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mslanna · 11 days

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Can I ask for Raphael having a 'Wait, why am I jealous?' realization of his romantic feelings for Tav? (For the record, Tav is romantically interested in him, too, because I can't handle angst right now 🥲)

Ask and you shall receive. 🥰

Served Cold

(Served Cold on AO3) enby Tav without body configuration cold and comfort hot devil is hot Karlach cameo

Conquering all nine hells was a lot of work for one devil. Even with his armies and followers, Raphael had few subordinates he trusted. So asking Tav to join had been only logical. After all, they had delivered the Crown of Karsus to him willingly.

He had been right, too, as Tav greed easily to his request. They helped him conquer the hells and he, well, there was a certain uncertainty about his part of the deal. Just make sure I don't die seemed like a sensible request. It was not much of a prize, though. The exchange seemed barely equal.

But he wouldn't look a gift Tav in the mouth. It was also to be expected that Tav would enlist the help of their friends. The tiefling should not have been a surprise, especially since she could not return to the material plane with her hellfire heart.

It wasn't that he didn't trust his human to get the job done, despite the biting cold of Cania and the wide icy plains. But this was his father's domain. Mephistopheles knew he was coming for him and his security was increased.

Tav was smart for taking the circumspect route to his palace even if that meant several weeks of trekking through the cold. The entrance wasn't secret as much as unexpected. A place as big as Mephistopheles court had a whole system of venues to accept or remove wares and services. A place as old as his father's had also gone through several system changes. Dead ends happened.

And Tav knew how to talk to servants and debtors. As a paladin they exuded and air of trustworthiness. The time they spent undercover in his father's realm had not gone by easily. Raphael had worried every day. So much of his plans rested on Tav's success.

But they succeed as he knew they would. Tav was reliable, more so than many of his subordinates. Subordinates who were making a lot of noise under the command of Yurgir right now. Mainly to keep Mephistopheles attention on them and allow the small group to slip in through a discarded and ignored back entrance that should have been decommissioned and closed centuries ago.

Raphael considered standing with the armies. But the prospect of seeing the expression on his father's face when he turned up in the centre of his secure home was a strong argument for travelling with Tav.

He was accustomed to the burning cold of Cania. The storms of blade-like winds and freezing snow were inconvenient but manageable. The tiefling was doing fine with her hellfire heart as well. It kept her warm under the layers upon layers of clothes.

Tav on the other hand suffered miserably. It didn't matter how many layers they put on, the result was a shivering heap of furs that moved slowly through the cold landscape. The view was pitiful, but Tav didn't complain once. Their dedication to his cause was admirable. And when nobody watched, not even his own inner devil, Raphael allowed himself to admire them.

Not now, of course, as the human sat huddled up like a shrimp at the small fire. They shook violently and stuck their hands almost into the flames. If he didn't know better, Raphael would have thought them a blemish, worth no note. His thought were of a very different nature though.

There had to be a way to help Tav. It was not the most devil-like thought but it was well founded. Tav was a valuable asset, a tool well worth protecting. It was only natural that he considered his options to keep them at peak performance.

The problem was how to get warmth to his mouse without attracting attention. A bigger fire was out of the question. That left very limited options. But, for the success of his campaign, he was willing to make sacrifices. Even personal ones.

He was still mulling over the best way to phrase his idea so it would not appear to be personal, when Karlach moved. She rounded the fire and came to sit next to Tav, worry engraved on her face.

"You'll catch your death, soldier." The tiefling nudged Tav who moved towards her unthinking. Drawn to the warmth, no doubt. "Yeah, that's more like it. Gods, you're cold."

Despite her words, Karlach wrapped Tav into their cloak. And his little mouse, leant into it. Raphael took a deep breath. The way Tav softened and their body slowly ceased to shudder. It was a good thing. There was no reason for him to be mad about it.

Yet the anger simmered in his stomach, bitter and bubbling. That had been his offer to make. A sacrifice for the greater good. Yet the tiefling offered it as if it was nothing, a small act of friendship and care. He should be grateful for that. His dignity stayed intact.

But his dignity was not rumbling dangerously low in his chest. To think that it could have been his arm around Tav's shoulders, his arm they leant against, grateful and content. The fury surprised him, as did the pain. What did it matter who kept Tav warm?

But it did matter, and it mattered that it wasn't him. Raphael carefully avoided putting a name on the rage. The last thing he needed now was complications. The fight against his father was difficult enough without worrying – uselessly – about one fragile mortal.

It was not worry he felt, looking at Tav who dozed off in the sudden warmth. Trenches dug by the cold over the last days softened. Their mouth relaxed and opened slightly. They looked at peace. Peace he should be giving them.

"If it proves too much of a strain on your infernal engine, let me know." Raphael was proud of the nonchalance of his tone. "I am willing to carry my share of the burden."

"Tav is never a burden." Despite her cheery tone, the threat in Karlach's voice was clear. "And I'd rather freeze to death with them than burden you with them."

Raphael sat back. "If this is how you treat offers of help-"

"If you want to offer help, offer help. Don’t style yourself as a martyr for the most minuscule act of decency."

Looking at his little mouse – eyes closed, breath soft and regular – Raphael wondered if they were indeed asleep. What would Tav think, listening in on this conversation? And what did it matter to him? He was a devil! He did not care what mortals though of him.

Except for Tav.

The realisation was uncomfortable and unwanted. It was true nevertheless.

"Don't mind him," Tav murmured, adjusting their position against the tiefling. "He's just jealous."

Jealous. The word stunned Raphael. He was not jealous. He was a devil! He stared at the lips that uttered such blasphemy. Lips that were once again of a soft pink instead of pale blue. He had a pretty good idea what he'd like to do to them, traitorous, insolent lips.

Unfortunately, his ideas supported Tav's claim. Ridiculous. They were an asset. A tool for his victory. Nothing more.

Yet.

"Well." Karlach pulled Tav closer. "Even jealous devils have to behave themselves. Maybe a 'please' wouldn't go amiss."

"If you think I will beg, you are severely mistaken," Raphael huffed and folded his wings closer around him.

"Do as you please. But I don't think Tav is a burden and I know how it feels to have them breathe down my skin when they sleep – and drool a little." The tiefling dropped a sloppy kiss onto Tav's forehead.

"Devils are not to be drooled upon."

"I'm sure you can make them lick it off again." The tiefling delighted in teasing him.

Still Raphael could not deny the appeal of the vision her words conjured. "Oh, hand them over already." He gestured impatiently.

To his surprise the tiefling actually obeyed. "You know I will kill you, if you hurt them," she smiled as she draped the mortal against his side.

Raphael snorted. "I'd like to see you try."

"I don't," Tav murmured and turned to press their face into his arm.

A surprisingly efficient argument. Raphael dragged his little mouse into a comfortable position, resting their head against his chest and wrapping them both in his wings. At least tiefling couldn't see his face any longer that way.

"You are mine," he murmured into Tav's rear. "Mine alone and don't you forget it."

"Jealous," they replied sleepy, but with a smile touching their lips. "I like it."

Raphael growled and dropped kiss onto their head as he had seen Karlach do. What an insolent little creature he held. It would be impossible to pry them from his grip.

#bg3 #bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #anon answered #sleazy second-hand car dealer #bg3 fanfiction #writing prompt #mel writes fanfic

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happilyhertale · 1 year

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Long Lost Love - Aemond Targaryen x female!reader, Part 5

Summary: You are the daughter of Daemon and Rhaenyra. When the invitation to Aegon and Helaena's wedding came, your entire family rushes from Dragonstone to King's Landing to take part in the festivities. You haven't seen your family in King's Landing for 6 years so you are very excited...

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Warnings: At the beginning none – eventually smut (uncle/niece)

Author’s note: Hello you! (:

This is my first fic so please be nice (: I thought I'd just try a little self-considered story. I hope u like it.

The events are not entirely similar from the series.

English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 4k

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 6, Part 7a, Part 7b, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15

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On the way back to the garden, to your "secret" tree, you kept laughing uncontrollably.

Why? Only the gods know. When you finally arrived, you made yourselves comfortable. You sit down on a bench, Aemond sits cross-legged on the ground opposite you. You just talk, or rather Aemond talks. The more wine you drink, the more often you have to turn your attention back to your conversation.

Again and again you notice how you lose yourself in his eye. Or how you just stare at his lips. Aemond would have noticed if he hadn't drunk at least as much wine as you. So you sit in the garden, in your old "secret" place, while Aemond tells you one story after another about old Valyria and you stare at Aemond, lost in thought.

After a while, when Aemond has also fallen silent, you feel the urge to go to your chambers. But not alone, you don't want your time with Aemond to be over already. Thanks to your intoxicated state, you come up with an idea.

"Aemond?"

"Mhm?", Aemond smiles slightly.

"Will you take me to my chambers?", Aemond responds visibly glum to your question. But dutifully he agrees, "Of course Y/N."

You slowly stand up and smooth your dress back down. Aemond trudges on slowly, but you don't move.

When he notices this and turns to you, he looks at you questioningly, "Your chambers is this way?"

"I know very well where my chambers is," he looks at you in confusion, "but will you not escort a lady to her chambers in a proper manner?" Aemond, still visibly confused, stops in his tracks and looks at you questioningly. You sigh and walk towards him, without hesitation you take his arm and hook it, "And here I was thinking you were the smarter of the two of us" Calmly you walk to your chambers. In between, unpleasant thoughts cross Aemond's mind. Your sudden wish for him to accompany you to your chambers awakens in him the fear that he is boring you. Little did he know that up to now he has never bored you in the slightest. Caught up in his thoughts, Aemond doesn't notice how hard you press against his arm to be as close to him as possible.

As you reach your chambers, you disengage yourself from his arm and open your door. You turn to Aemond and smile at him. He can't help but return your smile. Just as he was about to say goodbye to you, you look right and left down the corridor to see if anyone is around. Aemond, noticing your sudden circumspection, looks at you questioningly. When you are sure that no one is around, you pull Aemond into your chambers without warning.

Aemond doesn't know what's happening to him and looks at you in shock, "Y/N, what are we doing here?". You carefully close the door and lock it from the inside, Aemond still looks in shock in your direction.

"I don't want our evening to end now, but I didn't want to sit in the garden anymore either," you pout. Aemond laughs and is visibly relieved, "You could have just asked me to spend time with you in your chambers. Instead of practically coercing me," he winks at you. "And you would have come?" you ask incredulously. "Well I'm standing in your chambers right now and I haven't left it yet, so chances are good." You smile at him, "Come, tell me another story by the fire," Aemond has never been happier as you approach him and reach for his hand to pull him along.

As Aemond sits down on the couch by the fire, you make your way to the small table that sits in a corner of your chambers to get you more wine. You enjoy your wine by the fire while Aemond enraptures you with his stories. Dazed by the wine and the late hour, you yawn more and more often as you suddenly stand up and Aemond looks after you.

You stand in front of him and look at him cheekily, "Aemond? Give me your vest," Aemond chokes on his wine and a " Pardon me?" slips out. You smile at him, "I want to sleep in your vest tonight." As you speak, your hand wanders to the first gold buckle of your dress and you undo it.

"Y/N, what are you doing?" Your hand, watched closely by Aemond, stays in place. "I want to lie in bed and while I lie in bed I want to wear your vest. And you shall lie in bed with me." For what feels like an eternity you just look at each other. Slowly you turn and walk to your room divider. Aemond gets up from the couch in a flash, "Y/N.... we should..." You turn to Aemond, your hand already on the second buckle of your dress. Aemond hesitates. There is nothing he would rather do than lie in this bed with you, but he doesn't want to trample your virtue either. "Aemond, I only want to lie in my bed with you. Please don't go" Aemond closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, "Okay, I'll stay"

You grin at him, "But I need your vest. Because otherwise I'd have to be naked in bed with you" He gives you a warning look, "If I give you my vest I won't have anything to cover my chest. And by the way, where are your nightgowns?"

"They're all at the cleaners."

"Oh, you are a shameless liar, you arrived yesterday"

You grin even wider, "No I'm not." Aemond, realising that it is pointless to argue with you in this state, sighs and begins to undo his leather waistcoat. Cheerfully, you turn back around and continue your way to the room divider. "Do you know this is the second time you've made me do something today?" says Aemond as he puts his leather waistcoat over a chair and begins to unbutton his vest at the neck. "Actually, you're just saving me from having to sleep naked," your dress falls quietly to the floor and you stand there in just your light underwear. Aemond chuckles, "If your father knew I was in bed with you, we'd have a big problem. And by the way, I like my head on my shoulders."

"Then it's better if we don't tell him that. Have you finished undressing? I'm getting a bit cold". You are standing behind your room divider, arms wrapped around your torso, when suddenly the vest lands on the room divider. You take it and smile. You feel so stupid, but you have to smell it for a moment. As you press your nose into the vest, you smell only the delicate scent of Aemond, you chuckle.

"Are you done yet? I'm getting a bit cold." Nice try... he's trying to tease you with your own cheeky sentences. You quickly put on the much too large vest and peek out from behind the room divider.

And there he is, Aemond, lying in your bed. He is shirtless and you realise that you have never seen anything more beautiful. He looks out of the window and in the dim candlelight he looks almost godlike. Your gaze falls on his muscular shoulders and perfect chest. His hands are folded at his crotch as your gaze falls on his hands. You swallow hard. And suddenly you are no longer so self-confident. You look at him, your hands clasped in front of you, while Aemond turns his gaze to you. You look at each other for a moment and as if sensing your sudden insecurity, he holds out his hand to you and whispers, "Come here." You smile shyly.

Slowly you walk over to your bed and climb into bed with him. You have never been in bed with a man before. And suddenly you realise that you don't know how to lie in bed with a man. And that makes you even more nervous. But Aemond takes that nervousness away from you. As you lie down next to him and crawl under your covers, he naturally lifts his arm so that you can crawl to his side. You gladly accept this invitation.

You lie there in silence for what feels like an eternity, just listening to his breathing. Aemond is lying over the blanket and still has his trousers on. Your head rests on his chest and you inhale his wonderful scent. One of his arms is around your body, holding you close to his side. His other arm is folded behind his head. Suddenly you feel a desire.

"Aemond?" he looks at you lightly from the side, "mhm?" "Touch me," without knowing what you are doing to him, he groans, "What?!" he looks at you, startled, but you don't look at him. "Stroke me Aemond". Aemond, who is now a little more reassured that you didn't mean "touching", isn't sure how long he can resist the temptation to just kiss you and let it get to the point where he is the first man to make love to you.

He swallows hard and looks over at you and sees you looking at him with sad eyes, almost pleading and a soft whisper of "please" leaving your lips. His jaw tightens and he takes a deep breath. You have almost resigned yourself to the fact that he is just holding you tonight, but then you suddenly notice how his fingers run along your side and slowly glide over your body. At first he moves very stiffly, but over time his touches become more and more gentle. You snuggle up even closer to his side. Your hand, which lies next to your face on his naked chest, takes up the movement as if by itself and you gently caress his chest. You simply enjoy lying in his arms like this. As he turns, you are afraid for a moment that he will loosen his embrace, but he turns a little further towards you and takes his other hand away from behind his head and places it on his chest to stroke your arm as well.

Aemond leans his head against yours and gives you a kiss on your hair. You smile, "Stay the night." You feel him smile into your hair, "But then I must leave your chambers early in the morning. If anyone sees me here..." "...My father will separate your head from your shoulders, I know," he chuckles into your hair, leaving another kiss there. "I'll stay," Aemond replies softly. You just answer him with a smile that he doesn't see. Slowly your eyes fall closed and you fall asleep in Aemond's arms.

Aemond slowly wakes up. Something is different, something feels strange. He feels something on his chest and on his arm and it is moving. When he opens his eyes and sees the silver hair lying on his chest, he remembers... You are still in his arms. He smiles and realises that he has never slept so well. He still smiles slightly as he sees how pleased you look, if not happy. Aemond just watches you for a while, listening to your quiet breaths. Carefully he strokes your cheek and you crinkle your nose in response. As his eyes go to the window, he sees that dawn is approaching. An unfamiliar feeling of sadness spreads through him at the thought that he must leave now. He gently kisses your hair and inhales your scent, but you are oblivious to it all.

When he has carefully released himself from the embrace, he slides smoothly out of bed. Quietly, he walks through your chambers to retrieve his waistcoat as he turns back to the bed and realises you have his vest. "Mhm...", he takes his waistcoat and pulls it over his bare chest. He will get his vest back later. Quietly he opens your door and he sticks his head through the half-opened door. He can't see anyone and so he slips out of your chambers into the corridor.

His thoughts keep drifting back to last evening. They were so unusual and yet so beautiful for him. He was never one to crave tenderness or togetherness with another person. Sure, in the past he had spent time with women. But mostly for one reason: to experience satisfaction. Even in those moments, he was unable to look them in the eye while he humped them. He always humped them hard from behind while they knelt on all fours in front of him. As soon as they tried to turn around, he lost his lust. He was not a friend of tenderness, but these women longed for him to be tender with them, but he saw no need for it. Though it was different the one time he was with a certain woman. Alys. He was almost ashamed to come out of your chambers thinking of Alys. He pushes those thoughts away. It's different with you. He enjoys every second with you, every tenderness that is exchanged. And what was new for him was that he couldn't stop caressing you. This simple touch, and without ever having made love to you, made him feel deeply satisfied.

He even finds your innocent manner sweet in a certain way. When you suddenly stood in front of him, so innocent, in just his vest, it makes him chuckle softly. He never found it seductive when an unplucked flower in the form of a pristine Lady stood before him wanting his attention. It's different with you...

Usually he prefers it when the woman knows what she wants. But when he saw you yesterday, so unaware of what it means to tell a man to touch you, he felt a different kind of arousal. And that's when he realised that he's never longed for a woman the way he's longed for you.

Slowly you open your eyes and immediately feel a kind of emptiness. Your gaze goes to the other side of the bed, but there is no Aemond lying there. You wonder if you have only dreamed the events of last night. But when you realise that you are wearing his vest, you smile and wrap your arms around your body to feel his vest as close as possible. After a while you sit up and see that the sun is already shining into your room - Aemond must have left your room some time ago. As you finish dressing, you set off for breakfast with your family.

But halfway there, your father and Jace meet you, "Would you like to train with us?" Jace asks you with a grin. "Now?" you reply, a little irritated, "Well, we're off." You think for a moment as Jace and Daemon walk past you. Eventually you walk after them and Daemon smirks at you.

"Come on, Y/N, don't neglect your defence!" your father shouts at you as you get up from the ground with your face covered in dust. "If you had fought fair, this wouldn't have happened!" you shout back. You move in a circle, looking each other straight in the eye, your sword resting loosely but securely in your hand, your breathing heavy. "It's not fair on the battlefield either, you have to expect everything" You mimic him. "Maybe you should put Aemond out of your mind for a while so you can concentrate on fighting"

That's enough. Without warning, you let out a shout and run straight at him. You surprise him with it, but he quickly dodges to the side and rams his elbow into your ribs. You fall to your knees, gasping, because the punch has forced the air out of your lungs. You pause for a moment to catch your breath.

You notice that Daemon has turned away and is slowly moving away from you. This is your chance, you get up as quickly as you can and immediately go for him. Just as Daemon is about to turn towards you, the flat of your sword hits him hard on the back. He screams out and strikes back with his free hand to catch you, but you are quicker. Quickly you bend down and use the element of surprise to pull his legs away.

Daemon has fallen.

He is still trying to get up again. But you are already standing over him, visibly satisfied, and hold your blade to his neck. Breathing heavily, he looks up at you. "That wasn't fair," he gasps. You look at him incredulously and reply with a simple, "You just have to expect everything, then it won't happen." He smirks at you, "Okay maybe that's enough for today". You smile and help him up.

Aemond stood on the edge of the training ground most of the time watching you. He is impressed that you are facing Daemon like this. Even though he is your father, Daemon does not hold back when he fights with you. Yet you face him and that impresses Aemond. And not only do you fight him, you even manage to make him go down. He can't deny it, but that makes you even more seductive to him. Nor can he deny how it arouses him and makes his trousers tighter in the crotch. Suddenly he sees you looking straight at him.

Out of nowhere you see Aemond standing on the edge watching you. His arms are folded behind his back and he smiles at you. You are surprised to see him here now and cannot suppress a smile. Daemon notices this and he clears his throat. When you look at him, he has raised his eyebrows. Before you can be embarrassed, he says, "Well, go on over to him.“ You can only nod at your father. On the way to Aemond, you can't help it, your grin grows bigger.

"Aemond."

"Y/N," he replies with a smile. You stand in front of each other in silence for a moment as he lifts his hand and gently wipes some dust from your face. Your breath catches briefly. "So I'm distracting you while you're training?" You look at him, puzzled. "Well, your father said that if I wasn't in your head, you would be able to defend yourself better," blood rushes to your face and you stammer, "What...? no... it...", Aemond laughs. "He's just trying to embarrass me so I won't be able to successfully defend myself."

Aemond replies with a grin, "Mhm..."

"Nevertheless, you still have my vest. It's not like I could just take the vest off you this morning," your cheeks reddened even more at the thought. Aemond loves that sight.

"Then you'll have to take it with you next time," you say with a smile on your lips. "Oh, next time?" he replies. "Yes, next time. But for now I'm leaving. I have to take a bath before I can go to the festivities tonight. Will I see you there?" He smiles at you, "Of course. How could I want to miss you."

"Okay, I'll see you later then." He gives you a slight nod and you make your way to your chambers.

Startled, you realise that you have been dawdling. The warm bath water has made you stay in the tub longer than you wanted to. But you look perfect. Before you leave your chambers, you look in the mirror. Your dress is not that different from yesterday's, except that today you have chosen a black one with dark red applications, your favourite combination. Your long hair is braided back into a light plait and a necklace with many precious stones hangs around your neck. But the necklace cascades like a waterfall and ends just above the base of your breasts with a lovely sapphire. With a quick step you make your way to the hall.

And just as you thought, the festivities were already in full swing. You make your way through the crowd to the main table. You greet your grandfather and Alicent, "We're a bit late today, aren't we?" King Viserys asks you. You smile at him, "I apologise, the warm bath water was too tempting". Your grandfather gives a short laugh, "Apology accepted". With a slight bow you move on to sit next to your father. You kiss him on the cheek, as you always do, in greeting. "Well, have you recovered from your fall?" you ask him, teasing him. All you get in reply is a raised eyebrow.

The evening drags on again. It is really no pleasure to sit in a hall where everyone can watch you, as if you were on display. But one look in particular catches your eye. Ever since you entered the hall, Aemond's gaze has been following you and when you notice that he stands up, you think of doing the same. You give your father a small smile and stand up from the table.

You see Aemond walk onto a nearby balcony. You follow him through the crowd and as you stand in the doorway to the balcony, you pause for a moment. The sun is just setting and Aemond seems to be watching the sunset. His hands rest on the railing and the whole scene seems so gentle, you don't really dare disturb it. After a few moments you slowly walk towards him. He tilts his head slightly to the side as you stand beside him. You look off into the distance and do as he does, watching the sunset.

"I haven't seen you dance yet," you break the silence. He looks at you, "I haven't seen you dance either," you have to smile briefly, "but nevertheless, dancing in a hall full of people is not so tempting for me." You slip out a quiet, "Oh."

He watches you, "Dancing is for Lords who have no idea how to make stimulating conversation with a Lady. How to compliment a Lady, how to use words properly. Without dancing, they would never find a suitable Lady to marry, would not be able to enjoy being close to a woman."

You meet his gaze, "Well, I like to dance. Not all the time, but with the right Lord, it can be fun." With a smirk on his lips, he replies, "Then I guess you'll have to wait for a gracious Lord to ask you to dance."

You sigh as his gaze falls on your necklace. Carefully he lifts his hand to stroke your necklace, "That's a lovely sapphire." You look down at your necklace, "Yes, my father had the gems collected especially for me, but the sapphire is really the most beautiful. That's why I wanted it to be placed in the middle." Aemond just smiles gently, "That's true, it really does look the most beautiful."

After a time of silence Aemond taps on the railing seemingly impatiently, "Would you accompany me to the garden? Away from all the crowds here? We could also take some wine with us," he winks at you. Visibly pleased, you accept his invitation, "I'd love to," you smile. Aemond holds out his arm to guide you appropriately. Together you make your way to the hall. As you reach the hall, it seems as if all the Lords and Ladies present turn to look at you. You notice Aemond stiffen because he is obviously uncomfortable with everyone staring at him.

Too late, Aemond realises that he will be walking with you through a crowded hall. What you don't know is that Aemond becomes insecure when society sees him with a Lady. As if out of reflex, your free hand reaches up to place it on his arm as well. As if it were a matter of course, you stroke him gently as you walk down the corridor. He looks into your eyes and smiles gently, making it bearable for him to walk through the crowd. Just before you reach the exit, Aemond stops a servant. The servant looks visibly startled, "You won't need these," and Aemond takes the wine bottle from him, which the servant was about to take to a table. The servant bends slightly in front of Aemond. "Now we can go," Aemond whispers in your ear. You chuckle.

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dailysabinasmuts · 11 months

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Yeji feels a touch of trepidation as she enters into the intimate illumination of Jihyo's bedroom. She had been dreading something like this would happen, that her senior would hear of her... excesses. But Yeji had been quite circumspect of late, keeping her burning lusts under tight control as an example for the rest of Itzy. So she is somewhat reassured when Jihyo greets her warmly as she is led to her bed. Sitting on the edge, the two leaders hold hands as they idly chatter about recent events and the struggles of being in charge of idols.

Jihyo nods in empathy as Yeji grumbles about all the trouble her girls had been causing. Just last week they had discovered that Lia was hoarding interns in a closet, raving about how "She wanted to keep the cute ones fresh". Truly Itzy was swiftly growing out of control, and Yeji was unable to stop it. Jihyo gently presses her junior, the girls closely follow Yeji's lead, had she been... slipping more often? Yeji denies it, she had been practically masocistic in denying herself lately; even leaving the cute interns hale enough to walk after she ravishes them. Jihyo lets out a sorrowful sigh, does Yeji truly not remember what happened yesterday?

Yeji responds with a blank stare.

Jihyo squeezes her friend's hand, really? Yeji had rapaciously fucked her way through most of the jnterns, plowed a decent portion of the managers, and by the time she was stopped she had been force-feeding NMIXX her sloppy seconds for over an hour. Yeji denies everything, but Jihyo is firm with her junior, its obvious her self-repression had caused her to unconciously lash out; so Jihyo is going force her to deal with her stress constructively. Yeji's attempts to protest are deftly silenced as she is spun about, her face pushed against the sheets.

Yeji snarls as her pants are pulled down and something vast and hard is pressed against her folds. A veteran of viscious non-consensual sex, she writhes and spits, but Jihyo, it could only be Jihyo, firmly holds her in place. Yeji screams in rage as her senior's massive strapon is forced into her pussy, inch after inch filling her greedy hole. Then Jihyo is thrusting, mechanically slaming her tip against Yeji's g-spot before plunging her dildo in to the hilt. Yeji lets out a hiss of frustration as Jihyo forces a hard orgasm out of her, twitching with unwilling pleasure.

But Jihyo isnt finished with her wayward pupil, relentlessly yet kindly continuing to plow Yeji. Who is steadily losing her defiant demeanor as she succumbs to her senior's attentions. Jihyo had been the one to teach Yeji about sexual matters, and so knew her every weakspot and exploited them to the fullest. Several orgasms later, and Yeji's pussy had been reduced to a churning soup of sloshing girl-cum, as Jihyo stirred her insides with determination. Yeji lies, bargains, pleas, begs, eventually sobbing for mercy from Jihyo, wailing like a baby as her voracious urges are fucked out of her.

Only when Yeji had devolved into a blubbering shell of herself does Jihyo cease her ministrations. Cooing with pride, she hugs Yeji tight against her breasts, softly stroking her hair as Yeji suckles upon her. "There there, who's Mommy's fierce little dragon? Mhmm you've been a bad girl, but Mommy has made it all better now. Thats it, just suck on Mommy's nipples, she knows how much it comforts you... Next time you get stressed out, just ask me for help okay? I'm always willing to help you work through your urges... hmmm? You want more, but more gentle this time? Of course dear! Now spread your legs for Mommy, and ask politely to get fucked like a good girl..."

Yeji made Mommy Jihyo very proud that night 😊

#kpop smut #jihyo smut #yeji smut

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ingravinoveritas · 6 months

Note

Georgia talking about staged again and now their…… flirting? Is that what you would call putting a heart on Anna and her calling Georgia a flirt?? Radio silence from the both of them and now randomly there’s this.

Hi there! Well, I'm not sure it's really random. But let's get the visual up here first, for those who haven't seen Georgia/AL's Insta stories today:

So this seemed to start with Georgia posting the story about Staged playing on BBC iPlayer after she finished watching OFMD. The second story is the one with Georgia drawing the heart around AL, followed by the story with her drawing a heart around the glass of wine Michael is holding, and then Anna shared Georgia's story and called her a flirt.

The reason I don't believe this is random is because for the last several days, all everyone has been talking about online is Ineffable Con and Rob/Gavin's comments about the kiss between Michael/Aziraphale and David/Crowley. And as we've seen before, just when the conversation gets too focused on Michael and David, Georgia and AL post a story or photo to bring the attention back to them. It's actually fairly predictable at this point, since it's happened multiple times previously (though I would say this seems a bit more blatant than other instances, given that there isn't any reason for either of them to promote Staged right now).

My thought in regard to the "flirt" comment is that I agree with you in not understanding exactly how that reads as flirting (as it didn't come across that way to me). I do wonder if this is another attempt at Georgia and AL trying to be the female analogues to David and Michael (which we've also seen before), but it again doesn't work because they don't have that same chemistry or flirty dynamic that Michael and David have. Also, if this actually was "flirting," what was the purpose in GT circling the glass of wine? Is she flirting with the wine as much as AL? Once you look past the straightforward promotional aspect of these stories, it just seems very weird.

Weirdness is apparently the theme for the day, however, as there was also this reply from AL on Twitter earlier:

If you look at the timestamps, AL replied to this tweet/Michael's tweet exactly one minute after Michael replied. Going back to the idea of predictability, there's been nonstop discussion for the past several days about Michael and David kissing, and my first thought was that she seemed to just be looking for a reply that she could jump on and insert herself, to where I would not be surprised if she has notifications set up for his tweets for just such an occasion.

Upon further consideration, I did get the feeling that her "Where can I get one?" was not at all sincere in the way that Michael's was. It came across to me as a passive-aggressive way of reasserting her position (i.e., "I'm the only one who actually gets to love Michael Sheen"). It also makes it seem like she is fighting with the fans for Michael's attention, on top of already competing with David (although let's be honest, there is no competition there). More than that, however, I also got the feeling that AL copying his comment was her way of mocking him for wanting the t-shirt at all (i.e., "Look how stupid he is for wanting this stupid shirt"). Which of course is not something she would actually say, but the copied text along with the reply coming only one minute later makes it seem a bit circumspect. And it makes me feel sad for the fan who made the original post who may not realize what is really going on.

In any case, those are my thoughts on GT and AL's social media posts today. As I've always said before, I know I could be completely wrong in my interpretations, but the timing is just too strange for me to believe it's a coincidence. I'm happy to hear others' thoughts, though...

#phantomstars24 #reply post #georgia tennant #staged #or 'Brokeback Mount Him' which is what i am referring to Staged as from here on out #the more i think about it the weirder this all seems #again if this was a one time thing i wouldn't even say anything #but the fact that it keeps happening is...yeah #the whole thing just gives the vibe of keeping up appearances #but i will leave it to my followers to make up their own minds #also historically i am terrible at picking up on flirting so i know i may not be the best person to comment on this #although i think i did pick up on Neil flirting with me on Twitter one time #anna lundberg #discourse

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alexhornefan · 7 months

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Tell me about your relationship with Alex. Was he helpful, at all, during the tasks? It took me a few days to work out, "Who is this person?" because he doesn’t communicate much when you’re doing tasks. He’s quite circumspect. Putting someone down is a comic device I’ve used often over the years and he was the only person there, so that’s what I ended up doing. You don’t get much from him, but he’s very scrupulous and fair. He was just always there in the corner, usually behind the camera with his clipboard. It’s a strange role he has because he’s the clever one, but he’s also the inferior one compared to Greg. It took me a while to work that out. But I did like him, and after we’d finished a task, if I said, "That was terrible," he’d say, "Oh, you’d be surprised" so you’d hope that you hadn’t done as badly as you thought, which was quite nice. But it was so relentless – task after task, day after day – so it became a way of life. He was a constant presence during these task days. I very much enjoyed your constant put-downs of Alex. Well, I’m naturally a bit dour. I was mortified sometimes when Greg said, "Oh, you look bored" because that’s just my way. I thought it was just because I was older and cynical but actually, thinking about it, I was like this as a child. It’s just the way I am. And how did you get on with Greg? It’s unusual for me to want to please someone, but I’ve been a bit puppy-dog with him. He’s very enigmatic, and everyone’s looking at him all the time. He has a very well-developed – I was going to say inner child, because he’s very giggly and childish – but he’s really an alpha male. I should imagine he’s in charge wherever he goes, whatever he does. I might be wrong but I can imagine him going into a shop and ordering a sandwich and being, "This is what I want and give it to me now." So I hated disappointing him. I hated it when he got a bit dismissive. It’s mortifying, and you feel slightly jealous if he’s praising young Sam, you know?

How do you describe the relationship between Greg and Alex?

Like a lot of marriages, it’s all different things mixed up, isn’t it? So there’s obviously affection, and there’s a very deep knowledge of each other. And it’s funny because you think Greg’s always the one in charge, but then you know that Alex is the one behind the tasks, so they subvert that. It’s complicated, just like proper relationships are. And it’s not at all like Morecambe and Wise, or any of these other partnerships. It’s a million miles away from that, which is unique, really.

-Julian Clary

#alex horne #taskmaster #greg davies #Julian Clary #s16

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grimoire-catechumen · 9 months

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Importance of Silence in Ritual Magick

Every time I return to Agrippa, I am amazed by what I have forgotten and the knowledge which he provides in the Three Books of Occult Philosophy.

Having grown up with a Christocentric worldview from which I make sense of the mundane and magickal world, the idea of silence has always been prevalent. Note Matthew 7:6 specifically, which says: “Do not give dogs what is holy, and do not throw your pearls before pigs, lest they trample them underfoot and turn to attack you." The word occult comes from the Latin verb celara meaning "to hide" or the adjective occultus meaning "hidden, concealed, or secret." In antiquity, the secrets provided to practitioners of the occult were considered valuable so much so that they were often disguised, shrouded in ways that only those holding a metaphorical key could understand the original meaning. To prevent the casting of this sacred spiritual knowledge before swine.

Agrippa expands on this idea in Ch. II of Book III where he notes five reasons for silence or circumspection.

Sharing holy matters with profane minds pollutes them. We see this even today when trying to share sacred, but secret truths granted to us by spirits with those who don't understand. Sayings like "mundane over magical" or a push for critical thought are used to lessen its influence or impact on our understanding. When we share these experiences, sometimes it can be to the detriment of the work the spirits are calling us to do. The shine of pearls is sullied by their environment.

Profane minds cannot grasp holy doctrine. Understanding is a gift to give a deeper insight and penetration of divine truths held by faith, not as a transitory enlightenment but as a permanent intuition. In Catholic dogma, this gift of understanding is granted by the Holy Spirit during Confirmation and assists in penetrating revealed truths, but also natural truths in so far as they related to a supernatural end. As St. Thomas Aquinas said, "In this very life, when the eye of the spirit is purified by the gift of understanding, one can ina a certain way see God." (Summa theologicae II-II, q. 69 a.2, ad.3).

The importance of understanding is further echoed in the Stobaei Hermetica: "But avoid converse with the many. Not that I wish you to grudge a benefit to others; my reason for this warning is rather that the many will think you one to be laughed at if you speak to them as I have spoken to you. Like welcomes like; but men that are unlike are never friends..."

3. It allows the divine enlightenment of the doctrine to occur. Everybody has experiences whereby slowing down and listening we are given directions, instructions, or encouragement from the spirits. But by keeping silent about our work, we ensure our motivations are pure and that the intention is to commune with the divine. Too often I think we miss critical personal truths in favor of using magic for public success. As noted in the Corpus Hermeticum 13.8a, "And now, my son, speak not, but keep a solemn silence; so will the mercy come down on us from God."

4. The futility of attempting to express the inexpressible. Sometimes words are incapable of describing our supernatural experiences with spirits and when we do it comes out much less life-changing than it was. There is a reason occultists gather together in communities - just as any common worldview is the base of a religion, so to do our experiences bring us together and set us apart. Only those who have worked with the spirits can fully understand your own experiences.

5. Silence involves a proscription against translation of the doctrines into other languages because the words themselves are holy and embody power. Although this may be my least favorite reason as a grimoire magician eager to find translations of French and German transcripts, I think it holds true. This idea is noted in the Corpus Hermeticum 16.1b-2 as well: "Translation will greatly distort the sense of the writings, and cause much obscurity. Expressed in our native language, the teaching conveys its meaning clearly; for the very quality of sounds...; and when the Egyptian words are spoken, the force of the things signified works in them."

Furthermore, in academic publications such as Invoking Angels by Penn State University Press, there are entire discussions around how the illiterate laity copying down instructions from holy books led to mistakes in translations, a problem noted by translators such as Joseph Peterson, David Rankine, and Stephen Skinner in their meticulous grimoire translations. Exasperated by the enhanced access to manuscripts in the 16th and 17th centuries, you see books such as the Grimoire of Arthur Gauntlet or Book of Oberon with Greek, Latin, and Hebrew translation corrections along with corrections in figures of circles or talismans.

Outside of magick, even, biblical scholars note the loss of Scriptural understanding when reading the Bible in English compared to Greek or even Hebrew, noting minute differences that entirely change the meaning of a text or provide additional context.

Taken together, I think Agrippa makes a solid argument for why keeping silent is important. Do you agree?

#ceremonial magic #grimoire #grimoires #magick #solomonic magic #witchcraft #divination #occultism #heinrich cornelius agrippa #silence

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because--palestine · 3 months

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Overwhelmingly moving closing statement of Irish lawyer Blinne Ní Ghrálaigh in ICJ case against Israel :

The international community continues to fail the Palestinian people, despite the overt dehumanising genocidal rhetoric by Israeli governmental and military officials, matched by the Israeli military’s actions on the ground; despite the horror of the genocide against the Palestinian population being livestreamed from Gaza to our mobile phones, computers and televisions screens — the first genocide in history where its victims are broadcasting their own destruction in real time in the desperate — so far vain — hope that the world might do something. Gaza represents nothing short of a “moral failure”, as described by the usually circumspect International Committee of the Red Cross. As underscored by United Nations Chiefs, that failure has “repercussions not just for the people of Gaza . . . but for the generations to come who will never forget these 90 days of hell and of assaults on the most basic precepts of humanity”. As stated by a United Nations spokesperson in Gaza last week, at the site of a hospital clearly marked with the symbol of the Red Crescent, where five Palestinians — including a five-day old baby — had just been killed: “The world should be absolutely horrified. The world should be absolutely outraged . . . There is no safe space in Gaza and the world should be ashamed”.

Madam President, Members of the Court, in conclusion I share with you two photographs. The first is of a white board at a hospital — in Northern Gaza — one of the many Palestinian hospitals targeted, besieged, bombed by Israel over the course of the past three brutal months. The white board is wiped clean of no longer possible surgical cases, leaving only a hand-written message by a Médecins Sans Frontières doctor which reads: “We did what we could. Remember us”. The second is of the same whiteboard, after an Israeli strike on the hospital on 21 November 2023 that killed the author of the message, Dr Mahmoud Abu Nujaila, along with two of his colleagues. Just over a month later, in a powerful Christmas Day sermon, delivered from a church in Bethlehem — on the same day Israel had killed 250 Palestinians, including at least 86 people, many from the same family, massacred in a single strike on Maghazi Refugee Camp — Palestinian Pastor Munther Isaac addressed his congregation and the world. He said: “Gaza as we know it no longer exists. This is an annihilation. This is a genocide. We will rise. We will stand up again from the midst of destruction, as we have always done as Palestinians, although this is by far maybe the biggest blow we have received.” But he said: “No apologies will be accepted after the genocide . . . What has been done has been done. I want you to look at the mirror and ask, ‘where was I when Gaza was going through a genocide’.”

South Africa is here before this Court, in the Peace Palace. It has done what it could. It is doing what it can, by initiating these proceedings, by seeking interim measures against itself as well as against Israel. South Africa now respectfully and humbly calls on this honourable Court to do what is in its power to do, to indicate the provisional measures that are so urgently required to prevent further irreparable harm to the Palestinian people in Gaza, whose hopes — including for their very survival — are now vested in the Court.

January 11, 2024

#endisraelsgenocide #icj #south africa #palestine #free palestine #isreal #genocide #apartheid #irish solidarity with palestine

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britcision · 1 year

Text

Ah, Wednesday, here again! Let’s see if we can’t get a chapter out before the next one comes around

The title should give you some ideas of what I’ve got planned for this one 😈

Tag list: @welcometosasakiworld @kyrianclawraith @someonebored0100 @stealingyourbones @starkcravingmad @frostedthroughghost @akikoyuii @rainbowbunny0159 @littlefeather345 @violet-catsarelife @serasvictoria02 @wolfjackle @blacksea21090 @secretdestinywerewolf @anime-hipster-the-amazing @undead-essence @skitscratched @blackroserelina @snoodly-boop @trickerdi @mayoota-blog @xysidhe @idkmrpianoman @little-apricot-the-writer @chaoticmistake @the-legal-shipper @bun-fish @aroranorth-west @demon-cat-goes-woof @eonic @onyxlightdragon @larks-and-katydids @peachesandcreamfemboy @jesus-camp-the-sequel @may-rbi @arandomturd

—————

The Inevitable Rogue Attack

His kids were rioting. There were giggles, muffled screams, Steph was drumming her hands on the table hard enough to shake the place settings.

And Jason… Jason.

Bruce wasn’t quite sure what to do as Jason made his way back down to his seat, passing behind all three Amity Parkers to get there.

He’d hoped… well. He hoped Jason had understood his meaning. He hadn’t expected the boy to blanche like that, and he’d worried for a second that he’d misjudged.

But no, the smile Jason gave him on the stage was real. Bruce knew every detail of his son’s face, had worked doubly hard to be able to read those expressions when Jason had come back unfamiliar and grown.

There was something he’d missed. Obviously.

But he didn’t know what. Didn’t know what he had expected Jason to do, now that it came down to it. Bruce hadn’t said what he did thinking about Jason’s response.

He didn’t need him to respond at all, he just… he wanted Jason to know he cared. To be sure that Bruce loved him. That Bruce wanted him back.

That he would never be sorry enough for how his mistakes had cost Jason everything. Surely promising that before so many witnesses, so many people would show he meant it?

They’d need to talk. They would always need to talk. And perhaps Jason would talk to Alfred too, and Bruce could ask what he’d done wrong.

He hadn’t expected Jason to fall sobbing into his arms. But the way he’d paled, Bruce’s stomach had dropped like a stone.

Was it really such a surprise to hear? Such a shock? Had he failed that much?

Making his way back to his own table, he let his gaze drift from Jason and land on the Manson girl. He was a little surprised to find that she was staring at him too, despite the chaos at her table.

Shouldn’t she be focused on Jason? He had just rather publicly expressed his affections, even if he’d been circumspect.

Bruce would have thought she was watching him for his response to that, except that he’d seen Damian look at dogfight ring owners with warmer eyes.

Even as their eyes met, he saw her hand scrabbling side ways, snatching at cutlery and then Danny grabbed her hand and wrestled it back to the table.

She’d grabbed a knife. He’d have been satisfied in his assessments of her being correct, but who the fuck was Jason hanging out with?

He made it back to his seat, looked over, and she was still watching him. Narrow purple eyes tracking him like she was waiting to pounce.

He’d been stared at at every gala since he was a child.

He’d stared down villains planning to cube him with lasers, while tied to their tables.

Samantha Manson was activating his bat senses. No wonder Jason liked her so much.

Perhaps the Mansons hadn’t been exaggerating the situation… but that still left the question of Danny. The “very important” relationship that Jason claimed was helping the pit.

Danny was supposedly here as Sam’s date too. Could it be an open relationship? Or had Sam and Jason not yet realised he was involved with them both?

Selina’s intel suggested the former, but Bruce would have to observe them more closely to determine which it was. And then there was Tucker Foley…

Tucker had been spending more time with Tim than the other three though. Bruce would be relying on him for a debrief later, and his impressions of Masters.

The rest of his children had clearly met Danny as well, he wished he could have taken at least one of them aside for a report before dinner.

As it was, he likely wouldn’t be able to talk to them until they got home. Perhaps Damian might be persuaded to take a brief break from the rest of the room…

Though his youngest did hate to miss the action. Especially if he perceived something important to be going on, and from the set of his shoulders, he did.

His tension did absolutely nothing to soothe Bruce’s own worries. Nor did reminding himself that Damian may be upset by almost anything.

Damian may still struggle socially, but he was perceptive and excellent at threat assessing. If he was tense, there was a reason.

He was so focused on his childrens’ table that he didn’t even notice Selina on her phone beside him.

Jason slipped back into his seat, feeling much better than he had leaving it. Who knew that getting a little fuckery in would settle him so much?

Well, anyone who’d met him. But other than that.

Dick leaned in before his ass hit the chair, both arms outstretched as if to cradle Jason in them.

“You fucking madlad,” he gasped, eyes bright with laughter and Jason rolled his eyes, grinning even as he slapped Dick’s hands away.

“What, it’s not like you’ve not done worse,” he said off handedly, settling himself in.

Steph was still drumming on the table, finishing up an epic solo by snatching up her knife and tinging it off her glass.

“And that’s the new high to beat on Bruce’s blood pressure chart, ladies and gentlemen, likely possible only through grand larceny!” She declared emphatically, tossing her knife back down.

And apparently inspiring Sam, whose eyes narrowed, still tracking Bruce as she grabbed at the table beside her. Danny, already on guard, leaned away a little.

“Sam, what are you… no Sam no!” He snatched at her arm just as she grabbed his steak knife, pulling it back to the table.

Steph’s brows rose, Dick leaned back a little, and Jason couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“You can’t stab a man at a gala, Damian’s already tried,” Tim put in with a slightly nervous chuckle.

They all seemed to think she’d go for it. Jason, only knowing her slightly longer, was completely sure she’d go for it.

He let his hand fall to cover hers and Danny’s too, squeezing softly. He kinda appreciated having a friend who’d kill a man for him.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but if Bruce dies tonight Tim inherits a lot more paperwork and he already doesn’t sleep,” he said casually, and Sam’s gaze snapped back to him.

Her eyes narrowed further for a moment and then she huffed, dropping the knife and sinking back in her seat. And still glaring at Bruce over at his table.

“It doesn’t have to be a lethal stabbing,” she pointed out coolly, glaring at her own utensils. Vegetarian options did not usually require steak knives.

A happy coincidence that it kept the sharp knives away from Damian too, really. He had switched from glaring at Danny to glaring at Sam assessingly.

Whatever conclusions he drew, they didn’t come before the waiters arrived, hot food still under cloches.

The table fell quiet for a moment as plates were handed out, and then food inspected. The dining room filled with the clink of cutlery and muted conversation.

Jason’s little stunt was definitely still causing ripples, and he felt a definite self satisfaction grow through him. Fuck Bruce and his surprises.

It was Tucker who brought the conversation back, clearing his throat while the others focused on food.

“So, Sam… on a scale from 0 to public proposals, where does Jason’s little kiss stand?” He asked slyly, waggling his eyebrows from his spot a whole Danny away.

Sam’s glare indicated that might not be far enough. Then she snickered and returned to her plate.

“Zero. We planned to fuck with their heads and we both know what it means, right Jason?” She asked, cocking a brow at the taller man.

Jason shrugged cheerfully, enjoying the way every siblings’ eyes narrowed at her lack of specificity. They weren’t off the fuckery list yet, knowing about Val or not.

“Exactly. Glad you agree though, I wasn’t sure if I should apologise. We didn’t exactly talk about that,” he added when she made a small questioning noise.

Sam shrugged, waving her decidedly blunt knife with mild disdain.

“You’re good. We’re on the same page, I don’t give a shit what anyone here thinks, and it’s gonna make the big explosion all the better.” She sounded distinctly satisfied with this turn of events, so Tucker raised his hands, surrendering.

Dick chuckled softly, shaking his head and digging into his food.

“Not to defend Bruce, but I don’t think he’s emotionally intelligent enough to try and corner Jason into a response,” he pointed out cheerfully and Jason snorted a laugh.

Which became a full laugh when Sam didn’t even glance over.

“Cop opinion, nobody asked.”

Dick pouted and Steph laughed at him, leaning in to continue either the conversation or the bullying. Jason wasn’t quite sure which, because Cass captured his attention with a gentle hand on his arm.

Glancing her way, she gave him a soft smile and signed,

‘Are you okay?’

And yeah. Without the pit’s biting green haze, Jason was a massive fucking sap, apparently. Or Bruce had shaken him more than he thought.

He managed a smile that wasn’t too shaky, signing quickly back.

‘I’m good.’ Not that he need bother, since Cass looked entirely unconvinced.

She didn’t call him on it though, slipping her hand into his and squeezing gently. And that was one of his favourite things about Cass.

Like most of the bats, she never really talked about shit, but in her case? It was often because she didn’t need to. She understood without needing him to find the right words.

Maybe that was why the whole ghost-emotional-language thing wasn’t freaking him out the way it probably should.

Maybe Cass was also part ghost. She’d died before.

And that was something he’d have to ask Danny about. He’d mentioned a “ghost sense” that he and Vlad could use to find each other.

Jason’s almost certainly wasn’t fully developed, just like his core, because to hear Danny tell it he could detect any ghost within a city block. Sometimes further.

He’d felt Vlad’s proximity like a chill down his spine right before he walked up so there was definitely something there. Hopefully it’d get stronger with time.

It had taken until tonight for Jason to really understand that the sense of peace which had washed over him at the graveyard and the coffee shop had been directly caused by Danny’s presence.

Part of it was the way the pit quieted, there was still an almost euphoric bliss that came with the lack of bubbling rage. In not being constantly at war inside his head.

Being able to fucking hear himself think. Fuck, the fact that it still felt like a luxury was fucking depressing. The idea that one day it might be his normal again…

But it hadn’t been long enough since he’d seen Danny to just be that tonight. The pit had been building, but he’d spent the afternoon hanging out with Frostbite’s plant.

It had been ignorable. As normal as he’d been in the last year. And he’d still felt that warm rush as Danny came down the stairs. The second he saw him things fell into place.

That was probably the ghost sense. And maybe a bit of what Clockwork had told him about being the Fright Knight.

The ghost had said he’d always know if Danny was in danger, so it made sense that being able to see Danny and know he wasn’t in danger would feel good. He was doing his duty.

Definitely all that was.

By the time he’d tuned back into the main conversation, they’d moved back to the inevitable rogue attack. Currently? Betting on who it’d be.

“I could go for a Riddler attack,” Steph mused, waving a forkful of potatoes vaguely. “At least he’d know some riddles to keep us busy til the bats arrive.”

“Yeah, cause he totally cares about entertaining his hostages,” Tim snickered and shook his head. “Riddler’s on the run. Red Robin and Nightwing caught him shipping something explosive into the city. WE did the tech analysis,” he added for their guests.

None of whom looked surprised, which was interesting. Tucker seemed interested, but not concerned.

“Oh, did you get to have a look? I’m not much of a hardware guy beyond this beauty,” he said with a loving look to his PDA, then back to Tim.

Who shrugged.

“Personally? No, but I okayed the lab time and bumped them on the priority list. Some of them were a little close to one of our offices.”

“Risks of working in Gotham,” Dick agreed with a sigh, and this time he even filled in the next part himself, “despite if not because of the corruption of the police.” He raised his glass to the table.

Steph and Cass cheered, Cass silently, and even Sam snickered. Cass took the next step though, shifting a little back up the curve of the table so they could all see her hands again.

‘Have not seen Poison Ivy in a while. Never met her.’

Sam sighed at that, raising her glass with a dry smile.

“And you won’t, at least tonight. If there was even a small chance she’d be in Gotham, I wouldn’t be,” she added to the Wayne brood, all of whom looked curious.

Jason could guess.

“Are your folks particularly worried about her?” Dick asked, glancing around for the older Mansons. Sam snorted a laugh but let Danny answer.

“Worried that given half a chance Sam will run away and join her. They’re both what you’d call “aggressive environmentalists”,” he added with air quotes.

Tim cocked a brow, grinning.

“That’s a funny way of spelling “ecoterrorists”,” he pointed out lightly, leaning in. “So how do they know she won’t come? She was in Gotham last I heard.”

Sam hesitated for a moment, glancing around as if checking for eavesdroppers. None too close to their table; Jason had made it a condition that they not be near enough to talk to any others.

Then she leaned in, the entire table following suit. Danny and Tucker seemed equally curious, which was interesting.

“I’m not supposed to know this, and you can’t tell anyone, alright?” She hissed, and the Gothamites nodded along like each and every one of them weren’t about to run the Mansons down for supervillain connections.

Jason tried not to smirk.

Sam met each of their eyes, then continued, her voice low.

“So Tuck, Danny and I knew Vlad was coming to Gotham. I ran an Ivy check to see if my parents would let me come too, so we could keep an eye on him. And my grandma caught me.”

Tucker and Danny leaned back like this explained everything, eyes wide. Steph leaned in further, half out of her chair.

“What did she do?” She whispered.

Sam grinned.

“She recognised her. She was an activist herself when she was younger, really big on the environmental scene…”

“Ida Manson?” Damian asked sharply, head snapping up. Of course he’d know the most about the old environmentalist circles.

Sam looked mildly surprised but nodded.

“That’s her. She was an “anonymous donor” to Ivy a couple different times and obviously she knows about my parents. So she sent her two hundred grand and schematics to a construction company’s HQ that are bulldozing the Amazon.”

“Are your family all connected to supervillains?” Tim asked, fighting a smile. Sam cocked a brow at him.

“Other than being millionaires? Not really other than voting for Vlad. Mom and Dad are big in the whole “respectability” thing, they wanna keep the family name as clean as possible.”

“And they don’t get much chance in Amity Park,” Tucker added with a snicker, “our villains aren’t really the kind you can buy.”

Sam hummed an affirmation and Danny made a face. He didn’t want anyone looking too closely into what had happened in Amity Park, but Jason figured it was inevitable.

About time Batman found out what he’d been missing.

All of his siblings looked thoroughly confused now, but Dick voiced the question.

“You guys have villains in Amity Park? More than just Vlad?” He asked carefully, sounding every inch the concerned civilian.

Sam rolled her eyes and laughed, setting down her cutlery.

“Not anymore,” she said dryly, reaching for her drink and raising it in a mock toast. Tucker and Danny copied, clinking their glasses together.

This did not illuminate the others. Or Jason, honestly. He’d seen the database, knew the basics, and knew that with Danny as the next Ghost King, his rogues were out of the picture.

He’d figured out that those dud calls from Amity Park? Never actually duds.

Danny had never asked if he knew about any of them as Robin, from that overlapping year between their deaths. Jason still wasn’t sure what he’d say.

He took part in a confused look exchange with Tim, Dick, and Steph, shrugging to indicate that this really wasn’t something he was already in on. Half true.

Damian broke the short silence this time, glowering at all three.

“What villains are you speaking of? And what happened to them?” He asked curtly, his tone easily carrying his disbelief.

Jason’s eyes moved automatically to Sam, but it was Tucker who fielded this one with a casual shrug.

“Ghosts. We got a portal to the Ghost Zone, lot of ghosts decided they wanted to try and take down the town, and one became our local hero to stop the rest,” he explained like he was talking about mildly unseasonal weather.

Tim suddenly looked much less enamoured with his new bestie. Much more wary and confused.

“You… you’re kidding, right?” He asked half hopefully, and yeah, that woulda been Jason’s response a week ago too.

Today, he snickered and waved a two finger salute at his brother.

“Bud. Sat at a table with a literal zombie,” he added when Tim’s head snapped around. “This is so far from the weirdest shit you’ve heard.”

Tim coloured and huffed, puffing up in his seat.

“Yeah, but seriously Jason? Ghosts? Trying to take over an entire town? Someone must have heard something!”

“We sure tried telling them,” Danny agreed cheerfully, clearing his plate with untroubled enthusiasm. “The town got sucked fully into the Ghost Zone once, we only survived because my family made ghost shields.”

It wasn’t just Tim now, half the table looked utterly poleaxed. The only bat not blankly gaping was Cass, when Jason glanced back at her. And slowly, so did the others.

Cass was watching Danny thoughtfully, brows furrowed just the tiniest bit. Then she gave a small nod.

‘Truth,’ she agreed, and Tim exploded.

“What? No way! A whole American city can’t just pop off the map and not be noticed! Someone would have to know?” He sputtered.

Tucker gave him a sympathetic pat on the hand.

“Hey, don’t feel bad. The federal government invented a whole new department just to keep news from getting out. They’re pretty good too,” he added with a grimace.

Tim gaped at him. Dick, suddenly all business, leaned in with a frown.

“A secret government department dedicated to hiding ghosts?” He asked, and yeah, Jason remembered this from the database.

Seemed that with Cass’s clear, he was gonna take this seriously. That was… a little refreshing.

Sam gave him a scathing once over, but clearly decided that bullying hours were on hold.

“They’re called the Ghost Investigation Ward. Don’t google it or some extremely unpleasant men in white suits will come along to ask why.”

“If we can’t google it, how do we know you’re telling the truth?” Steph asked, her demeanour equally serious.

The three Amity Parkers exchanged thoughtful looks, then Tucker shrugged and scooted his PDA down the table.

“You can look it up on mine. I’ve cracked their systems before, they can’t backhack me,” he explained when Tim nearly jumped on the device.

A small smile broke through Dick’s serious face as Tim got to work, Steph leaning in.

“Seriously, I know I’m only a cop in Bludhaven, but you guys really like admitting to federal crimes,” he said lightly, driving a steep wedge into the rising tension.

Jason snickered along with Danny and Tucker, nodding to Tim.

“You say, like Tim isn’t probably committing the actual same crime two seats down,” he remarked and Dick actually grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

“Hey, if he wants to borrow my handcuffs he can just ask, but the work ones aren’t for fun stuff.”

Tim flipped him off without looking as Tucker choked, suddenly very interested in his mostly empty plate. Then he looked up, expression grave.

“He’s not kidding. They’re syphoning a ton of federal funding, most of it into Amity Park,” he declared and Tucker leaned in to swipe at the screen.

“Non-Amity Park IPs can’t access any of our weather or news stations either,” he explained casually, like they weren’t uncovering a major scandal.

But then, Jason reminded himself, no one had done anything about this for around six years. Why would that change now?

Steph snagged the PDA this time, scrolling down a couple times then stopping to frown at Danny.

“Why does the weather station have something called Fenton Watch?” She asked and Danny groaned, cheeks flushing.

“Thaaaaat reports if my parents are gonna be on the roads… their bad driving is kinda legendary?” He offered sheepishly as Tucker snickered.

“It’s for the definitely-not-street-legal tank I told you about,” he added for Tim alone.

Before any of the others could jump on that juicy sentence a slender hand landed on Jason’s shoulder.

“Well don’t you all seem to be having fun?” Selina purred, smiling down at the table before leaning in. “I just thought I’d drop by and let you know, darling, I’ve already texted Aunt Harley about Bruce’s little stunt.”

She dropped a gentle kiss on the top of Jason’s head, which was fucking weird but… in a good way, patted his shoulder and moved on.

How the fuck had the pit ever convinced Jason that no one cared about him? Although to be fair, there had been a lot less open affection when people still thought he’d shoot them.

It was just a revelation every time, finally getting to look at these litte gestures, these people as just himself. Less bitter, less angry, less certain it was a lie or a trap.

Part of him didn’t want to lose the way it sent soft curls of affection through all the places anger used to burn. Didn’t want to take any of this for granted.

It had been so, so long since he’d felt like he was actually loved. Before his death even. Fuck, it was something he hadn’t had for most of his life.

It was completely different from just knowing. He’d known Alfred loved him. Known Dick cared, the way he’d thrown himself headlong into bringing Jason home, no matter how many times he nearly got shot.

Knew Cass and Duke both cared without even the shadow of his death between them. But actually feeling it, warm and golden in his chest?

He hadn’t made it easy for any of them. Had fought against even wanting it for so long, sure he didn’t deserve it. Sure he couldn’t have it, so wanting it would only break him.

But here it was. Even Selina standing up to fight his corner, by using Harley as a weapon if needed.

Harley was probably banned by the Geneva Convention so he wouldn’t hold it against her to keep her own claws clean.

He just. His family cared. Even if all that was hurt was his feelings. That was enough for them to even go against Bruce.

(And fuck he knew how stupid that thought was, each new generation of Robins seemed more likely than the last to call B on his shit.

Damian might be slightly less likely than Steph to say the words “go fuck yourself” but he got the sentiment across.

Jason had called B to task plenty of times when he was being an ass to one of them. It just hit different when it was the other way round.)

Dick and Steph were back on their gleeful bullshit, grinning broadly at Jason even as he had his little moment. He wasn’t even gonna look at the rest of the table.

“Someone’s in trouble,” Steph sang happily, dancing in her seat and beaming across the hall at Bruce.

Sam frowned and looked around the table, the full complement of Waynes all grinning broadly bar one. Damian still mostly looked annoyed by the whole affair.

Which was basically how he smiled anyway.

“Wait, did she just say Harley? Like Harley Quinn?” She asked and yeah, oops, they did have a lot to catch each other up on.

Not today though.

“Pretty sure she’s Harley like the motorcycle,” Tim explained off handedly, shooting his own grin in Bruce’s direction, “you’re never allowed to tell her I said it but she’s a little too old to be called Harley like Harley Quinn.”

Didn’t exactly answer the question, but sounded enough like an answer that it seemed to pass. Jason was a little impressed.

“The effect will be about the same though,” Dick added with a snicker, arm cocked on the back of his chair to grin across at Bruce.

Fuck, had the old man been staring at them this whole time? Delightful. Jason very deliberately Did Not look over, finishing his own meal.

#danny fenton dead and loving it #dp x dc #dpxdc #oh bruce you in it now #wip wednesday

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anotherkindofmindpod · 6 months

Note

Hi AKOM, I read Ian Leslie's article about "Now and Then," which you re-blogged, with great interest. Like you I believe it to be a fairly "sane take." Like many readers, I was struck by one passage specifically: "As far as we know, it wasn’t a sexual relationship, but it was a passionate one: intense, tender and tempestuous." The negation isn't necessary for Mr. Leslie to make his central point, which is that the Lennon/McCartney relationship can best be understood as a love affair. So why mention it at all? Because the idea of a sexual relationship (or attraction, even) between the two men is so offensive it has to be excluded, even though no one brought it up? Or as a circumspect way to introduce the idea to the discussion, buffered by the careful addition of "not, as far as we know?" I think it's the latter; I'd wager many readers do. And my feelings on this are mixed. Because the tone of "by no means do we want to suggest the presence of base carnal desires" is one of disapproval. Had this sentence not been in there, the love affair analogy would have spoken for itself, to be filled in by the reader at will. On the other hand, it's hard to ignore the possibility that these five words, "as far as we know," are the entire point of the article, which otherwise doesn't make a big effort to specify the exact shape of the love affair analogy. Passionate, yes. Breakup, yes. Hurt feelings and coded messages, yes. The Beatles' music as carrier of suppressed emotions—yes, but which ones? "In a sense, the music of the Beatles, which brings so much joy and consolation, is the glorious fruit of male repression. We like to think we live in a more emotionally enlightened age. We have learned to talk it out. Yet sometimes I think that is itself a kind of avoidance, or a failure of nerve. We’ve awakened from the dream, and yet seem to be more confused than ever." Is he talking about the current state of talking about John and Paul? What do you think? (I hope he expands on his analogy in his book.) P.S. I love your podcast and the hard work you put into it so listeners like me can feed their heads. Thank you for that! [P.P.S. I took out a digital subscription of the NYT because of this article, and no, I did very much not read the comments, nor do I intend to do so.]

Hello @crepesuzette2023! Thanks for writing! :) To be honest, the line "as far as we know, it wasn't sexual" didn't strike me as anything other than responsibly agnostic. I think if you ask the reader to reframe an already extremely famous creative partnership as a love affair, the natural follow-up question would be: sexual or platonic? In that event, stating he has no knowledge of it being sexual while also allowing for the possibility it might have been is exactly the right tone to take, IMO. Because that's the truth; we don't know either way. Honestly, I've been a bit bewildered by some of the tumblr response to this article. As I said, I think Ian Leslie's is a thoroughly sane take. Then again, I've been publicly talking about John and Paul as a love affair (on not just my own podcast but other peoples' as well) for years now, so maybe I'm in the belly of the beast. Don't get me wrong, it's very gratifying to read this in the NY Times! I'm excited by this shift towards open discussion in the public realm, but it's hardly scandalous. Leslie has been working on his book since 2021, I think. I don't agree with him on everything, but I think his takes on Lennon-McCartney are very good and sound. I recommend his piece on Get Back if you haven't read it. TBH, I'm not sure what the highlighted passage means. If I had to guess, I'd say he's talking about the way Beatles scholarship so far has refused to publicly accept Paul and John being in love, or contemplate what that means to their art or their lives because we have historically been too scared or cowardly. And maybe the act of creating timeless art as a display of love is much more powerful than being able to say the words to someone. But I don't really know. :) Also, this is just my (Phoebe's) response. Daphne and/or Thalia may have different takes. Thank you for the kind words about AKOM!

#Now and Then #NY Times #Ian Leslie

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formulaes5 · 6 months

Text

nothing in my system (feeling what i feel for you)

He tastes like cherry and vodka and Mark might actually fucking cry if he doesn’t get to kiss Sebastian Vettel like this forever for the rest of time. In which team celebrations are overrated and Mark finds God at the back of Seb's throat.

☆ 3.3k, E, ao3 ☆

It’s loud, nearly unbearably so. The club is packed to the brim with Red Bull team members; engineers and officials alike, all celebrating their Monaco one-two finish like their lives depended on it. The music was loud, the booze was on Red Bull’s tab, and Mark was relatively sure that it was Christian he could hear over the thump of the music, off in a corner booth, loudly explaining the ins and outs of his job to a handful of bemused looking employees, clearly less intoxicated than their boss. He got up from his bar stool with a snort, abandoning the last dregs of his beer on the bartop and walking off in search of a quieter spot to enjoy his victory from. It felt good to get one over his teammate, and Mark wasn’t going to let shitty top one hundred songs ruin it for him.

The crowd was surging now, moving with the beat in an uncoordinated mess, and Seb was using it as the perfect excuse to push through the throng towards Mark in confident strides, a beer and some fruity monstrosity of a cocktail clutched in hand and moving to the beat of whatever bass-heavy track was blaring in the background. He had forgone his usual horrendously ugly plaid shorts for a pair of jeans that hugged his legs all the way down, paired with an equally tight white tee that really left nothing to the imagination. Mark was a lot of things - he would admit to that - but one thing he wasn’t was a damn liar, and right now he could admit that Seb looked downright edible, all blond curls, big smiles, and the kind of firm round ass that was, in Mark’s professional opinion, just downright begging for a smack.

Mark rolls his eyes as Seb finally sidles up to him, pressing a beer into his hand with a big grin. “For the race winner”, he says jovially, not waiting for Mark’s response before taking a healthy swig of his own drink.

Mark thinks about refusing the beer, just to be contrary really, then decides that he doesn’t feel like playing their usual games. He won today, he felt great; he was going to take the damn beer.

He took a sip, shooting an obligatory “cheers mate” in Seb’s direction before realising with a start that Seb had picked up his preferred beer. He certainly hadn’t ever mentioned it to Seb. Interesting.

They struck up a decent conversation, discussing the race, their favourite parts, the highs and the lows and the notable incidents. Mark is vaguely aware of Seb placing his hand on his arm, moving it idly up his forearm as their conversation becomes more animated. He should probably have a problem with it, he thinks to himself absentmindedly. He should probably tell Seb to stop, or at least try and subtly move his arm away, try and discourage whatever Seb thinks he’s doing now. At the very least he shouldn’t like the way Seb is moving his hand along his arm.

They’ve definitely spent far too long huddled in the corner together avoiding the limelight at this point, but Mark couldn’t really find it within himself to care about external appearances this late into the night, his internal feelings on the matter of how touchy-feely Seb had been lately an entirely different matter. He doesn’t even know what they’re fucking talking about, and he suspects neither does his teammate, but all of a sudden Seb is bursting out into infectious peels of laughter, and Mark can’t help but to join in, doing a far larger amount of giggling than he would like to admit to as Sebastian stabilises himself by grabbing onto Mark’s shoulder for support, giggling the whole way through at what was no doubt an awful reference to classic British comedy or a highly circumspect and off colour joke not suitable for public broadcast.

“Air. I need some air,” Seb gasps through his giggles.

“Okay, okay mate,” Mark manages to get out between his own, “let’s find some air.”

They push their way through the crowd still laughing, Mark holding onto Seb’s hand and pulling him along by it so as not to get separated in the crowd as they work their way towards a back exit door, abandoning their finished drinks on a table they pass on the way out.

The door bangs against the wall as it opens and again as it closes, shattering the quiet of the alley they had emerged into. Mark takes a few steps and leans back against the wall, taking in the crisp night air and Sebastian’s slowly petering out giggles as he gets himself back under control and makes his way over to Mark. Seb stops next to him, suddenly quiet, with a look in his eye that Mark can’t quite parse.

Seb licks his lips and stares up at Mark as it all clicks into place. Hunger - that’s what the look is. If Mark wasn’t sure about where this was going before they got outside, he sure as fuck is now. That look was a perfect combination of predatory and desperate and they’re both tipsy, but nowhere close to drunk as Seb rocks up on his toes and plants his hand against Mark’s chest, pushing him back into the rough brick. Mark can’t even get a second to think; to work out if he’s interested, to react to whatever the fuck is going on here out the back of a Monaco nightclub, of all places, before Seb connects his lips with Mark’s in a messy approximation of a kiss, enthusiastic if a little sloppy. Mark could get on board with sloppy.

Fuck it, he decides. In for a penny. He kisses back just as sloppily; wet, messy and insistent. He presses his tongue forcefully into Sebastian’s mouth, tangling his tongue with Seb's. He tastes like cherry and vodka and Mark might actually cry if he doesn’t get to kiss Sebastian Vettel like this forever for the rest of time. He twists the fingers of one hand into the collar of Seb’s tight little shirt, pulling it taut around the back of his neck as he hauls him in closer to press a thigh between Seb’s own.

Seb rocks his hips down into Mark’s thigh, whining needily into his mouth as he does so, feeling sparks shoot up his back as a large hand presses firmly into his lower back, rucking up his shirt to rest against bare skin and dipping down to tuck his fingers into the waistband of Seb’s jeans. The kiss is downright filthy. It’s deep and electrifying and fucking fantastic and Seb had never enjoyed kissing anyone this much in his life.

Mark just can’t get over how much Seb seems to want this; want him. A part of him in a dark crevice of his mind somewhere is livid. Seb’s enthusiasm - demonstrated by the way he seems to be trying to crawl into Mark via his mouth - implies that he could have had Seb like this ages ago. He’s sure that he’s going to be pissed off if he finds out later that he could have had his tongue down Seb’s throat from the beginning of the year rather than waiting for them to get a third of the way through the season. That can be a problem for Future Mark, he decides as Seb does his level best to swallow down a particularly embarrassing gasp from Mark as their crotches rub up against each other in just the right way. Seb is giving everything he has to this kiss; it’s sloppy and perfect and if Mark doesn’t de-escalate the situation fast, he’s going to have bigger problems on his hands.

He pushes gently at Seb’s chest, encouraging him to pull back for air, parting from him with a shaky gasp.

Mark is at war with his own mind, battling over doing the correct, gentlemanly thing, or just saying fuck it and diving right back into those oh so enticing, deep pink lips, “Not that I’m not a hundred per cent on board with this,” Mark starts, trying to regain his breath as he runs a hand idly down the front of Seb’s shirt, “but you’re a bit drunk, aren’t you mate.”

Seb shoots an indignant scowl at him, but Mark pushes on while he still has the self-control for it. “Maybe we could pick this up later?”

He sounds ridiculous - his heart just isn’t in it. He knows it. Seb knows it. And to top it all off, Seb knows that he knows that Seb knows. It’s a hollow charade of decency that neither of them are really interested in playing out, and they both know it too. Good form can be so fucking overrated sometimes, and the sceptical look Seb is sending his way is just the icing on the cake.

Fuck it.

He slams back into Seb with all the finesse of a crashing car, and the shocked little squeak Seb lets slip could single-handedly fuel Mark’s wank bank for the next five years. He tangles his hand in Seb’s lovely blond curls and kisses him like he needs it to live, hard and fast and utterly indecent. He trails his lips from his mouth to kiss along his jaw and down his neck, relishing in the rasp of Seb’s stubble on his own. He makes his way back up to his mouth, crushing their lips together firmly and biting down on Seb’s bottom lip before pulling back, keeping Seb’s lip trapped between his teeth as he moves back to elicit a drawn-out moan from Sebastian as he pushes his thigh further up into his crotch to make up for the loss of his mouth against Seb’s.

He groans and closes his eyes hard, tipping his head backwards into the brick as Seb grabs at his crotch, pushes his hips forward, mindlessly pressing into Seb’s tiny fucking hand palming at his rapidly hardening length. Then Seb is moving, sinking downwards out of his line of sight and all of a sudden Sebastian Vettel is on his knees. Seb is down on the ground on his knees, and he’s on his knees just for Mark.

He looks down and Jesus Fucking Christ Seb is staring up at him from his knees, big blue eyes behind lovely blond lashes and if Mark doesn’t at the very least get some skin-to-skin contact with him he’s going to implode. He watches Seb bring his hand up to his belt buckle and Mark knows he’s fucked beyond measure as he sees him deftly unbuckle his belt and unzip his jeans in one swift motion. He’s fucked. Absolutely fucked.

“Seb”, he gasps, still not quite believing what he’s seeing with his own two eyes.

“I’m definitely sober enough to suck your dick… Unless you don’t want me to?” he asks teasingly, the little shit. If Mark wasn’t so turned on right now, he’d be thinking about strangling him. Seb’s still looking up at him with that shit-eating grin as he palms at his crotch. Mark has no fucking clue what he would do if Seb stopped but it certainly doesn’t bear thinking about.

Seb slides his hand into Mark’s boxers, confidently wrapping his hand around his hard cock and giving an experimental tug, smiling sweetly as Mark lets out an appreciative sigh at the contact, before pushing his boxers down and out of the way. He looks up at him coyly and moves that little bit closer to bring Mark’s aching cock to rest tantalisingly against his kiss-bitten lips, placing gentle little kitten licks on the head of Mark’s cock as his hand finds a home fisted in the soft curls at the back of Seb’s head. He keeps kissing at the tip, gently sucking on it before pulling back and flattening his tongue against the underside of Mark’s cock, licking a long stripe up to the tip of his cock and taking him into his mouth, wrapping his lips around Mark’s cock and bobbing up and down a few times, letting himself adjust to the stretch of his lips and jaw around Mark’s girth. The hand on his head presses down gently, encouragingly almost, helping Seb to move down onto his cock and pick up a decent rhythm.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Mark murmurs, “that’s it baby, good job.” He’s not even sure what he’s saying, just focused on making sure Seb keeps doing exactly what he’s doing, moaning around his cock and picking up the pace.

He moves his hand from where it was gripping Seb’s hair, stroking it back and forth over the hinge of his jaw and stretching his thumb out to touch the corner of Seb’s mouth as he moves on his cock, “Yes, you’re doing so well sweetheart, taking me so well.”

Mark rocks gently into the wet heat of his lips as Seb clutches at the denim covering the back of his thighs, humming in appreciation at the feeling of Mark’s cock hitting the back of his throat. And fuck, he’s actually in his throat. He’s got his cock down Sebastian Vettel’s pretty little throat and Mark can finally die a happy man. The head of his cock is pressed up against the back of Seb’s throat and he’s taking it like a fucking champion, hollowing his cheeks around the thick length of Mark’s cock and tightening his lips at the base, shoving his nose into the neatly trimmed hair of Mark’s pubes. He moves his hand from Seb’s jaw and back to his head, holding him there with a sturdy grip, briefly thrusting further before releasing his grip on Seb’s hair.

Seb pulls off him with a gasp, leaving just the tip resting on his tongue as he regains his breath. He’s got spit all over his mouth and tears in his eyes and he’s the most beautiful thing that Mark has ever seen in his life. The way Seb is suckling at the head of his cock feels like borderline torture at this point, and he knows that he won’t last much longer when Seb dives back down onto his length, intensifying his ministrations with a single-minded focus as he moves progressively faster up and down Mark’s cock.

“Oh fuck,” Mark tapped urgently at Seb’s jaw, trying to pull away, to give Seb the option, but he wasn’t taking it, “Seb, baby.”

He barely gets a second to react to the building heat in his gut before it snaps like a rubber band and he comes with a strangled curse, right into Seb’s enthusiastic little mouth, still bobbing away on Mark’s cock, milking him for everything he had and swallowing enthusiastically around him.

Seb looks lazily up at him as he pulls off his cock, still connected by a thin trail of saliva running from the head of Mark's cock right to Seb's mouth. Seb swipes his tongue across his lips, breaking the connection and grinning smugly, obviously proud of himself.

It's just about the hottest thing Mark's ever seen, and he'll probably make some tentative plans to address that with himself later, but at the moment he has more pressing concerns.

“Fuck," he grits out, "get up here baby.” He pulls Seb roughly up to him, zeroing in on a leftover drop of come under Seb’s lip. The speed with which he rushes to lick it off of Seb’s face is probably indicative of a larger problem, but Mark doesn’t have time for problems now as he licks his way almost ferally into Seb’s mouth, chasing the taste of himself on Seb’s tongue and moaning at the thought of it. The power with which his orgasm had crashed over him had perhaps knocked some brain cells loose in the process.

Seb kisses back just as aggressively, pressing his hips insistently into Mark’s thigh, reminding him that he wasn’t the only person that needed to get off in this situation. Mark generally liked to hold himself to a high standard of performance when it came to pleasuring his partners in the bedroom, or the alleyway in this situation, and leaving Seb hanging simply wouldn't do.

He reaches down and undoes Seb’s belt, roughly pulls his jeans halfway down his thighs with a shaky hand, then he’s shoving his hand into Seb’s briefs and wrapping a large hand around him, producing a filthy, pornographic moan from the man in question as he finally received the long-awaited attention he had been craving. It didn’t take much, clearly having been on the edge for so long had put Sebastian on a hair trigger. Mark strokes his hand down Seb’s cock once, twice, and he’s gone, coming with a cry of Mark’s name, splattering his release onto the ground as he leaned his head in to rest on Mark’s shoulder, panting hot heavy breaths into Mark as his orgasm swept through him.

Mark gave him a minute, then placed a finger on Seb’s chin, gently tilting his head up and leaning in to plant a soft, closed-mouth kiss on his swollen lips. They stand there for a few minutes trading soft kisses before Mark decides to take the initiative. He tucks Seb and then himself back into place, pulling up zippers and tightening belts in the quiet of the night.

“You good?” he asks Seb quietly, stroking over his cheek and checking for anything that might look out of place if they were to reenter the club, finding nothing except his shockingly pink lips, which could hardly be fixed now.

“Ja,” Seb chirped happily, pressing his face into Mark’s hand with a distinctly sleepy hum, “alles gut.”

Mark lets out an amused huff at the fact that English had seemingly abandoned Seb in the moment. He stroked his thumb over the corner of his jaw, leaning in to kiss one corner of Sebastian's mouth, then the other, before placing one last kiss squarely on his lips, loving the way that Seb hummed with clear appreciation in his tone as he kissed him back.

All of a sudden their quiet moment was viciously interrupted by a loud bang. Mark whirled around as the door slammed against the wall, instinctively parting from Seb and dropping his hand from his face, positioning himself half in front of him as he turned to face the source of the noise..

“There you are!” cried Christian with barely disguised relief colouring his face, clearly oblivious to what he had just stumbled across his two drivers doing. “We’ve been looking for you!”

Taking stock of the situation, Christian peered back at Seb with concern. He turned to Mark to check, “Is Seb okay?”

Mark affected a nonchalant grin before responding to his boss, who would no doubt be decidedly not thrilled to learn that Mark had just had his prized driver on his knees sucking his cock like it was his greatest passion in life. “Yeah mate, no worries. He just had a bit much to drink so we came out for some air.”

The worry cleared from Christian’s face. Obviously, Seb had just overdone it a bit and Mark was looking out for him.

“Y’know how it is with lightweights,” Mark chuckled, shooting Christian a conspiratorial look as he jerked his thumb back at Seb dismissively.

“Am not a lightweight!” Seb chimed in indignantly from behind him, suddenly slurring his words in a way he certainly hadn’t been before they came outside. Mark was concerned for all of five seconds, worried that maybe he had misjudged the situation and taken advantage, before cottoning onto Seb’s dastardly plan. He shook his head to clear his worry, feeling a little foolish. Seb had the situation all under control here.

Mark turned to face Seb, shooting him a wink. “C’mon then mate,” he said, “let’s help peel the team off the floor in there shall we? Then we’ll tuck you into bed for the night.”

Seb let out a little snort before following Mark and Christian back inside the club, feeling extremely satisfied with himself as he reached out to pinch Mark’s ass on the way in, laughing when Mark jumped in alarm and reached out behind him to swat at Seb in protest.

He could certainly get used to this.

#sebmark #martian #f1 rpf #ao3 #my fics #rpf #nsfw.txt #fic: nothing in my system (feeling what i feel for you)

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lesbiansforboromir · 2 years

Text

For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. His song in the Tower had been defiance rather than hope; for then he was thinking of himself. Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even his master’s, ceased to trouble him. The Return of the King, LoTR Book 6, Ch 2, The Land of Shadow

Actually it occurs to me now, as it has many times when reading Sam’s specific point of view in Mordor, that this is one of the most revelatory passages in regards to the point of many of the other narratives within LotR. And honestly I say this as both praise and scorn. Because yes, this is a beautiful passage, and it’s language inspires almost unheeding of it’s specific meaning. The high beauty and passing shadow means as many things as the number of people that read of them.

But I’m afraid I will once again make this about christian religion AND Denethor AND Boromir so sorry. (not really)

Here, defiance is framed as selfish. When Sam is exhausted at the top of the tower of Cirith Ungol, hopelessly lost, surrounded by death and darkness, he sings just for the sake of adding something beautiful into that terrible place. He is defying the darkness around him. But, as this passage tells us, this is apparently not an un-complicatedly good or even neutral act. Instead, Sam should not have even worried for the darkness to begin with. His fate, and the fate of the things he loves, should not have troubled him, because in the face of the untouchable light and high beauty, none of it really matters apparently.

Obviously in this universe high and beautiful things and celestial lights are holy, they are divine, so the meaning is clear; ‘No matter what happens to you, so long as Eru is on his throne, nothing is wrong with the world and you should not even begrudge the pain and suffering levied upon you and your loved ones, it will all turn out right in the end.’

This is a very Christian sentiment and it spotlights the specific ‘sin’ Denethor AND Boromir are committing within the morality of the books. Because Denethor and Boromir are concerned with the things they love and their suffering. Boromir himself is apathetic about the high beauty and Eru’s rightness and elves and the divine blood he and Aragorn carry. His whole motive is to protect his people, he does not care about whether the actions he takes in their defense could be considered a challenge or an affront to Eru (as the Ring is an instrument by which Sauron seeks to challenge Eru’s divine right to the throne of the world, and therefore using it is inherently blasphemous.) To Boromir, if he is working towards the safety of his city, his people, his family, then he is content that he is serving as he should be. Boromir is, in essentials, the agnostic of this story.

Denethor, on the other hand, DOES have a relationship with this high beauty, albeit a very complex one. He has loved the divine light, he is a member of the faithful, he has kept to their ways and loved as they have loved his whole life. He is even much more circumspect about using the Ring as well, favouring just keeping it safe and out of Saurons hands. He wants to be good. And that has destroyed him. It has taken all things he has ever loved from him, this eternal defence and embattlement against The One Who Would Be God to champion Eru. Boromir literally died on a quest because of a divinely ordained dream, his son! And here is Gandalf, the closest thing to an angel middle-earth has, a divine messenger, here to tell him what else he has to sacrifice and how he mustn’t begrudge Boromir’s loss anyway.

Denethor is ultimately defiant against the darkness, he wants to protect his people, he oversees everything from the large to the small, he barely sleeps, he has dauntless will and resolve to protect Gondor and it is because of him that Gondor survives at all. But to the narrative, that is still a selfish motive. In the end the only thing he can think of to save himself and the son he loves from more suffering is to die. But suicide is a sin, Denethor ‘does not have the authority to order the hour of his own death’ as Gandalf says. It is another blasphemous act, because Denethor has LOST faith, one might say he has lost the perspective of the high beauty and his own insignificance. Denethor in fact now believes that the lives and peace of his sons ARE more important to him than God. So Denethor represents a man who, through the trials of the world, LOSES faith.

And then there is Faramir, THE faithful one. He is the one his family must be compared too, caring for his people to an extent, but firmly reinforcing the fact that, ‘I would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway. Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and I alone could save her, so, using the weapon of the Dark Lord for her good and my glory.’ A sentiment he reinforces when Denethor challenges him about it, ‘Ever your desire is to appear lordly and generous as a king of old, gracious, gentle. That may well befit one of high race, if he sits in power and peace. But in desperate hours gentleness may be repaid with death.’ [-] ‘But not with your death only, Lord Faramir: with the death also of your father, and of all your people, whom it is your part to protect now that Boromir is gone.’ And Faramir says ‘so be it’, Faramir loves God more than he loves his people or his family, he is willing to let all of them suffer and die in order to keep faith with Him, and the story rewards him for it with the life and peace his brother and father were never allowed.

And technically both Denethor and Boromir as apostates are treated quite gently and sympathetically by the narrative in comparison to much christian dogma. Boromir and Denethor are still allowed their nobility and valour and good intentions, but in the end they are pitiable figures to the wider morality of the tale. They have loved people too much and God too little and through it have lost that perspective that the faithful believe is necessary to pass through the world properly. Neither of them could lie down and let ‘for a moment, their own fate, and even their loved one’s, cease to trouble them’.

And that! Is literally why they’re my favourite characters, I too love people more than God, even in the face of a fathomless eternity. If I were given the choice to save people from terrible suffering in their short lives at the cost of defying God’s right to the throne of the world, I would also take it. Mutable things that do not last are just as divinely important as eternity. I will not wait till I’m dead to give my full love to things and neither did Denethor or Boromir!!!

#denethor #boromir #tolkien #lotr #lord of the rings #the lord of the rings #samwise #sam gamgee #cirith ungol #return of the king #the return of the king #faramir #text post #tolkien meta #erran vs tolkien

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roguemaki · 2 months

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Hey! I hope your week is going great :)

Like everyone else, i wanted to send you a heartfelt thank you for your immense efforts and time that you take out of your day to translate and type set these interviews and videos.

It always brightens my day when i get a notification from you and i know I’m in for a treat so it’s really truly appreciated from our end 🙏🏼

I was also wondering that when the asticassia school assembly BD comes out, if you could consider uploading it somewhere so that people who can’t purchase it would be able to watch it as well? I was really looking forward to seeing the VAs performance on stage and also some of the comedic moments like Suletta rapping but unfortunately, money is a bit tight for me right now. 😞

If you could consider it that would be awesome but if you rather not do jt, that’s totally fine as well :)

I also wanted to ask for your advice regarding learning japanese. I took some classes in college but haven’t kept up with it. Do you know any resources that you felt were really helpful to you when you were learning the language? I really want to dedicate myself to it this time! I’d really appreciate any tips, thank you! :)

Hey hey~ I actually got some fantastic news at work, so my week's off to a great start. :3

And you're very welcome! Thank you for enjoying and supporting my TLs.

I pre-ordered the School Assembly BD and am planning to subtitle it in parts, similarly to how I'm doing the Ep 24 Character Commentary… but for an upload of the full thing, I have to be more circumspect: I'll post when the rip is available and give contact info so interested folks can reach out directly. Just trying to avoid getting Eye of Sauron'd by Bandai-Namco, lol.

Regarding Japanese study: we're in similar boats! I also took classes in college and got back into serious self-study after not practicing for a while.

Here are some self-study resources I find useful:

For daily Japanese practice…

Renshuu for vocabulary and grammar. WaniKani for learning kanji. Ringotan for kana and kanji writing practice.

Renshuu is a site (also available in convenient app form) for building up vocabulary and grammar with quizzes, games, and community activities. It's by-and-large free - premium provides some enhancements (like more listening/pitch tools), but isn't necessary for most of the content. WaniKani is a fantastic resource for learning kanji. They use some truly memorable mnemonics to teach radicals/vocabulary and schedule lessons/reviews in a way that promotes real retention. Give Levels 1-3 a try since they're free, and if you like the teaching method, a lifetime premium sub is reasonably affordable when it goes on sale (like on Black Friday). I use Ringotan, a free phone app, to supplement WaniKani (which is focused on reading/recognition) with writing practice.

Other resources/tools...

Install Yomitan, an in-line dictionary extension, on your browser.

Dokusho Bookclub is a site for finding reading materials targeting specific JLPT levels.

Out of the many resources available on YouTube, I want to highlight Kaname Naito's channel - he teaches in depth vocabulary and grammar used in actual conversational Japanese.

I have a routine of always doing my "dailies" and just try to read/watch/play as much Japanese media as possible... Thankfully there's so much good stuff available online nowadays. :>

Hope you find something useful for you in this list. Good luck with your studies!

#rmaki replies #i do not miss the days of having to look up kanji in a physical dictionary by stroke count lemme tell ya lol

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jomiddlemarch · 4 months

Text

Sunt Leones

The first time Draco saw her, he didn’t recognize her.

Hermione Granger, whose face had haunted him for over thirty-five years.

The first time, he only saw a middle-aged brunette woman with her hair in a tidy bun, a plain smock with a badge over a jersey, a nameless volunteer at St. Mungo’s.

On the Janus Thickey ward.

The second time, he wasn’t sure.

It was her again, the same woman, but was it Hermione? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her properly since the Battle of Hogwarts, he had, quite often in fact, since she’d risen in the Ministry to become a senior-level civil servant and he’d managed to rehabilitate himself with the help of ample donations to good causes, Astoria’s refusal to live at the Manor, Scorpius’s Sorting into Ravenclaw. His platinum blond hair fading to a non-descript pale grey hadn’t hurt, nor the rumpled, academic air he’d picked up during the year he spent teaching at Ilvermorny.

He was familiar with Hermione Granger, senior liaison to the Wizengamot, her neatly braided coronet a far cry from the riotous curls of her girlhood, the Golden Girl Maenad of his youth now entirely discreet, circumspect, so well-respected her divorce from Ron Weasley hadn’t made a scarlet woman of her, the author of a dozen consequential bills, the mother of two highly competent adults, both pursuing advanced studies, her son doing something like a Potions Mastery at Oxbridge without requiring any Muggles to be Confunded.

She wore opal earrings and tailored robes in navy or charcoal. She held your gaze without flinching. She carried her wand in her ringless left hand and cast wandless with her right. She smelled of bergamot, orris root, vetiver. She was resolute, poised, the epitome of competence.

He’d never seen her at St. Mungo’s. He’d never seen her crouching beside a patient to offer a plate of ginger biscuits. He’d never seen her pause and look across the room, her eyes unfocused, one hand balled into a fist.

He’d never seen her begin to cast a spell, the darkness collecting near the ceiling, and then pull it back.

He’d never seen the bright streak of silver in her hair like a Goblin-wrought filet.

Astoria would have told him to approach her and simply ask.

Astoria would have said he was being a bit silly, that she wouldn’t bite and if he were wrong, the woman would likely take it as a compliment.

Astoria would have smiled at him, but she’d been dead for over three years and he couldn’t bear to talk to her portrait, even if it hadn’t been hanging in their son’s suite.

He asked Mizzy for lemon biscuits and ate a plateful, brooding.

He considered Owling Neville, but it was end-of-term and the latest batch of venomous tenaculas were especially fractious.

He waited. He knew how these things went. He’d find out, if there were a third time.

There’d be a third time.

“Madam Granger?” he said, using the workplace honorific because it seemed far too presumptuous to use her first name, even though at arm’s length he was sure he was right. It was her.

“Not here,” she said. He thought she meant outside the day room on the Thickey ward, from whence the tinkling of the enchanted piano drifted, the spell too heavy on the bass clef, though he supposed that might make it easier to dance to, if one struggled to dance to a waltz in the first place. The witches and wizards he could see were all settled on sofas and armchairs, engrossed with dust motes or discussions, sometimes with others. Their conventional robes were cleverly modified to keep from tangling or tripping, easily secured by shaking hands, in the soft pastels one associated with the very elderly though half the people in the room were obviously under forty and half of those had scars no Healer could remove.

“The canteen?” he offered. St. Mungo’s wasn’t known for their cuisine, but the tea was passable as long as you didn’t rely on the cart, and he didn’t imagine either of them was hungry.

“I’m Jean here,” she said, tapping the badge above her heart with her finger. “No surname, no title.”

“I don’t—”

“It’s easier,” she explained. “To be no one of consequence. For those who’d remember. For those who wouldn’t, one name is simpler.”

He wanted to say she could call herself Nobody and she’d still be someone of consequence, that it was in her bearing and her expression, but he wouldn’t argue, because she might expect that and because it would be rude, even if he meant it to be praise.

“I see,” he replied.

“You want to talk, I gather,” she said. “The canteen will do for me, though I warn you the cakes are almost horrid.”

“Almost horrid?” he asked.

“They’re too bland to merit actual revulsion,” she said. “You probably aren’t familiar with something like that.”

“On the contrary,” Draco said. “I’ve been striving to achieve that status for the past thirty-odd years. But if you’re willing to sit down and talk with me, I would appreciate it.”

“Why are you here?” he said once two cups of tea sat between them, charmed to stay warm however long they sat. He didn’t expect it to be necessary.

“You asked me, if you recall,” she said. Her eyes were darker than he remembered, perhaps because of the shadows that lay beneath them. The drab volunteer smock she still wore did her no favors, while only inciting more questions.

“I meant, why are you here at St. Mungo’s? Why are you spending your precious free time volunteering on the Janus Thickey ward?”

Draco heard himself as she must have, his confusion masked by his drawl. She would assume he meant to be snide, had asked her to tea only to sneer at her.

“You don’t really want to know,” she said, gently enough given his provocation. “You think you do know, you think I’ve got some sort of martyr or savior complex. Or you think I’ve nothing better to do with my time, since my marriage ended, a pathetic divorcée filling the empty hours—”

“You think I am still a cruel boy who cannot bear your success,” he retorted, keeping his voice even, but the damage was done and hadn’t he done enough to this witch? She pressed her lips together and he took a breath. This wasn’t what he’d wanted, for her to withdraw from him, to expect him to try and hurt her. He began again. “I was curious, seeing you here. Healthcare hasn’t been one of your areas of reform, I didn’t know it was an interest of yours. It never occurred to me you would be here. Virtually incognito.”

“I’m not incognito. I’m Jean, I volunteer on Tuesday and Friday evenings, a dab hand at knitting charms, terribly fond of Kneazles. That’s true, even if it isn’t all I am. It’s enough here,” she said. “I’m not here because I’m lonely. Alone. Because I’ve no better offers—”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that,” he said. He’d wondered though, whether she wanted anyone in her life. Whether he might ever be someone she considered in that way. Draco could hear Astoria’s voice, amused, fond, repeating in that way and then reminding him she hadn’t wanted him to mourn for her for the rest of his life and oughtn’t he get back on the broom as it were. Astoria had only been clumsy when it came to Quidditch metaphors. “I saw you, from the hallway and I couldn’t believe my eyes—"

“I belong here,” she said.

“I don’t understand,” he replied.

“I spent three months here, right after the War ended, with my parents. Here, the Janus Thickey ward. I’d Obliviated them, to keep them safe,” she said.

“You did what?” he said, the realization dawning even as he spoke. She’d undertaken something he would never have dared, to keep her family safe.

“I Obliviated them. I removed every trace of myself from their memories, from their lives. Riddle would have had them killed, tortured first, to get to me. To get to Harry. I broke them first,” she said. “I always meant to bring them back. Casting the spell was difficult. Undoing it was harder. I couldn’t do it alone without killing them. It wasn’t clear anyone could.”

“Did they survive?” he asked.

She looked down at her hands, the ones that had done the work. Draco had often wished to cut off the arm with the Dark Mark emblazoned on it. He suddenly knew she felt the same about her right hand but it didn’t seem like Harry or her husband had ever talked to her about it the way Astoria had spoken to him. Quietly, patiently, without any determination towards success. There would have been nothing for Hermione’s parents to say to her, once they had been resurrected. She had to live with what she’d done; his brand had faded, but the weight of the casting could not be washed from her palm.

“Yes. They did. And they forgave me. But they still left Britain and won’t come back,” she said. “I thought, when they left here, St. Mungo’s, I’d never come back.”

“But you did,” Draco said.

“I was wrong. I thought I’d survived the War,” she said. “I didn’t understand right away I was another casualty. That I could leave this ward but I really wouldn’t.”

“Trauma, the Muggle Healers call it I think,” Draco said, very carefully, seeing now how vulnerable Hermione was.

“I mean the girl I was died in the War. The woman, the witch I could become, was murdered,” she said. “I’m what’s left, worse than a ghost or maybe less than one—”

“Hermione—”

“Jean,” she corrected. “It was already too late the first day I came to Hogwarts. When I thought everything was possible. When I thought there was a whole new world for me. That I was welcome.”

She shrugged. The boxy cut of the canvas smock emphasized how slender she was. She’d always been slight, likely hadn’t grown as she was meant to, the War stunting them all in myriad ways. She’d spent a year on the run in the woods with Harry and Ron, returning pale, a belt cinched tight around her waist, too slim, drawn too fine. He’d never seen anything as delicate as her wrist when Bellatrix tortured her. A parent now, he could see how she’d starved, how she’d held a burden too great, Ron supported by his clan, Harry by his two best friends and Dumbledore’s confidence. What had she had besides her own will?

“You might have been,” Draco said. “If you’d been Sorted otherwise, maybe along with Neville, if bloody Dumbledore had listened to McGonagall as much as Trelawney, if I—"

If I—what? If he’d had a spine? If he’d asked questions, listened to the portraits stuck in the far corners of the Slytherin common room, sought out his Aunt Andromeda, his cousin Tonks? He’d only been a boy as she’d only been a girl. Both of them had been set firmly on their paths by the adults around them, whether or not they were seen as pawns.

“I was going to die, the girl who had such infinite hopes, so many wishes, for the fact of my birth. She couldn’t survive if we were going to have a chance,” she said. She spoke as if the words carried a bitterness she was used to tasting. “Harry doesn’t understand. He says we won and look at what a wonderful life I have, such bright, beautiful, accomplished children, my career, all the good work I do—”

“It’s not what you wanted,” Draco said and that, of all things, made her lips curve, ever so slightly, into something like a smile. That, of all things, made him want her, ever so much. That she would admit it and to him, an intimacy he hadn’t anticipated. Couldn’t have let himself long for and yet, once again, had found himself given his heart’s desire.

“I can’t have regrets like that, can I? I can’t regret my children, nor my marriage. But I married the wrong man for all that I loved him. I can’t regret my children, but I regret I had them when I was barely older than a child. If I weren’t a witch, I wouldn’t have had a baby when I was at university. I would’ve gone to university and then to work, maybe an advanced degree, I would have chosen—”

“What?” Draco said. It had taken him the past thirty years to comprehend that the Muggleborn witches and wizards lost something when they crossed over. Over thirty years, he’d learned a little about what it was. But Hermione would have known something about it when she was eighteen. It had taken her until now to feel the full impact of that life she hadn’t lived in either England.

“I don’t know what I would have done. Studied, worked at, where I would have wanted to travel to. Discover. Here or there,” Hermione said. “I can’t say I ever had a chance to really figure out what I was most interested in, only what was most necessary for Harry’s survival. For my own. I don’t have a secret passion. It was all taken from me and I can’t ever get it back. Too late.”

Too late, she’d said, a witch who could live for another hundred years. Had anyone told her, reminded her? Had any of her friends noticed how she was suffering? Had she let them? She had not had to agree to talk to him, to sit with enchanted tea between them, she had not had to tell him about Jean and her parents, had not had to let him hear how angry she was and how despairing. Like calls to like, the Astoria of his memory said, and you’ve liked her for so long.

“D’you know, the divorce was Ron’s idea. He thought, if I wasn’t bound to him, it would be a gift. I could become myself. He loved me enough to give me that.”

“He’s more astute than I’d given him credit for,” Draco remarked.

Hermione laughed.

“You’d never given him a knut’s credit. Nor a ha’penny,” she said. “I don’t know why you thought I’d marry someone stupid. He’s very bright, it’s only that we’ve no interests in common beyond our children and he decided that wasn’t enough for me.”

“Why do you come here?” Draco asked again, after there’d been a long silence between them, long enough for the tea to grow cold if that had been possible. Hermione was looking down into her cup as if she’d divine something in the leaves. As if she’d ever given Divination the least credence.

“Because I need to see how much worse it could have been to bear how it is,” she said. “Who is cruel now, Draco?”

He looked at her, Hermione and also Jean, the grey in her hair evident, the grey she must glamour when she was not here, and he wondered about the other scars she carried. He knew about what his aunt had done, he’d heard rumors about how Dolohov had cursed her, and he knew what had been expected of her: an endless competence, an infinite hope, a gratitude for it all, the wand she’d killed with, the world that required her to mend it. What could he give her, not as a debt repaid, but as an alternative, the choice that had always been denied her?

They were old enough for him to get it right. He was not as brilliant a strategist as her husband had been, but he could play one final gambit.

“I haven’t heard you use my first name in over thirty years,” he said. “It’s a kindness I don’t deserve.”

“Haven’t you learned yet kindness isn’t deserved. Or earned?” she said.

“Haven’t you, Jean?” he said softly and reached out a hand to cover hers, except that she turned it over and grasped his, palm to palm. It was the old way of handfasting, but she wouldn’t know it.

(Though she’d been married to a Pureblood for twenty years and Draco had heard what store Molly Weasley put on the old ceremonies.)

“Hermione,” she said. “If we are beginning again, I’d like to be Hermione, I think.”

She kept going to St. Mungo’s every Tuesday night. After three months, she’d stopped going on Fridays and let him give her dinner at his flat, usually takeaway curry. After six months, she left the Ministry.

She dropped the glamour, learned Bactrian and Saka, bloodied her hands on thorns grafting roses for Neville. She wrote letters. So many letters. She only sent half of them and none by owl. She started writing a novel. Draco wasn’t supposed to be able to tell, but it was about Snape and somehow, also the Silk Road.

She invited their children to dinner. Rose shook Draco’s hand, Hugo hugged him, Scorpius brought Hermione an enormous bouquet of camellias. After the meal, they played Exploding Snap and Draco learned Rose was short for Rosemary.

She fell in love. Draco had been willing to wait but she caught up.

A year and a day later, after their friends and family witnessed the handfasting, Draco made the first toast.

To Jean.

#dramione fic #draco malfoy #hermione granger #take a lot of unresolved trauma and add one midlife crisis #middle-aged wizards #angst #fluff #rose weasley #hugo weasley #scorpius malfoy #astoria malfoy #canon au #no ron or astoria bashing #happy ending #artielu #st mungo's #in no way is this an endorsement of TERF JK

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