usual and he waited for you to talk so he could listen, his hands now in his pockets.

“Yknow… I’ve tried to work what is normal to me out of my system… And when I was younger, that would’ve been… Easier. But now, it’s not… Kakashi, when you don’t look at me it makes me feel undesirable… Because nobody else looks at me unless they’re making fun of how flat and wide my features are… or how damn burnt I look even though this is my natural skin tone! I just… Want you to call me your baby once in awhile damnit! I want to call you *mine* and not just… Ka-ka-shi. Everybody calls you that… And… I get jealous when I see the other people hanging out with you, the cooler people with the sharingan variants, or the cool eyes and the people with the slim builds, or the people with the advanced shinobi skills that are greater than mi-“ You hadn’t noticed that while you were talking, Kakashi pulled his mask down, then you were interrupted with a kiss. It was a soft, but soulful kiss; the kind where one of his gloved hands had you by the chin and the other by the back of your head. The kind where you could feel his body heat completely wrapping you up. The kind where you felt his trembling breath break his completely calm composure. Your hands were gently pressed against the back of his arms, one of your hands at his elbow as he pulled away and allowed his eyes to slowly open. His shadow was cast down onto you and you saw his eyes squint a little, his smile hidden by the mask he’d pulled back up after the kiss. On the other hand, your eyes were wide and your lips were barely parted, your eyes glistening as you looked over his mostly hidden smile. Your knees buckled under you and he helped make sure you didn’t fall, his chest pressed against yours.

“You done?” He asked as he helped you stand upright again. You were dazed just staring at your man and he smirked a little as he pulled his mask down again still standing close to you. “I see… You want everyone to know that you’re mine and vice versa? That’s it? That’s why you’re wearing my clothes today…? You want me to… Call you mine? Right?” He spoke quietly, he was ONLY talking to you, his deep voice getting a little more hoarse as he continued to drone on, his hands on your hips pulling you closer to him, his intense gaze still cast into your eyes. You swallow hard and nibble the inside of your cheek. “You want you to call you my baby? My beautiful, perfect baby girl? Hm? Is that why you’re acting out? Or… You want me to show you that I care more, right? Maybe… You want me to make dinner once? Or bring you flowers? Or watch you train? Or… Cheer you on? Right? Perhaps tease you a little… Or hold you this close all the time?”

You nod slowly and then look away already knowing what this was sort of leading up to but his slender fingers forced your gaze back on him.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, baby,” he said softly as he tilted his head a little. “If you wanted that… Why didn’t you just say so? I can’t read minds… And I’m still relatively new to this whole… Romance scene,” he said softly as he gently stroked your cheek with his thumb. “You know this. I’m a little… Dense? I’m not sure if that’s the proper word. But…. You’re just… Ugh… I didn’t know that me hanging around people made you jealous- perhaps it’s in my best interest to just tell you how much you mean to me all of the time. You’d want that too, right? I know you would,” he said softly as his fingers gently trailed up your back. “Or… Maybe you want to have a little bit more sex? Is that apart of it?” The question made your eyes wide, skin burn with an invisible blush, and your jaw drop a little. He let out a hollow laugh in turn, gently pushing your jaw up to close your mouth with the tips of his fingers. “Baby steps. I got it. For now, let me just say this: You’re beautiful… All of your scars, curves, marks and all. Those coffee colored eyes of yours are so much more… Stupefying than any sharingan I have seen and will ever see…. The little spark they get when you’re determined, or that soft glisten when you get embarrassed,” he said as he looked over your whole face. “Your body… Your whole body… Is amazing… You don’t have to be slim to be an amazing shinobi; and so help me, my beautiful queen,” he says softly as he leans down so he’s eye level with you. “If you ever discredit yourself like that again, I’ll work you out so that you’re not able to move for the next week. You’re right on the fast track to be a fine shinobi- possibly even the greatest at that. Well… Not greater than me, but that’s another story and another conversation,” he said quietly as you were pushed back onto your bed while he stood over you. “Are those idiots getting into your head again?” His eyebrows furrowed a little as his hands slipped back into his pockets.

Finally you were able to find your words again and you crossed your legs out of habit. “Y-Yeah… For… Like… The past 3 weeks they’ve been telling me that I’m too slow… Or I’m too… Wide… Or making fun of me and my eyes, or making fun of how dark I am… Or making fun of my hair! My damn hair! It hurts… A lot… And we’re together, but I don’t want to be known as that abnormal girl that calls on her boyfriend every time she needs saving. I got it… Aight? I can handle that… But… That’s why I need YOUR praises…. To validate me I guess… I already know I’m THAT… girl… But I want to hear it from you… I want you,” you mumbled softly. “And the reason I’m dressed up like this is because I’m dressed up for Halloween- In America it’s a day where people dress up and do their makeup and hair and have fun at parties or go trick or treating to get candy and stuff! I’ve always loved it despite not being able to… Participate much,” you say softly as you rub your arm. “I dunno, I guess I just wanted to celebrate the holiday season this year- even if we never do it again, I at least want one memory of a great holiday season with mine… With you,” you say softly. He listens to everything you say with an opaque grin on his face.

“If that’s what you wanted, then why didn’t you just say that?” He said softly as he climbed over you, his hips barely resting in your lap as your heart skipped a beat. He pushed you to lay down on the bed and his hands rested right by your head, your eyes peering up at him with a soft grin rested on your face.

“I-I d-didn’t w-want to get told no… I d-didn’t want to… Bother you with something that seemed so insignificant… I didn’t want you to think of me as weak,” you say softly as he gently kisses your neck. You shuddered a little and bit your lip as you tilt your head up some.

“Well now’s your hot seat,” he huffed quietly against your neck. “Tell me what you want, tell me everything you want, and I’ll do it until you tell me that you don’t want it anymore,” he said as he looked back into your eyes, your hands rested against his chest as you thought for a moment before speaking again. “W-Well… I want you to call me your baby and vice versa… Or come up with a nickname or something… I want you to watch me train and root for me, I want you to let everyone know who I belong to, but allow me to show who you belong to, too… I want you to tease me and hold me close… Everywhere… I want you to go on dates with me and do holiday stuff with me… I want you to make me feel wanted and loved… I just fucking want *you* Kakashi…” you say softly as you look up at him. Upon gazing, you notice that his expression had soften significantly, and the hold he had on you was more protective than ever. “A-And I guess more s-sex would be cool,” you say softly and he chuckles quietly in return. You reach one of your hands up and gently cup his face, your thumb gently caressing his cheek. “You know… You should smile more… You’re quite handsome when you do… Well I mean you’re fine as hell either way, but I like it when you smile… And laugh like that…” you say softly as he leans his head into your hand a little more. He kisses your clothed palm and smiles just for you and suddenly you took on a breathless expression, your eyes halfway open as he blushed a little and you just took this moment to adore him, everything about him. “That’s what you want from me? Okay,” he said softly before moving to pin your hand weakly to the bed above you, his eyes both gazing into yours- well as much as he could anyway seeing as your hair practically swallowed your face leaving your bottom half of your face exposed for him. You could see him just fine, he just couldn’t see you… And for the moment that was fine. His gentle lips pressed against yours from above and your eyes fluttered shut as usual when this happened. You felt a little touch starved because he didn’t like contact very much, but he was warming up to it a little more. You wrapped one of your arms around his waist and pulled him closer, and then the two of you melted into each other on the bed in a fit of grunts, deep, passionate, soft kisses, dulcet giggles coming from the both of you, his hand wandering up your waist up the natural curve of your body as yours tried to find where his clothing allowed you access to his skin. You found it, your warm fingers contrasting against his lukewarm skin. He jolted a little and let out a groan before looking at you again, nibbling your lip gently before he pulled away. “You’re amazing,” he whispered quietly and breathlessly against your lips as you tried to control your breathing again.

“Says one of the most notable and historic ninja warriors of all time,” you say with a soft chuckle, moving your hair out of your face so you could look at him and so he could look at you.

“You know… Paths like that carry plenty of… Skeletons in the closet, right?” He said softly as his gaze intensified only a little bit.

“Yeah, and? You still made it… Everyone looks up to you… You’ve killed people and seen plenty of your own killed… And people that couldn’t handle it… Y’know… But, Kakashi Hatake,” you say softly as you turn his head back towards you and your own expression hardens a little. “No matter what, I’ll still love you like the day that I met you… Just like that day you first came to protect.. Well the other person- after they were bullying me… After you checked to make sure I was okay… Baby I love you, and as long as you love me too, I’m gonna be on your side. I’m your woman- I’m your queen, right? A queen needs her partner in royalty, and this house is our kingdom. You’re my king, and unapologetically mine… And I’m the same for you,” you say quietly as you sit up and smile a little. “I know you haven’t been sleeping, Kashi,” you say softly as you gently kiss his lips. “I’m not a super heavy sleeper… You’re safe now, though,” you say softly as you run your fingers through his hair. “Let me go make dinner tonight and… C-Can I decorate?” You whispered softly, expecting a no as you turned and gently pushed him to make him lay on the bed and he chuckled softly, gently grabbing your hand.

“If decorations are what you want, then I don’t have a problem with it,” he said softly, kissing the back of your hand gently. Your skin burned with an invisible flush and you pulled the covers up on him, trying to make the room just a little more homey so that he could sleep better.

“I… Wow… Um… Okay,” you say softly, lighting a candle and setting it on the nightstand, standing in the doorway. “I d-don’t know if I said this already, but I’m gonna make a hot pot for dinner… And I’ll go see if there are any pumpkins in the area… I’ll make us some pumpkin bread and make some cookies for the kids,” you say with a beaming smile, looking at your sleepy man who was already cuddling a pillow on his way to sleep. He admired your soothing voice, able to relax for the first time in a long time, and how the golden sun gave you a gilded glow that made your skin twinkle and your eyes illuminate the room. He had never felt so lucky to have someone as good as you to him, and that was the last thing he saw- or thought- before he slipped off into dreamland and you disappeared behind the door to excitedly start dinner.

[hecohansen31]

I’m SO obsessed with how you write Roman. I just keep re reading everything you’ve written about him🥺 can I request some soft daddy Roman? Maybe consoling his person after they have a minor freak out because somebody called them a gold digger or something... which is silly because they are high school sweethearts and their dynamic is hella established. Thankyou🥺🖤 your writing is literally perfect

(A/N): Hey sweetie!

I wanted first of all to say that THIS FUCKING MESSAGE NEVER FAILS TO BRIGHTEN MY DAY! SHIT SHIT SHIT YOU GAVE ME CAVITIES WITH YOUR SWEETNESS, I FOR EVER LOVE YOU!

(Also if I might ask: what is so special about my Roman? Like I am just curious, because I always feel like I write him a bit OOC, but...).

I also wanted to apologize for how much it took me to answer this ask; I started it and then moved it onto my iPad, knowing I would be working on it when I was back on at uni (and I haven’t been at uni in three weeks, BECAUSE SHIT KEEPS HAPPENING), so I costantly pushed it back.

But this week I felt like I was taking too much time and finally finished and I hope that you’ll forgive me, sweetie!

Have a nice reading!

WARNINGS: Mention of Sex, Daddy Kink, Mention of Past, Mention of Rejection and Self-Esteem Issues, Accusing of Being a Gold-Digger and Everything Related.

The weight of the ring on your finger was strange but not unwelcome, even more as it brought out the memory of the previous night, when Roman had asked you to marry him.

You still remembered having had dinner with him and Nadia, the child now attending kindergarten and being extremely happy about explaining to you and Roman all the fun activities she had done there, that went from coloring to playing ‘dress up’ with her friends.

You had listened attentively and smiled whenever she would get so lost in the story and forget what she wanted to say, almost even forgetting to eat.

Exactly as Roman, who had kept pushing around food and listened half-heartedly to his child, simply muttering a few ‘oh that is alright, sweetie’ and ‘I am glad you have fun’.

You had blamed it on an hard day at work, and as you two had been alone, you had gently positioned against his back as he had sat onto your shared bed, moving to massage his back, something which always relaxed him, as you softly kissed his neck.

‘Was it a hard day at work?’ you had asked, and he had simply nodded.

You had hugged him tight, wondering how you had come this far from high school when you and Roman wanted to do nothing more than rip apart your necks.

But then he had saved you from Christina and you had slowly started to forgive him for being nothing more than a spoiled boy and when Peter had run away and he had been left with Nadia you had started helping him, although he was extremely against help, till you made him accept it.

And slowly you had grown to love each other, in a way that was familiar and quiet but was much needed from both of you.

And now you were there with him in your arms, and Nadia in her own room, sleeping peacefully, like any normal happy child.

‘I have been nervous, mostly’ he commented and you lightly turned around to him, seeing one of his hands hiding behind his back but not giving it too much thought as you adjusted yourself on his lap, circling again his neck with your arms.

‘Can I help you with it?’ you asked softly, as you messed up his hair, to make him smile, but he kept on being ridiculously still and you couldn’t help but grow slightly worried.

And then Roman moved forward the hand he was hiding behind, revealing a small box of velvet in it, and although some part of your brain had its ideas, you couldn’t process properly the entire thing till Roman muttered.

‘Yes, you can actually’ he swallowed a huge intake of breath, before spluttering the rest of the words as if they were venomous ‘… you can say yes, to my question’.

And like this a beautiful ring was revealed to you, a small but shiny ruby in the center of the thing band of gold, surrounded by smaller diamonds, bringing an halo of light to your hand that you had been almost too taken aback from it to speak.

‘I…’ you had been the one speechless back then, and Roman had been almost startled by your silence-

‘… I want to make this official… I know that you… I am not the type of guy who settles down, I never thought I could… but I know you want it… and I…”.

You had been a bit taken aback by Roman’s discourse and had immediately told him that this wasn’t simply about you: you were happy with him, even without a wedding or anything making it official.

‘… for me a ceremony doesn’t make less or more the love I feel for you and Nadia’.

‘I know, but…’ he had looked away from your face and you had smirked at him, grabbing one of his hands ‘... but I fucking suck with words!’.

You had laughed a bit at his outburst, gently enveloping him in your arms as he had proceeded to whisper the rest of his vows to you.

‘… the fact is that… I never thought I would find somebody who makes me feel like you do’ the words had, this time, surprised you, even more appreciated than the beautiful ring as you had felt your eyes tearing up lightly ‘… I personally don’t believe that piece of paper will change us, but I know that you always wished to get married, so why the fuck not? I mean… you are the only one I want to spend my life with’.

You had cried in his shirt after all those sweet words, assuring that for you it was the same, till Roman had grumpily but sweetly proposed he ‘fucking put that pretty ring to use’, even going down on his knee and proposing properly.

As you had accepted, he had quickly smirked and muttered about ‘how fucking happy would your parents have been that he had finally made you an honest woman’.

And then the sex had been amazing: Roman had worshipped you softly, but once he had prolonged the teasing even for him, he had taken you roughly making you moan softly, as you stifled your groans against the pillows.

And now that the morning light was washing over you, the ruby shined even brighter, but not as Roman’s smirk as he saw you staring at it.

“Enjoying the view, Mrs. Godfrey?” he smirked softly as you adjusted yourself in his arms “… because you are stuck here”.

“Enjoying it very much, Mr. Godfrey!” you shot back, kissing his chest softly “… you should be the one worried about being stuck with me”.

“Are you a blood hungry upir?” he replied, as he lightly distanced himself from you: talks like this always made him nervous, but you respected his space and gently proceeded to also get away from the bed, eyeing the hour and knowing that Nadia’s alarm would soon be off.

“I am an annoying human with a pendant for art, I am pretty sure that I am not as interesting as a upir”.

He laughed sarcastically, but still leaned in to kiss your forehead as you found your nightgown and he his boxers, both putting on some clothes, meanwhile you felt the discreet squeak of Nadia’s alarm, which meant that you needed to be in the kitchen the fastest possible to have breakfast ready for the little hungry upir.

“… don’t talk nonsense when you are the only person I tolerate in the world” he muttered onto your forehead deadly serious, with that tone that made you feel like he would have gladly ‘disposed’ of anybody who hurt you “… and I think that we should celebrate about it tonight, so that we can tell it to Nadia”.

You were a bit scared of Nadia’s answer to you getting married with her dad, but nodded, as Roman suggested your favorite restaurant and the hour you got off the job.

“I can take you with the Jaguar” he muttered, meanwhile you both moved down the stairs, with him peppering gently your neck with kisses “… like old times”.

“That would be nice” you replied, although you were already focus on searching that little gremlin that Nadia was, moving around the kitchen, onto a stool as she tried to grab a box of cereals and Roman promptly grabbed her to get off the stool, lecturing her about ‘fucking waiting for them and not to fucking jump onto stools’.

You certainly knew who you would blame if Nadia was worse with her words than a sailor.

“But you are always sooooooooo sloooooow” she shot back, annoyed, and tightening her arms in front of her chest, as Roman did when he was annoyed, something which made you smirk, meanwhile you got the coffee ready for Roman, boiling your tea and heating Nadia’s milk “You always lose time to kiss (Y/N)”.

Although Nadia had once called you ‘mom’, you preferred when she called by her name.

You had never ever wanted to take Letha’s place, although you acted with her as a mom.

And you couldn’t help but, sometimes think that she might love you as such.

“… that’s because (Y/N) is in need of many kisses” he mumbled as he moved to you, to grab his coffee and kiss your shoulder, making you blush, as he then moved onto his daughter, tackling her to give her a few kisses as she tried to move away, giggling “… and so do you”.

You had a quiet breakfast, as Roman let Nadia know that they would go out that night and the child immediately asked you if she could wear her newest dress.

‘The white one that is like yours!’ she asked, as she almost pulled onto your hair to get your attention, as you nodded, meanwhile Roman simply mumbled under his breath about ‘how fast children grow’.

He eventually went to work, accompanying Nadia on the way.

Before he left, he kissed you goodbye and even laid a small kiss onto your ring, making sure that Nadia hadn’t seen him.

“See you tonight” he muttered as he left, and Nadia waved at you and you shot back.

“See you tonight, handsome!”.

You had then set down to work a bit on your computer.

Working in an art gallery was a tough work, but during these first years you had taken a part-time job, mostly to help with Nadia, but you were slowly going back to the usual rhythm, mostly working on the computer at home during the morning.

You, immediately, thought about bringing it to him, since you could already hear Roman screaming against some poor underpaid intern.

You had finished work early and didn’t mind a small trip.

Your good mood was honestly extremely strong, and you drove happily to the White Tower, jamming to your favorite songs, the awful pop ones that Roman hated a bit too much, enough to sing them in the shower.

You smiled at anyone in the White Tower, although many didn’t reply, but you were basically jumping around happily around the place, stopping as you came face to face with Sarah, Roman’s lovely secretary, talking as usual with her girlfriend, on the phone.

But she closed the call as she saw you coming, immediately reaching out for your hand, only stopping as she came face to face with the beautiful ring.

“… ahhh it looks even prettier than in the pictures on internet!” she commented, playing with your hand “… I am not going to lie but I chose it for you”.

You opened lightly your mouth to the surprise, but then she shook her head, smirking lightly.

“I was joking! But I was the one who ordered it for you…” she then turned to face you “… Gosh, I can’t believe that we’ll have to call you, Mrs. Godfrey!”.

“… or maybe you should start calling Roman (Y/L/N)” you joked lightly, and Sarah’s laugh intensified.

“If you do that, I’ll for ever respect you” she retorted, before taking in the computer bag in your hands “… need me to ring up the boss?”.

“If he isn’t busy…” you whispered, as she already moved to get the office phone to phone him in, meanwhile you clacked lightly your shoes onto the polished floor.

“He is in a reunion, but I can leave him a message in the secretary” she explained, as she let ‘Mr. Assholefrey know that his future wife had come to bring his moronic ass his computer’ “… I hope you don’t have much to do… and if you do, you can leave the laptop to me, I don’t mind it”.

“Oh no don’t worry! I have nothing to do till after the lunch” you explained to her, and then moved away to observe a few things onto the White Tower’s walls, as Sarah had to take another call.

You were trying to calmly relax yourself, as one light shoulder tap was delivered to your shoulder and you turned around expecting it to be Sarah proposing a coffee as you waited, but you were faced with a man smiling at you with recognition in his eyes.

You were taken aback and for a few minutes, not recognizing the man, a bit older than you and with all the signs of the typical economical parasite on him, hidden with an elegant suite and an expensive watch.

You tried to search your mind if he was one of the people Roman made business with, somebody you recognized from a gala or such, but your mind was blank till he called out your name.

“(Y/N)!” he shouted, attracting everyone’s attention when he went further and then hugged you, immediately soliciting a quirked eyebrow for you, asking whether she should have called security or not “… don’t you remember me? Christian from high school!”.

And immediately you realized who he was.

And you would have almost been happier with one of Roman’s partners.

Christian was and old high school friends of your life before Roman and Peter, he acted as if he was the best playboy the world had ever seen, but in reality he was a misogynistic piece of idiot, who thought that his big brain gave him the right to treat other people like shit.

“Oh, yeah... I am... I didn’t recognize you” you honestly had hoped never to see him again.

“We all grow up in the end, don’t we?” he replied and let his eyes go down your body with a rather explicit look that annoyed you “... you look freaking stunning”.

You blushed, and although the compliment wasn’t welcome, you were glad to have a ‘revenge body’.

You had been one of the few he hadn’t hit on back in the high school days, and although you knew it was because he was well aware you wouldn’t fall for his charm, you had sometimes questioned if maybe you had done something wrong to displease him or if there was something wrong in you.

Then you had met Roman, who would have gladly taken you on every possible surface when you were wearing nothing more than a dirty hoodie and awful Halloween socks, even when it was Christmas. 

It certainly helped you with your self-esteem.

“We do grow up in the end”.

Christian had grown up far away from the ‘attractive’ person he was back then (if you found attractive, egotistic people), in a way that showed even further his own moral ambiguity, making you again feel at unease.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, not getting the hint that you didn’t want to talk with him anymore “.... I thought you worked in an art gallery...”.

“I do” and to prove even further your point you spit out “...I am actually the boss of the art gallery’s communications sector, but I am here to give something to my boyfriend, he forgot the laptop home”.

You immediately saw his eyes hazing with rage, as if you had rejected him.

“... oh, you have a boyfriend?” he questioned you and Sarah came to your rescue.

“A husband, actually” she giggled, making you blush lightly “... the owner of this place”.

Christian seemed to be lightly taken aback, before something evil twinkled in his eyes.

“... I didn’t peg you as that type of girl” you sent him a confused look “... oh c’mon! You aren’t dating Roman Godfrey for his niceness, are you?”.

“I actually do” you retorted, shooting him a finishing glance, wanting to get as far away to him as you could, honestly insulted with the way he had talked to you.

But even more horrified at the thought that somebody could actually think that you and Roman were together because of his money and not true love.

“… of course” mumbled Christian, simply raising his hand as a gesture of surrender, although his eyes were everything but convinced, shooting you a quick look of insult before he moved away.

You just didn’t feel like being there anymore, asking Sarah to bring the laptop to Roman, as you excused yourself, feeling deeply ashamed in yourself, almost as if everybody was staring at you as you moved till you reached the gallery.

Even there you were uneasy, thinking about whether Roman felt like you were with him solely for his money, the entire thought making your heart ache not only for shame, but for the pain and insecurity you might procure to the poor man.

You spent all afternoon in anguish and thought that you couldn’t just attend a dinner with that moment, asking Roman to cancel your bookings, hoping that Nadia would forgive you both.

The man didn’t ask too much, but right when you went off your turn off, on the way back home, he called you, as you were just adjusting your seatbelt.

“Hey, wifey” the petname made you uneasy, but you smirked as if he could actually see you through the car speakers “… is anything wrong? Because I have no problem deleting the bookings, but… you love that place!”.

“I know, I know, and I would love nothing more than trying to get Nadia to finish her plate, after she ordered too much food… but I am just tired, it has been an exhaauuusting day at work” you tried to sound convincing, throwing it onto the laughter in order for it to result more natural and hide your uneasiness.

But Roman hadn’t survived so far simply because he was pretty.

“Oh babe, I know perfectly your kinks…” he joked but he didn’t stop there, his tone dropping an octave “… and I know when you are lying to me”.

You saw no escape to this and just muttered.

“Can we talk at home of this?”.

“Of course, sweetie” now his voice was saccharine sweet, making you smile lightly at its ridiculousness “… I feel like you might need a hug”.

“Gosh you are beginning to sound too sappy”.

“But you are stuck with me, little shit”.

The mood definitely brightened up as you drove back home, but the embarrassment that came from Christian’s accusations hurt you in a way that made it all too difficult for you to think about having a talk with Roman, but the man was waiting for you in your sitting room.

‘I managed to get Nadia not to be mad with us with a small trip at Peter’s, he says that if we have any intention to conceive a child, we should consider naming him Peter’.

“That shit is creepy”.

“Tell me all about it” he shifted lightly on the sofa to allow you to sit next to him and have enough space not to feel overwhelmed “… but now you can tell me all about that sour mood in your eyes”.

You couldn’t help but be reduced to silence by the embarrassment.

“… any regrets about … the marriage thing?” although he tried to fake himself to be distracted by it all, you could hear the insecurity in his tone, making your heart ache and turn immediately to him.

“No, of course not, Roman” he didn’t seem reassured, but tried to open his mouth in a reassuring smile “… what about you? Any regrets?”.

“Why would I have regrets?” he shot back, letting anger show itself in his combative tone “… if it’s because you are feeling insecure, I can totally convince you with my silver ton…”.

“… because…” you honestly felt so embarrassed by the entire question that you blurted it out completely “…have you ever thought I was a gold digger?”.

Roman seemed surprised by your rambling, slowly linking all the words together till he found the proper meaning of your words, and went all up in your face, grabbing it so that you could stare him in his eyes.

“… babe you are the farthest thing away from a gold digger” and before you could reply he shushed you with that imperious voice of his that got your insides all tingly “… babe, I have package, I am not that usual ‘party-spoiled-trust fund child’…”.

“You do have to admit you are spoiled”.

“Let daddy talk”.

Now you were flushed all the way from your chest up to your cheeks.

“… and when you came in my life, believe me I was more bothersome than I was an advantage and a proper sugar daddy” he made you smirk lightly, gently softening his hold onto your cheeks, as he caressed it “I never felt like you were here for my money. My dick? Maybe… more like probably… but you are not a gold digger…”.

It was damnably reassuring to hear this, with his soft but rough voice, as he looked at you with those piercing green eyes.

“… and I’ll fucking drain whoever told you this shit” now his grip tightened as his hands drifted to your neck, gently gripping it as he moved to come closer to you, another hand moving between your legs, making you thankful for having worn a skirt “… Sarah told me of that dick that tried to get with you, well fuckface I got a ring on her finger first”.

“Believe me, Roman, I don’t want anybody but you” you spoke softly, feeling yourself melting completely against him, as his hand raised up your thigh, pushing itself to pinch your soft skin “… you are the only one who makes me feel good, daddy”.

“Then I do think that I’ll prove to you that I am worth more than simply my money”.

An amazing night of sex later, you woke up again against Roman’s soft chest, his fingers playing with your hair, as he had woken you up by his ‘work voice’ mumbling things at his phone.

You gently rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand as you adjusted yourself in an upright position to be able to snuggle further in your boyfriend’s chest, who you could feel growing restless, as he looked out for your hand, the left one, the one with the ring, making it shine as it caught the light of the morning sun.

“… am I talking with Chirstian fucking Idiotscreen?” well you could totally guess what was going on and stifled the laughter on Roman’s chest, as he moved his hand onto your hair “… hi, nice to meet you, fucktard, I just wanted to let you know that I won’t fund your shitty project. When I looked at it yesterday it seemed like a shitfest but I was feeling generous because… I do think that you know… I am getting fucking married!”.

You could completely hear Christian’s heavy breathing on the other line.

“… well then you pissed off the wrong person, so fucking disappear from my White Tower and next time you want to call somebody ‘gold digger’ make sure they aren’t your boss’ wife. Goodbye”.

And then he turned to you, cradling your head in his hands and pushing you close to him, letting your lips meet.

“Good morning, gold-digger” you giggled softly in his mouth, as he adjusted himself to kiss you more properly “… now I can already smell your arousal and we have at least one hour to fuck, before Nadia comes back”.

“… then I do think that you better start, soon-to-be-husband”.

[markeffie]

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[thecoleopterawithana]

Your quote: "So perhaps, when in 1989 Paul asks “Did I ever take you in my arms, look you in the eye, tell you that I do” the part that he “never did” was the latter"( with John according to your perspective??)--I saw a video where Paul says he's talking about how the workaday life meant he sometimes took marriage and Linda for granted--like we all do our spouses at times--and that was why he wrote that song. Your take please? Respectfully inquiring--thanks!

Hello, anon dear. Thanks so much for your respectful request! Especially considering that every opportunity I get to talk about “This One” is a personal pleasure.

I believe the video you were referring to is this one (eheh), where correspondent Bernard Goldberg interviews Paul for the TV series 48 Hours. The episode follows part of The Paul McCartney World Tour, which marked not only his first major tour outing in ten years, but also the first time in his solo career that a substantial number of Beatles songs were included in the setlist.

Paul is asked about “This One” near the 8:30 mark of the first video and his answer continues in the second part.

Here is a transcription of the segment in question:

-

Q: Let me ask you about one of the new songs, “This One”. Is it about a marriage?

Paul: A relationship, yeah.

Q: And about, not expressing emotions and feelings?

[Paul performing “This One”]

Paul: You get those moments, sort of late at night or when you’re feeling good and you think, “Oh, you know, it’d be great to kind of— I hope I tell her I love her enough, and all that.” And then come the morning, when you’ve got to get off to the office and it’s [yawns] “Okay, goodbye, love you!”, and so on. And, you know, life’s like that. And there’s never kind of enough time to— If you like your parents for instance, to tell them, “God, just what you meant to me.” 

[Paul performing “This One”]

Paul: You always think, “Well, I’m saving it up. I’ll tell ‘em one day.” And what happens with a lot of people is— Something like John, for instance, getting back to that subject. He died. 

I was lucky. The last few wee— months that he was alive, we’d managed to get our relationship back on track. And we were talking and having real good conversations. Real nice and friendly. But George, actually, didn’t, I don’t think, get his relationship right. They were arguing right up to the end. Which I’m sure is a source of great sadness to him. And I’m sure, in the feeling of this song, that George was always planning to tell John he loved him. But time ran out. And that’s what the song is about. There never could be a better moment than this one, you know, now. Take this moment to say, [hesitates] “I love you.” [Laughs] It’s not quite the same. 

-

Now, about your question. I take you were wondering why in the post you quoted me on I used an excerpt of this song to hypothesize about a facet of Paul and John’s relationship. 

Allow me to begin by saying that, as the wonderful @amoralto pointed out in the aforementioned post, one should be cautious about what kind of information we’re extracting from an art form like songs. The sources of inspiration can be multiple, and the exact meaning of the piece elusive even to its author. So it’s probably best to be prudent about taking the lyrics too literally or extrapolating the entire song as to be about a single situation/person. 

Nevertheless, there are still certain patterns and themes that keep emerging, and I am curious about examining those. And being songs one of the places where they more openly communicated and truly laid bare their feelings, I believe the tumble down the rabbit hole of speculation might be worth it, just to see what we may find there. 

As Paul put it:

The idea is that what I’ll leave behind me will be music, and I may not be able to tell you everything I feel, but you’ll be able to feel it when you listen to my music. I won’t have the time or the articulation to be able to say it all, but if you enjoy composing you say it through the notes.

Of course, John also said:

When Paul and I write a song, we try and take hold of something we believe in – a truth. We can never communicate 100 per cent of what we feel, but if we can convey just a fraction, we have achieved something. We try to give people a feeling – they don’t have to understand the music if they can just feel the emotion. This is half the reason the fans don’t understand, but they experience what we are trying to tell them.

So maybe we can experience the emotion they infused the song with, but not always be able to understand the circumstances that gave rise to it in their own lives.

To find that last crucial piece of the puzzle, one has to truly contextualise the song. And that’s where all the other more tangible sources of information come in, such as quotes and timelines. 

Of course, drawing conclusions from any kind of data is, in itself, an interpretation. And an inescapably personal one at that. 

The only way to approximate objectivity is through critical thinking and emotional intelligence. Continuously question your own assumptions and those of others, and don’t be attached to any one answer. Be willing to change your views based on new information and be open to considering new perspectives. I find that input from others is invaluable in drawing my attention to an angle I’d previously missed. For if our personal experiences sometimes blind us to certain facets of the subject we’re examining, they also give us a more intimate understanding of other sides of it, as we’ve walked in those same shoes before and know precisely what it feels like.

What I essentially mean with this disclaimer is that this is my current interpretation of the information. And my answers are usually so slow and long (my apologies) because I try to provide the data so that you can draw your own conclusions.

That settled, here is how I interpret Paul’s explication of “This One”. 

The interviewer begins by asking if the song is about a marriage and Paul sightly corrects him that it’s about a relationship. 

Then Goldberg posits his theory regarding the theme: “not expressing emotions and feelings.” And Paul goes on to explain, in his usual inclusive and generalising fashion: 

You get those moments, sort of late at night or when you’re feeling good and you think, “Oh, you know, it’d be great to kind of— I hope I tell her I love her enough, and all that.” And then come the morning, when you’ve got to get off to the office and it’s [yawns] “Okay, goodbye, love you!”, and so on.

He uses the second person to emphasize how the reporter must share his feelings — ‘you know what I mean, right?’ — thus making his experiences not only more relatable and perceivable, but it also slightly removes the focus from himself. You put it best when you said, “like we all do […] at times.”

He does start by giving the example of an apparently marital routine. And though it could have been chosen as something the interviewer would more quickly relate to, it may also be that he had difficulty “expressing emotions and feelings” in his marriage with Linda. He has spoken of such hurdles in his relationship with Nancy, which he expressed in his 2013 hidden track “Scared”. 

Well, I’m just like anybody else, man! You know? You get those moments. I don’t normally write about them; but it’s a good thing to use. I was feeling it, as well. I was newly in love with Nancy, and I was finding it a little difficult to say, ‘I love you.’ Number one, I’m a guy, and that’s a big excuse, I know, but it is a bit true to form…

— Paul McCartney, interview with Miranda Sawyer for The Guardian (13 October 2013).

So I slightly disagree with your assessment that the song is about “how the workaday life meant he sometimes took marriage and Linda for granted”. I don’t think he took his relationship with Linda for granted as much as he was unable to openly express how much it meant to him. He got inundated by “those moments” of love and appreciation, but then kind of used the hustle and bustle of everyday life as an excuse not to dwell on the discomfort of having to confess them.

I think it’s perhaps more accurate to say that the matter of “expressing emotions and feelings”, particularly actually saying “I love you”, is something that Paul has struggled with all his life and pervaded most of his relationships.

He even goes on to give the example of his parents, and how he wished he’d tell them, “God, just what you meant to me.” Which is a similar phrasing to the one he uses in “Scared”, more than two decades later:

I’m scared to say I love you / Afraid to let you know / That the simplest of words won’t come out of my mouth / Though I’m dying to let them go / Trying to let you know […]I’m still too scared to tell you / Afraid to let you see / That the simplest of words won’t come out of my mouth / Though I’m dying to set them free / Trying to let you see, how much it means to me / How much you mean to me / How much you mean to me now

But the relationship in which this theme of not expressing emotions and feelings seems most stark, at least as Paul expressed it publicly and in his music, is in his relationship with John.

He puts it quite plainly in another quote about “Scared”:

Paul: You can actually say, “I love you,” to someone, but it’s quite hard. And so that’s why it’s usually easier when you’re a bit drunk. It’s like ‘Here Today’ [on 1982’s Tug of War], which was for John, and there is the line, (sings) “Du du du du du du du, I love you,” and it is a bit of a moment in the song. It would be a bit like Keith Richards saying to Mick, “I love you.” I mean he does, but I’m not sure he’s going to say it. I’m sure the Gallaghers love each other on some level, probably quite deeply, but that certainly isn’t going to get said soon. I think it’s quite an interesting subject and I felt it most recently with [wife] Nancy, I knew I loved her but to actually say, “I love you,” you know, it’s just not that easy.

— Paul McCartney,  interview with Pat Gilbert for MOJO (November 2013).

Note that even here, in a quote about a song he wrote for Nancy, he harkens back to his experiences with having difficulty saying “I love you” to John. 

Paul even mentions that it’s easier to do it “when you’re a bit drunk” — I want to tell her that I love her a lot / But I gotta get a bellyful of wine — which seems to be a reference to “the night we cried”. That night in Key West in 1964 was an “important emotional landmark”, not only because they exposed themselves emotionally by crying, but they also may have actually said the big ‘I Love You’.

One night, we got pretty drunk and argued and laughed, and it ended up us both crying, because it was, you know at the height of your drunkenness, when you’re all, “Hey man, I love you, man. No, I love you, man.” That was probably the only time we just got that kind of intimate with each other. It’s a male machismo embarrassment thing. I mean, you might say to a girl, “I love you”, but in my case, within the group, The Beatles, it would have been difficult, even though we all did love each other. You just all had to be guys to the full. We were all rough, tough cream puffs.

— Paul McCartney, interview with the Daily Mail (4 June 2016).

He attributes his difficulty to a “male machismo embarrassment thing”, and that he could say “I love you” to a girl but not to his mates. But in his 2013 interview for The Guardian, he also points to the fact that he is a guy to explain his difficulties verbally expressing his love Nancy. 

But adding to the “stiff upper lip” imposed on northern lads, Paul himself is especially guarded about his feelings:

It’s funny because just in real life, I find that a challenge. I like to sort of, not give too much away. Like you said, I’m quite private. Why should people, know my innermost thoughts? That’s for me, they’re innermost. But in a song, that’s where you can do it. That’s the place to put them. You can start to reveal truths and feelings. You know, like in ‘Here Today’ where I’m saying to John “I love you”. I couldn’t have said that, really, to him. But you find, I think, that you can put these emotions and these deeper truths – and sometimes awkward truths; I was scared to say “I love you”. So that’s one of the things that I like about songs.

— Paul McCartney, on the challenge of giving too much of himself away when writing meaningful and truthful songs. Asked by Simon Pegg and interviewed by John Wilson for BBC 4’s Mastertapes (24 May 2016).

More than the pleasure associated with creating something out of nothing — “songwriting is like sex” — music also offers the utter relief of unburdening Paul of his feelings, which he finds great difficulty in exorcising in a more direct way:

Songwriting is like psychiatry; you sit down and dredge up something that’s inside, bring it out front. And I just had to be real and say, John, I love you. I think being able to say things like that in songs can keep you sane.

— Paul McCartney, interview with Robert Palmer for the New York Times (25 April 1982).

There was an inescapable need to come out, be real, and say to John, “I love you”; even if he has to “write it to the great record player in the sky”. 

Because more than speaking of a fear of expressing emotions and feelings in Paul’s day to day life — like in “Scared” — “This One” is clearly about the regret of doing it too late:

[L]ife’s like that. And there’s never kind of enough time to— […] You always think, “Well, I’m saving it up. I’ll tell ‘em one day.” And what happens with a lot of people is— Something like John, for instance, getting back to that subject. He died. […] And I’m sure, in the feeling of this song, that George was always planning to tell John he loved him. But time ran out. And that’s what the song is about. There never could be a better moment than this one, you know, now. Take this moment to say, [hesitates] “I love you.” [Laughs] It’s not quite the same. 

Even with his usual emotional distancing by projecting onto George and using “we” instead of “I”, Paul plainly explains the song is about cautioning people to take this moment to say “I love you”, at the risk of having time ran out on them as it happened with him and John.

And one can see how determined Paul is to get this message spread, as he often reiterates it when introducing “Here Today” in concerts — a song written in part out of his need to clearly say “I love you” to John — a frequent presence in his live performances for the last 20 year.

Paul McCartney’s One on One World Tour in Detroit, Michigan, at Little Caesars Arena on October 2, 2017.

Paul: One of the other things I say on our shows is that sometimes you want to say something really nice to someone, or pay them a compliment, or you feel a bit shy and a bit embarrassed, so you think, “Ah, I’ll say it tomorrow.” You put it off to another day. You know, you can put it off. And sometimes that’s too late; you’re too late. I wrote this next song after my dear friend John who passed away. Let’s hear it for John! And you know, when you’re kids, particularly — I mean, when we first started the Beatles we were in our early twenties, kind of thing — and you’re a bunch of guys, up in Liverpool at that time… There’s no way you’re gonna say to each other, “Hey, I love you, man.” It just didn’t happen, you know. You just didn’t say things. But you know, when [unintelligeable] we didn’t say it, so when John died, you know, I wanted to kind of say it somehow. So this next song is in the form of a conversation we didn’t get to have.

The fact that Paul has often connected the theme of not verbally expressing his feelings, and in particular of being too late to do it, to his relationship with John, is what led me use “This One”, in that post and in others, as an expression of that dynamic between them. 

In the post you quoted me on in specific, I say that perhaps the part that they “never did” was outright “tell” each other “that I do [love you]”, given that they have embraced — “take you in my arms” — and made intense eye contact — “look you in the eye.”

The song is basically a love song – did I ever say I love you? And if I didn’t it’s because I was waiting for a better moment… ‘There could never be a better moment than this one…

— Paul McCartney, in “Club Sandwich 52, Summer 1989″.

Paul goes on to repeat this sentiment of emotional frankness in the rest of the verse: “Did I ever open up my heart / Let you look inside?” A phrase that, in my opinion, so aptly encapsulates the issues Paul brought to the relationship, that I use it as a title for Paul-centered posts in the Don’t Let Me Down | Trust Issues series.

But to be honest, the thing that really convinced me that song was about him and John, was a moment in this session:

After singing the lines “Did I ever touch you on the cheek / Say that you were mine, thank you for the smile”, Paul mimics one of John’s characteristic smiles, as the wonderful @vairemelde illustrated in this post.

With all that said, it appears that all there is to do is to appreciate this wonderful piece of music.

Did I ever take you in my arms, / Look you in the eye, tell you that I do, / Did I ever open up my heart / Let you look inside?

If I never did it, I was only waiting / For a better moment that didn’t come. / There never could be a better moment / Than this one, this one.

The swan is gliding above the ocean, / A god is riding upon his back, / How calm the water and bright the rainbow / Fade this one to black.

Did I ever touch you on the cheek / Say that you were mine, thank you for the smile, / Did I ever knock upon your door / And try to get inside?

If I never did it, I was only waiting / For a better moment that didn’t come. / There never could be a better moment / Than this one, this one.

The swan is gliding above the ocean, / A god is riding upon his back, / How calm the water and bright the rainbow / Fade this one to black.

What opportunities did we allow to flow by / Feeling like the time it wasn’t quite right? / What kind of magic might have worked if we had stayed calm, / Couldn’t I have given you a better life?

Did you ever take me in your arms / Look me in the eye tell me that you do? / Did I ever open up my heart, / Let you look inside?

If I never did it, I was only waiting / For a better moment that didn’t come. / There never could be a better moment / Than this one, this one.

The swan is gliding above the ocean, / A god is riding upon his back, / How calm the water and bright the rainbow / Fade this one to black.

-

Tangents

I’m Scared To Say I Love You

What About The Night We Cried

Did I Ever Take You In My Arms 

The Surrealist

[soft1hours]

an arduous relation

----

A/N: first time writing angst, i hope it’s any good. it took a lot of willpower to post this lol. btw probably making this into a series bc its already too long and rn im too tired to see straight.. anyway enjoy and feel free to leave any requests or feedback :) luv u 

Characters: Warren Worthington III, Kurt Wagner

Warnings: angst, mentions of drinking, complicated relationship? low self esteem, language

-----------------------

They were just like fire and ice. One, warmhearted and welcoming yet still keeping you at a safe distance. The other, cold, almost stone like with their ‘fuck the world’ face as they easily push you away, just like everybody else.

So how come, this fire and this ice, actually stand each other? How come they’ll die if they stay too long yet insists on ‘five more minutes in your arms’. How long does it take to realize an illusion? It’s an unexplainable bond formed for them only, for only them to understand. The outside world being too much for them to handle, so they make their own. Only if it lasted. Was it in vain all along?

----

Drowning in his own tears he couldn’t help but picture the look on Warrens face. Were they really that bad for each other? Did he really mean the wrongfully hurtful words that spilled out of his mouth just moments ago, or was it just another act? Warren had his so called lover on the edge of his seat nearly all the time. The forming of a relationship instead forming into a lump, a tumor in his throat from all the bottled feelings too threatened to mold into logical or even rational sentences. That’s what it felt like for him, Warren had told his oh so beloved partner. A sentence to death is what it’d felt like being stuck with Kurt. All he ever wanted was love. Love he found, yet love he betrayed. 

With Warren long gone all he could do was wait. Kurt being way too familiar with Warren leaving just to come back within the next 12 hours. Yet in the pit of his stomach it didn’t feel right this time, it felt as if his entire world was falling beneath him. Warren would be back right? With little to no energy left in his fragile body, Kurt found the nearest cushion and fell head first into a deep slumber.

He hates this, Warren has a feeling deep in his soul that won’t go away. He has to go back to Kurt, he can’t stand hurting him like this everytime. “I’m not good enough” spins in circles in Warrens mind. Because he’s not good enough, that’s just how it is. He does a lot of bad stuff, all the time. Why would anybody want a nobody like him? Warren has no choice but to open the oh so familiar bottle of whatever liquor he’s about to devour. He is already to far gone, no stopping now.

Kurt feels lost as he wakes slowly. How long has it been? Fifteen minutes or three hours? He can’t tell and to be honest, he doesn’t care anymore. No amount of time would seem to cover up the scar his boyfriend left him with. He dreaded the thought of getting out of bed, but eventually did so anyway after feeling the pulling wrench in his stomach. 'Anxiety' Kurt thought to himself as he slid of off the comfortorting fabric of his bed. His slim figure shadowing the already dark halls of his apartment, he let his feet drag him to the nearest chair. Hair messy and eyes puffy from sleep his stomach made another twist as he saw what lay before him.

A note.

Warren? No, when would he have the time-. His thoughts came to a halt as he read the neat handwriting beneath his slender fingers. Professor X? A note from his teacher urging him to summon himself to a meeting this evening. That explained why he hadn't seen it lying around earlier. Him and his telekinesis powers. He pondered for a minute then threw a look at the clock neatly hung between two windows to his left.

6 pm, sharp. That's countable for evening, right? Kurt grumbled as he weakly stood up from the wooden chair. Warren always had him so vulnerable when he left, as if half of his body mass just slowly disappeared and he was left with a weaker version of himself to rot.

He returned to his dimmly lit room as he didn't really look presentable enough at the moment. Picking up a pair of newly washed jeans and a sweater he decided to swiftly brush through his hair a couple times. After giving himself a crooked half smile through the dirty mirror he imagined the grand school doors infront of him, a second later and he was stood right at the gate of the Xavier school.

"Probably just another patrolling or minor mission" Kurt hope-whispered for himself. As he slid through the thick walls of his school he soon found himself bumped into a masculine, tall chest. As he stumbled on his still wobbly knees he looked up to apologise to the male-

Warren.

There he stood, as tall and blonde as ever, yet not as smug and smirking as he usually was seen to be. Instead a frown painted his features and he opened his mouth to speak. If it only weren't for Professor X booming over the great entry with his big voice. "Ah, Warren, Kurt, glad to see you made it in time. I was getting a little worried there." He sounded awfully cheery today, like he was hiding something.

--------------------

[confusedweasleys]

Mission Accomplished - George Weasley x Reader

A/N: I’mmmm back! I wrote this requested imagine at you guessed it, crackhead hours. It turned out a lot longer than I thought it would, but I think I like it. As always, leave feedback! Xoxo

Request: @iluvharrypotter172 Could you do 33 from the fluffy prompt list with George Weasley x reader preferably with the reader saying it to George. Thanks in advance!

Prompt: “how’s the hangover?” (#33)

Triggers: Cursing, Drinking

Word Count: 2,295

———————————————————————————————————

    I woke up with a splitting headache. And I mean splitting. I painfully pushed myself into a sitting position from my spot on the floor and glanced around my surroundings. I was sandwiched between the twins’ beds, covered in a heap of blankets and pillows. The occupants of the two beds both snored peacefully, making me feel almost guilty for what I was about to do. Almost. 

“Accio,” I whispered, summoning a metal pot from the kitchen. I steeled myself and banged the pot onto the metal railing of the beds. I winced.

“Shit.” Two voices cussed simultaneously as the twins woke up. 

“Morning Weasleys,” I said, wincing again. That had not been my best idea. “How’s the hangover?” I said, throwing a hand-knit pillow at the younger twin as he sat up. He attempted to bat it away and missed. It him square in the face. I chuckled as he groaned. 

“I haven’t felt this awful since Madame Pomfrey made me drink an entire bottle of Skele-Gro in the third year,” George said, flopping back down onto his bed. “I don’t remember a thing from last night.”

I sighed. “I don’t either.”

“Well that tends to happen when you drink an entire bottle of Firewhiskey,” Fred said, rolling his eyes. I stuck my tongue out at him and tried to go back to sleep.

        Most days, everyone loved mornings at the Burrow were my favorite. Today was not one of those days. For George and I at least. Everyone else seemed perfectly fine. In fact, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had gotten up early to make everybody breakfast, since Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were still out of town. 

“Just coffee for me, thanks,” said George.

“George, you had better eat something or you’ll just feel worse,” Hermione said, sliding a plate of toast his way. “You too, Y/N,” she said, frowning and adding more toast to the plate. George mumbled something into his plate that sounded a lot like ‘Thanks mum’.

“How come you’re so chipper?” I said to Hermione. “In fact, how come all of you seem fine while I feel like my actual brain is bleeding?”

“Because we didn’t drink an entire bottle of fire-whiskey last night,” Charlie said, chuckling. Shit. An entire bottle? I thought Fred had been joking. I didn’t even want to know what happened last night. 

“We might liquor you up more often Y/N, if it makes things as interesting as last night was,” said Ginny, grinning at me. 

“What does that mean?” George said, looking alarmed.

“Yeah Ginny, what does that mean?” I asked.

“Let’s just say you two had a lot more than anybody else,” Ron said, looking up from his food. Fred, who was sitting next to him, smacked him on the head. Ron looked sheepish. I looked at George, who shrugged and mouthed, no clue.

“Seriously guys, what happened last night?” I said, looking around the table.

“Yeah we deserve to know,” George said indignantly. “Fred, are you really not going to tell me?” 

“Sorry Georgie, I can’t help you if you don’t remember,” his twin said with a smile and a shrug. 

“I guess you two will just have to figure it our yourselves,” Harry said. 

“All right listen up you lot, I am tired and I am hungover. I am not in the mood for what ever this little game is. So what the hell happened last night?” I said sternly, looking around the table again. Ginny, Ron, Harry, Hermione, Fred, and Charlie all stayed silent. I groaned. “Fine,” I said. I got up to go back upstairs, only to be stopped by Hermione. 

“Hold up Y/N, Mrs. Weasley left us chores. Plus, we’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do from the party, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley get back from St. Mungo’s tomorrow.” She then gave us a list of chores that we had to do, half left for us by Mrs. Weasley, and half to hide the evidence of the party we had last night. I had to de-gnome the garden with Ginny, then clear out the broom shack (where we hid most of the rubbish and alcohol from the party) with Fred and George. 

    Not that de-gnoming the garden was ever pleasant work, but a bad hangover and Mid-July heat made it so much worse. 

“Ginny, come on, you have to tell me. What the hell happened last night? And what was Ron on about this morning?” I asked, watching her as she flung a particularly fat gnome over the Burrow’s walls. She glanced over at me. 

“I’m not supposed to tell you,” she said in a sing-song voice.

“You’re in a good mood, I said, changing the subject. “Has that got anything to do with me seeing Harry leaving your room this morning?” She looked over at me and grinned.

“It might,” she said. “But you shut up about that. I don’t want to know what’ll happen to Harry if any of my brother hear.” Perfect.

“I might be persuaded to keep my mouth shut,” I said innocently. “If my best friend was to clue me in on the happenings of last night. Otherwise, who knows what might slip out.” I grinned and shrugged my shoulders. Ginny rolled her eyes at my and flung another gnome over the wall.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said. “Because then I would be forced to let slip to a certain one of my brothers that you have a crush on them.” Ginny grinned as I went pink. 

“I regret telling you that every day,” I grumbled. I took my frustration out on a gnome that was attempting to escape from its relocation. It sailed a good 30 yards beyond the wall. Ginny giggled.

“Relax, you know I’d never tell,” Ginny said. “Unless I was bored,” she added. “I’m only joking!” she said as I shot her a look. “Anyways, you’re in luck. I’m rather cross with my dear brother Fred at the moment, since he tried to force a very drunk Harry to make an Unbreakable Vow that he would never kiss me again.” 

“How does that help me with my situation?” i asked. 

“It helps you,” she said, “because i am not in the mood to help Fred with another one of his plots at the moment. It was his idea to keep you and George from knowing what happened last night. Which means I’ll tell you what happened last night.”

“Oh thank God. So once again, what the hell happened last night and why is everyone being so weird?”

“Well, I’m sure you remember, the party started pretty much the moment Mum and Dad left the house. You drank about half a bottle of Firewhiskey, which is when I’m pretty sure your memory stops.” I nodded. She was probably right. “And George,” she continued, “well he had about an entire bottle of Firewhiskey. He was gone about an hour after you, right about when Ron said he wanted to go swimming.”

“Which is when we went to the lake,” I said, remembering someone jumping into water last night. Ginny looked at me, alarmed.

“You remember last night?” she asked.

“No, no, I just had a flash of...Charlie, I think, jumping into the lake. Anyways what happened next?” I asked, looking at Ginny.

“Well, once we got to the lake Fred suggested we play Wizard’s Truth or Dare.”

“Wait, what the hell is Wizard’s Truth or Dare?” I interrupted.

“A game Fred claims to have invented. It’s practically muggle truth or dare, except Charlie or Fred, since no one trusted you or George with a wand, would hex you if you whimped out of dare and put Veritaserum in your drink if you chose truth.”

“Sounds like a fun game. But how does it relate to people keeping last night a secret from George and I?” I asked. 

“Well, you got a dare to spin the bottle around the circle, and George got upset. He said no one else in the circle or anywhere else was gonna kiss his girl, and you said you weren't his girl, and then he kissed you.”

“What?” I said. Ginny suddenly looked uncomfortable.

“You guys kissed and then that’s when everyone kinda decided the party was over. Fred told us we weren’t supposed to say anything because it was clear you guys weren’t going to remember anything in the morning and we all agreed it would better if you guys didn’t know. That’s why everyone was acting so weird this morning.” To say i was confused was an understatement. After a while i just said,

“Well - that’s a lot to take in.”

“What’s a lot to take in?” Fred said, walking down the steps to the garden with George. Damn he looked good - even hungover.

“The rules of Wizard’s Truth or Dare,” I said quickly, watching George go a little pale.

“Oh that’s Georgie’s new favorite game,” he said, clapping his brother on the back. George glared at him. Fred shrugged glancing around garden. He clapped his hands together. “Time for new chores little ones!” I groaned. As bad as de-gnoming the garden was, at least it was outdoors. Normally, I would look forward to being crammed in a small, cramped space with George, but not after what I just learned. I hoped he didn’t know, or it would be a very awkward hour.

“That’s not the right attitude,” Fred said, shaking his head at me. I faked a smile at him. “That’s the spirt. Now I’m going to go help Ickle Ronniekins clean up the lake.”

“No Fred, you’re supposed to clear out the shack with George and I,” I shouted at his retreating figure.

“Plans change Y/L/N. Turns out the damage we did at the lake was a lot worse than we thought. Besides,” he yelled. “I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about!”

“What’s the supposed to mean?” I said under my breath. George heard me.

“Ginny didn’t tell you?” George said, speaking for the first time. i looked over at him as we made our way to the broom shack

“Tell me what?” I asked. I knew what he was referring to, but I wanted to hear him say it. Maybe I would be able to tell how he felt about it. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about it myself. Of course I liked him. I’d had a crush on George for the longest time. But it would just be so horrible if we kissed and he didn't feel the same way about me. Not to mention, our friendship would be practically ruined.

"Y/N,” he said, waving his hand in front of my face. 

“Oh sorry what did you say?” We stopped walking as we reached the broom shack, and I stepped into the cramped, dark space. I felt George step in behind me. I turned to look at him. George sighed. 

“I said...” He paused scratching behind his ears, which had began to go red. “Well, apparently we weren’t supposed to know, but it was easy enough to get out of Ron. But we uh- we kissed last night,” he said quickly, looking down at the floor.

“I know,” I said, turning around and grabbing the empty bottles as an excuse not to look at George.

“You know?” he asked, confused. “Then why did you make me tell you?”

Now it was my turn to stutter. “Well- I just- I wanted to see if they told you the same story.” He looked at me. 

“Y/N, I’ve known you since we were seven years old. I can tell when you’re lying. What was the reason?” I sighed.

“I wanted to see how you felt about it.” I looked anywhere but his eyes.

“Oh,” he said looking surprised. “I mean I thought that part was pretty obvious. I’ve been wanting to do that forever. I was just always to scared you wouldn’t feel the same way, and that it would ruin our friendship.” He sighed again. “Some Gryffindor I am, needing a bottle of Firewhiskey to kiss the girl I fancy.” I snapped out of the daze I had entered when he started talking. George fancied me? “Anyways,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to make you feel awkward, and i would never want to ruin our friendship-”

“George,” i said, laughing, cutting off his rambling. I pressed a kiss to his lips. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” He blinked. “Forever.” He smiled, and wrapped his arms around my waist.

“Forever?” he asked. 

“Yeah.”

“Well then this worked out rather well, didn’t it?” he said, leaning down. 

“Yes, I would say it did,” I replied, connecting our lips again.

.........................................................................................................

“Do you think we should tell them that they didn’t actually kiss last night?” asked Ginny, watching Y/N and George walk out of the broom shack hand in hand. She looked over at her brother.

“No I don’t think so,” her brother said, his eyes still on the couple. “Besides, if we hadn’t done something, those two never would have told each other they had feelings for one another. And I don’t think I could’ve taken much more of George’s whining about her. ‘Oh Fred, I like her so much, her hair smells so good, do you think she likes me too?’ Merlin, it never stopped!”

“Do you think Y/N didn’t talk about him all the time too? ‘Do you think he noticed me in Qudditch today? Did you know George held my hand today?’ Honestly, it’s a miracle they were able to admit they had feelings to each other even with the plan. My god, they are so blind.”

“But the plan worked, sis. Mission accomplished.”

[incarnateirony]

Hey dude! Do you have any recommendations for LGBTQ+ movies in the romance genre that have like a happy ending. I really don't care how old they are. I'm feeling the Gay™ hence I need the Gay™. You feel me?

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII NONNIE

First sorry for taking so long, not only did I have to timeline this :) but :) my computer :) froze :) after writing like :) 2 pages :) and I had to do it again :)

So anyway let it be said, the LGBT dialogue is one of osmosis and shared growth and awareness. Some of these films will be very poorly dated, but as you (thankfully) mentioned that them being old wasn’t a *problem*, expect a lot of old stuff. Because one of the most important things to have under your belt when talking about the LGBT media representation battle is the actual journey from A to B – be that incrementalization, subtextual inclusion, text-breeching features, outright evocative and groundbreaking films at the time (which is what MOST of this list will be) and an improvement in our dialogue; let us never forget that while tr*nss*xual is considered a slur and transgender is proper, tr*nss*xual was at one point the politically correct way to speak it – things like that breach in our growing understanding of the spectrum of human sexuality. 

I *WILL* disclaimer these aren’t all romance, so if you explicitly want romance, google them and take a look if it sounds to appeal, but I’m taking this as a general cinema history plug considering what a confused mess fandom conversation about LGBT history in film or modern text as applicable, accepted or not.

Wonder Bar (1936) (I wouldn’t really call this queer cinema, but if you have the time to watch it too, I think it was the first explicit mention of homosexual engagement even if it was fleetingly brief. You might even call it Last Call style. A blink and you’ll miss it plug that was still decades ahead of its time)

Sylvia Scarlet (1936) (Again, I wouldn’t call this queer cinema, but a lot of the community takes it as the first potential trans representation on TV due to the lead literally swapping gender presentation, even if the presentation is… not what we would modernly call representation IMO)

Un Chant d'Amour (1950) (Worth it for the sheer fact that it pissed off fundies so bad they took it all the way to the US supreme court to get it declared obscene.)

The Children’s Hour (1961) (also known as the 1961 lesson to “don’t be a gossipy, outting bitch”)

Victim (1961) (The first english film to use the word “homosexual” and to focus explicitly on gay sexuality. People might look on it disdainfully from modern lenses, but it really helped progress british understanding of homosexuality)

Scorpio Rising (1964) (Lmao this one deadass got taken to court when it pissed people off and California had to rule that it didn’t count as obscene bc it had social value, worth it for the history if nothing else)

Theorem (1968) (Because who doesn’t wanna watch a 60s flick about a bisexual angel, modern issues and associations be damned)

The Killing of Sister George (1968) (by the makers of What Ever Happened To Baby Jane)

Midnight Cowboy (1969) (…have I had sassy contagonists in RP make a Dean joke off of this more than once, maybe)

Fellini-Satyricon (1969) (AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA THIS)

The Boys in the Band (1970) (This… this… this made a lot of fuss. Just remember leather)

Pink Narcissus (1971) (a labor of love shot on someone’s personal camera)

Death in Venice (1971) (This is basically a T&S prequel but whatever, based on a much older book)

Cabaret (1972) 

Pink Flamingos (1972) (SHIT’S WILD)

The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant (1972) (The title doesn’t lie, be warned)

The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) [god I hope you’ve at least seen this]

Fox and His Friends (1975) (some really hard lessons that are still viable today, that just because someone acknowledges your sexuality doesn’t mean they give a shit about you as a person, and that some will even abuse the knowledge for gain)

The Terence Davies Trilogy (1983) (REALLY interesting history look it up, it’s sort of one of those “drawn from own experience” story short sets)

The Times of Harvey Milk (1984) (Documentary)

Desert Hearts (1985) (Pretty much the first film to put lesbianism into a good light as a true focus based on a novel from the sixties)

Parting Glances (1986) (the only film its creator got out before his death from the aids epidemic)

Law of Desire (1987) (two men and a trans woman in a love triangle, kinda ahead of its time)

Maurice (1987) (This one’s really interesting, cuz it was based on a book made about 15 years before it, but the book itself had been written half a century earlier and wasn’t published until after the guy died, he just thought it’d never get published Cuz Gay, so basically it’s based on a story written in like, the 20s finally getting screen time. It has a bittersweet but positive-leaning-ish ending without disregarding the cost that can come with it and even addresses class issues at the same time 100% DO RECOMMEND)

Tongues Untied (1989) (a documentary to give voices to LGBT black men) 

Longtime Companion (1990) (This one’s title alone is history, based on a NYT phrasing for how they talked about people’s partners dying, eg longtime companion, during the AIDS epidemic)

Paris Is Burning (1990) (Drag culture and related sexual and gender identity exploration as it intersected with class issues and other privileges explored in a documentary)

The Crying Game (1992)( I should correct this that I guess it’s more, 1992 considered, “SURPRISE, DIL HAS A DILL!” – I guess I really didn’t do that summary justice by modern language and dialogue as much as how people in the 90s were talking about that and that’s a my bad. LIKE. SEE, EVEN I CAN FUCK UP MY LANGUAGE I’M SORRY CAN I BLAME THE STRAIGHTS T_T) #90skidproblems – I guess I should call it a trans film. And this alone tells me I should go watch it again to recode it in my brain modernly rather than like circa de la 2000 understanding.

The Bird Cage (1996) (So you mix drag culture, otherwise heterosexually connected lovebirds, and then realize the girl comes from an alt-rightish house and the guy comes from a Two Dads Home and does cabaret, how to deal with the issues OF this conflict when it’s between you and your happiness, even if the fight isn’t even your own as much as it is that of the person you love. The answer is PROBABLY NOT to dress in drag and pretend to be straight, but what are you going to do? – while played for laughs we’d consider modernly crude, the fact that they even dared to approach this narrative was pretty loud)

The Celluloid Closet (1996) (Ever heard of the Vito Russo test for LGBT representation? This is based on a book by Vito Russo.)

Happy Together (1997) (Ain’t this shit an ironic name; a mutual narrative, via chinese flick, of hong kong ceding to china and an irrevocably tangled MLM pairing as a giant mirrored metaphor)

Boys Don’t Cry (1999) (one of the most groundbreaking films about trans identity at the time)

Stranger Inside (2001) (As easy as it is to recoil to the idea of “black gays in jail”, the film makers actually went and consulted prisoners and put a great deal of focus into intersectional african american issues that really weren’t around even in straight films at the time)

Transamerica (2005) (While it made a bit of a fuss for not casting an actual trans actor, it was one of the first times a big budget studio really tried to tackle it which really pushed us forward)

Call Me by Your Name (2017) (since I’ve apparently leaned really heavy old cinema throw in a modern one lmaooooo)

Also honorable The Kids Are All Right (2010) mention for the sake of the fucking title alone. 

And to any incarnation of “On the Road” by Kerouac, which

Was originally a book

Released a sanitized de-gayed edition because of the times

Later released the full homo manuscript

had a few film adaptations

Was one of Kripke’s founding inspirations for Supernatural once he left behind “Some reporter guy chases stories” and took the formula of Sal and Dean (and tbh later, Carlo) in a beat generation vibe gone modern as we know it today.

Reading both versions of this can actually help some folks currently understand that when you get confused over some shit (WHY IS CARLO SO UPSET? WHY IS HE ACTING LIKE AN UPSET GIRLFRIEND??? WHY IS HE SO JEALOUS AND SAD WHEN DEAN IS AROUND GIRLS???? WE JUST DONT KNOWWWWWWWWWWWWW) it’s because some big money asshat bleached the content, and sometimes, it takes a while for the full script to come out and again, surprise, it’s been GAY, they just didn’t want to OFFEND anybody. *jazz hands*

Now if you wanna go WAY WAY BACK, during 191X years, a bunch of gender role flicks came out like Charley’s Aunt, Mabel’s Blunder and the Florida Enchantment.

Also where is @thecoffeebrain-blog to yell about the necessity of watching Oz, for the next few hours? But no, seriously, just look into the entire LGBT *HISTORY* of Oz.

Beyond that though I’m gonna stop here cuz hi that’s a lot. I really don’t know how much counts as “happy ending” but if I had to give an LGBT cinema rec list, that’s it as a sum. I don’t really have like, a big portfolio of UWU HAPPY ENDING GAYS because 1. there aren’t a lot of those but 2. to me, it’s not about the ending, it’s about the journey. Be that in flick or through culture and history itself.

If you want more happy ending stuff, you definitely have to look at 2010+, but it’s not like we’re in a rich and fertile landscape yet so honestly just googling that would probably serve you better since I don’t explicitly explore romance genre or happy endings to really have a collection. LGBT life is hard and film often reflects that if we’re making genuine statements about it and really representing it, and we’re just now getting to a point of reliably having the chance at a happy ending. That or maybe someone can add like “Explicit happy endings” lists after this that has more experience in that subgenre.

Also, I can’t emphasize ENOUGH to remember what was progressive then is not what is progressive now, and frankly, what some people think is progressive now they’ll probably look back on what they said and feel really fuckin’ embarrassed. See: “It’s not text because by alt right homophobic dialogue, M/M sex isn’t gay if you do the secret handshake” MGTOW kinda crazy ass dialogue or parallel narratives they inspire that encourage self-closeting and denial based on the pure idea that being gay makes you somehow lesser, so It’s Not That. Like. I am. 99% sure. At least half of the people talking in this fandom. Are going to regret that the internet is forever. And maybe hope hosting servers end in the inevitable nuclear war that will annihilate this planet.

Also, edit: Speaking of mistaken dialogues and words aging poorly, I’d like to apologize from the poor description I rendered “The Crying Game” with, but that really goes to show how deep-seated the issue is we can so casually fuck up identifying a trans narrative as SURPRISE DICK IS GAY when we were all absorbing the content like 20+ years ago and HOW HARD it can be to de-code yourself from that kind of programming because here I am, writing a giant assed rep post and fucking it up because my brain hadn’t soaked that movie since Y2K. Guess what, time for me to go watch the Crying Game again.

[insanityclause]

A story from Southwest Review

It’s quite long so I don’t know if you can post - but I think you’ll like it:

Tom Hiddleston and the Puerto Rican Widow

Milán, Tony Báez.Southwest Review; Dallas Vol. 103, Iss. 4,  (2018): 351.

She’s four foot eight and the world wants to rule her with its ways, putting all of its weight on her, but sometimes she strikes right back with her tiny iron fist, in her own ways.

She’s been through a lot. The loss of her parents, albeit both at ripe old ages. The loss of her husband, seventy years old but who by looking at him seemed to be in the prime of his life. A terrifying hurricane, named after her. She’s been through her share of those, but this one, she says, you have never seen anything like this one and she hopes she never does again. She says on occasion that she only believes in electricity because she sees the lights are on. That entire ordeal she spent praying with others, praying hard. Never seen anything like it. Nunca, she says. In this case, it took three months for her to believe in electricity again.

Don’t get me wrong. She has a relatively comfortable life. She went to college and did her time as a professional in the Puerto Rico Department of Labor. Her husband was a truck driver for Nabisco for about thirty years and made some great moves, although he could have had some beachfront property if not for her and her tiny iron fist. Oh, he usually did his thing, but in this case he, too, obeyed. And no beachfront property.

Her daughter, who works different shifts at a hospital, moved in with her after a long stint in New Jersey. They get along and they fight, but she’s not alone in that way. She has a merchant marine son in Florida and another one who’s a music teacher nearby, and grandchildren near and far, who come to visit or who talk to her when they can, and she’s happy to see them and to hear from them.

I used to have long, long conversations with her, weekdays after coming home from high school, in the kitchen as she cooked. I can still smell the chicken fricassee and the sopón and even the corned beef, which, incredibly, I have come to miss-explain that one. But I am the farthest away now. The conversations are still long and involved but they take place over the phone now.

Still, she has to cope. She says that she hated it, becoming a senior citizen, listening to advertising on the radio, on television, ads directed at her when at first she didn’t realize that they were directed at her. When she first realized it, she didn’t like it. She really didn’t like it at all. She couldn’t believe, when

she matched her age to the ages they were talking about, that she fit in the category. But that was in the beginning. Now she says that she has gotten used to it and will take it for all it’s worth. She takes the discounts and she cuts in line. Anybody has a problem with it, they can take her senior citizen attitude and deal with it. She’s earned it. Give her what’s hers, get out of the way, and don’t give her no lip.

She has to pass the time, and she does what she can. She can be reclusive, but she still drives. She’ll go to Walmart. She sews and she has done a few paintings. She reads the newspapers from front page to back, except for the sports, I’m guessing. She can read the papers for hours at a time, and does-sometimes the entire morning or the whole afternoon. She listens to the radio, a lot of politics and gossip. She turns on the radio and listens to the fools bickering, sometimes an entire morning or the whole afternoon. She watches television and now she talks back to it, to the people being stupid inside of it, in their own lives, I’ve seen it, once when I was visiting, that she talks to the television and to the people there, almost as if they can hear her but they won’t take her advice, the fools, the idiots, listen to me, she says, leave him, she tells them, don’t let him treat you that way, she tells them, don’t do that to your life, she says, whatever it may be, whatever people may be going through, pick the thing that is ruining their lives, and she has advice for all of them and she tells them through the television screen but they don’t ever listen. Sometimes they really should. If only they could. She keeps telling them, I know it.

And she watches movies.

My mother loves movies the same way that I love movies. She used to go to the movie theaters very often, when we were all a lot younger, and then often, with her husband, but then, after, she very rarely goes and so she watches her movies on the television. She still enjoys movies very much, especially crime movies, and we discuss them, voices on the phone, as often as we can. She has questions about endings, hates it when the endings are not black and white, clear like Hitchcock’s, hates it when they get too cute, when they don’t just wrap things up like she knows they should.

Did he die or didn’t he?

Did they stay together or didn’t they?

Why didn’t they show him dead or alive, then?

Why didn’t they just kiss, then?

She doesn’t like that. She doesn’t like that at all. Sometimes, I start to explain, filmmakers want to-

Whatever, she says. Why don’t they just finish it so that it’s clear?!

Tienes razón. You’re right. She’s right, and why shouldn’t she be? She loves movies and she’s the audience.

This new thing, though, and it’s been going on for months, was brought on by a miniseries. I’m always saying that I don’t have the time and so I don’t watch, but this here miniseries I had to find the time to sit down and watch all six episodes with my wife. My mother made me. On account of the muchacho-the leading man.

One night on the phone she says that she had started to watch this thing. Happenstance.

The Night Manager, she says. The muchacho is an actor by the name of Tom Jí-dels-ton.

Name of Tom Hiddleston.

Ay, qué hombre, she says. What a man, this Tom Hiddleston.

I know who he is, I say. British, such and such, this and that. He’s good, he’s real good.

Pero qué hombre, she says.

Sí, I know who he is, good actor. Seen him in some things, like him, so what about … ?

Tom Hi-ddles-ton, she says, picking up on the pronunciation, trying to perfect it. Like she’s perfecting his name, in her mind, in her lips.

Hiddles-ton, she says.

Yes, I know. He-

Well, she says, he’s the night manager.

The way she says night manager …

That’s him, she says. He’s the night manager in this miniseries that I started to watch, he’s the muchacho.

I’m about to say something else but by this point I finally realize that this is not the usual involved but casual conversation about movies or any of their related subjects, that this is involved but doesn’t sound casual. It sounds … it sounds … It’s like something that maybe a son doesn’t want to hear his mother talking about but I sense that it’s too late, that she’s enthralled somehow, and I won’t hang up, it’s my mother, and maybe I want to hang up but it’s my mother, and her voice comes up here through the phone again and except for my occasional interruption it’s almost all her from there.

Bueno, she says, this Mr. Tom Hiddleston is not like any of the others. Well, he is and he isn’t. He’s not a doll like Rock Hudson. That was an incredible looking man, Rock Hudson. Tom Hiddleston is not good looking in that way, not a perfect mold of a man, but there is something …

Paul Newman, I say. I once wrote a poem about Paul Newman’s eyes on account of her. So she’s been infatuated before but I don’t want to think about it too much.

Oh, sí, Paul Newman. Those eyes. Tan azules. So blue. It’s a shame artists should have to get old. It’s not fair, she says.

Huh.

But … Tom Hiddleston’s eyes are not like that, they’re not so … but, the thing is, they are … they are … he is … ay … no sé …

Struggling for words? My mother? A son doesn’t want to hear any more sometimes, but the conversations have always been long and honest and fairly unbridled and I remember that it’s mostly all her and I won’t hang up. This Mr. Hiddleston is not like the others.

No, she says, not like Rock Hudson or Paul Newman. He’s good looking, very good looking, but just different. Sometimes, she says, I think his face might be a little different looking, maybe it’s the British in him, but then again I just look at him in this miniseries and I just can’t stop looking at him. You have to watch this miniseries.

I don’t have the time.

He’s so … You can just tell he’s a nice man. The way he looks, the way he looks at people, the way he shows concern for this woman he’s involved with, and he’s trying to help her. You have to watch it. The way he …

Please don’t say the way he looks at me. She doesn’t. She continues for a little longer and I have to go and we hang up but the next time we talk the thread of her infatuation is picked up again, I pick it up as she unspools it and I wrap it up into a knot and then into a ball on this side of the line, wondering what to do with it, just holding it in my brain, as if I could hold it with my hands, my ears wide open, my mouth half-open, saying things, agreeing with her, listening, but also giving her information, which feels like fanning the flames.

He’s done other things, I say.

¿Ah, sí?

Sí. He’s Loki in that Thor movie.

The superhéroe movie?

Right.

Which one is Loki?

El malo. The bad guy.

Oh.

He has long hair in that one.

Haven’t seen it. Don’t much care for superhéroes. But I’ll check it out now.

If I find a cheap DVD, I’ll send it to you. And then I tell her that as I find some of his other movies I’ll be sure to send them to her. Plays a vampire in one. Plays F. Scott Fitzgerald. Gets it on with his own sister and ends up as a ghost in another-del Toro movie.

¡Fantástico! she says.

This goes on for days, every time I talk to her, and then for weeks and now for months. Every time I call, it seems that she has either just finished the miniseries again or that she is again in the middle of it, episode three, or four … Seven times, she says at some point, then nine times, then she loses count and I stop asking, or I stop asking because she loses count, I don’t know what that man has done to me, is doing to me, she keeps saying, can’t stop looking at him. Vieja pero no pendeja. Old but not stupid-kind of. I still have good taste, she says.

He’s been dating a very famous singer, I inform her. I tell her who it is and she doesn’t know her and she has my sister look her up on the internet. My mother takes a look and says that the young woman has good taste.

I say, Wait till you see him in uniform, in a Spielberg movie, the one about the horse. I tell her that I didn’t recognize him at first and warn her that he comes to a bad end but that I thought he was great.

Send it, send it!

I’ll find it on DVD. Wait until you see him in uniform.

Ay, sí, mijo.

There’s an old photograph of my father in uniform hanging on a wall in their house and I wonder what he would have thought about all of this, being that he was the jealous type. Then again, there was a time when, in his old age, he really took to telenovelas. My mother says that when they came on, the ones that he was really into, you couldn’t bother him for anything, that it was like someone was going to give him a test after each episode, that he was always there and right on time and it was like he was hypnotized. Some of those women in those telenovelas are gorgeous, and God only knows what this old fool’s thinking about, she would say. Maybe she thinks of that and figures it’s her turn, or I figure it’s her turn. I wonder what he would say …

Mr. Hiddleston is in the new King Kong movie, I say, trying to stay on the subject but trying to change my own train of thought.

Oh, but the muchacho in that one is King Kong, she says.

Yes, but it looks like Hiddleston is playing it very macho, a lot of action.

I’ll see it.

And he also plays Hank Williams in another film. I have to explain who Hank Williams is.

He must have a beautiful singing voice, she says, and by he of course she means Hiddleston. This guy can do no wrong.

To finally change the subject while at the same time trying to stay on the same subject, I mention Tom Hardy and she knows who he is, really liked him in that movie The Drop. She says, He looked muy zángano in that movie, I didn’t get it at first, but then I realized that was the way he wanted to play it, because in the end he’s really not dumb at all, that must have been exactly what he wanted to do, what a portrayal, tremendo actor, great actor. And then she says, But he’s not Tom.

Tom really must have a beautiful singing voice, she says, coming back to him after a while, and it’s like she’s talking to herself. Over here, I stare at the phone for a moment and I’m sure my mouth is open and the jaw is just hanging there. A matter of time until I start referring to him as Tom, too.

I saw him in this fantasy-ish movie, a kinda strange …

That’s not my thing, she says, that ciencia ficción, with all those aviones flying around.

There are no planes flying around in this one, really, and then I tell her, and I don’t know why, talk about fanning the flames, that they show him naked, everything but the pipí.

It doesn’t take her a second-¡Pues échala pa acá! Send it over, then! she says.

But it takes three months for her to believe in electricity again and when it finally happens the first thing she does is start the miniseries again, to get her fix of Tom. I keep trying to find some more of his things, even the Shakespeare stuff from England, but I must admit I’m taking it slow, maybe for fear that they will see my mother even less, or anymore, as she has become more reclusive than usual.

And I guess, with me, a sort of resignation has set in. I wonder if it’s natural. Tom comes up in conversation just about as often as family members do. I suspect he’s become a constant presence in her life. Not a dominating, forceful entity. More like a benevolent being somewhere out there, completely outside of my mother’s world and yet intertwined perfectly with her current existence. A son might hate to admit this, a thing that Freud or Jung may have a thing or two to say about, and that I would hate to think would have my father turning in his grave, or maybe not, for he, also, is a benevolent being: Tom has been good for my mother, has been good to my mother. An artist who, through his craft and image, with his ethereal presence, makes the relatively comfortable yet difficult life of a septuagenarian Puerto Rican widow more passable. That’s got to be all good.

A son can’t be, or shouldn’t be, jealous of that. N or should he feel guilty for being an enabler.

A departed husband could be, but maybe shouldn’t be, jealous of that, even if he was the jealous type. But he was his own man and he can decide later on, or not decide at all, even if only in my conscience, how he feels about it.

And-and I don’t see it coming yet-there is always the possibility of a kind of divorce for these two, for my mother and Tom. She sure loves movies and she watches a lot of them, and someone else might come along. Not that I wish that. Whatever or whoever makes my mother pass the time more pleasantly in this son of a bitch of a world, and this is an optimist saying that here, I’m all for it. Any son must be all for it.

In the meantime, to each mother her own, and rightfully so. And, a Puerto Rican widow’s got to cope, Tom. She always has, and she always will. ?

Sidebar

Tony Báez Milán is a bilingual writer and film director. Born and raised in Puerto Rico, he spent fifteen years in Los Angeles and is now living in southwestern Pennsylvania with his family. He is the author of several novels and short story collections, and his work has appeared in numerous publications. Among other films, he wrote and directed the award-winning feature Ray Bradbury’s Chrysalis.

Word count: 3031

Copyright Southwest Review 2018

Note: Thanks for the submission @stuffstuff1757! This is fantastic.

[liw-the-melancholic-apple]

How it may have gone - Humble Beginnings

A fic taking place in the marauders era. While the political climate seems to head to a conflict, James, Sirius, Remus and Peter are still just teenagers. Dealing with typical teenage problems.

But this year their little group grows. Who would have known that more prefects would be a good thing?

Masterlist

Ten: Detention III

When I came back to Greenhouse 4 the next day around the same time a new list lay on the first workstation. Next to it I found the lower section of the one I had worked off of yesterday. The little facts about the plants and creatures were apparently mine to keep. I folded that piece of parchment and put it in my bag.

Then I unfolded the new list.

To Do – Day 2

Behind the bumblebush by the desks you’ll find a door. I houses the supplies and tools. It’s not locked, grab whatever you need.

One table over is a stack of books that tells you what you need to know about the various plants and animals.

Feed the Abtu in the river 

Check elderly mandrakes for signs of life (or death)

Water nettles, beets and tea (green, white and black)

Cut eight branches of Dittany 

Wear gloves !!! and collect Streeler slime.

The Chameleon Potion is a very advanced one but it is one of the most powerful ways of disguise. In contrast to polyjuice potion which lets the drinker only turn into one person, of whom a ‘piece’ is required as an ingredient, which poses its own risks and obstacles, the Chameleon potion enables the drinker to practically become a metamorphmagi for at least two hours after consumption.

Nettles, beets and tealeaves (fresh or dried) are basic ingredients in a lot of potions. Nettles are mostly used in healing potions to provide the best starting points for the more magical ingredients. Not a single common healing potion is brewed without nettles! Beets are mostly used for colour in cosmetic applications. White, Green and Black Tea all have different properties that are released when put in hot water. Those properties often react with more magical plants like devil’s snare or moon dew to bring the potion to full potential.

When dittany is boiled and reduced, then combined with liquid silver it becomes a paste that is a very powerful cure against werewolves bites, called Lykoiaomai. This is the full recipe: Boil and reduce dittany leaves, strain the liquid to rid it of all solids and stir it into a liquid but slightly cooled silver. The ratio is one tablespoon of liquid silver to five tablespoons of dittany reduction.

When dried over a moderate flame Streeler slime turns into thin transparent gelatinous sheets, that can be dissolved in hot water. Dissolve the sheets in white tea as a cure for sleep deprivation.

Again, with the factoids… While the last ones seemed random these appeared to be a little more tailored to my situation. Mainly because of the werewolf and sleep deprivation. Full moon would be tomorrow. All of the Gryffindor boys would be completely destroyed on Thursday, if I could find dried sheets of Streeler Slime in Slughorn’s shelves, I might just take them to see whether they worked as well as pepper up potion.

While Sirius was right and there were no side-effects to using the potion it was pretty hard to get a hold of and expensive to buy. If the giant slugs provided an alternative I could see myself nicking  some jars of their slime before detention was over. It would be helpful to the boys and to Crick and me. Just yesterday the next month of nightshifts had been figured out and I was serving at least one a week, not one on the weekends. Crick had had a similar fate while Jonas got way too many Saturdays to his name. Anything that would get me through a day of classes after a nightshift was absolutely worth breaking the rules for.

On the other hand, Sprout had never once said that I wasn’t allowed to take anything from the greenhouse. Obviously I could assume that nothing was to leave the treehouse but nobody had officially forbidden it.

I got to work and finished a bit quicker than the day before. One of the mandrakes didn’t react to anything I did to it, so I assumed it to be dead and put it on the table with a note. I thought it smart to let everybody know that I wasn’t sure what a dead mandrake looked like. Just in case this one was just really old and moved so slowly I didn’t realise it. The last thing I needed was to get in trouble while serving detention.

After I placed the dittany branches on top of the books I walked back into the shed and looked through the Potions section. I found two interesting things: There were a lot of sheets of Streeler slime and there were about 12 glasses of Dittany-Silver-Paste. They were labelled with dates. All of which lay in the future. One of which was tomorrow.

I had thrown myself in a homework marathon yesterday night and written my essay on the significance of Venus in relation to death for the Thursday class. Normally I couldn’t be bribed to research astronomical deteails outside of class or homework. It was one of those subjects whose importance to general magical education I understood – unlike divination – but I really wasn’t all that interested in it. Yesterday however, I had broken out my moon chart for the decade and checked the dates of full moons. I had made a list and pinned it into my wardrobe, just so I was prepared for a weak and sickly looking Remus and a grumpy Potter-posse. Aside from that, I had a feeling that the other boys were stupid enough to hang out with Remus after he had transformed and I wanted to be able to run to their rescue when something happened.

The dates on the glasses of anti-werewolf-bite-cream were all full moon dates. Seeing how Remus didn’t need a specific potion to be healed, even if he bit himself, because he already was a werewolf and didn’t get affected by the poison in his own fangs, the existence of all of these jars seemed to proof my theory that my stupid, stupid friends did regularly lounge with a transformed werewolf. And that the school knew.

While making these observations I found one glass with a December date. The 26th, to be exact. Remus would have been with his parents during the holidays, so this one went unused. Then, again, I doubted that every other jar of this stuff had been used. Did it maybe spoil quickly? Maybe, but not very likely. There were jars labelled for next November. I went back out into the bright garden and checked the special edition book on uncommon healing potions. I had a section Dittany, the recipe for the cream and stated that it was good for roughly ten years.

So, maybe the teachers relabelled the jars after every full moon that went well. I could safely assume that every single one of these jars was good to go in case of an emergency. And that it would be for couple of years. After all Remus had only started school five and a half years ago. And I doubted, that we had more than one werewolf on campus.

I struggled with my conscience and I didn’t feel good about it. But I went back into the shed, ripped the label off the December jar and put it into my bag. Just in case I really needed to run to anybody’s rescue. When I left I felt really guilty but I also reckoned I could talk myself out of the situation if it ever came to light. 

We were all pretty nervous on Wednesday. It was our first full moon. And even though we weren’t going to actually be around Remus during the night, all of us girls were hyper aware of Remus’ bad shape and what would happen at night. I was glad that we went on revising spells in Charms class that morning. That way nobody noticed how little I could concentrate. Transfiguration went fairly well, too, as it was a theoretical class and I only needed to write down notes. I did, however, pull myself together to write them completely, detailed and legible because Milla was an absolute wreck at this point. Yes, her feelings for Remus weren’t influenced by the fact that he was a werewolf but the thought of every bone in his body breaking horrified her for him. Her voice was shaky all day and it sounded like she could start crying any second. Needless to say that she didn’t take any notes at all during McGonnagal’s monologue.

“Please, keep me away from Remus!”, she begged when we crossed the foyer for lunch. “Or at least don’t let me talk to him. He already looks like death and I don’t think my state would help that at all.”

“Sure thing. We’ll distract him.”

We did. Quite successfully. By now the others knew what my detention consisted of exactly and I decided to tell the entire group about my recent venture into thieving.

“Point is, that I have that stuff. I don’t hope you’ll ever need it but in all honesty if you should ever need it, it’s probably better if you have it with you rather than it sitting in my night stand”, I whispered while smoking.

“You stole Slughorn’s supply from a restricted area of the school? You sure you’re still you, Goods?”

“Fairly certain, yeah. Honestly, I’d rather lose my badge and serve detention for the next two years, than live through the nightmare of something happening to any of you.”

“I’m with Jette”, Remus agreed strongly. Well, as strongly as he possibly could. Milla was right, saying he looked like death. His skin was basically see-through and the dark circles under his eyes nearly reached his upper lip.

“I’m not myself. What if I do bite one of you?”, his voice got a little shaky and I had the distinct impression that that had nothing to do with his physical condition.

“You haven’t yet, Remus”, James tried to calm him down, with a pad on the shoulder.

“First time for everything”, Remus half-smiled in response.

“Just take it!”, I shoved the jar in Peter’s hands. “If you never need it, I’ll be heavenly happy, but if you do need it and don’t have access to it I’ll kill myself over it. And so will Remus. So, don’t argue!”

We sent them off to their classes and descended to the dungeons to learn something or other about fever-reducing-potions. Blair took care of her cauldron that she shared with Millla and the one that Chloe and Nica were supposed to brew in, while Joe was absolutely on his own with ours. I’d told him that I wasn’t on my A-game and could barely concentrate and being the wonderful person he was, he took it upon himself to just do the potion on his own, allowing me to lift. I had to promise that I’d help him out in Defence, though. And I was more than willing to pay that price.

When I got to the treehouse that afternoon I was met by Professor Slughorn. Oh. Not good.

“Miss de Witt. How nice. I thought it useful to talk you through some of the ingredients we have you collect and store. While I’m aware that Professor Sprout provided you with the books and some additional information, I’d like for you to know a little more. You up for it?”

“Certainly, Professor.” Maybe he hadn’t noticed that I nicked his December jar.

“Very well. We will get to the Dittany you collected yesterday. First, you should feed the animals. I’ll set up over there.” He pointed at the tables and pulled out a collapsible cauldron. I scanned my list for the day that just told me to feed the fish and lay out some hay for whatever other creature. I did both those things, visited the mandrakes, who were all still alive and returned to the table.

The Dittany branches were already in the cauldron and a shimmery, shiny substance sat atop a different fire. Shimmery, shiny and silver. Maybe he had noticed that I nicked the jar.

“Now, I’m sure you can guess what we’re doing today.”

“The potion – paste – that Professor Sprout wrote about. The one that heals werewolf bites?”

“Excellent. Five points to Hufflepuff.”

“Oh, thank you, Sir.”

“Now, I’m aware you don’t like potionmaking all that much. Contrasting your brother, who is still doing brilliantly.”

“Happy to hear that, Sir.”

“But with your strong suit being Defence against the Dark Arts, I don’t think that it would be crazy to assume you at least think about working in theat field. I would favour you for an auror but obviously you might end up a curse breaker, a member of the department for magical law or a dejinxer at St. Mungo’s. Every single one of these professions is connected to potions and potionmaking in one way or another. And if you’d ever want to apply to the auror training programme you need to have achieved an A at least in your NEWTs. So, I thought we’d try to install some interest in you by meeting here every now and again during your detention to work on interesting and practical potions. Would you be okay with that?”

“Of couse, Sir. Thank you. This is probably the best opportunity anybody has ever gotten by getting detention.”

“Well, I personally don’t agree with your actions, Miss de Witt. But I also don’t agree with those of my own students.” I had fully forgotten that Slughorn was Slytherin Head of House.

“What Messrs Black and Mulciber said and did does not represent my house. I trust you know that. And I don’t want you to miss opportunities over a throw-away nasty comment.”

“Thank you, Professor. I appreciate that. A lot. A whole lot.”

“Let’s get to work then.”

He went through the recipe and one or two tricks that could help me when brewing the thing myself. At the end we had produced four more of the jars. Three of them Slughorn put on his shelves, one he gave to me.

“I’d guess you won’t need it anytime soon. But it keeps nearly forever, so it won’t hurt to keep it for emergencies in whatever field you chose to work. And now that you know how to brew it and should wish to practice again, you can always ask me for the ingredients or supplies. I would have to supervise your use of them. You’ll understand that I don’t want you to take the silver for making jewellery. “

“Completely.” Frankly, I didn’t understand anything that was going on but I ran with it. By this point I was one hundred percent certain that Slughorn had noticed the theft. Otherwise he’d not have said that I could ask him for more of the potion. I thought he’d be mad at me but since he wasn’t I had to conclude that he knew about Remus’ condition and my friendship to him.

When Slughorn dismissed me it was pitchblack outside. I quickly looked up. The moon hadn’t fully risen yet, but it was definitely visible. According to our DADA material the transformation didn’t happen until the moon had done exactly that. Full rise and full moon. I imagined that the boys had already eaten and were on their way to wherever they hid during these nights. They’d gone so far as to tell us that there was a hideout but not where it was.

My steps quickened as I crossed the lawn. Suddenly, the lights from the castle’s windows seemed very far away. How fast did the moon rise? How far away from the castle was the hideout? Did the boys get there in time for the transformation? I quickened my steps. I started jogging. I did not want to run into Remus tonight. Absolutely not. Nope.

“Goods!” I stopped. Turned around.

“Sirius?”

“What are you still doing out here? Moon’s nearly risen.”

“Why d’you think I’m running?” I couldn’t spot any of the other boys.

“Oh… are you scared of the big bad wolf?” Sirius smug smirk appeared on his lips.

“I thought I already told you that I’d rather not run into a transformed werewolf. So, yeah. I love Remus, I do, but …”

“You don’t want to share his fate.”

“Well, no I don’t. And I’d rather not die, either.”

“Fair enough. No need to be scared, he’s already where he’s supposed to be.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Forgot you wonder potion in the dorm… We have a fairly established routine for nights like these. And your stupid jar, is not yet part of it. But Remus insisted I get it.” I swung my backpack from my back to my chest and opened it.

“What are you doing?” I handed him the new jar of dittany and silver.

“Slughorn was at detention. He must have noticed that I stole one of the jars and taught me how to brew it. I got to keep one. Fully legal this time.”

“What kind of detention is that? I only ever get to clean things or write the same sentence over and over again.”

“Haven’t quite worked that out yet. But it seems to have some kind of deeper meaning. Slughorn said that he’d stop by more often during detention to teach me potions. The useful kind that I might enjoy brewing. He said it’s to help me get into the auror programme but I don’t know whether I should believe that.”

“Curious” Sirius looked up at the dark sky. “I gotta run.”

“Right… Hug Remus for me, yeah?” Sirius tilted his head. He didn’t look impressed with that suggestion.

“Or tell him I’m hugging him mentally.”

“Will do.” He was ready to head back to where he had come from.

“And be careful, you hear?”

“You worried about me?”, again he smirked at me.

“Yes, Sirius, I am. About all of you. Including Remus.  So, be careful and not arrogant or heroic or Merlin knows what. Okay?”

Sirius came a little closer and studied my face.

“Nothing will happen, Goods. We’ve done this for a while now. We know what we’re doing.”

“Yeah, right because it’s such a common practice to ru…”

“Nothing”, Sirius interrupted me “will happen to any of us. I promise.” He gave me that look that made one feel like he uncovered the deepest and darkest secrets of one’s soul.

“Fine. Fine, fine. Run off, then.” I pushed him against his shoulders to give him some momentum.

“Get something to eat you worried Goodie-two-shoes”, Sirius grinned as he ran back into the blackness of the grounds.

I continued on my way to dinner, slower than before, but distinctly more concerned. He could promise me that they’d be fine a million times, I would never fully believe that none of them took unnecessary risks. That was in their blood. They were inherently adventurous. To the point of stupidity. This was going to be a long night. I doubted I’d get any sleep at all.

Entering the Great Hall and spotting Milla, Blair, Chloe and Nica I realised that none of us would sleep. We’d all be awake all night assuring one another that the boys would be fine. Although none of us were sure about that.

[tommyplum]

- tis the saison | tommy/alfie, modern au  for @boundinshallows’ sholomons prompt fest 2019

Nobody much cares for holiday parties, but everybody's got to go to them nevertheless. Tommy Shelby's no exception, much as he would like to be. .

notes: takes place in the same modern au as eggplant peach question mark - maggie

"Tell me one more time that you don't want to go, Tommy Shelby, and I'll not only send Arthur round to drag you there, I'll buy you a Christmas jumper with mistletoe pinned to the hem and sit back and laugh at the thought of you jumping around the room like a scalded cat trying to avoid being kissed on the cock."

"Christ Almighty, Pol." Tommy rubbed his fingers over his eyebrows, using the heels of his shoes -- currently hooked up on the edge of his desk -- to drag his wheeled office chair forward. "Giving me a little too much credit, aren't you?"

"Giving the other attendees of the liquor board holiday party too little, more like it." Polly's voice sounded amused and warm, even over the tinny speakerphone. "Thomas, you know I usually take on party duties, but it simply can't be helped this year. You're going to have to represent for us. It won't be so bad! How many distributors can you have slept with already?"

Tommy felt it was quite admirable that he had the grace to just let silence stretch between him and speakerphone Polly in answer to that question. Pol, however, didn't seem to share his viewpoint on that.

"Oh, hellfire, Tommy! It's a wonder you get any fucking work done at all, I swear to God."

"Look, I'll go, I'll go. I won't like it, but I'll go." He used his heels to push himself away from the desk, drag himself close again, bony knees accordioning up on each approach as he chewed a thumbnail and mentally totted up the likely suspects he'd be running into over fusion dim sum appetizers and rounds of whatever vodka blended drinks were on the themed menu. "Might even make it out of there unscathed."

"You're a horror." Polly paused, and then said, "--Alfie Solomons is going to be there this year. He said since we were clear that it's a holiday party and not a Christmas party, he felt at peace in his devotions with dipping a toe in the secular festivities. He literally said those words."

Tommy grunted, thumping one shoe down onto the floor. "So what? So he's religious. I've seen you twirl a rosary or two in your time, Aunt Pol."

"Shut it. Don't fuck anybody." 

The dial tone followed this warning, and Tommy ended the call on his desk phone. With Alfie Solomons around being the cock-blocking arsehole he'd more than once proven himself to be, Tommy thought sourly, there wasn't much chance of his even being able to disobey Polly's orders.

---

Hour One of Holiday Representation Hell consisted of two tremendously terrible courgette gyoza, a peach-and-satsuma nightmare of a blended drink, and two elderflower ciders in quick succession to rinse out the taste of both. It also consisted of Tommy smiling and nodding as a number of representatives of small labels that wouldn't see next year paraded themselves past him, pressing flesh and telling him their names with voices of great import. Tommy made jokes that didn't land half the time, but watched them all laugh anyway.

Hour Two of Not-Christmas Carnival of Nonsense saw the introduction of wasabi cheese straws (somehow more tasty than the gyoza, and Tommy had one in his mouth at all times through that hour), another cider, and a few shots of green apple soju. Luca Changretta followed him around for at least twenty minutes trying to sell him on fruit wines, and Tommy finally promised to try his blueberry merlot before hiding in the kitchen for the rest of the hour and feeling up one of the servers through her sensible cotton pants. She ate the rest of his cheese straw and he retreated once the coast was clear.

Hour Three of Whatever It Was, the peach-and-satsuma nightmare had become much more tolerable with the addition of most of a bottle of peach schnapps, and Tommy watched a short parade of those small label representatives conga out the back door. 

"What are they called?"

Tommy blinked, raising his eyebrows as he turned and found Alfie Solomons standing next to him, munching a wasabi cheese straw as if it were a stalk of hay and himself the laziest cow in the pasture. "Pardon? What? What are who called? Make sense, Alfie."

Alfie snickered and nodded at the tail end of the line. "They all gave you their names when you glad-handed them, love, and you looked oh-so-terribly interested in each one. I'll give you five pound and a kiss if you can tell me the name of even one of the poor blighters."

"Why would I bother to remember their names?" Tommy said, irritated, and looked around for where he'd put down his drink. "It's a party. Bad manners to expect proper business at a party. If they had any sense they'd give me business cards."

Tommy spun back towards Alfie, startled to find the man's fingers delving into one of the back pockets of his jeans … and extracting a little sheaf of business cards. "You mean these?" Alfie said, then laughed and pitched them in the air. Tommy made no move to stop him, only groused, "The serving staff won't thank you for that, Mr. Solomons."

Alfie made a noise that Tommy would swear he'd heard a high-fantasy tree make in a movie once, and took Tommy's hand in his own -- warm, surprisingly deft, with a crown tattoo near the thumb that Tommy'd somehow failed to notice before -- and brought it to his lips. For one heart-stopping moment Tommy thought the daft bugger was going to kiss his fingertips, but all Alfie did was brush the very end of his nose above Tommy's fingers and intone, "...and you've already ingratiated yourself to the serving staff from the aroma of it, eh, darling?"

Eyes blazing, Tommy snatched his hand back and rubbed it against his shirt. "Pick those up," he snapped, pointing at the cards scattered on the floor. "Really, Alfie. Some fucking manners."

A low chuckle followed on Tommy's heels as he marched away, in search of a fresh drink and maybe some fresh air. His face was feeling awfully hot, for some reason, all of a sudden.

---

Hour Four of the Wonderful Year-End Festivities found Tommy performing his best booze-related trick for a captive and somewhat plastered audience: lopping the cork off a bottle of mid-range champagne with a short saber brought expressly to the party for that purpose. Tatiana shrieked with triumph when he managed to pull off the feat, champagne geyersing from the neatly broken neck of the bottle in dry-scented frothing excitement, and flung her arms around his neck to claim a very wet and vodka-fumed kiss. 

"All Tatiana's idea, I assure you," Tommy told the remaining celebrants as they applauded him and he brandished both bottle and saber around. "In fact she's the one planned this whole party. A round of applause, ay, for Tatiana?"

The gathered people obliged, and Tommy handed off the bottle but kept the saber as he trailed over to the decimated cake in the shape of a squat beer keg and used the sword to hack off some frosting for himself. He bore it carefully outside, using a case of bottled water to prop the door open, and leaned against the railing of the stairway landing to swipe his thumb through the clot of frosting and stick it pensively in his mouth. 

The party hadn't been that bad, all told, apart from that fucking courgette repeating on him and the hopeful looks some of those nameless reps had been shooting him all night. The server girl with the sensible knickers had caught his eye and it was clear she'd be up for it, if he wanted a go. And she was pretty, with curly hair dyed some sort of pale purple and a snub nose and freckles across her dark skin. 

But, Tommy thought bleakly as he bit frosting from his thumb, there was just something … wrong. Something missing. And the thought of ending the night as he'd ended so many others, making the trek back to his quiet, junk-filled flat with a bottle of gin to fall exhaustedly asleep on the settee and wake up to dry toast and jelly, it was … well, it was depressing. And Tommy was getting heartily tired of feeling depressed.

He lifted the saber with the thought of bringing it whooshing down again so that the gobbet of frosting on the end would sluice off, somewhere down three floors to hit the ground, but a hand grabbed his wrist and -- dammit -- here was Alfie Solomons again, peering at Tommy in the dim light. "Steady on, sweetie," Alfie said, "don't want to disappoint the cleaners more than you already have, eh?" He nodded towards the party, now in its decided downswing. "That girl you had as an aperatif has gone off with one of the Young Bolsheviks--"

"Young Turks, you mean?"

"No, red's back in fashion, it's very woke to talk about the evils of capitalism at the drop of a knitted hat these days." Alfie grinned, twisting the saber out of Tommy's unresisting grip and scraping the frosting off on the railing before sliding the sword into his belt.

"Ridiculous," Tommy said, although whether that was about the saber, Alfie's wearing it, or his farcical claim about young people and their politics, he didn't care to draw a bead on. But that hollow feeling had eased, somehow, and Tommy was suddenly in no hurry to get back inside. "You don't look the slightest bit drunk. Have you turned teetotaller, Alfie?"

His companion shrugged, heavy shoulders rolling under t-shirt and plaid. "I don't get sloppy at company hurrahs, love," he said. "Hard to erase that picture when you're back at the grindstone trying to cut deals with suppliers and distributors. I save my getting squiffy for when I'm with friends."

"And you've got some," Tommy scoffed. "Friends."

"Not all the ones I'd like." Alfie reached into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt and pulled out a cellophane bag tied with twine, holding it up by the cinched bit to swing in front of Tommy's face before Tommy took it and opened it, taking out one of the rings inside and laying it in his palm before looking at Alfie, perplexed. 

"What's this?"

"Oh, come on now, Thomas -- I know you Shelbys grew up the ragamuffins on your street, but surely even you, the benighted orphans, had biscuits once in a while? A chocolate finger or two? A fucking Jammie Dodger on the High Holy Days or whatever your kind celebrates when you're not busy moaning and rending your garments?"

Tommy scowled, closing his hand over the bag and -- just barely -- easing up his grip enough not to crush the remaining rings of cookie it held. "High fashion party rings," Tommy said after a moment of studying the one in his palm. Begrudgingly. The damn thing had flower petals as decoration. He looked up at Alfie. "Why on earth--"

--and then he was being kissed, and Alfie tasted somehow of fizzy lemonade and smelled of cake frosting and hops, and his hand was cupping Tommy's jaw (so deft! Who would have thought) and stroking the crest of his cheekbone with one thumb. His mouth is like a peach, Tommy thought stupidly as he breathed and opened up and swayed into Alfie's space. Or maybe a satsuma.

Alfie's lips closed and he smiled, not moving away, staying close with Tommy in his space. "Been wanting to do that all fucking night," he rumbled. "Longer, if I'm honest."

"Make some fucking sense," Tommy said, because damned if he was gonna give in that easily to this. He curved his palm enough that the scalloped edges of the delicate biscuit nipped slightly at his skin and said, "you never liked me. I never liked you. It's a happily mutual distaste we've maintained for each other."

Alfie made a hurt, indignant noise. "You wot! I know for a fact that I've been nothing but lovely to you, sweetie, sheer loveliness on a sodding stick."

"You're in my phone as 'that loser who keeps texting me,' and I'm in your phone as 'how about no.'"

Alfie considered this for a moment. "Aside from that." He laughed and took Tommy's hand, curling his fingers over into a fist until the biscuit he was holding snapped, in one place, then two, then crushed into more pieces than Tommy could tell without opening his hand to look. "Don't tell me you'll let a little thing like that stand in the way of what could be a bloody mind-blowing shag for the both of us, Tommy. After I brought you a little prezzie and all."

"Which you've just ruined."

There's three more." But Alfie looked fainly contrite, letting Tommy unfurl his hand while still keeping his own beneath it. Tommy sniffed and tossed his head imperiously, the smell of sugar seeping up from the warmth of his palm. 

"How about no," Tommy said, and ducked his head, licking up crumbs and icing and petals like a horse nosing around for a sugar cube, licking the gritty bits down onto Alfie's fingers, grabbing his wrist and turning his hand over, sucking down hard on that crown tattoo as he listened to Alfie sucking in his breath like a dying man.

Straightening, Tommy slid his tongue against the roof of his mouth and swallowed, lips parted, eyes hooded as he regarded Alfie steadily. "Did you pick up those business cards like I told you?" he asked, voice low and measured, thrumming in his throat. "Like a good little boy?"

Alfie reached into his back pocket, crumbs and spit smearing against his jeans, and brought out the slightly crumpled wad of cards, holding them pinched between thumb and forefinger. "Mmmm," Tommy hummed, and knocked his hand against Alfie's wrist, sending the slips of cardstock fluttering over the rail as he grabbed the back of Alfie's neck and kissed him, deep and wanting, all thoughts of shame or restraint sent down to the ground three floors under.

A beat passed, and then Alfie growled, the saber clatering against the concrete barrier when he shoved Tommy against the wall, hips crowding in against him, cock thick and promising when he rolled his groin into Tommy's and felt the answering rise there. "That loser, eh?" Alfie muttered, nipping hard at Tommy's jawline. "I'll make you eat those words along with the rest of your biscuits, pet, see if I don't before the night's through."

"You can make me do whatever you want, Mr. Solomons," Tommy said primly, knuckles white as he gripped the back of Alfie's belt, clung to the back of his collar, cellophane crinkling into the nape of Alfie's neck. "Dip your fucking toe into the secular festivities."

"I'll be dipping more than that, Tommy," Alfie said, with a firm thrust that drove Tommy's breath right out of him.

Maybe he'd have to ask Pol where he could find himself one of those mistletoe jumpers.

/end 

[tysonrunningfox]

Ripped: Part 19

Remember how much has happened in this AU?  So much has happened.  Things just keep happening.  

Ao3

Eretson works like someone who knows the goalposts will be shifted by the time that he gets there, but he sees it as a challenge, rather than a guarantee of failure. Maybe his ceaseless, determined flipping through pages and pictures and notes in an untidy, almost childish scrawl would be reassuring if Astrid weren’t still half cuffed to an office chair.

She knows her rights. She hasn’t been arrested officially, just taken in for questioning under a strong and understandable suspicion, and she could demand that he uncuff her or actually arrest her, but then she’d have to decide what to do next.

Her eyes flick to the evidence bag in the middle of Eretson’s cluttered desk, a halo of medical records strewn around it, all of them read twice. The bullet looks harmless now, mushroomed and useless, a relic crusted streaked with long dried blood and scratched by the tools that removed it from the site of its discovery.

Stable.

When they left the hospital, Snotlout was stable, and Hiccup was anything but. Stable still isn’t an answer, it’s not the black and white yes or no that he wanted. She didn’t know what to do but tell him the truth, tethered to the chair, back cramping from twisting to keep her hand on his shoulder as he stared sheathed daggers at the wall.

When her uncle died, it wasn’t sudden. It was months and months of doctors and fighting and planning for the impossible, and she remembers feeling like something was wrong with her when relief hit quicker than grief did. Hiccup took no time at all to shift into the stunned limbo that precedes bad news, like it was a practiced position, a place he was comfortable living until he remembered its inherent timeline.

If she complained about the cuffs now, she could get back to the hospital and be there, if nothing else. Except she doesn’t know if Hiccup is still there or if there’s even a reason to still be there, since her phone is back on the kitchen counter at her apartment. The apartment she was so stubborn to leave until she had to, only to be discovered by Eretson, her sweatshirt a finger in a dam breach that was letting boats through.

If he uncuffed her, she’d have to go back there and face the consequences of clinging to her sunk cost.

Consequences exist even when you don’t face them, of course, but she’d like to think the three in the morning buffer against them exists for more than just a private tour that never should have led to all of this.

“Have you found anything?” She asks when the clock on the wall strikes three thirty, her voice coming out tired even though she doesn’t think she could sleep when she can’t blink without seeing Hiccup’s panicked face or the wall outside her building’s courtyard splattered with blood.

“Huh?” Eretson looks up with bleary eyes, startled like he forgot she was there.

“Have you found anything?” She can’t blame him for bringing her here, given the circumstances, but the brutal silence is absolutely his doing. “Any leads? Did the doctors give you anything?”

He looks at her for a long, exhausted moment, waffling over treating her as a suspect or something else.

“You know, I’d be a pretty shitty murderer if I paused my grand escape to try and stop the bleeding.” It’s the last thing she should say and the only thing she can. Her voice sounds metallic like it did in a hospital hallway, telling Hiccup that for a second, ‘Snotlout Jorgenson’ was a name that would be whispered late at night on the corner by someone in a vintage Tom Brady jersey to set the scene.

“It’s a nine millimeter,” Eretson picks up the evidence bag and stares at the bullet, “police standard issue, but that doesn’t mean anything because anyone could buy a box of the same at any Walmart in this bloody city.”

“So it doesn’t mean anything?” She sighs, slumping down in the uncomfortable chair and trying and failing to find a new part of her butt to sit on. “We spent two hours at the hospital waiting for them to dig it out of his shoulder and it doesn’t mean anything?”

“The doctor said the angle of the first shot, the one with the exit wound, indicated he was shot by someone taller than him.” Eretson looks levelly at her for a second and she waits for him to present his case again, linking the truth into a tangled web of a cage around her, but then he shrugs. “So it could have been anybody.”

Astrid snorts, too exhausted to stop herself, and Eretson relaxes ever so slightly, leaning forward in his chair to take his suit jacket off and pushing up his sleeves.

“I’ve spent the last twenty four hours sifting through every connection you have to this case,” he folds his hands on the desk and sighs. She doesn’t doubt it, from the circles under his eyes and the fact he’s only broken concentration to refill his coffee mug. “You’re halfway through your Masters in criminology at Berk University, I could use a second set of eyes.”

“I’m a suspect,” she says automatically, looking between the cuff on her wrist and the pile of papers on the desk that represent possibly the only way she could actually help Hiccup right now.

“My top suspect, in fact, until last night,” he stands up and stretches his arms over his head, “coffee?”

“What changed? I’m still connected to the other three m—events.” She barely stops herself from calling it a murder, but the damage is done anyway, and it feels like Hiccup must have heard her from across town, giving him the closure he wanted with the heaviest consequences attached.

“Like you said, you’d be a pretty shit murderer if you stopped to save your victim’s life.” He picks up his coffee mug and hints at another almost smile, “plus, anyone who disembowels indiscriminately in alleyways wouldn’t stop to help someone as annoying as Jorgenson. Do you not drink coffee?”

“Yes, I mean, I do,” she nods, shocked but grateful, and on the way to the door he pauses, flicking a finger against the chain on her handcuffs. The cuff around the arm of the chair falls open, like it wasn’t ever fully clicked into place and her eyes widen. “You were testing me.”

“Cream or sugar?”

“If I’d done it, I would have tried to get away,” she takes the key that he hands her and unlocks the cuff on her wrist, rubbing the sore line from where she stretched against it in the hospital.

“Black then.” He leaves the office and she scoots her chair forward, starting her sort at the outside of his piles and working in.

The coffee is burned, but it’s enough to keep her awake as she updates herself on the parts of the case she isn’t familiar with. There are witness accounts, most of them Grimborn enthusiasts from Hiccup’s doomed tour, drawing parallels that half make sense. There are notes on knives and how they cut and doodles of how victims were dragged to where they were found. There’s screenshots of the footage of her and Hiccup and a Google Maps estimate of how long it takes to walk between locations on various paths.

It’s the most complete file Astrid has ever encountered, the criminology story problem that doesn’t exist in which a case begs for a one variable solution.

“It’s a set up.” It’s seven thirty in the morning when she finally gets there, startled enough out of her study by the first few diligent officers settling at their desks to look up. “It’s too thorough.”

“Maybe I’m just good at my job, Miss Hofferson,” Eretson’s eyes don’t stray from his most recent print out, but the straight-faced tough-guy routine doesn’t work on her exhaustion frayed nerves.

“The witness accounts all agree, there’s not one Grimborn-ologist in here claiming a double event with a murder across the city or trying to call out a politician.”

“To be fair, one thought it was aliens,” he puts down what he’s reading.

“There’s always someone who says aliens,” she rolls her eyes, sliding that particular account towards him, “that was the body found behind the frozen yogurt shop. It probably has a rooftop refrigerator unit, the spaceship sound they claimed they heard could be someone walking on sheet metal.”

“Both you and Hiccup were there,” Eretson narrows his eyes and slowly slides a stack of papers towards her, “can you make any sense of this?”

It’s a sheet detailing health insurance payouts related to Snotlout’s benefits. Yearly physicals, the occasional mental health visit relating to occupational concerns, a couple of internal medicine visits pertaining to something gastro-intestinal. All in all typical, except for the prosthetics fittings.

Every visit is listed in chronological order and it appears that Eretson has some sort of provisional access to the system, because the patient in each line is only identified as ‘Male: 25’.

“Yeah,” she sets the stack down and waits for Eretson to reveal what he knows, Hiccup’s casual kindness to someone now fossilized in Berkian history on the front of her mind.

“I didn’t know I was risking a workplace sensitivity lecture every time I said Jorgenson didn’t have a leg to stand on,” Eretson jokes, still testing, still refusing to commit to anything in case he’s wrong and Astrid sees for a moment what she’s not allowed to see.

She sees that the well-documented case is still open and unsolved because Eretson refuses to ask for clarification, let alone help.

“It’s not him,” she sets the stack down, “it’s Hiccup. He has a prosthetic leg, he’s obviously on Snotlout’s insurance.”

“Do you know the second victim?” Eretson’s trust wavers briefly as he shoves a picture in front of Astrid.   Dave, who Hiccup introduced her to when one murder seemed impossible, in an army uniform, younger and better groomed.

She’s said too much to Eretson already, but she’s also learned more than she ever trying to stay out of it, like that was ever possible.

“Hiccup introduced us once,” she makes her move, hoping it’s not a mistake, “he knew him from volunteering at Gobber’s shelter. At some point he gave Dave an old prosthetic that he wasn’t using.”

“He didn’t mention that.” He tucks the picture of Dave back into his folder, “neither did you when I interviewed you at the crime scene.”

“Well, it would have made him look pretty guilty.” She shrugs, “especially after he stumbled upon two bodies in a row with word of mouth as his only alibi.”

“It would have, wouldn’t it?” Eretson looks at the clock and rubs his red eyes before standing. “You’ve given me lots to think about. Can I give you a ride home?”

“Home?” She thinks of the stain on the pavement by the courtyard wall and shakes her head, “I can stay here and help more, at least until we hear back from the hospital.”

“Grisly will be in soon, I think it’s in the best interest of my job if he doesn’t know that I let my top suspect see the case file.” He looks sympathetic anyway, more human for the night spent together.

“Right,” she nods, “makes sense.”

“Probably best if we leave through the back,” he double checks the hallway before waving her forward and herding her a little too fast to a door that opens into an alley that makes her head spin. An alley that looks like tours with Hiccup and blood and old pictures that don’t capture how it feels to see someone splayed out and taken apart.

Eretson doesn’t say anything when she gets in the front seat of his unmarked car and her eyes burn with the morning sun even through the window. Hours of reading without blinking enough in a vain attempt at not seeing what’s etched on the inside of her eyelids left them dry and itchy, and they seem to dry out more as the car approaches her building.

Her building that’s felt more like a bivouac than a home, exposed and impermanent in blunt ways that she pushed back at out of habit more than decision.

When the car stops and she looks up at the sound-deadened window of Elizabeth Smith’s apartment, her hand freezes on the handle.

“Miss Hofferson?” Eretson is all manners again and it’s so normal that it throws everything into sharp relief.

Ten feet away, she saw Snotlout almost die the night before. She’s used to handcuffs and polite police voices and the wrong end of murder accusations and suddenly the level head she prides herself on feels like a lead helmet, holding her down and drowning her in this chaos. If she gets out of the car right now like everything is normal and walks up into her apartment like it’s home, it would be inhaling brackish ooze and accepting her fate.

“Can you drive me to Ruffnut’s?” She re-buckles her seatbelt and starts giving him directions before he can ask about her change of heart.

She hasn’t showed up at someone’s house without texting first since elementary school, but she doesn’t hesitate to knock, pivoting again on a fallback point. Ruffnut was the first person she called when all of this started and maybe if she’d listened then, things would be different now.

But she wouldn’t have gotten to know Hiccup, and she feels awful for thinking it so soon after hearing those echoed gunshots and seeing Snotlout under the streetlight.

“Astrid?” Ruffnut opens the door in her pajamas, frowning slightly, “did you text?”

“No,” her voice shakes, just barely, but it’s enough for her friend to notice, “Eretson just dropped me off—”

“Is he still here?” She asks, too interested, and Astrid scowls, shouldering past her into her place.

“Is Tuff here?”

“What’s wrong?” Ruff shuts the door and follows her as she knocks on Tuffnut’s bedroom door.

“I’m mad at you, I’m here to see Tuff.”

“You’re mad at me?”

“Yes,” Astrid smacks Tuffnut’s door a couple more times until she hears signs of life inside, “Snotlout is actually a pretty good guy, I think. Or close to it. And you couldn’t take a murder investigation seriously enough to keep you from hitting on Eretson in front of him, let alone a relationship.”

“Giving me whiplash,” Ruffnut is genuinely concerned as she leans on the wall, “are you ok? What’s going on?”

“I thought I heard Astrid’s distinctively brutal knock at my door,” Tuffnut opens the door and places his hands on her shoulders before inhaling deeply. “You look like shit, what happened?”

“You don’t know.” She sighs, the weight of telling the story almost as heavy as the idea of living in it. She gains a new appreciation for the fact that Hiccup tells Viggo Grimborn’s story nightly, because the last few weeks must have felt like penance for something he didn’t do. Something horrible he’s been tied to for no reason.

“I don’t know anything,” Tuffnut grabs her arm and steers her towards their couch before sitting next to her, “and Ruffnut knows even less.”

“Not true, I know I was hanging out with Hiccup yesterday and he got some call and freaked out mumbling something about the hospital, but I definitely didn’t grab his ass that hard so—”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Astrid snaps, dry eyes suddenly wet as Tuffnut slings his arm over her shoulders.

“I was just kidding with him, Astrid, I know you like him, I wouldn’t—”

“You can’t take anything seriously, it’s all about how you can shock someone or—Snotlout was over at my place last night, I think he was worried I was scared or something,” her voice dips and she stares at her lap, “and I guess I should have been, because he got shot right outside.”

“Is he ok?” Ruffnut blanches and Astrid feels like she’s letting Hiccup down all over again when she shrugs.

“He wasn’t yesterday.”

Ruffnut starts texting, all traces of humor gone from her expression as Tuff gets the rest of the story, pausing Astrid at the crime scene to suggest that she take a shower. He listens through the bathroom doorway as she scrubs under her fingernails, trying to be as vague as possible about what happened with Eretson. Tuffnut would say things he shouldn’t, even if it does seem like Eretson is coming around.

To what, she’s not sure, but she can’t think about that anymore today, not without news.

Astrid’s just changing into the band tee-shirt Tuffnut insisted she borrow, as she’d earned it by telling Ruffnut off, when Ruff bursts into the room, phone outstretched.

“It’s Hiccup.”

“Hello?” Astrid mouths ‘thanks’ as Ruffnut sits on her brother’s bed, curled up and holding her knees.

“Hi, Astrid,” Hiccup sounds impossibly more tired than she feels and it makes her chest ache, worried and off center. “How’s it going?”

“That depends,” she sits down next to Ruffnut, “how’s it going over there?”

“He’s out of surgery, in the ICU, we’re just waiting for him to wake up now.”

“That’s great,” she nods, accepting Ruffnut’s head leaning on her shoulder, too relieved to stay mad.

“I tried to call you but—”

“Yeah, I don’t have my phone.”

“I thought you might have said that, but um, last night was…kind of a blur,” he leaves room for a laugh that doesn’t come, “did Eretson take it?”

“No, nothing like that.” It’s a new euphemism for ‘legally, it’s not any worse,’ and she hates coming up with those. “I can come down there and wait with you.”

“They’re only letting one visitor in the room right now, but I’ll keep you posted.” He sighs, “you sound tired.”

“So do you.” That gets a breathy, exhausted laugh she feels in her chest and Hiccup says something about a doctor heading his way before hanging up. “He said he’d keep us in the loop.”

“He told me Snotlout hasn’t woken up yet.” Ruffnut is unusually somber and Astrid nods. “Was he—I mean, did I piss him off?”

“You pissed me off,” she sighs, “did you know he got suspended because he wouldn’t speak up as a witness and complicate the case?”

“That’s stupid,” Ruff wipes her face but her guilty expression doesn’t budge, “he should have just lied.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t.”

Astrid doesn’t expect to be able to sleep, but the long night catches up to her almost as soon as she hits the twins’ couch. She sleeps past hospital visiting hours but is glad to wake up to a text that Snotlout woke up alright and the doctors think that the next day they should be able to move him to a more private room. She gets the feeling Hiccup isn’t going home, but doesn’t know what to say about it, especially from someone else’s phone. After all their dates but one became public domain on account of murder, it seems unnecessarily rude for this urge to comfort him to be between anyone but them.

So when he calls Ruffnut again the next morning, almost sheepishly asking if someone could bring him a phone charger and a toothbrush, Astrid gets a ride from Tuffnut. There’s a strange blast of déjà vu entering the hospital without handcuffs and seeing Hiccup in a corner chair in the waiting room, pale but livelier than he was sitting next to her and shaking two nights ago.

“Hey,” he stands up and the extra little hop on his right leg makes her think back to Eretson’s office and all the things she can’t say right now. “I walked down so that you wouldn’t have to sign in. Thanks, Sharon!” He waves at a nurse behind a nearby station and points with his shoulder down the hallway.

“Is she taking a shift?” The nurse raises a maternal eyebrow and Hiccup shakes his head.

“Just bringing me supplies, I told you I’m here for the long haul.”

“I don’t think he’d mind a break from you!” Nurse Sharon teases and Hiccup waves her off.

“How’s he doing?” Astrid asks, reaching for Hiccup’s hand and tugging lightly so that he’ll look at her.

He’s exhausted, face waxy and jawline dusted with more stubble than she’s seen him with. It makes him look younger instead of older, like he’s dealing with too much to remember to shave. His eyes are determined though, even if his expression is cautious, taut with hope he doesn’t want to have.

“He’s awake,” he shrugs, squeezing her fingers and pausing outside a door, “the stitches are holding, and his vitals look good. Mostly the doctors are worried about mental changes, since his heart stopped in the ambulance and he’d lost a lot of blood so they don’t know how long his brain went without oxygen. Memory loss or personality change or…”

“Hey,” she tilts his chin up with the toothbrush in the hand not holding his, “let’s just go in, ok?”

“Sure,” he nods, self-convincing, before opening the door.

Snotlout is propped halfway seated in the hospital bed, tubes from his arms connected to a beeping machine at his side. She remembers being twenty in her uncle’s hospital room, watching similar machines stop beeping, but when she glances back at Snotlout, the comparison is shattered. His shoulders are bandaged, and his face is bleary, but he’s flipping her off with a disconcertingly gloating grin.

“Hey Astrid, Pats are winning.”

Personality change seems an unlikely symptom.

“Put your arm down,” Hiccup snaps, rushing to Snotlout’s bedside and ignoring when the middle finger is turned on him, “someone just tried to shoot it off.”

“It’s not football season,” Astrid tries not to feel awkward about how comfortable it feels to sit on the small couch next to the bed and look up at the TV. The relief is like a drug, an internal release as strong as whatever’s obviously dripping into Snotlout’s arm through one of those tubes. “Is this a rerun? You’re watching a rerun football game, really?”

“My boys are bringing it home, again,” he laughs then glares at Hiccup, “stop reading the papers, the doctors read the papers.”

“This says your cholesterol is up from your last check up, I’m going to ask a nurse about it.”

“Dude, I just got shot.”

“With a butter bullet?” Hiccup snorts, shaking his head and hanging the chart reluctantly back on the foot of Snotlout’s bed.

“No, with an actual bullet from a fucking gun, so could you please sit down next to your hot girlfriend and shut up for a second?” He winks at Astrid with both eyes as he compliments her and she remembers the reason for her visit.

“I brought the charger,” she takes it out of her pocket, but Hiccup isn’t paying attention as he’s staring Snotlout down with his best stern nurse impression.

“The doctors said mental changes could be anger issues—”

“Fuck off.”

“I don’t think he’s having any issue being angry,” she tries to joke, but it falls flat with Hiccup’s falling expression.

“Or memory loss, and you don’t remember who shot you.”

“Yeah, I was pretty busy being shot, I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself.” Snotlout’s heart monitor beeps slightly faster and Hiccup panics, rushing over to pet his head.

“You have to keep your blood pressure down—”

“Hiccup,” Astrid stands up and grabs his shoulder, attempting to pull him back towards the couch with her, but he shrugs her off.

“The stitches in your artery aren’t healed and it could burst—”

“Well it’ll burst all over your face because you won’t get out of mine!” He snaps, and the door cracks open enough for a nurse to peek her head in.

“Everything ok?”

“I don’t know, Hiccup, is everything ok?” Snotlout looks pointedly at the couch. Or he tries to and his bleary eyes drift sideways towards the floor.

“We’re fine,” Hiccup sits down, hands folded neatly on his lap, and Astrid sits next to him with a nod.

“Let me know if you need anything,” the nurse gives Hiccup a warning look as she shuts the door and Astrid lets her hand rest on his knee to keep him from jumping back up the second she’s gone.

“Just remember, the blood pressure,” Hiccup mumbles and Snotlout rolls his eyes.

“I know, which is why I’m relaxing,” he points at the TV, “by watching the Pats win, like they always do.”

“It sounds more like you’re gloating to me,” Astrid snorts and Hiccup relaxes in a disjointed, uneven way, like clothes falling halfway off a hanger.

“Maybe I can relax a tiny bit about the personality change.”

Snotlout’s hand curls into a triumphant fist on his lap when a play he had to be expecting goes right and Astrid shakes her head, relaxing back into the couch and dragging Hiccup with her. He’s more than stiff, he’s pulled taut, like invisible wires are attached to every point of him and yanking.

“Have you left since you got here?” She recognizes his jacket from the other night and maybe the shirt underneath it.

“Nah,” he shrugs with none of his usual bounce and Astrid wants to cut the cables holding him so rigid.

“Or slept?”

“Sleep?” He snorts, “who needs sleep?” There’s a frantic tinge to the edge of his smile, but it feels like the first time he’s actually looked at her today when he drops the joke, “just kidding, I got a couple of hours this morning when they moved him to the room with the couch. How about you?”

“More than that,” she shrugs, “not lots. Ruff’s couch isn’t the best.”

“Ruff’s couch?” He turns his shoulders to look at her more fully.

“I haven’t been back to my place either,” she shrugs, and even saying it sounds wrong. It’s Elizabeth Smith’s place and it has been for a hundred years.

“Astrid,” Snotlout says her name like he’s about to ask for too much and she narrows her eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Can you scratch my feet?”

“I’ve got it,” Hiccup jumps up, hopping again on his right foot and stumbling to the foot of the bed.

“No,” Snotlout shakes his head, “I want Astrid to do it.”

“Which foot itches?”

“It’s weird if you do it, dude,” Snotlout squirms, “it’s kind of a sex thing.”

“Then I’m definitely not doing it,” Astrid opens her mouth to add something addressing the fact that she didn’t try and save his life just so that he could be disgusting about it, but Hiccup speaks up first.

“I would say that I’ll call my mom right now, except you know you’re not supposed to raise your blood pressure!”

“Dude,” Snotlout adjusts his seat, eyes clearer than they have been since Astrid arrived, the shock of what Hiccup just said blazing through the painkillers in his system, “I was just teasing Astrid because it’s funny when she gets all red and huffy. You’ve got to calm down.”

“I’m calm,” Hiccup examines his shaking hands and laughs, “ok, maybe I’m not, but—”

“Come here,” Astrid doesn’t mean it like an order, but Hiccup takes it like one, deflating exhausted with the weight of momentary decision off his shoulders. When he sits down next to her, she tries to rub the back of his neck, but it’s so tense she makes about as much headway as she would on the wooden arm of the couch.

“Don’t do that,” he groans, head in his hands, elbows on his knees. “That feels too good, it’ll put me to sleep.”

“Maybe you should sleep,” she rubs a circle into his shoulder with her thumb and ignores the selfish, gratified twist in her stomach when he groans again. She’s felt helpless since the other day in Eretson’s office when the truth twisted circumstance and shoved her in the middle, but this is something she can fix. She can get Hiccup to sleep, she can take some of the stress literally off of his shoulders.

“What if the doctors—”

“I’ll talk to the doctors,” she insists, pushing on his far shoulder and guiding his head into her lap when his resistance runs out. It takes him a minute to accept the position and curl his legs up on the couch, shifting to get comfortable. She brushes his hair off of his forehead and he sighs, resting his hand on her knee and stroking Tuffnut’s borrowed jeans with a slow thumb. “Go to sleep.”

His head feels heavier as he drifts off, mumbling some kind of approval when she starts combing her fingers through his hair. It’s soft and a little overgrown, edges curling slightly above the collar of the jacket she should have suggested he take off before laying down. Boyish where his stubble isn’t, the contrast even more striking on his slack sleeping face.

“You’re like the Hiccup whisperer,” Snotlout says after a few minutes of silence, shifting in bed and wincing more than she’s seen.

“Are you ok?”

“No, I just got fucking shot,” he snorts, “it hurts even through the fun stuff they gave me, but if I so much as flinch, Hiccup has a fit about it.”

“He’s worried about you,” she traces the dark line of his eyebrow and it relaxes at the touch. Snotlout is watching his face, some drug-addled version of fond, and as irritating as the concept of the friend-group was the other night, she feels it now. “I was pretty worried about you too.”

It says something about her tenacity that it took this much for her to stop seeing being alone as a victory, but everyone has their limit.

“His mom’s really hot,” Snotlout sighs, relaxing back into his pillows.

“Huh?”

“Hiccup’s mom? Milf. It pisses him off when I point it out, kind of an inside joke.” He looks back at Hiccup, frowning like he just said something normal for this situation. “When I was moving in, she was trying to convince Hiccup to move back with her. It was like right after his dad died and the room I was moving into was this sad shrine he wouldn’t touch.”

“Oh, that’s…I’m sorry.”

“Our dads hated each other,” his eyes flick bitterly at the door, “which, considering who’s here right now and who’s not, I think we know who is actually a piece of shit. I was just trying to get out of the town I grew up in, because I knew I wanted to be a cop and if I did it there, I’d just be working for my dad and at my uncle’s funeral someone was asking Hiccup about getting a roommate.”

“You guys are so close, I assumed you had to have grown up together.”

“Like I saw him at Christmas and stuff, sometimes, he’s like my second cousin once across or some shit, but he was always doing something nerdy so we didn’t really talk.” He looks at her like he’s asking her to swear on something vital to him and she looks back at Hiccup’s head in her lap, his long eyelashes twitching in his sleep. “I just moved in because I needed a place I could afford, but I couldn’t take all his moping. He used to stare at the front door like he was waiting for his dad to come through it or something, depressing shit. If I didn’t do something, I was going to lose my mind.”

“So you made friends.”

“I tried, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s a weirdo.” He smiles affectionately, “I tried taking him to clubs, but he doesn’t even have one left foot, so dancing is a lost cause, just a warning. I made him a tinder account and got him a date with some girl who wanted to go on a geeky historical tour and you know how that ended up.”

“He started doing Grimborn tours.” As complicated as this whole mess is, she still can’t make herself regret it.

“And he started going to class again and generally acting human. Well, his weirdo version of human anyway.” Snotlout sighs, “I’m really glad I didn’t bang his mom, then this really would have been like his dad getting shot all over again.”

“I don’t think you saved him any grief, Snot.”

“Maybe I’ve still got a shot then,” he grins, raising an eyebrow, and Astrid sighs.

“You know when you love someone, and they do or say something so incomprehensibly stupid that you judge yourself for a second? Like there’s that second you think to yourself: ‘I had to choose that one’?”

“I live in that feeling,” Snotlout shakes his head at Hiccup. “Why?”

“Me too,” she looks at Snotlout and admits defeat, “but I think it’s about to get a lot worse with the whole friend-group to consider.”

[lovemesomerafael]

El Amor Todo Lo Puede          Chapter 52:  Over

Source:  @fortheloveofbarba

Chapters 1-50  Chapter 51

Sitting in Rafael and Laura’s living room, the assembled cops held a strategy session no one had seen coming.  Laura was barely there, but clawing her way back.  She had to fight for every word it took to explain what she had seen and what, somewhere in the dark shadows of her mind, she had finally put together.  Carisi knew everything she knew about the case. He saw immediately what they’d missed as soon as Laura pointed it out and, from there, he carried the weight of explaining the case to the Chicago detectives.  They listened and asked perceptive questions that showed their expertise, as well as their deep desire to do something about what this prick Randolph had done to one of their own.  

Although Lieutenant Benson was there, there was no question that Voight was in charge.  Laura had asked him to help her, and everyone in the room knew what that meant.  She was not asking for help with clean, within-the-lines police work.  Benson was conflicted and, frankly, afraid of what this might lead to, but she was also as enraged as she had ever been about anything.  This bastard had killed Rafael.  She might not be willing to go to the lengths Voight would, but she was damn well going to hear him out.  She also admitted to herself that she could pull her detectives at any time, and still be fairly confident Voight’s team would do what needed to be done without them. Cowardly?  False virtue?  Maybe. But she didn’t kid herself about what she felt.  

“Listen,” Voight said from his position on the arm of Laura’s chair.  “We can get this asshole.   From what Carisi just said, there’s gonna be plenty of evidence.  He’s been right in front of us the whole time.  It’s really just a matter of putting it together a different way.  Which means, we do this right, we’re gonna be able to take the whole group down without needing too much more.”

Carisi appreciated Voight’s use of the word “us”, when he could easily have pointed out that it was NYPD and JTTF who had missed Randolph’s role up to now.

Voight took a moment to look into the eyes of everyone sitting in a tight circle on the furniture around him.  “So here’s the thing.  We’re gonna need to do this right.  We go off half-cocked, we may get Randolph, but the group survives.  Anybody willing to live with that?”

There was a chorus of negative responses, sprinkled with expletives.

“But it’s not gonna be easy, ‘cuz half of us are out of our jurisdiction and we’re not waiting for the feds.  I don’t want them anywhere near this, getting in the way and slowing things down.  Liv, how do we make sure whatever we find stands up?”

“I know how,” she responded.  “I’ll need to call in a couple of favors, and so will Ed.  But there’s never been a better reason.  You deal with strategy.  We’ll deal with authority.”

Captain Tucker was very deliberately not in the room.  He and Olivia both knew that this conversation was likely to be one it was in his best interests, as IAB, not to hear.    

The next morning, all four Chicago detectives were wearing JTTF shields. Just like Carisi and Parker, they’d been temporarily assigned JTTF credentials to take part in this case.  Nobody knew what Benson and Tucker had done to make that happen, or to stop JTTF from taking over, and nobody asked.  

Laura had given her bed – her and Rafael’s bed – over to her parents the night before.  She was still barely speaking, but as soon as she realized they’d been sleeping on the dreadful hide-a-bed in her couch, she had insisted.  She had slept on the couch, with her brothers on the floor nearby. They were planning to return to Chicago the following day to run the business, but their parents were planning to stay until Laura no longer needed them, however long that might be.

Laura realized through the thick fog that still enveloped her that they were all exhausted.  Her parents hadn’t even stirred when she’d tiptoed into her bedroom to get clothes and, more telling still, hadn’t heard her tap in the combination to her gun safe, which was on one of the bedside tables.

When she tiptoed out into the living room, Steve was still sound asleep, too.  She had a vague memory of him sitting up with her all the nights since…  He must need sleep more than anyone.  But her younger brother Dan’s eyes were wide open and he was frowning at her, taking in the Glock and the shield at her waist.

“You’ve got to be kidding.  What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What I have to.”

“How can you be thinking of working right now?”

“Danny…”  It took her a long time to form the next sentence.  “We’re going to get him.”  

Dan looked at her with sudden understanding.

“Fuck him up,” he answered, his voice full of rage.  “I’ll cover you here.”

“Thanks.”

 The strategy session took place around the conference table in the SVU squad room.  There was a lot to plan.  Now that they had figured out the true structure of the group, they had identified several key members who all needed to be taken down simultaneously.  There could not be an opportunity for one to learn they’d been identified and warn the others.  This group had resources.  If they ran, they’d never be found.

Laura was still moving very slowly, so she was about half an hour late to the meeting.  As she walked into the squad room, every voice stopped mid-syllable.  What the hell?  She buried her husband yesterday and she was like a broken robot.  Now, today, she wants to work?

Olivia stood from the table and was about to say something to that effect, but Voight cut her off.  

“’Morning, Parker.  Glad you’re here.  We’re gonna need you for this.”  His expression defied anyone in the room to challenge him.  No one did.

The meeting was a long one.  They had to go back over all the evidence and fit it into its proper place in the true picture, now that they had it.  Then they had to figure out what else they would need.

Olivia felt bad for the poor ADA.  She was briefed on the case, and very quick on the uptake besides. But she was in an impossible position, and she knew it.  Every word she said was filtered through, “Is that what Barba would do?” and every member of SVU was comparing her to Barba in everything she did.  But she was tough and mad as hell about Barba’s murder.  She was glad to be able to be part of getting the assholes who had killed him, so she just shook it off.  Besides, the squad needed her.  They needed to be sure that what they did would burn the hate group to the ground.

Finally, in the late afternoon, the team had a plan and warrants, and were ready to hit the streets.  Platt partnered with Rollins, Burgess with Carisi, and Atwater with Olivia.  Each team had a target.  Voight kept Laura with him and Fin.  They were going after Randolph.  

Each team needed to obtain very specific evidence related to their suspect.  Platt and Rollins had both the simplest and most difficult job: they needed to get a confession.  Rollins’ impression of Platt was that Platt was probably very, very good at getting those. She was looking forward to seeing her in action.  Burgess and Carisi needed something tying their suspect to the bombing.  They had a search warrant, and were going to have to hope they found something.  But there was a good chance Randolph had helped them there.  Because he kept himself so far removed from obvious involvement in the group’s activities, there was a good chance the bomb had been built in the apartment they were going to search.  If it was, there would be evidence.  After Burgess and Carisi collared their guy, they and the CSU team were in for a long afternoon and evening.  Olivia and Atwater had the toughest assignment evidence-wise, because they honestly didn’t know what they were looking for.  Literature and other items simply espousing the hate group’s views weren’t enough.  Having those things wasn’t illegal and wasn’t enough to tie their guy to the group.  So far, all the FBI had on him was witnesses placing him with other group members.

And then there was Randolph.  They didn’t even know where he lived.  Which meant that Voight and Fin might well be roughing up a couple of people looking for him. Ordinarily, Laura would be right in there with them, but neither Voight nor Fin had any idea what to expect from her today.  They could always hope that one of the suspects being rounded up by the other teams would tell them where to find Randolph, but they couldn’t count on that.

Their first stop was a surprisingly upscale tavern.  Fin looked around with distaste at the booths with tall backs that went nearly to the ceiling, the upholstered barstools, and the tasteful décor.  He wanted to shoot the place up.  “Guess hate pays pretty good,” he muttered.  

“Not today,” Voight snarled.  

The bartender made them for cops the moment they walked in.  He didn’t even need to see Susie White – or whatever her real name was – bringing up the rear.  Voight and Fin bellied up to the bar in front of the bartender.  Laura continued around the bar to stand next to him.

“Hey-“ the bartender began to object.

Voight slapped his face around to the front again.  “You don’t need to worry about her unless you don’t answer my questions.  Where’s Randolph?”  

The guy stood up straighter and crossed his arms.  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Really?”  Voight asked, looking pointedly at Laura.  “You know who that is?”

“Yeah, some fuckin’ undercover cop.  So?”

“So your friend Randolph killed her husband.  What kinda mood you think she’s in?  Think she might want a piece a’ you?”  

“She’s a midget,” the bartender scoffed.  

A few seconds later, from where his face was squashed painfully against the floor, the bartender tried to complain.  Voight didn’t even look over the bar to see what Laura was doing to him.  I guess she’s not just along for the ride, he thought.  There were very few people in the bar, and some of those had left hurriedly when the detectives walked in.  The rest couldn’t see anything happening behind the bar, and appeared to be trying very hard not to.

“I don’t see anything wrong here,” Voight said calmly.  “But if you have a beef, maybe you should think about telling me what I want to know.  ‘Cuz you gotta think my friend here’s got some anger issues right about now.”

There was a pain-filled squeak from behind the bar.  It was all Fin could do not to stand up on the rail of the bar to see what Laura was doing to the bartender.  The bartender continued to whine, getting louder in his protests.  Voight and Fin heard Laura growl something too quiet to hear, followed by a thump and a screech.  Voight raised an eyebrow at Fin.  

“How about now?  Know Randolph now?”  Voight asked in that same, nonchalant tone.

The bartender suddenly knew Randolph, but didn’t know where to find him.  He did, however, give them the name of someone who would know, and an address.  

“Now, here’s the problem you got,” Voight said to the bartender as he stood up from the floor, flexing his shoulders and rubbing his neck.  “You gotta decide whether to call Randolph and tell him we’re coming for him.  If you don’t, he’s gonna kill you.  If you do, she’s gonna kill you.  So let me break this down for you.  Your only shot is to keep your mouth shut and hope we nail him, because any other scenario ends with you dead.  Understand?”

The bartender understood.

The house in Bay Ridge was nice.  It looked like a nice family would live there, rather than the filth that actually did.  Voight and Fin planned to simply walk up to the front door.  That would work for them, but Randolph knew Laura’s face.  They’d had to drop her off a block away so that she could make her way through yards to cover the back of the house.  

The door was opened by a woman who looked like a soccer mom. The smell of something cooking wafted out the door, and she smiled at the detectives.  “Hello.  Can I help you?”

Fin kept his voice low.  He flashed his shield, motioned toward where Voight was doing the same, and said, “You are in a world of hurt, lady.  We got a warrant to search this house.  That can go down easy, or it can go down hard.  Either way, it’s happening.  You cooperate, it’ll go better for you.  Now.  Randolph in there?”

The woman’s face went slack for a moment as she determined what to do.  She chose wrong.  Beginning to yell, she tried to slam the door before Fin and Voight could shove their way in. There were a series of noises that sounded like they came from upstairs in the house as Fin and Voight overpowered the woman, and Voight was not gentle as he cuffed her to the banister while Fin tore up the stairs.  

They weren’t fast enough, because there was a back staircase and Randolph had been prepared in case this moment should come.  Warned by the woman’s shouts, he had picked up the pistol he kept an arm’s length away at all times and rocketed down the back staircase into the attached garage.  The first hint Laura had that anything was happening was the sound of the garage door at the front of the house opening.  She ran full-speed along the side of the house to the front, reaching it just as a late-model sedan crashed through the garage door before it was halfway up.  From her position at the side of the garage, she took aim, but had to pull back to safety when Randolph fired a number of wild shots with one hand while the car hurtled backward into the street.

“Oh, fuck no,” Laura growled, unable to get off even one effective shot.  She was across the yard and into the unmarked squad car before Fin and Voight sprang through the front door, and had the car started by the time they threw themselves in.  The tires squealed loudly as she turned the car around to race after Randolph.  

As they drove, Voight called the local cops to come and arrest the woman, then called the other teams.  The house was in one of those planned neighborhoods where the streets were short and confusing, purposely designed for a minimum of traffic and to slow those cars that did pass through.  It made catching up with Randolph easier than it otherwise would have been.  He got out of the neighborhood ahead of them, but they could see his car in the distance once he hit a main thoroughfare, weaving around other cars and raising smoke as he screeched the tires.  

Randolph seemed to be heading for a particular destination. They wondered aloud what it could be, but had no ideas.  All they could do was follow him.  There was no hope of the other teams making it to join the chase in time – they were in Brooklyn, and the other teams were in Manhattan - and the local cops would just fuck things up.  Platt and Rollins had their suspect in the box, already talking, and Carisi and Burgess had theirs cuffed in his apartment.  They were helping the CSU team by none-too-gently getting their suspect to point out where Randolph had made the bomb, and other evidence that would bury both the suspect and Randolph.  Olivia and Atwater had located their suspect, too, but were currently chasing him on foot through Chinatown.  It was up to Voight, Fin, and Laura to take down Randolph.

He pulled onto the Fort Hamilton Parkway and dodged pedestrians and other cars as he flew through neighborhoods, blowing stoplights all the way. As the detectives had expected, Randolph got onto the Gowanus Expressway.  That was actually a good thing.  Although there were no pedestrians or traffic signals, and all the cars were moving in the same direction, which allowed Randolph to go much faster, it also allowed Laura to concentrate on driving, rather than the hundred potential accidents that had confronted her every second on the Parkway.  

When Randolph screamed off the Expressway at the last second before passing an exit, Laura was forced to lose a few seconds avoiding other cars as she followed him.  He was heading to the waterfront.  Fin guessed he must have some kind of bolt hole down there, and hoped to lose them in the tangle of streets and obstacles near the piers.  

He almost succeeded.  He ditched the car in a massive parking lot full of row upon row of tractor-trailers.  There were just enough cars and shipping containers in the rows to keep the detectives from being able to follow him just by watching underneath the tractor-trailers, which meant the detectives had to split up to search for him.  They would have lost him had it not been for a couple of longshoremen sneaking a toke behind a warehouse, who shouted in surprise as Randolph went shooting past, pistol in hand.  All three detectives instinctively ran toward the sound, meeting up at a rusty, broken, corrugated steel fence.  Voight signaled Laura, who poked her Glock through the corner that had been pulled up to allow someone to slip through, followed by her head.  She took a very quick peek, saw an ancient 50-gallon drum still wobbling from Randolph’s passage, and scrambled through the hole, followed by Voight and then Fin.  Voight silently signaled Fin and Laura to go around the small, dilapidated warehouse directly in front of them, while he went the other way.  

Voight had much less distance to cover, so he reached the front of the leaky, rotted building first.  There was a large door for cargo to come in, and within that a smaller, man-sized door.  The man-sized door was ajar.  

When Fin and Laura joined him at the door, they silently signaled a plan and, Voight in the lead, burst into the warehouse.  They were met instantly by gunshots, but they’d been prepared for that and had ducked behind crates the second they were through the door. Voight didn’t bother trying to talk to Randolph.  He wasn’t going to give himself up.  Instead, Voight signaled Laura to keep him busy with a gunfight while he and Fin circled their way through the maze of crates, barrels, boxes, and what looked like bins of discarded auto parts to where Randolph was holed up.  As long as he kept shooting, it was easy to know where that was.

To give them more cover, Laura began shouting to Randolph. Even Voight was impressed at some of the filthy names she called him.  He figured it probably felt good to be able to speak her mind to the man who had murdered her husband.  But he knew it wouldn’t be enough.  

Randolph shouted back, taunting her with her pain.  Big mistake, Fin thought as he maneuvered, step by tiny, silent step, to where Randolph crouched.  Fin caught sight of Voight, twenty feet beyond him, as he passed between two stacks of boxes.  Randolph appeared to have no idea they were there.  God bless the dumb ones, Fin said to himself.  The ones who let themselves be blinded by hate, or anger, or lust, or whatever their thing was.  

Laura came very close to winging Voight as she narrowed in on Randolph based on where his shots were coming from.  As it was, he got a cut on his cheek from a splinter of wood flying off the crate she’d hit.  And then Voight heard Fin’s voice, low and menacing as he told Randolph it was over. Randolph turned to attempt to fight, but got Fin’s fist – gun still in it – across the face for his trouble.  He dropped his gun and Voight yelled to Laura to cease fire.  

Minutes later, Laura stood, panting, her Glock still in her hand as it hung at her side, while Fin led Randolph, cuffed and spitting mad, to an open spot on the floor of the small warehouse.  Voight kicked Randolph’s knees without a word, dropping him to a kneeling position.  Fin stood on one side, Voight on the other, as Laura deliberately, thoughtfully approached him.  She still wore the look of shocked horror she’d worn since she’d learned of Rafael’s death, but now it was overlayed with a hatred Fin would never have believed her capable of.   

She carefully lifted her Glock, taking her time as she aimed it between his eyes from six inches away.  No one spoke.  The only sound was the ragged breathing of the four in the large room, all of them still winded.  They remained as they were for a long time, Randolph glaring at Laura, daring her to kill him, while Voight and Fin stood, just waiting to see what would happen.

Finally, it was Randolph who broke the silence.  Laura had seen it coming.  The hate dimmed as he began to fully understand that Voight and Fin were not going to interfere.  First he looked confused, flicking his eyes back and forth to each of them.  Then, when they showed no reaction, no emotion, no intention to influence what was about to happen, the first flickers of fear began to cross his face.  

“You can’t kill me,” he said.  “You’re cops.”

There was no response from any of the detectives, but Laura’s hand began, ever so slightly, to shake.  Tears began to form in her eyes, the first tears Fin had seen since the day Rafael died.  Laura lifted her left hand and cupped her right, seemingly to steady her gun as it aimed directly at Randolph’s forehead. Over the next minute, she began to cry.  Tears began, slowly at first, to form and grow, then fall of their own weight down her cheeks as she stood, a silent war raging within her.     

Voight spoke in a low, gravelly growl.  “Nobody’s gonna blame you if you end this prick.  He came at you when you tried to arrest him.  Or you can use my gun, I’ll say I’m the one who did him.  However you need this to go, I got you.”

“We got you,” Fin added quietly.

Randolph began to cry then, whispering, “Please… don’t”.  

Now Laura was fully crying, choking back sobs as her hands shook wildly holding the Glock on Randolph.  She opened her mouth wide in a silent scream, willing herself to shoot.  Then she began to shout - a long, loud, wordless yell as she pounded her foot against the floor, trying to make herself kill the bastard who had murdered Rafael.  

And then, as quickly as it had begun, Laura’s shouting stopped.  She composed her face into a tortured mask.  For long, tense moments, she stood like that, arms outstretched, weapon ready to fire, finger on the trigger, barrel six inches from the hated man’s forehead.

“BANG!”  She shouted, as loudly as she possibly could. Fin and Voight jumped.  Randolph gasped and a large, wet stain bloomed at the crotch of his pants.

With that, Laura ejected the magazine from her Glock, holding the gun in one hand, and the ammunition in the other.  Her arms hung limply at her sides and she fell to her knees on the greasy, dirty floor, head bowed to her chest.  Fin quickly pulled Randolph up by his arms and frogmarched him out to the squad car.  He was not going to get to see any more of the grief he had caused.    

Laura was wracked by huge sobs that convulsed her whole body. She dropped her gun and magazine, falling forward onto all fours and keening, gasping for breath between uncontrollable spasms of wailing.  Voight holstered his weapon and moved hers away, then knelt down beside her as she collapsed further, her forehead now resting on the concrete floor.  Sobs gave way to screams so loud they hurt Voight’s ears.  Laura began to pound the floor with her fist, again and again as she at last gave the first release to her anguished heartbreak. 

Voight simply stayed, kneeling next to her, a hand on her back, letting her scream and pound out her rage.  He wasn’t afraid of the power of her grief. He knew that power, and knew that, as much as you wanted it to kill you, it didn’t.  While he shed tears for Laura and for her Rafael, he took the opportunity to shed some for himself, for Justin, and for Al.  

Eventually, she tired herself out screaming and pounding the floor, and gave herself over to weeping, her sobs intermixed with cries of torment. The floor began to be wet with her tears, and Voight could see that she was making no effort to stop the strings of saliva that occasionally dripped from her mouth, open wide to release the animal sounds she needed to make.

It was well over half an hour later when she lifted herself up, just enough to fall against Voight.  He caught her in his arms. 

“For what it’s worth,” he whispered, stroking her hair, “It doesn’t make you feel any better.  Pain’s the same whether you take him out or not.”

“I cant… I can’t…” she wailed.

“Unfortunately, kid, you can.  And you will.  And it will hurt like a motherfucker for – as far as I can tell – the rest of your life.  All I got is, you’re not alone.  Me and whole lot of other people, we’re walking around with shit we shouldn’t be able to carry.  But we do.  You will, too.”

“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!”  She screamed, her voice echoing around the warehouse.

“More.”

“Son of a BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCH!”

“That’s it.  You’re doin’ good.  C’mon.  Gimme another one.”

“Cocksucking motherfucking shit, shit, SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!  Fucking cunting hell-damned…  FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!”

Voight knelt on the filthy warehouse floor, holding Laura and letting her vent her agony, until the sun was long gone from the sky and she was too tired to do more than whimper weakly.  Carisi and Burgess had dumped their suspect at the station house and come to Brooklyn as fast as they could, arriving to find Fin standing a few feet from the squad car, just looking at the lights of Governor’s Island across the water.  They could hear the sound of Randolph whining in the back seat, having been cuffed there for over an hour, but they couldn’t hear his words, and none of the detectives could have scrounged up a fuck if they’d tried.  

They stood together, hearing Laura’s voice occasionally, and talking in low tones about the other arrests.  The group was dead.  They had gotten confessions from all of the suspects, once they’d realized the overwhelming evidence against them, and the two who had known Randolph was the leader of the hate group were even now filling tablets of paper with statements that would send him to prison forever.  

When they could no longer hear Laura’s voice, Carisi had gone into the warehouse to quietly see what was going on.  Voight was still holding her as she cried herself out, so Fin and Burgess left to take Randolph to the station house.  They were not going to allow him to see Laura again until she testified at his trial, calm and in control of her emotions, and there to crucify him.  

[shannie-writes]

I have a question, #1 Seth fan! I don't have any of Seth's voiced cards, so I've only ever heard a few of his lines. I was wondering, does his voice change?? I've heard his higher, cheerful (almost a little over the top?) voice but also a lower, more natural voice, once. Does his voice reflect his multiple personalities? =O

tl;dr Chief goes on a fucking tangent and maybe actually answers the ask oops

Little piglet, you honor me with that #1 spot omg

To be honest, I have only been able to pull Seth’s regular 4* and 5* cards from the gacha. (Lancelot/Sirius/Ray, pls go home thanks) But what I have been able to listen to with his card quotes have been extremely telling of his character, in my opinion!

Unfortunately, with Cybird’s (totally fair) content restrictions, I am unable to post recordings of the quotes, but I will do my best to explain them without! I’m putting a bunch of photos under the cut and I hope this remotely answers your question because the VA for Seth plays him so good and I get really mushy and by the end of all the repeated listenings of these quotes, I was a melty cheesy puddle on the floor.

Legend:

> = volume drop

[ ] = falsetto voice

| = hard pause

I could go on about every single one of his voiced quotes, but I’m only going to touch on the quotes that aren’t completely falsetto, like you hear on his character selection page or the intro login page as these are a little more related to the question.

4* quotes w/ Seth’s assumed natural voice

One of his fully natural-voiced lines for his 4* card. A good example of his natural voice, actually. He sounds super casual in the beginning and his voice is closer to tenor than bass, but not as high as Edgar’s. When he hits [But don’t forget], it becomes slightly chastising, slowly dropping in volume as he gives his ”light-hearted” warning.

Another full natural-voiced line. The “Whew” is more like a sigh, but not a negative one. The first line is said fairly quickly. Then he slows down for the second line, and his voice turns to teasing for the third. Then (!!!) he gives this cute laugh that slays me (!?) and is absolutely flirting by the end.

A mixed line. He starts with his higher-pitched falsetto, though it’s nothing crazy. Then he transitions into his natural voice for the second line and I can just imagine his eyes going all hooded and promising as it deepens before he picks up his voice again at the end. What a fucking tease!

5* quotes w/ Seth’s assumed natural voice

This one is short and sweet. He starts with the falsetto, a light compliment and nothing more--until he follows up with his natural voice, pushing his compliment with true sincerity.

This one is playful and serious. I can imagine him having a genuine smile before leaning closer to your ear to whisper the last part, a half-confession though he will likely refuse he said anything if you ask him outright about it.

This one walks the border between falsetto and normal for its entirety. A bit higher pitched than most of his natural voiced lines, but not a full falsetto. He starts off somewhat breathy with this one and goes quieter and more promising for the second part of the line. He then enunciates each word in a staccato to wrap up the final question.

Then there’s this line. This one line. The holy grail of Seth quotes. If anybody has this card, I beg you to listen to his morning quote. I’m not always in a position to listen to the game, so unless I specifically go out of my way to do it, I miss the nuances of the voiced cards. I only recently listened to this for the first time and I wish I could go back to that time when I could hear it for the first time again! ;A;

Deep. Deeper than any of his other voiced lines. Sleepy. Dreamy. Steamy. The hard pauses to give each section of this quote emphasis. The content of it, spoken with that deep, breathy, tired, amazing voice. The slow realization with each word as he slowly wakes. His double gasp--the first one catching himself, the second one forcing his voice to his highest falsetto. Panicked and flailing and trying to cover his dark wishes.

...

I guess I should stop lollygagging and answer the second part of your ask lol 

I think a lot of people misinterpret Seth. He doesn’t have multiple personalities. He only wears a mask. He plays a part for an agenda that is still currently unknown and he plays it well. But it’s just a mask. He can’t always keep his real self hidden behind it.

His birthday story last year made it abundantly clear. In his POV, he chastises himself for thinking of MC as anything more than a friend and even refers to his own lust as “greedy desire” and he understands how the world runs--that it’s harsh on the innocent and takes what it wants.

[”It’s okay to be innocent, but--it’s like you really don’t understand anything.” She stopped in her tracks, so I reached out and took her hand gently. She squeezed my hand back and I hooked a finger under her chin. “You really need to protect yourself when it comes to interacting with men.” My own voice shook as I talked about the reality of the world. “If it’s just the two of us together until morning what do you think will happen? Did you even realize what you were suggesting?”] 

He covers his dirty parts with lighthearted teasing and a cheery demeanor, but he really does have more to him beneath that outer layer--much, much more. So I would disagree that it’s multiple personalities and more that he’s a sweet and sour and savory trifle that I am more than happy to dig into.

(Also his second birthday story should hopefully be releasing in less than 24 hours and I am beyond ecstatic hhhhh)

I hope my rambling answered your question and so sorry for going on a Seth spiel, I really can’t contain myself lol