a point so delicate

Sanvers fic: the new normal

A little morning after fic for y’all.


Alex wakes up smiling.

She’s sore. But it’s not the familiar twisting, thudding pain that comes after a rough fight. This is a ache that runs all through her, pulses heavy in her thighs and abdomen. This is a slow, satisfied soreness that feels *good*.

After a fight, there are bruises too, but the bruises on her neck and stomach aren’t broad swaths of color from wild, angry blows. Carefully, Alex presses down on a few of the delicate little points of darkness, placed just so by Maggie’s sweet little sucking bites.

Maggie.

Alex turns on her side and she’s there. She’s still there, curled up in Alex’s duvet cover, snoring very softly in her sleep.

Alex stares.

Ever the scientist, she needs evidence. Alex reaches out a hand and gently strokes Maggie’s bare shoulder. Alex happily concludes Maggie is warm, and solid and real.

Maggie grumbles in her sleep, and Alex starts to pull away. but Maggie holds on to Alex’s hand, pulls her with her as she turns over onto her other side. So Alex goes with it, snuggles in against Maggie’s back, tucking her knees in behind Maggie’s, kissing her softly on the shoulder before falling back asleep.

The next time Alex wakes up it’s because Maggie is whispering her name.

“Alex, Alex.”

Alex loves how Maggie says her name. She wraps her arms tighter around her and hums, “Mmm, Maggie.”

But Maggie squirms away. “No, Alex…”

She feels Alex pull back, hears a soft, injured “Oh,” and hastens to clarify. “No, Alex, I mean, yes, but not now.”

“Huh?”

“Someone is pounding on your door.”

Keep reading

I have a lot of complex thoughts about the refugee crisis after living in the heart of it for a solid length of time, and I would just caution everyone away from cynicism over it. It’s a unheard of situation, no easy or clean solution for a complex problem that’s never been encountered. I don’t pretend to understand even half the nuances. But truly, so many people are helping. It isn’t a delicate nuance. It’s a bold point blank truth. So many people are working very hard to help other people, and so many people are thriving, engaging in pursuits and creating opportunities.
It’s really easy to get caught up in macros, in projected millions and governments and policies and economies, but if you’re far away from where it’s happening I promise you as someone who was for a long time (and now, home in Hawaii, am as far away as anyone could be), that on a micro level, on the level of people to people, much is being done. Things like me and Kate taking all the tampons (hundreds, my god, the combined wealth of six women living together with no room left in their suitcases when they moved out) left in our house to a shelter in Istanbul and being met with a donation line that went out the door, and boxes overflowing; civilians who live throughout the Mediterranean and Aegean sea are patrolling the water to rescue capsized boats, like the man whose Airbnb we stayed at in Cyprus. I have friends in Amsterdam organizing classes that crash course basic Arabic, Turkish, and English. I met one complete babe who had been whisked out of Palestine in the middle of the night as a little boy, and knew his way around a Slayer espresso machine in Berlin with such finesse you’d die and kissed even better. I was talking with a French-Tunisian friend on skype not a few weeks ago who isdoing her MA in psychology, and related a fast growing interest amongst her peers to train in the intercultural treatment of PTSD, and in developing coping exercises to treat shocks of resettlement. In Ankara, I got to sit in on a fascinating series of comparative literature lectures given by scholars from Syria (both of whom, I might add, where on loan from the UK where they had received asylum and now taught) Lebanon, Greece, Massachusetts, and Iran, followed by the best workshop where I wrote something again for the first time in months after being a part of such a stimulating dialogue about syntax. These are the things I myself have witnessed in my own limited life experience. I know there are so many other stories. Stories from the people taking part, who are still living them. I urge everyone to share them in the face of hateful political soundbites and fake life jackets. Stories of adjustment, normality, gestures.
There isn’t a place on this earth that wasn’t at some point the cruelest most unfair place to be born, we’ve always been caught in the whims of war and famine and disease, the history of this life is marked by nothing other than the loss of it, but people aren’t all embittered by the fear or limited by trepidation. There’s no saving some things, but people salvage, and stitch up, and stuff doesn’t look like it used to and it doesn’t look new either but I dunno? It’s still creation. Its still creatively applied force of fuckin will.
People are living their lives. We are not a teeming a anonymous mass. We are not swept away in a mob of fascism and hate. We are learning how to repair the steam wand in a espresso machine. We are packing two duffel bags full of tampons, and renegotiating our worlds.

I know it’s all about the chiseled lines of Hary’s cheeks and jaw, but I’m so obsessed with Harry’s nose. It’s just so regal, all subtly pointed  and delicate. The bridge is so beautiful and perfect, an artist’s dream.  And his nostrils never tell lies. 

I love…

Harry’s nose.