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the-moon-and-the-comet · 21 days ago

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The Radiance of the Dawn

I know it's been forever, but I couldn't let @barricadeday pass without writing at least a little something.

To that end... E/R, canon era, developing relationship, implied canonical character death.

The silence in the backroom of the Musain was punctuated solely by the scratch of Enjolras’s quill against the parchment, and the occasional dull thud as Grantaire’s bottle returned to the table between sips. It was a comfortable silence, the kind both men had borne in each other’s company more than either would likely admit.

As was usually the case this late at night, the only light came from a single, guttering candle that flickered in the light breeze that came in through the open window. Once, Grantaire might have suggested that Les Amis invest in some additional lighting sources should their Dear Leader insist upon straining his eyes in the dim light; now, he knew better than remark upon it, lest he risk Enjolras’s wrath. Again.

But even silence may only do so much to prolong the length of a wick, and without further warning, the candle spluttered out. “Last call, I take it?” Grantaire said from the sudden darkness.

Enjolras didn’t laugh, but there was still slight amusement in his voice as he sighed, “I suppose so.”

The silence of the night broken, both men gathered their things, another dance made comfortable by its familiarity. Easier than usual, also, by the faint light coming from the window, and Grantaire glanced over his shoulder as he drained the final dregs from his bottle. “Ah,” he said. “No longer can we call this another long night spent at the Musain.”

Enjolras looked out the window as well, his brow furrowed. “I don’t see—”

“Do you not?” Grantaire interrupted, giving Enjolras a small, lopsided smile. “One would think that Apollo would recognize the sun as it emerges yet again over the horizon.”

“Evidence, perhaps, that I am not Apollo,” Enjolras shot back. “Evidence, I am certain, that you shall ignore lest it ruin your metaphor.”

“I do love a metaphor,” Grantaire agreed, his smile widening. “How well you know me, to know as such.”

His words were saccharine, and Enjolras rolled his eyes. “As if you have given anyone a moment’s grace from your metaphors,” he huffed, with no real heat. “I am certain the only time you are ever truly silent is when asleep.”

“You’re welcome to accompany me to my bed to find out for yourself.”

Enjolras did not dignify that with a remark, instead leading the way down the stair, not waiting to see if Grantaire would follow.

He needn’t have, regardless, as wherever Enjolras led, Grantaire would inevitably follow.

By the time they spilled out onto the street, the sun had crept high enough in the sky to cast Paris in a golden glow, and when Enjolras turned to say something to Grantaire, he had no sooner opened his mouth than Grantaire gasped. “Wait,” he said, fumbling in his pockets, and Enjolras frowned.

“What could you possibly—” he started, exasperated, though he was cut off by Grantaire once more.

“Got it!” Grantaire said, emerging from his pockets triumphantly with a scrap of paper and a bit of charcoal.

If Enjolras was exasperated before, now he was downright baffled, and he raised both eyebrows as Grantaire pressed the paper against the nearest wall, sketching something with rapid movements. “Dare I even ask?”

“Just…stay…still,” Grantaire murmured, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

Enjolras, of course, was not much one for orders, and so immediately crossed to peer over Grantaire’s shoulder. “What are you—”

“Did I not tell you to stay?” Grantaire cried as he glanced over at him. “Now you’ve gone and lost the light!”

But Enjolras’s eyes were still on the half-completed sketch, something unreadable in his expression. “Is that meant to be me?”

Grantaire looked back at the drawing. “Well, it was going to be,” he muttered, a scowl darkening his expression. “Would that you had just stayed still for once so I could capture the image.” He glanced back at Enjolras, something almost hesitant in his expression. “It was just– the light had hit you just so, and I would have been remiss had I not tried to capture it.”

He made as if to crumple the paper but Enjolras intercepted him, smoothing the paper out against the wall once more. “It’s beautiful,” he told Grantaire, who squirmed slightly at the sincerity of his words.

“The dawn light makes even the ordinary seem beautiful,” he muttered.

Enjolras gave him a look. “Are you calling me ordinary?” he asked mildly, and when Grantaire just spluttered indignantly, he gave him a sharp smirk. “That is what I thought.”

“Well,” Grantaire huffed, taking the paper back from Enjolras, and this time folding it carefully before he slipped it back into his pocket, “if my own words are to be so taken out of context…”

He trailed off and Enjolras just shook his head affectionately. “Something that certainly no one has ever done to me,” he said pointedly. “But it is a fair likeness, and far more generous than I deserve. Thank you.”

Grantaire ducked his head. “Your praise is misplaced, but thank you nonetheless.”

“Of course,” Enjolras continued, with his never ceasing need for the final word, “if only your dedication to your craft could be matched by the dedication to our Cause.”

It was an old argument, of course, and Grantaire’s eye roll in response was practically de rigueur. “Firstly, if you think I have any dedication to ‘my craft’ whatsoever, I daresay I would assume you had drunk almost as much wine as I. Secondly, this is in service of the Cause.”

To say Enjolras looked skeptical would be an understatement. “How so?”

Grantaire shrugged. “The dawn is a metaphor,” he said, as if it was obvious.

“A metaphor for what?” Enjolras pressed, and when Grantaire just made a face, he prodded, amused, “Grantaire?”

Grantaire scowled at him. “Let a man think for at least a moment and he’s certain to come up with something.”

Almost certainly despite himself, Enjolras managed a light laugh, and shook his head. “That is what I thought,” he said, shaking his head, and he started down the street in the direction of his home.

He had barely made it to the next door when Grantaire called after him, “The future.”

Enjolras half-turned to look back at him. “What?”

“That is for what the dawn serves as metaphor,” Grantaire told him. “The radiance of the future. A new horizon we seek to reach, and the hope that we shall some day get there.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Is that actually what you believe?”

“Does it matter?” Grantaire countered, and Enjolras shook his head.

“I suppose that is an answer in itself, and one I should have expected.”

Grantaire grinned at him. “You do me credit that for even one moment you expected otherwise from me,” he said sweetly.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Expected may be too strong a sentiment,” he said, something sour in his tone. “But for a moment– I suppose I hoped.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, taking a measured pace towards Enjolras. “Hope, like the dawn, is a fickle mistress, and disappears after far too brief a time,” he said evenly.

Enjolras’s lips pursed. “So says the Cynic.”

Grantaire just shrugged. “If one does not trust to hope, one will never be disappointed.”

Enjolras’s expression darkened, and he shook his head, turning away yet again. “Your drunken wit may ring like wisdom to a fool’s ears, but I’m afraid mine are not so easily affected,” he said scornfully.

But Grantaire reached out to grab his arm, holding him in place. “Enjolras—” he started, and Enjolras looked back at him.

“What?”

Grantaire wet his lips almost nervously. “Hope lies beyond my reach, but belief may yet be within my grasp.”

Enjolras’s expression didn’t flicker. “Belief in your full glass, as you’ve long proclaimed.”

“Yes,” Grantaire said, “but belief also in the dawn.”

Enjolras’s eyes met his evenly. “In the future?”

Grantaire jerked a shrug. “Or at least that the dawn shall come again on the morrow.”

It was the wrong thing to say, and Enjolras just sighed, disappointment and disapproval clear on every plane of his face, lit still by the early light of day. “So you believe in certainty,” he said dismissively. “That which requires no faith.”

But Grantaire just took a step closer to him, his grip on Enjolras’s arm loosening, turning almost reverent. “And belief in one more thing,” he said, something almost hesitant in the words. “One that requires faith most of all.”

“What?” Enjolras asked, the word no more than a single breath for how it hung between them.

In answer, Grantaire closed the space between them and pressed his lips against Enjolras’s.

Enjolras did not return the kiss, did not lean into Grantaire’s touch or open his lips against Grantaire’s. He did not lace their fingers together, did not press his body against Grantaire’s, did not trace a gentle finger across Grantaire’s dark stubble or cup the back of Grantaire’s head.

And yet, he did not pull away.

Instead, it was only when Grantaire pulled back, his nose just brushing against Enjolras’s, that Enjolras finally sighed, a rebuke, perhaps, or a plea, “Grantaire…”

“Tell me I am wrong to believe,” Grantaire murmured.

But Enjolras just shook his head. “I cannot give you what you seek.”

“I seek nothing that cannot be found at the bottom of my glass,” Grantaire told him, hesitating before adding, “And to perhaps one day be worthy to kiss your lips once more.”

Enjolras swallowed, and ducked his head, but again he made no effort to push him away, even as he ordered, his voice low, “Go home, Grantaire.”

It was only then that Grantaire finally released his grip on Enjolras, his hand trailing down Enjolras’s arm to brush against his hand. “Goodnight, Enjolras,” he said, matching his pitch. “Or should I say, good morning.”

He squeezed Enjolras’s hand just once before finally letting go, and it was Grantaire who finally turned to walk away, leaving Enjolras standing in the street, the dawn light casting his indecision in shades of gold.

— — — — —

The dawn lit Enjolras from behind, casting him in a halo of defiance as he stared down the National Guard.

This time, the indecision was solely theirs as they exchanged hesitant glances, until—

“Long live the Republic! I am one of them.”

Grantaire emerged into the light, the dawn seeming to illuminate a fire within him, a fire not even Enjolras had ever dared to hope might kindle. Too late, perhaps, but as Grantaire declared, “Finish us both with one blow,” Enjolras knew that at the least, his hope had not been misplaced.

There was no further need for metaphor as Grantaire took his place at Enjolras’s side, belief made tangible, both men wrapped in the promise of the dawn and the ironclad certainty that while neither would see it, the sun would rise again the next day on a future which belonged now solely to their dreams.

#AAAAAAAAAAAH #les mis

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the-moon-and-the-comet · 21 days ago

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I feel like Robert Pattinson was born to be a strange old man actor. Like he's already great but he's really gonna hit his peak when he's around 70

#so true

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the-moon-and-the-comet · 22 days ago

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Personality test, is 80f/26c too hot for you?

#that’s just on the edge of bearable #but generally yeah #i’m way more of a cold weather person

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the-moon-and-the-comet · 26 days ago

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Smoke Signals 🍃

Modern!au Smoke X Annie

Word Count : 2.3K

Authors Note: I remember somebody said they wanted a hotboxing session with Smoke, so I decided to dusk on my pen and give the people what they wanted. Look y’all 😅, it’s be a while since I’ve written so bear with me. It’s some fluff with a pinch 🤏🏽 of smuts towards the end so enjoy. Also I added a lil music for your listening pleasure. Something to get yall in the vibes.

The car’s parked on a quiet hill above East Oakland, tucked beneath a row of eucalyptus trees that sway gently in the wind. The sun’s barely set; just enough pink in the sky to soften the edges of the day.

Inside the royal blue Cutlass, it smells like cherry soda and weed.

Smoke leans over, lighting the joint as Annie holds the lighter up. The first puff curls out of his mouth slowly, like he’s painting the air.

Though she hadn’t smoked yet, she was already giggling.

“Boy, you act like you in a commercial or something.”

“Nah. That’s just how legends smoke. You wouldn’t understand.” He shoots her a soft, playful grin before taking another pull. Leaning back against the headrest, Annie tilts her head slightly.

“Mmm. ‘Legend.’ Is that what you call yourself now?”

Smoke shrugs slightly, leaning back to meet her gaze. “In certain circles.”

He passes her the joint. She takes it with exaggerated elegance, pinky up like royalty, and strikes a pose like she’s holding fine wine.

“Oh, well then, excuse me, Your Highness,” he teases. She returns his smile.

“What? Let me smoke like a legend, too.”

They both laugh, easy & loose. Annie pulls and coughs immediately, dissolving into another giggle fit.

“Ugh! Why does it always hit different with you?”

Smoke chuckles, his head resting lazily against the headrest. “’Cause I roll with love, baby.”

She gags playfully, waving the smoke away as she laughs uncontrollably.

“Nigga, these are prerolls. You ain’t rolled shit.”

Smoke couldn’t hold his laughter as he met her gaze.

“You were supposed to let me have that one.”

“You should know me better than that.”

A beat of silence settles in, comfortable this time. The car fills slowly with smoke, turning the world soft and golden.

Annie readjusts in the seat, legs pulled up crisscross, hoodie sliding off one shoulder.

“This the part where we talk about our dreams or something?”

Smoke leans his head on her shoulder, his hand resting on a spot on her thigh that he had made its permanent residence a little while ago.

“Only if yours involves becoming my joint roller full-time.”

She gives him a lazy side-eye. “My dream right now is that you learn how to shut up for like… two minutes.”

“Ain’t no fun in that. You complain when I’m stone-cold. What more do you want from me?” He squints, looking up at her.

She laughs again, light and breathy. For a second, Smoke watches her. Admiring the way the light shimmered against Annie’s sable skin. With a sly smile, he speaks up after a while.

“I ever told you, you got a real cute laugh.”

Annie pauses, caught off guard. She doesn’t smile this time. Just holds his gaze for a moment too long. She bites her lip in a failed attempt to hide her blush.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not. I’m makin’ it real.” He licks his lips, gaze still fixed on her.

She nudges his leg with her foot gently. Just enough to regain her composure.

“Whatever. Pass that.”

He complies, and their fingers brush, neither of them pulls away immediately.

Outside, the wind whispers through the trees. Inside, it’s just warmth and weed and the kind of laughter that only comes when you forget the world is breaking.

Tonight, they let it all go, just for a while.

The Cutlass sits parked under a high tree canopy, shadows layered across the hood like spiderwebs. The air inside is hazy and warm, thick with weed smoke and something quieter, something waiting.

Annie changes positions, moving to rest her legs in Smoke’s lap. She watches the smoke swirl in front of her face, like she’s trying to read something in it.

“You ever think about who you’d be if you weren’t born into all this?”

Looking out the windshield, Smoke watches the clouds roll by.

“All what?”

She reaches up to stroke his goatee.

“The neighborhood. The noise. The stuff we don’t say.”

Smoke adjusts, eyes half-lidded. His body’s loose, but his mind’s alert, taking her in without looking too direct.

He takes the joint, pulling from it slowly, and hands it back without a word.

Unsatisfied with his newfound silence, Annie questions him again.

“You ever wanna be someone different?”

He bites his lip as her nails massage his chin.

“No point in that.”

“Why not?”

He looks at her now, still and calm. “‘Cause I’m me. That’s all I know how to be. Smoke Moore.”

She lets out a short laugh. Not mocking, just a little surprised.

“You say that like it’s easy. And last time I checked, your first name was Elijah.”

“It is and it ain’t,” he says, answering both questions simultaneously. “But frontin’s harder.”

His eyebrows raise slightly, eyes still low and glossy red. She nods, quiet for a beat.

In an attempt to break the tense silence, Annie speaks up again.

“You think you’ve always been like this?”

Smoke leans closer, never breaking his gaze. “Like what?”

“Still. Like the world spins and you just… don’t move.” He gives a small smirk, shrugging again.

“I watch first. Then I move,” he says matter-of-factly.

Annie studies him. The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward. The light from outside streaks through the windshield, hitting just enough of her face to catch the curve of her mouth.

“What you looking at?”

“You.” He says frankly.

Her breath hitches softly, caught off guard by his swift and direct response.

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets the question linger for a bit. Then—

“’Cause I want to.”

She blinks, unsure if he’s playing or dead serious. And with Smoke, it’s usually the latter.

“You gonna always say the bare minimum, huh?”

He shoots her the faintest grin.

“Only gotta say what matters.”

Annie leans in curiously, testing the waters. She holds the joint between them, the smoke curling towards his face.

“So what matters right now?”

Smoke regards her slow and steady. The stillness sets in again. The kind that makes everything around you seem so loud. He leans in just enough, his gentle, earthy scent invading her nostrils. It drives her almost to the brink of obsession.

“This.” He growls softly before kissing her.

It’s not rushed. His hand slides up the back of her neck, grounding her. She melts into it before she realizes she’s even moved. It’s soft, but weighted, like he’s been holding back for a long time.

Annie breaks first, pulling back with her eyes still closed. Her chest rises and falls in tandem with Smoke’s. She smirks briefly before licking her lips.

“Took you long enough,” she purrs.

He’s watching her again, still and quiet, before he speaks again.

“You can’t rush stuff. I don’t rush nothin’ worth doing right.”

Annie’s smile stretches across her entire face, making her eyes twinkle in the streetlights. She takes one more pull before passing him the joint. The air in the car is different now, statically charged from the kiss they’d shared. She sits back, breath still caught somewhere behind her smile.

She studies Smoke’s face, how calm he looks, and how his hand never left its place on her thigh. She stretches her hands overhead, the hoodie riding up just enough for Smoke to catch a glimpse of the smooth skin of her belly. Her eyes drift to him, lashes low.

“I forgot how quiet you are sometimes.”

“You talk enough for both of us,” he retorts.

“Boy fuck you!” she scoffs, grinning. Her fingers reach out to lazily drag down the center of his chest, just enough pressure to trace the logo of his tee. She flattens her palm, taking in the heat of him.

Smoke bites his lip, shifting his body closer to hers. She catches the hint, slowly sliding her hand down lower. She stops just above his lap, fingers tapping absently as though her mind is elsewhere. She studies his face.

“You good just sitting out here all night?”

His eyes dart between her hand and her piercing gaze.

“Don’t gotta be nowhere else.”

She smirks. “Maybe you could be.”

Her hand shifts slightly, barely moving, but the intention clear. She’s close enough for him to feel her. Tempting. Testing. His gaze sharpens a little, jaw tight now.

“You tryna say somethin’ beloved?”

Annie tilts her head, all softness and fire. She leans in, close enough for her lips to brush against his ear as she speaks.

“I’m sayin’ it’s warmer inside. All you have to do is come find out.”

She pauses, fingers resting boldly close to his third leg.

“Plus, I don’t feel like sleeping alone tonight.”

Smoke regards her carefully. There’s no game in her eyes, only truth. He doesn’t move right away, still caught in her gaze.

“Fuck it,” he says finally, killing the engine.

–

The door clicks shut behind them.

Annie tosses her keys onto the counter without looking, with Smoke trailing behind. His jacket is slung over one shoulder now, face still calm, but his eyes locked on their prize.

She doesn’t turn on the lights, instead, she lets the warm street glow spill in through the window blinds, casting faint stripes across the hardwood.

It’s quiet.

Her space smells like coconut oil and incense. A blanket is tossed over the couch. A couple of worn sneakers by the door. Lived-in. Real.

Smoke lingers near the door a second longer than he needs to. Annie notices.

“You actin’ like you ain’t been here before.”

“I ain’t been here in a while.”

She gives him a knowing look before turning to walk backward slowly, drawing him further inside with nothing but her eyes.

“You coming or you just gonna study the furniture?”

He steps forward. Still slow. Still quiet. But closer now.

She stops in the middle of the living room, toes barely touching the rug. She pulls her hoodie off in a clean motion and tosses it onto the couch. She stands before him in a tank top with no bra underneath, her collarbone catching a sliver of moonlight.

Smoke’s jaw flexes.

Annie steps toward him, closing the final inches. Her hands slide up his chest again, slower and more certain. She tugs lightly at the hem of his shirt.

“You don’t have to be all soft.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“Just you and me tonight.”

He nods, eyes fixed on her juicy lips.

“I know what it is. It’s gone always be that way.”

Her hand slips under his shirt, lifting it over his head. He lets her without objection. Her palms linger on his chest a second longer than necessary, tracing lines she already knows by heart.

She leans in, pressing her mouth to his, firm and deliberate. This one isn’t teasing. It’s deeper. Hungrier. Her hands slide to the back of his neck as his grip finds her waist.

He walks her backward without a word, moving like they’ve done this dance repeatedly in his dreams.

Because they had.

The bedroom door swings open on its hinges, their silhouettes gliding in with it. Their shadows dance against the golden hue of her bedside lamp. They say nothing. Don’t need to.

The blanket falls, and the rest of the world fades.

Smoke’s grip tightens against Annie’s waist as he guides her backward toward the bed. His fingers drag up her tank top with slow intention, knuckles brushing ribs, stomach, curve of her back. When he pulls the shirt over her head, she doesn’t look away.

“You always move like this?”

“Move like what, beloved?”

“Like you already know what I want,” she sings, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

He kisses her again, this time on her shoulder. Then her collarbone. Then lower. Every kiss lands like it’s been waiting its turn.

“You keep tellin’ me without talkin’. So I’m just listenin’.. Like a good boy.”

Her hands slip to his waistband, thumbs hooking slowly under the fabric. She pulls him in closer, skin to skin now, breath warm between them.

The backs of her knees hit the mattress, and she lets herself fall back, pulling him with her. The bed creaks beneath them, soft and low, like it’s holding its breath.

He doesn’t rush.

His hands move over her like he’s mapping her out. Her hipbone. Her thigh. The hollow between her neck and shoulder where her pulse kicks a little faster.

Annie’s fingers find the back of his neck again, tugging him down. Their mouths meet again. This time deeper, fuller. Her legs wrap around him instinctively, anchoring him in place.

As his pants hit the floor, their flesh collides in the soft sounds of pleasure. His length sinking into her slowly, allowing her juices to coat him before pushing in as far as he could.

Her eyes flutter closed as she exhales into his mouth.

“Y-You feel… so goood.”

Caging her body in, he rocks his waist into hers. The squelching sounds of her pussy becoming more audible as their hips met repeatedly. Smoke would never admit it to her, but it was his new favorite sound. He pushes harder and faster, loving the way she sang his name like a prayer.

“You feel like mine,” he growls.

That catches her. She moans loudly as her eyes meet his. He doesn’t flinch or take it back. His gaze holds steady and sure. Not possessive. Just real.

Annie brushes her thumb across his cheekbone. Soft, featherlike, and gentle to the touch.

“You make me feel soo good, I don’t wanna stop.”

He leans down again, pressing his forehead to hers. Their breaths sync—slow, heavy, open.

“Then we don't have to.”

The rest happens slowly.

Not completely silent, but close.

A hum of breath, the rustle of sheets, her gasp as his mouth finds her again. His hand on her thigh. Her nails against his back. The kind of intimacy that doesn’t shout—but claims.

And for once, Annie doesn’t think about the past. Doesn’t wait for the ache or the exit.

Just this.

Just now.

Taglist : @uzumaki-rebellion @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @killmongerdispussy @theogbadbitch @ccwpidsblog @princesskillmonger @blowmymbackout @theethighpriestess @steampunkprincess147

Let me know if you want to get added to the taglist. Definitely going to have to update that. 😅

#kicking my feet

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the-moon-and-the-comet · 26 days ago

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love that sinners said “what’s sexier, being a vampire or fighting them? trick question, doesn’t matter, they’re both michael b jordan with his biceps out”

#thank you costume department

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the-moon-and-the-comet · 27 days ago

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Is this anything it popped into my head while cycling to the train station

#REAL #marvel

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the-moon-and-the-comet · 28 days ago

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I wanted to make this post because we don’t see a lot of asexual characters in western media and despite him being from a hugely popular show (Seaside Hotel) you’re unlikely to know of his existence if you’re not from Denmark.

His name is Hjalmar Aurland and he’s one of the more sympathetic and realistic asexual characters I’ve seen. He lives in a time and place where asexuality as a concept doesn’t exist yet so he’s never labeled as such but rewatching the show made me realize that he acts exactly like the asexual people I personally know. Asexuality can mean a lot of things but his specific brand isn’t naive to sex nor is he repulsed by sex, sexual desire or thoughts simply doesn’t come naturally to him.

He can be convinced to have sex with his wife Helene but only if she appeals to their emotional bond. Just so you don’t get the wrong idea, he’s not being forced or emotionally blackmailed to sleep with her. It’s simply that he understands sex is a way to show emotional love too and he wants to express that love for Helene when it’s important to her, and seeing as sex isn’t unpleasant to him, just kinda boring, he’s willing to do that for her.

Unfortunately that isn’t enough for Helene and despite her love for Hjalmar she starts an affair with the dramatic and emotional actor Edward Weyse. He has a string of relationships, marriages and divorces behind him because despite what it may look like from the outside Edward doesn’t really want shallow sexual relationships. He just can’t help himself and keep falling in love with women left and right, fully and wholeheartedly, only to be dumped or dump them once the initial excitement has passed.

So Helene and Edward’s affair that was only meant to satisfy their carnal desires quickly becomes romantic. Helene feels torn between him and Hjalmar who she still loves and Edward understands the difficult situation they’re both in while also feeling jealous of Hjalmar. And Hjalmar? He doesn’t catch on for years. He’s not stupid but his brain just doesn’t jump to sex. He just assumes they’re good friends and why shouldn’t his wife be allowed to have friends, even male ones? Things get really complicated when Helene gets pregnant and she has to have sex with Hjalmar so he won’t wonder how it happened. Edward even has to join in on the seduction, reminding Hjalmar how much Helene loves him, even though it breaks Edward’s heart to do so.

But like I’ve said Hjalmar isn’t stupid. He saw the signs but chose to ignore them until one night when Helene accidentally says Edward’s name. It breaks the dam in Hjalmar’s denial and he has to face that deep down he always knew. Overcome by sadness and betrayal he wanders off into the night in nothing but his nightgown and gets a room at a different hotel where he can think in peace. Eventually he agrees to return to the first hotel with Helene and Edward and decides to take control of the situation.

He sits them both down and tells them that he understands that the three of them share a bond and that there are things he can’t really do for Helene so from now on he wants their relationship to be open and honest. He wants Helene and Edward to keep seeing each other and Edward is welcome in their house, but Hjalmar wants to be allowed to call Edward by his first name and makes it very clear that Helene and Edward’s children “belong to him” because he still thinks of himself as their dad and loves them as his own children. Both Helene and Edward agrees to it, though the emotional Edward is very flustered and confused by the acceptance and love he’s being shown by Hjalmar.

This is obviously a very tv drama situation but I was so stuck by how much Hjalmar acts like my asexual friends. Having a lover for your partner isn’t the most common solution but it’s an idea I’ve heard a lot of asexual people be open to under the right circumstances and of course that’s the most dramatic solution for a romantic tv drama.

Hjalmar is defined by so much more than his sexuality though. His main characteristic is his passion for social justice and equality, and other than some early show weirdness before they really cemented the characters, Hjamler is the only character who floats freely between the men and women. He’s just as likely to sit with the men as he is the women, often appearing in otherwise entirely female spaces. It’s never questioned or even brought up, not because he’s a “safe asexual” but because he cares and think their worries are as important as the men’s. He’s often called a pessimist by the other men when in reality he is determined to be hopeful and compassionate and spread the love he feels the world is lacking as WWII draws closer.

So yeah, I just wanted to share this sweet ace guy with you because you probably wouldn’t have known about him otherwise.

#i love you hr aurland!!!!!!!!!#badehotellet

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