#and the love affair lasts a decade until one or both of us are politically assassinated

[zombified-queer]

I have GOT to get back to my roots (writing Star Control 2 fanfiction).

[atlabeth]

hey! i love your zuko fics so much and was wondering if you’d like to write this, because the idea just popped up: maybe a zuko x reader fluff that takes place before/during LOK? maybe they’re reminiscing about their past adventures w the Gaang while helping out the new Team Avatar? idk it’s just that every time I see old zuko it makes me soft and emotional 🥲🔥❤️ anyways, much love! (and don’t feel pressured to do this at all, I was just thinking abt who I could submit this request to, and obvi my first choice was you 💕)

reminiscence - zuko x fem!reader

summary: just because you and your husband are retired doesn’t mean you don’t have amazing advice for the new team avatar.

a/n: this is so cute omg!! thank you so much for requesting this and thank you for much for your kind words i'm honored <33 im so sorry this took so long

sorry im posting so much lately im trying to stop slacking and publish things that have been wips for over a month sdkjfh

wc: 1.3k

warning(s): none bc i choose to ignore the news of zaheer’s plan right after this scene

-

Retirement was… nice.

You had spent your childhood fighting with the Avatar to end the Hundred Year War, a feat that was only made more difficult with your Fire Nation roots and connection to the banished prince. But all that’s well ends well, and you ended up getting your happy ending together — you had to fight hard for it, though.

You married Zuko at nineteen, three years after he ascended to the throne, and spent the subsequent years balancing your duties as Fire Lady and taking care of your daughter. Ruling the Fire Nation was a lot, but you knew you could get through anything with your husband at your side.

When he told you his plans to abdicate the throne, you were more than supportive. One of Zuko’s biggest fears was becoming his father, and by giving up his position willingly to Izumi, it guaranteed that he wouldn’t fall victim to the power-obsessed ways of his ancestors. It also gave him a well-deserved break after decades of being Fire Lord, and you were more than ready to get out of the world of Fire Nation politics. You had sat through enough meetings to fill multiple lifetimes.

But just because the two of you weren’t as involved in every day affairs of the world didn’t mean that you were completely out of it. No, that was far from the truth. You and Zuko were still some of the most important people in all of the nations, which meant it wasn’t a rare occurrence for your husband to be called off on some sort of mission.

One such mission was stopping the Order of the Red Lotus for the second time; Zuko had been part of the team that stopped them from kidnapping Avatar Korra as a child, so it was no surprise that he had been called to help for a second time. You knew even in his old age that your husband was powerful, but you couldn’t help but feel concerned about everything he was doing.

This concern was ultimately what led you to join Zuko on his trip to meet with Chief Beifong and Chief Tonraq in the Misty Palms Oasis. He had originally been against your involvement, claiming that the Red Lotus was far too dangerous, and he didn’t want to risk you getting injured in any way. You, of course, weren’t having it. “The Avatar’s in trouble, and I’d like to think I know a few things about getting out of trouble.”

One thing was certain after you arrived — it had been far too long since you had ridden on the back of a dragon. You truly adored Druk, and you felt bad for everyone that would never have the opportunity.

After conversing with Lin and Tonraq inside, you all exited to greet the new Team Avatar. If what you were told was true, then they had been through quite a lot since leaving Zaofu. For as long as you had been involved in foreign affairs, you had never met Avatar Korra nor her friends, so you didn’t know what to expect — an awestruck boy that could barely speak wasn’t at the top of your list though.

“Oh my gosh. It’s Lord Zuko and Lady Y/N. I can’t believe it!” He stared at the two of you with wide eyes, his voice getting higher and higher as he whimpered. He looked like he was going to fall over until another black-haired boy pulled him out of the way, his tone apologetic.

“Uh, forgive my brother,” he said as he put his fist against his open palm, his brother following suit. “We’re just really honored to meet you both.”

“It’s no problem,” you smiled as you and Zuko returned the greeting. It had been years since someone had reacted that way towards you, and you would be lying if you said it didn’t amuse you. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

The two boys straightened again as the taller one gestured to them each in turn. “I’m Mako, and this is Bolin. We’re Korra’s friends.”

“Ah, she’s got her own Team Avatar?” You inquired with a twinkle in your eye. “You know, I traveled with Avatar Aang years back along with my husband.”

“Of course I know!” Bolin exclaimed. “Oh, I’ve heard so many stories about your adventures, they’re all so amazing!” His eyes widened and you actually thought that he was going to fall over. “Oh, oh, could you tell us about some of the things you went through?”

“Bolin, we really shouldn’t bother them—” Mako started, but you laughed and waved it off.

“I assure you, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s not often I get to relive my journeys to such avid listeners. What would you like to hear about?”

He thought for a couple seconds then shot back up again. “What was it like when you escaped the Boiling Rock together? You guys were the first people to ever break out, right? That had to be amazing!”

You and Zuko both laughed as you shot him a look. “It was… interesting,” he said.

“By interesting, he means it was a complete disaster,” you corrected. “Everywhere something could’ve gone wrong, it went wrong. They had originally come there to rescue Sokka’s dad, but instead they found Suki and I. Then Zuko got found out and thrown into prison, our first escape plan failed, Sokka almost got found out, Azula showed up… it was honestly a miracle we made it out at all.”

“It wasn’t that bad!” he protested. “Getting thrown into prison was part of the plan, we wouldn’t have been able to get the cooler out if I hadn’t been found out.”

“I guess I can’t complain,” you chuckled. “I did get to punch you a couple times.”

“They are so cool,” Bolin whispered as the two of you went on in the background. He elbowed Mako in the shoulder and gestured towards the couple with his head. “Come on, ask them something! This is a once in a lifetime opportunity!”

“I’m not going to ask them something, Bolin—”

“Excuse me, my brother has something he wants to ask too!” Mako shot him a dirty look which quickly disappeared when you and Zuko turned to him attentively.  

“Oh, um…” He coughed and scratched his head. “I guess.. is there any advice you have for us? With this whole Team Avatar thing, I mean.” You smiled at Mako and took Zuko’s hand.

“The friendships you forge during your journey are the most important thing — they’re the things that will keep you going during your darkest moments, and they will last a lifetime. There will be mountains and valleys, ebbs and flows, but no matter what, you will hold an unbreakable bond.”

You felt Zuko squeeze your hand and turned your smile on him as you returned the sentiment then nodded for him to continue. “Never take anything for granted, and trust in fate. You’re where you are for a reason — everything will end up working out in the end.”

You grinned and kissed him on the cheek, humming in agreement. “It did, didn’t it?”

-

After a few more minutes of talking with the two brothers, they went off to join the rest of their group. It was strange being on the outside of it all after how intense your childhood was, but it was… refreshing not to have the weight of the world on your shoulders anymore.

“The world’s in good hands with them,” you murmured as you leaned your head on Zuko’s shoulder.

“They all have that same fire you had when I first met you,” Zuko chuckled. You watched the four of them conversing and a smile graced your lips.

“Oh? Then I think the world’s in very good hands.”

-

perm tag list: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin

[ncitygirls]

only - changbin x f reader

angst, fluff, suggestive, royal!au, cw: war, 5.3k

you were barely eighteen when you accepted the hand in marriage of the son of the duke and duchess of levanter. seo changbin - an affluent heir to an impossible fortune - almost had you surprised when you found his interest in you was unlike that of your fellow bachelorettes. naturally, their interest was fuelled by an insatiable greed and a hot desire for financial prosperity. as should yours, as was yours. not changbin though. no, changbin prided himself on many things unfitting for a man of his status, even his age. he wondered not of your family’s alliances or existing trading partners, but of religion and upbringing. he tsked at mention of your international estates, unless in regard to your memories there. he was complimentary of your attire, less in expense but rather in beauty. changbin wanted to know of your favourite season, and your preferred time of day. who was your favourite poet, and from them your favourite poem. he was obsessed with your knowledge of the world, or rather your interest in it. you had been to neo, but did you really see it, really explore? and if not would you care to? did you prefer sugar or honey in your tea? your bread buttered or oiled? to sleep bare or in silk? he wanted to know what side of the bed you preferred to sleep on, if you were adverse to cuddling and if so, if you could be persuaded.

to be fair, he only spoke with you like this for two reasons. the first being your shared upbringing. after almost two decades of friendship, having you enter his home in the prospect of being his wife didn’t come as a surprise to the young bachelor, but rather a relief. he spent days in and days out discussing family politics, ancestry, and accounts. he chose to ignore the blatant issue there, sharing the intricacies of his family’s wealth and heritage with these ladies from kingdoms and countries he’d been too busy to pay any mind in schooling. he knew his ignorance could come back to bite him and it did, especially as you entered his home looking far prettier than he had ever recalled you looking. he held his tongue before he could whistle, but you could see his smirk all the same. it softened into a grin as he bowed, you returning the pleasantry with a lot less pleasantness than he offered you. he welcomed it all the same. it was why he could be free on this day. speak about the things that would effect you two as one another’s, not you two as one.

your presence also meant he didn’t have to pussyfoot around. he didn’t have to fear your hatred, nor your judgement. though your eyes rolled more than the actual number of potential brides he had become acquainted with. he let f bombs slip, and his guard down. he frolicked with you through the grounds you already knew so well, and guided you through the parts once forbidden to the rambunctious children you once were. he walked you to the kitchen and asked for bread, as opposed to stealing it like you both once would. he tried to describe the estate’s chambers as best he could, detailing the art a then prince hyunjin had gifted him and your childish scratchings still on his door frame.

‘you can see it one day,’ he had whispered under the willow tree on the grounds, watching the way your fingers clung loosely to the weeping leaves. ‘it’s still as it was when we were children.’

‘and how would i do that?’ the question is valid enough, though he frowns, tilting his head. ‘i did not realise i had uttered a riddle, my lord.’

‘well neither had i,’ he tutted, moving to latch onto the same branch you once held. ‘and here i was, assuming you to be the smart one.’

‘i am the smart one.’

‘then answer me this,’ he began, pausing to firmly elaborate, ‘plainly.’ your eyes roll for the umpteenth time at his silent warning before you concede with a nod. ‘how might you see my bed?’

with a sigh you deadpan, ‘if you were to make me your wife.’

‘so to see my bed, and your vandalism-’

‘scribbles.’

‘i must make you my wife.’

‘it seems quite the extreme just to see some old scribbles.’ if changbin senses the hidden meaning to your words, he gave nought away. ‘mightn’t someone just bring me a piece of the bed? i’m sure it’s almost past its use, just peel the pane off. and why still the same bed? you are a young lord of age now, don’t you think-’

‘you know you prattle when you’re nervous?’

‘i do no such thing-’

‘it’s cute.’

‘changbin! how are you so sure i want to be your wife, hm?’ you half questioned, moving away from his looming figure. ‘i only came because your parents asked me here.’

‘y/n, i have known you a long time,’ he punctuates his reminder by closing the distance you so bravely placed between you. ‘if you wished not to be here, you would have found no greater pleasure than to decline the invitation.’ that much is not only true but undeniable. the seo’s was your third courting invite this month alone. you knew, and worse, changbin knew. ‘is it so hard to admit that i might have soften that hardened heart of yours?’

‘i find no pleasure in your games, changbin.’

‘what game, y/n? can a man not just want you?’ your eyes betray you as you try to expel the softness conjured by his taunt. a taunt that is starting to sound less like a taunt, and more like a confession. ‘can i not just want you?’

‘how do i know you want me, bin?’ you pressed, pressing your back to the leaning trunk of the all encompassing tree. ‘how do i know you don’t just want a way out of this endless cycle of mindless heiresses?’

‘you said my parents asked you here?’ your head bobbed as he approached you, nodding in time with you before he stopped a foot before you, smiling eyes gazing right at you. ‘who do you think asked them?’

you were married that fall. under that same willow tree, in the presence of his royal highness and his kin, your family and the seos. the affair was small like you both wanted. small like your needs. you joked marrying you was a cop out, as he spun you around the gardens, escaping the intimate celebrations in the grand banquet hall to enjoy the breeze on your skin and feel the wind in your hair. it was the first time he held you since your dance lessons as kids. where you would lead and he would follow. he once swore he would follow you anywhere. both literally and figuratively. around the grounds of your childhood home, in all your beliefs and ideologies. he filled his mind and self with your gospel and truth, infatuated with your manner of thinking, how you arrived at conclusions. changbin spent his whole childhood falling in love with you.

‘you weren’t a cop out,’ he breathed into the shell of your ear, humming as you lay your head on his shoulder. pressing his lips to your temple he confessed, ‘you were my only choice.’

that night, the two of you consummated your marriage under that same willow tree. his hands clinging to your waist as he ground his hips into you. his tightened breaths filling the drum of your ear with every snap, his lips closing around the skin of your jaw, summoning the most satisfying whines he could draw from you. his lover. his friend. his lady.

in his absence, you remind him of this night. how biting the bark had been on your skin, the autumn air stinging your already teary eyes. his last letter arrived over a fortnight ago, it spoke of his fears at battle, the treacherous methods of his enemies. the only face he prays to see again and until that day, the only face he will dream of. you have sent a handful of letters since then, yet still sour as you awake another day to no news. you sigh as you grab your quill, letting the ink drip before signing off your letter.

‘my dearest, changbin. a season separates us, but only a season could.’

it isn’t long after you seal it that you are summoned to the hwang holiday estate. the royal family have a long history of retreating to the country when the weather is a touch higher than that of luke warm water, or near cool cinder. the seo’s residence is but a short carriage ride from the estate, though a tad longer walk. you often opt to walk as you do today, taking no larger than foot long strides between the cobbled paths. your guard walks in time with you, though no more than a few feet behind. he had never been one for small talk, you quickly came to realise. though, since neither is your husband, you feel an odd sense of relief, normality, even in his absence. you try and enjoy the song of the breeze through the willow, the scent of the king’s rose garden carried on its back. it’s hard over the creak of your guard’s hurried stomps, his pace doubling with every corner you take. you only verbalise your awareness of his impatience when he arrives beside you, hastened to strike the door to announce your arrival.

“master yang,” you call softly as you two await entry. “if i did not know any better, i would say you were rushing me.”

“apologies, my lady,” he confesses, stepping back at your side without any question. though, when he gulps, you eye him with a softened concern. “i was informed you were summoned due to a grave emergency.”

“worry not, jeongin.” you chide, recalling your highness’ idea of an emergency. “the king often calls when the queen is away and he is tasked with matters such as assigning dinner seating.” jeongin looks as if he is about to ask when you add, “she says his involvement humbles him.” when he nods, you straighten as the door swings open, a servant welcoming you in. “yes, there is nothing to fear, master yang.”

only, falser words had never been spoken.

you are quick to note the tremor in the king’s frame as he hurries to stand upon your arrival, rushing you through the official pleasantries of an official summoning. “lady seo.”

“your highness.” you reply, your knee bending as you politely lower your head. “how are you on this fine afternoon-”

“i apologise, y/n. but as you know, i didn’t call you hear on matters of leisure.” he politely interrupts, a flush of embarrassment flooding his cheeks as you frown. “when was last you heard from him?”

“heard from who?”

“from—” hyunjin’s confused gaze cuts to his informants, a few members of his court shying away from him before he marvels at them. “has lady seo not been informed?” when he receives no reply, you feel yourself shrink as the gentle king bellows, “why has lady seo not been informed?”

“informed of what—”

“the order of information begins with yourself sire, before reaching the court, the council, the lady and then the people.”

“i specifically requested she be kept informed. why has she not been kept informed?”

“well, your grace, the lady of a knight is only to be informed once official word is received from the battlefield and delivered to you sire.”

“official word of what—”

“which came through this morning and you are about to deliver the information to the lady.”

“king hyunjin!”

gasps fill the room from all but the king himself. he doesn’t falter, instead he turns to move towards you, his eyes growing more fearful, more earnest as he approaches. he shudders at the thought of delivering this message. he even scolds himself for attempting to delegate such responsibility. you are a friend. not only to the crown, but to the royal family itself. before heavy crowns kissed their heads. before rings ever kissed your knuckles. you were his friend. you had always been a friend to him, and the only time you had ever needed him was now and he had let you down.

“we received word that neo soldiers stormed our fortress in miroh. while we have received word from a few troops who were able to escape, we have yet to ascertain who of the full fleet have made it to safety.” when he pauses to gulp he sees your eyes gleam, breaths shallow. his hands then find yours, gripping your shaky, sweaty digits tightly. “we have received no word from changbin’s troop,” he stops when you gasp, your tears falling, cascading down and around your stained cheeks, your lip trembling. “but we have been able to track a number of our men back through the yellow wood, south of levanter.”

“i-is he there? is he okay?”

“we are yet to hear word,” the tears continue to fall, and he hates himself but all he can do is continue, divulge everything he knows. “they plan to set up camp on the edge of the wood, so i will make my way there now and have word sent back to you as soon as i find him.”

“no,” you refuse, snatching your hands away to drag them over your stained cheeks. “i cannot wait, i will join you.”

“as will i,” jeongin pipes up behind you, his voice an odd comfort once more. “your grace.”

“it is no place for a lady,” hyunjin tries, sighing when you just scowl, already mid curtsey as you preempt his agreement and dismissal. “i will have a carriage sent for you at once.”

“would taking just a horse quicken my arrival?”

“i-it would,” he discloses reluctantly, watching you ready yourself to decline the carriage. “for my sake though,” your scowl returns, ignoring the concern from the king. “i implore you to take the carriage. the yellow wood is far from kind..” you decode his meaning before he ever finishes speaking. the yellow wood is far from safe.

“but is this not the same wood my husband’s troop plans to take, sire?” hyunjin’s nod comes seconds later, shame tensing his jaw. hyunjin is visibly trying to appreciate your patience after having all this information dumped on you. but hyunjin also recalls the threats you readily made and followed through on in your younger years. so much so, he fears the worst of you when you bow before slowly approaching him, voice but a decibel higher than a nat’s buzz to threaten him. the king. before as many witnesses as it takes to have your head. “fine. i will take the carriage.

“but i regret to inform you i have fallen victim to the sick allure of hope. so if this carriage takes him from me? if i am too late? i will burn your kingdom to the ground, jinnie. mark my words.”

only once you leave does hyunjin breathe, noticably shaken by the violent rage existing within the women of his kingdom. “ready her carriage.” he suddenly commands, terrified of letting you down. “i want her there by nightfall.”

hyunjin had not embellished the treachery of this road. you had halted close to ten times in the first six hours of the journey. thanks to forewarning by the king and his council, your guards were prepared to be extra vigilant. weary from all sides of the carriage, bandits who fell from the trees and ambushed from the sides did not live long enough to prevail. from dawn til dusk, the wood falsified night with its woven rotted branches and the gradually setting sun, seeing was becoming more hopeless yet more crucial. without a maid for travelling company and jeongin busy guarding your personage, you were once again left with your thoughts. in times of dire woe, you called on memories of your love, though they read more like dreams. this dream is one that only longing for the man you prayed awaited you on the end of this perilous journey could conjure. because not only do you miss him, you fear for him. not much has changed.

‘you think i am going to get myself killed?’ he breathed, nipping at your clavicle as you rest in his lap. ‘have you no faith in me?’

‘of course i do,’ you defend, gasping as he clamps down, teeth rolling your skin. ‘i just-’

‘you just.. what?’ he doesn’t expect an answer. or so you suspect. especially following a slow drag of your thinly veiled heat over his firmed thigh. ‘you think i would ever abandon you?’

‘no, binnie,’ you start, rising from him with a sigh. ‘i just know you.’

‘you do?’ he ponders sweetly, gazing up at your shining eyes. ‘and what is it you know?’

‘you’re powerful, but far too stubborn.’

‘you know,’ he hums, crossing his thick arms as a small pout steals the lips of the strongest man in the kingdom. ‘for someone who claims to adore me, you tend to speak ill of me every chance you get, my lady.’

‘must the two be exclusive?’ when his frown only deepens, his folded arms tightening, you sigh once more. returning to his spread legs, you perch yourself on them, raising your steady fingers to the creases painting the forehead of the most stubborn man you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. he softens only slightly, his pouted lip closing around yours when you lean in, silently asking his forgiveness. ‘for every ill spoken word, i make up for with countless good, bin.’

‘such as?’ he huffs, knowingly egging you on.

with a small smile, you offer a final peck to his lips before praising the knight beneath you. ‘i know you will fight valiantly.’ you admit, pride permeating right through you to the man you call yours. ‘you will bring honour to your family, to your country.’ with the pads of your fingers, you tuck his hair behind his ear, cooing as he relaxes at your touch. ‘you will be a hero, my love.’

‘and this all worries you?’

‘do you know who will keep your legacy alive, changbin?’ his frown returns at concern for your quivering lip, a sudden fear seeping into your tone. ‘me. your widow.’ he begins to shake his head, a half assed assurance on the tip of his prideful tongue when you remind, ‘it may vex you to hear this, but please remember your knighting was in part an award for your bravery, but also in large part to hyunjin’s love for you.’

‘how can you say that-’

‘since bang chan the brave, name a knight who lived to see his knighting. just one, bin. name one who knelt before their king and felt the sword atop their shoulders. name one who did not die in battle, leaving their grieving widow to accept a meaningless commendation of his honour?’

‘you call your father’s commendation meaningless?’

‘don’t make me laugh, bin.’ your scoff would wound him had you not uttered, ‘i would have rathered he be the one to walk me down the isle the day i married you. knowing my father loved me enough to protect his country is a nice sentiment, but don’t you dare assume i would take that honour over his life.’

‘hey,’ he calls, holding you in his lap as you try to move from him. ‘my love, i didn’t mean to offend.’

‘i know,’ in these seconds you see past the facade, the knight that your husband is. you only see what you fell in love with. you see the compassion, the understanding. ‘bin, i need you to understand. really understand.’ with his cheeks cradled in your palms, you plead with your love. ‘you mean everything to me, seo changbin. before i ever realised you did. i will not let this mindless war take you from me.

‘don’t be a hero, changbin. leave that to some village boy with a chip on his shoulder, with something to prove.’ he nuzzles into your palm as he listens to your plea, gazing into your warning eyes. ‘just come back to me, okay? don’t make me beg.’

‘what if it helped your case?’ he mumbled into your skin, his lips gently puckering as his palms glide up the side of your neck. his tongue slid betwixt your parted lips, trying to exorcise any and all tension from your trembling frame. with another soft pucker of his lips, a suck on your wet muscle has you loosening, falling into him as he moves to embrace you. ‘would you?’

‘do not mock me.’

‘i would never,’ you find this hard to believe as he smirks like a man with ten knives readied for your back. they come as kisses instead, they line the column of your neck, followed closely by his thumbs as he angles your head toward him. ‘you just seem ready to, so i would love to hear it.’

‘perhaps i will marry that lee boy, with the speckled cheeks. i hear the maids think he’s a descendant of fairies, born from the very stars that kiss his face-’ the words halt in your throat as he flips you, firmly pinning you to the goose down.

‘you seem to have thought this through..’

‘have i much choice?’ you huff, glaring at his thoughtful gaze. ‘one tends to ponder such things when faced with their husband’s imminent demise.’ he only sighs, eyes rolling skyward as he asks the gods, old and new, why they ever chose you for him. ‘i hear his line is filled only with beautiful men. who was his ancestor again? minho the something.’

‘you know,’ refusing to come to your aid, he gathering up the hem of your silks. ‘most men would have your head by now.’

‘-magnificent! it was minho the magnificent!’

‘maleficent.’

‘hm?’

‘his name,’ nipping at the exposed skin of your chest, his hand tugs at the starched fabric as he corrects you. ‘it was minho the maleficent.’

‘oh,’ you breathe, less in defeat but rather in sweet contentment. ‘and why is that?’

‘because, my sweet,’ he huffs into your chest, resting on the heels of his palms planted either side of your cushioned head. ‘he burned all of levanter to the ground when his queen died.’

‘yes, he did.’ changbin only strokes the skin of your cheek as you pout, his eyes rolling at your uncanny ability to bring everything back to his encroaching departure. ‘and my husband will not even skip one war for me.’

‘’one war’?’ he smirks, dropping his lips to your exposed breast, tongue sweeping over your teased nipples. ‘you speak as though war is like an evening in a tavern.’

‘both tend to end in regret,’ you jest, or attempt to. it is growing increasingly difficult to barter with him as he presses his lips to your stomach, his body lowering in kind with his touch. before he can disappear entirely from view, you rise. as he rises with you, you are stunned by his rosey cheeks, the flush journeying to his neck as you rest on your elbows. he sees your turmoil. your clear desire for him shadowed painfully by your love and fear. he drops a kiss to your hip, his knuckles dusting the veiled bead of your heat, eyes hard on you as you falter, head lolling to the side before you regain your strength. ‘bin?’

‘hm?’

‘stay.’ it’s faint. so faint he barely recognises it as a plea. he only sighs, his forehead pressed to your abdomen as he purges your wet eyes from his memory. ‘please say you will stay. i cannot bear the thought of a winter without you.’

‘my love,’ changbin speaks into your skin, lowly beseeching your understanding while praying for your peace. ‘a season might separate us,’ he hums, expertly parting your thighs as he offers a lone kiss to your mound. ‘but only a season could.’

“my lady?” jeongin’s voice is first to break you from your nostalgic nightmare. the second is the cries of injured men. “we have arrived.”

the edge of the wood is a wounded minefield. limbless soldiers, knights and footmen alike, are dotted around the dimly lit field. your eyes gloss over at the heaped bodies, and water at the stench. “how long have they been here?”

“just under a week,” jeongin recalls, holding his hand out to stop you as medics pass with a burnt body on a stretcher. “it is hard to believe this is the winning camp.”

“there are no winners in war, jeongin.” you whisper, watching a man close the eyes of his fallen comrade a pair approach to drop his body in a mass grave. a fight ensues. “only loss.”

“y/n?” you halt at the call, half sprinting at the sight of han jisung, wearing a smile warm enough to light the night. “i thought his highness was jesting when he said you’d be here.”

“han!” you cried, latching onto him with a grip that nearly winded him. “thank god, thank god.”

“more like thank changbin,” he wheezed, squeezing you back just as tight, lifting you a few feet off the ground. “had he not been here, i would have surely-”

“where is he?”

“-died.” he only grins as you stiffen, recognising his part in your terror a second too late. “oh! no! he isn’t dead! he is alive! very alive!” his eyes flicker to a scowling jeongin, gulping down an apology as he gestures to his left. “come.”

further from the wood and slowly decaying corpses are the tents. some somehow less grand than a teepee, some spacious enough for a few hours sleep. jisung guides you both up to the largest of the lot, where you find an ill tempered king hyunjin growing increasingly more so. “no, leave him be.”

“had we known you were coming your grace- we can have him moved immediately.”

“your king gave you an order, soldier.” jisung chimes in, tongue slotting into the swell of his cheek as he gestures to you over his shoulder. “now move out of the way or i’ll have you explain to lady seo why she can’t see her husband on account of your insubordinance.”

“yes, sir.”

hyunjin bristles at jisung’s ability to command his men with little effort before he softens at your restless gaze. “he’s been asking for you.”

the grandeur of the king’s tent suits changbin well, you think. a fire crackles at the furthest end, masked only by a large canopy where you know he rests. the four poster bed takes up most of the space, and around it lays tin bowls, rags, blankets and water. the room seems barely lived in bar the knight whose faint breaths float toward you through the warm air. you feel yourself stalling, too busy taking in the space to recognise your fear. what will you find when you pull the curtain away? what remains of your husband, your lover, your friend? will he still have the same warm eyes and full cheeks? will his hands still fit in yours? his feet still step in time with yours? will he look the same, sound the same even? you swallow down this fear, and instead bask in the joy that he’s alive. your husband is alive. and nothing separates you. not a season, nor a wood. not time or conflict. only your fears.

and then they don’t. when you pull back the veil, nothing separates you but air. a soft man made gust as you reveal the man you’d once called your friend, only to call your betrothed and then yours. the fire barely lights the room yet still he glows. he lies bare from the waist up, his abdomen bandaged in rolls of cotton, his chest exposed. you watch it, the slow rise and fall of the place you longed to rest your head, you dreamt of dreaming on. before you realise, you have lowered yourself beside him, careful not to disturb him, nor his wound. before you can call for him he smiles. even in his state of slumber, he leans into your touch. before you meet his eyes, you feel his on you.

“you came.” he whispers, a heavy breath of relief escaping him as your thumb dusts his cheek.

“of course,” you try, before taking your lip between your teeth, fearful your tears might dampen his skin. you kneel at his side, carefully ridding yourself of your outer garments, before returning your hand to his cheek. “how do you feel?”

“now?” he smirks, wincing as a laugh runs through him. “wonderful.”

“and before?”

“so, so.” he murmurs with a kiss to your palm. “a sword to the stomach will do that to you.”

“do i have han jisung to thank for that?”

“no,” he coughs, recalling his sacrifice. “only me.”

“well that’s good,” you hum, employing the upmost care when leaning over him. “because i would hate to think my knight was blindsided.”

“never,” his assurance fans your lips, as yours hover over his. “only by you.”

you almost forgot how it felt to kiss him. the feeling only coming in dreams. there was no memory strong enough to conjure the feeling of his lips pressed against yours. the slow melt of tender skin on skin, the warmth, his gentle caress. his kiss is slow, but even in his prime he took his time. his lips close around yours with such timing and precision, ushering a slow burn of desire from the heels of your feet all the way up to the crown of your head. he knew how to expunge pain and fear from you, to free you from your demons, to reinvigorate you. to love you.

he’s weak. in all the worst ways. his body, his will. he raises his hand to your neck, pulling you closer as he presses his tongue between your lips, connecting the muscles with little intent of parting. he swallows around you, drinking you in, keeping that same, slow and teasing pace. only to pull you closer.

“you need your rest,” you pant into his mouth, resting all your weight on your arms as he pulls you back down, pinning your forehead to his.

“no,” he refuses, sweeping his thumb along your jaw. “i need you.” his voice shakes then, unlike him. unlike the man you know. “only you.”

“is that why you called me here?” you tease, silently wiping his tears away, silently reading the fear in his eyes. he begs them away though warms at your easy dispelling. “to use me?”

“my love,” he laughs, ignoring the pain in favour of basking in your smile. “you know i did not call for you.” when you move to argue, he recalls, as if he were there, “‘would taking just a horse quicken my arrival?’”

“i might have been here sooner if-”

“this,” raising his other arm, he gathers your face in his palms, “is soon enough.”

safe.

“okay.” you agree, allowing him to tug you closer once more. you let him kiss you without restraint. you let him curl his fingers into your neck, ignoring his wincing and kiss him through it. you let his grunts mask his pain, his teeth rolling your lip between the rows, you let him share it. you let him have you, because despite the odds he stayed alive. he stayed alive for you. and that was enough. “i love you.”

he blinks up at your shining eyes, guiding your wet cheeks to his puckered lips. “i love you,” he whispers back against your lips, feeling himself heal at just the touch of your hand. “only you.”

because only a season separated you. but now, not even a season could.

[acnelli]

First Time Falling

This is my entry for the @hpqueerfest 2021. Thanks to the mods who hosted this! And a big thank you to my great beta-readers @nagemeikenu and @static-abyss who put up with my phone-writery (writing time is hard to come by these days).

This story was inspired by Prelude and Fugue by shes_gone, and it’s set in a world where Harry didn’t go to Hogwarts, but had been prepared for his destiny.

Pairing: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley Rating: T TW: strong language, mentions of war time, mentions of drug and alcohol consume Prompt: Falling in love for the first time as an adult (late 20’s-early 30’s) Summary: Harry Potter –Head-Auror and Savior of the Wizarding World– spontaneously asked out a cute redhead and it turned to so much more than he could have ever hoped for. 

You can also read this on AO3 and FFN.

*** *** *** *** ***

Not bothering to knock, Ron Weasley marched into Hermione Granger’s office. The heavy mahogany door slammed against the wall, making Hermione jump up from her chair.

“Ron,” she shrieked as a bunch of paper fell off her desk. “What happened?”

Instead of providing his best friend with an explanation for his sudden intrusion, Ron paced back and forth. The panicked look in his eyes made Hermione assume the worst.

With one swift motion, Hermione stepped in front of the redhead, forcing him to stop his frantic pacing. “Ron, please talk to me,” she pleaded, taking his hand into hers. “What’s going on? Is someone hurt? Is your family okay?”

Hermione’s worried expression and the panic in her voice finally brought Ron to his senses. “No, don’t worry, Hermione,” he sighed as he closed her office door. “I’m sorry! But...do you have time for a quick cup of tea in the cafeteria?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. This report is giving me a headache and I need a break.”

Hermione grabbed her purse and gestured for Ron to lead the way.

“I swear, Ron, if you almost gave me a heart attack over something Quidditch related, I’ll hex you into next week and make your new Firebolt disappear forever,” Hermione added as they made their way down to the Ministry cafeteria.

Ron glanced over at the bushy-haired witch, suppressing a grin as he told her his distress was indeed about Quidditch. They grabbed their beverages and headed towards a free table. Gracing him with a dark look, Hermione gestured for Ron to finally tell her what’s going on.

“Harry Potter asked me out on a date!”

This statement caused Hermione’s drink to go down the wrong way, resulting in a violent coughing fit and her spitting out the tea.

“What?” she wheezed out between coughs, as Ron cleaned his face and shirt with his wand.

He waited patiently until Hermione recovered, both from the coughing fit and the shock. “See, even you don’t believe me,” Ron sighed, harshly rubbing his hands over his face, “I don’t blame you, though. I can’t believe it myself, after all.”

Finally being able to speak again, Hermione put her elbows on the small table and leaned forward, determined to not miss a single thing about this story. “Spill! How? When? Where? And don’t you dare to leave out even the smallest detail.”

Ron shook his head, still in disbelief about what had happened to him just twenty minutes ago. Not being able to wrap his head around it, he decided to tell Hermione today’s events from beginning to end.

“Today, Robertson sent me a memo to come to his office to discuss the ridiculous complaints about the Tornados/Harpies game last week,” Ron started and couldn’t help rolling his eyes about the things he had to put up with at work sometimes. “So, I went there, gave him my report about the match and a brief overview. Thank Merlin, he only asked his usual useless questions about referee bribery claims. I was ready to launch into a whole speech but he suddenly dismissed me and told me to write up a statement for the press.

“I was just on my way back to my office when I met Seamus. The fucking wanker had the nerve to claim the next Cannons match for himself. I know he did that just to spite me so, naturally, I gave him an ear full about it as we waited for the lift. We only noticed Harry Potter standing right behind us when we got inside the lift. I probably sounded like an idiot but Seamus and I kept the conversation up because I always get second-hand embarrassment when people stop talking if Potter walks by or joins the lift.”

Hermione patiently listened to his ramblings, restraining herself from telling him to get to the point already.

Ron sipped on his tea and shook his head. “You know what? I read too much into this. Just realised that I’m acting exactly as everyone else does. What’s the big deal? Just a bloke who wants to have a pint after work.”

Hermione stared at Ron, expecting him to go on with his story, but he just kept sipping his tea.

“Ron!”

“What?”

“How did he ask you out?” She accidentally raised her voice but Hermione was finally losing her patience with him.

“I told you, he most likely-”

“Just tell me the damn story, already!” Hermione snapped, blushing a little when she noticed the people on the other tables giving her funny looks.

“Alright,” Ron said, raising an eyebrow at her. “Calm down, barmy woman.”

“You're the one marching into my office like a lunatic. Spill it! Now!”

With a heavy sigh, Ron continued with his story, curling his hands around the tea mug to keep from fidgeting.

“Seamus had already gotten off at another level, so it was just me and Potter in there. I tried to avoid the awkward silence, so I asked him if he followed Quidditch and was going to listen to or even watch the Tornados match tonight. He said that he does follow Quidditch and that he intended to listen to the match at home but if I'd be up to it, we could listen to it at this new pub that just opened in Diagon. He totally caught me by surprise, but I must've agreed because he told me he'll meet me at the fireplaces at 5. Then he left the lift. Then I freaked out and came to your office.”

Ron marked the end of his story by taking another sip of his tea before he defiantly crossed his arms in front of him.

“Jesus, Harry Potter actually asked you out! Oh my God!” Hermione almost squealed, grasping one of Ron's arms.

“Nah! I don't think so anymore. I bet he just wanted to have a pint and was only being polite when he asked me to come along,” Ron said. “Who'd ask someone out like that anyway?”

“Someone looking for a partner?”

“Yeah, but think about it, Hermione. Why would he ask me out? The guy is not only fucking famous, he's also devilishly handsome. He could have anyone he wanted.”

“So?”

Ron looked at Hermione as though she'd just declared the desire to live as a chicken.

“So? So, why would someone ask me out while on a random stroll through the Ministry? Who'd think ‘Oh, that freakishly tall ginger with more freckles than skin looks kinda awkwardly cute. Let's try to get a leg over?'"

“I dated you,” Hermione interjected.

“You don't count.”

“Well, thank you!” Her sarcasm was all but ignored by Ron.

“I just know I'll embarrass myself tonight,” Ron insisted, looking quite unhappy. “Let's go back to work. I still have to write that useless report.”

“Devilishly handsome, hm?”

“Shut up!”

**** **** **** ****

Harry didn't know what had possessed him to ask the cute ginger out for a pint.

Maybe it had been the Prophet article speculating for the umpteenth time about when the Savior of the Wizarding World would finally settle down and make some black-haired, green-eyed babies. Rita Skeeter had many ideas about what worthy witch could conquer the heart of Harry Potter. All things considered, the article had probably not been the worst thing written about him so far.

Sometimes he wondered if he should've taken Sirius’ advice to feed the press and public meaningless details of his life. It wouldn't stop the constant speculations and made-up affairs, but it probably would reduce the paparazzi following him around, the crazy fans sending him love letters and maybe, they would find something more newsworthy than where Harry Potter bought his toilet paper.

But he hated the fact that people demanded this from him. He was 29 now, and while the great hype about him was over, he still seemed to be interesting enough to write about, even over a decade after his defeat of Voldemort.

He knew the majority of the Wizarding World was sincerely grateful for what he'd done. There were so many parents thanking him for the simple fact that they're still alive and able to see their children grow up.

It reminded him that it was all worth it. The sacrifices, the nearly friendless childhood, his secret life away from the public, the growing up with the knowledge that he might not live long enough to celebrate his 17th birthday. All of that had resulted in ending Voldemort once and for all.

When he'd destroyed the Dark Lord and his Horcruxes though, Harry’s hope of finally living a normal life got crushed soon after. In the post-war world, it had been next to impossible to lead a life like everyone else. Because of his childhood and his training by Alastor ‘Mad Eye’ Moody himself, he learned not to trust easily. And since occasions to make friends or interact with strangers had been few and far between, he never really learned what to look for in a friend.

He was well aware that he was complaining about a comfortable life. His parents had left him a respectable amount of gold, and Sirius bought him a flat in London after he graduated from Auror Academy. Maybe he'd gotten this job because of his fame and reputation, but he knew he deserved the position as Head Auror. There was hardly anyone with the same amount of training and experience he brought to the table, and he was under the impression the people working for him did genuinely like him as a boss. Two of them he even considered friends after all these years.

Aside from the two friends at work he also had his family. He had Sirius, Remus, Andromeda, Tonks and his godson, Teddy. He wasn't alone by any means, but he'd never met someone he could possibly fall in love with. Hell, aside from one of Tonks’ old friends from school and her father's attempts to set him up with several of his countless nieces—and later nephews when Harry told his family girls didn't do it for him—he'd never even dated. Toby—a fellow student from elementary school and the only friend his age—dragged him to Muggle pubs and clubs, resulting in the occasional snog or even a shag with a stranger. Needless to say, his first time hadn't exactly been romance novel material and it sure wasn't something he liked to think about. Sometimes, Harry feared that he would never fall in love, that he wasn't capable of developing those feelings for another person.

Those unpleasant thoughts combined with the Rita Skeeter article may have been the result of his sudden impulse to just go for it and ask the redhead out. But it also could have been the brilliant blue eyes, the kind, shy smile and the lean shoulders. Harry was sure, though, that the main reason for it had been the fact that this man hadn't treated him like a Messiah. It had just been an easy conversation, even if it had been only two minutes.

Harry hoped it would remain that way when they watched the game later. In fact, he could just brush it off as a friendly meeting with a fellow Ministry worker if Cute Ginger wasn't interested in anything more.

But when he thought about the redhead’s lopsided grin, Harry felt a foreign flutter in his stomach and he couldn't help but hope for more, even if it was just another visit to the pub.

**** **** **** ****

In the 30 years of Ron Weasley’s existence, he'd never been on time for something not work-related. Today, though, he was almost ten minutes early as he waited by the fireplaces for Harry Potter.

Again, he felt rather pathetic. For a hot second, he considered waiting in a nearby bathroom to pass the time, pretending to get to their meeting place just in time. But then he reminded himself that he wasn’t a petty teenager anymore, and even if Potter found it pathetic, Ron didn’t expect a repeat of tonight, anyway.

He decided to just treat this like a meet-up with Dean and Seamus every other Thursday after work. Just two guys, enjoying a couple of pints together, talking about Quidditch. Nothing special. Nothing to freak out over.

The atrium was busy as ever but he spotted Potter right away when the Head-Auror stepped out of the lift and made his way towards the fireplaces. He still wore his magenta work robes and Ron couldn't help but notice how sexy they looked on him.

“Hi!” Potter greeted Ron, smiling somewhat shyly. “Ready for some beer and Quidditch?”

“Sure! But I forgot to introduce myself earlier, so I figured I'd do that now,” Ron said, giving the dark haired man a smile in return, as he offered his hand for a proper introduction. “I'm Ron. Ron Weasley.”

“I'm Harry.”

**** **** **** ****

“No way! How did he get out of there?”

Harry barked out a laugh at Ron's tale of a night out with Seamus and Dean. His outburst was loud enough for the other guests of the pub to look in their direction. Ron found it amusing how a simple change into Muggle clothes, different glasses, and a slightly lighter hair colour resulted in no one recognizing the Boy-Who-Lived.

“Since it was a Muggle police station, Seamus had to spend the night there. Statute of Secrecy, and all. We picked him up the next morning and filled him in on what he'd done the night before, including showing everyone his pale arse.” Ron grinned deviously at the memory. “I invented some things for good measure. Unfortunately, Dean is too good for this world and told him a few hours later that I was taking the mickey.”

Harry shook his head, chuckling. “That reminds me of Remus searching the whole of London for Sirius, only to find him several hours later in a hidden spot on the roof. He was gazing at the stars and totally stoned. Combined with Firewhiskey, he didn't remember a single thing from that night.”

“Sirius?” Ron looked quite interested at the mention of his Godfather’s name. “Sirius, as in Sirius Black?”

“Yes. He was my Dad’s best friend. And he's my Godfather.”

“I'm just asking because I'm related to the Blacks. My grandfather married Cedrella Black.”

“Yes, I recognize the name. Her face got blasted off the family tree,” Harry said, and at Ron's raised eyebrow quickly added, “Sirius’ mother blasted everyone off that tree who didn't uphold the Black family's motto ‘Toujours pur’. So, Cedrella must have gone against the high and mighty Black Pureblood tradition.”

“Well,” Ron said, taking a swig of his beer, “she married a Weasley. I'm sure that alone was reason enough to disown her. The Weasleys have been notorious blood traitors since forever.”

“Sounds like your grandmother had good taste in men if you ask me.”

Harry winked at Ron, and the redhead felt the burning blush creeping up his neck.

Ron was once again amazed at how little time it had taken him to lose his nervousness. But Harry Potter made it very easy for him. Harry was confident, yet humble and polite. His humor didn't have Ron's sarcastic edge, but the redhead found Harry delightfully witty with a good amount of sass.

Ron didn't know what he expected but it was undeniable how easy it was to talk to Harry. He could only hope the raven-haired man enjoyed this just as much as he did. Harry laughed at his jokes and seemed genuinely interested in Ron's more-than-mundane life.

As much as Ron tried to see this as a meeting with a good friend, he couldn't help the warm feeling in his chest every time Harry smiled at him or his leg accidentally bumped against Ron's. And if the alcohol hadn't gone to his head already, making him imagine things, Harry's eyes kept flitting down to Ron's lips.

When the woman behind the bar announced the final round, they decided to call it a night since it was one of Harry's work Saturdays tomorrow.

As they ventured out of the crowded pub and into the cool night air, Ron was disappointed about the evening coming to an end. Time had flown and he was sure they could've talked for several more hours.

“Would you mind if I walk you home?” Harry asked just as Ron wanted to wish him a good night.

Ron nodded, not being able to suppress his smile as Harry obviously remembered him mentioning that he only lived a few blocks away.

They kept their pace slow and walked a little closer to each other than necessary, their hands bumping against one another. Every touch sent a jolt through Ron's body and he wanted nothing more than to take Harry's hand.

Eventually, they reached their destination. During the entire walk home Ron had gathered all of his Gryffindor courage to ask Harry out, this time for an official date.

“I- um,” Ron started, rubbing one hand against the back of his neck to ease his nerves. “I really enjoyed this evening and I was wondering...Maybe I got this all wrong, but you seem interested, and well, I'm interested too. And if you're not, that's totally fine. But...caniseeyouagain?”

And before Ron's face had the time to go completely crimson, he got his answer as Harry took his hand to pull him close, leaned up and kissed him.

Harry pulled back from Ron's lips, his stunning, green eyes slightly darker than usual and holding a hopeful glint.

Ron didn't give himself the chance to overthink as he put his hand on the back of Harry's neck and kissed him again. A deep groan escaped him when Harry licked at Ron's bottom lip and Harry took the opportunity to slip his tongue inside.

Ron was positive that he'd never experienced something more incredible than kissing Harry Potter. The only things he was capable of paying attention to were Harry and the wild thumping of his heart. And while it was exhilarating and new and positively made him weak in the knees, it also felt a lot like coming home.

Having lost all sense of time, Ron couldn't tell if they'd kissed for a minute or several hours when they broke apart. Harry's hands still gripped his shirt and Ron let his own hands glide from Harry's dark hair down over strong, well-defined shoulders to finally rest at his hips.

Both of them tried to catch their breath and Harry, who finally let go of Ron's shirt to put his arms around him, smiled up at Ron almost shyly.

“Yes, you can see me again,” Harry said, grinning.”What are your plans for tomorrow night?”

“Well,” Ron pretended to think about it for a second, “I thought I'd do this.”

And with that, he leaned in to kiss Harry again.

“I think that's a brilliant idea.”

**** **** **** ****

Just as he turned off the radio and grabbed his coat from the rag beside the door, a loud knock sounded through Harry's now quiet flat.

“Ten minutes early. Eager, aren't we?” Harry said as he opened the door for a tall ginger with a picnic basket in one hand and a broom in the other.

“Says the one waiting right beside the door like a good dog.”

Ron shoved his way inside, putting down the basket and broom before pulling Harry into his arms.

“Happy Birthday,” Ron murmured against the other man's lips. “And I thought I was supposed to give you a present, not the other way around?”

Harry pulled back a little, apparently confused. Ron grinned at him and squeezed Harry's arse. “Thanks for wearing my favourite pants today.”

Chuckling, Harry pointed at the broom Ron had brought with him. “No way I'll fly on a broom in these. Good thing I also packed my joggers.”

Ron hadn't told him where they were going for Harry's Birthday. He'd just instructed Harry to be ready at 9 in the morning, so they'd be back in time for dinner at Grimmauld Place with Harry's family.

Only two months had passed since their first kiss, but Harry already felt as though he'd known Ron for much longer. Every kiss, every touch, all the teasing and banter, and late night talks felt so completely natural, yet blissfully exciting.

“Come on, grab your broom. We're on a tight schedule.”

Ron winked at him and before Harry knew it, they were standing in the middle of a giant Quidditch pitch.

There wasn't a single soul besides them, but Harry immediately recognized the giant Hogwarts House banners from his family's keepsakes of their school years. Aside from that fateful day when he'd fought Voldemort on those grounds, he'd never visited the school. Not before, not after.

Harry tried to swallow down the lump in his throat. The surprise must be the result of one of their late night talks, when Harry confessed that his deepest desire while growing up had been to go to Hogwarts.

“Are we allowed to be here or do I need to arrest you for breaking into school grounds?”

Arms wrapped around him from behind and Harry could feel Ron smiling against the back of his head. “I wouldn't be opposed to playing the big bad Auror and the naughty Suspect later, but this is actually 100% legal. Having contacts with important Quidditch officials has its perks sometimes. And my annual chess game against McGonagall helped too, I suppose.”

“Okay then,” Harry said, lifting one of Ron's hands to his mouth to brush his lips against his knuckles. “Fill me in on that plan of yours.”

Ron let go of him and reached for their brooms, tossing one of them at Harry. “I thought we'd fly over the grounds first, so I can show you everything from above. The castle looks fucking amazing from up there and the Great Lake is a sight to die for when the water reflects the sun.”

Ron mounted his broom and flew in slow circles around Harry as he continued to talk. “I hope you don't mind that I invited your family for dinner. But I thought we could all show you the castle, introduce you to our favourite spots and secret places. Andromeda can show us the Slytherin common room. I've never been there myself. I'll show you the kitchen first. That's where I'll cook dinner later while the others show you around.”

Jumping down from his broom, Ron looked at Harry with a mixture of excitement and reluctance as he rubbed the back of his neck. It was a telltale sign of the redhead being nervous, Harry had learned in the last weeks.

“So, I thought this to be fitting for a 30th Birthday. I wasn't sure what to get you that you don't already have, and I reckoned this might be fun.”

Harry didn't know what to say and his silence only made Ron doubt his plan more. It always baffled Harry how Ron didn't realize how wonderful he was. He wished Ron could see himself through Harry's eyes.

Right at that moment, as Harry looked into Ron's blue eyes, it hit him. In fact, he knew he'd been harbouring these feelings inside him for weeks now, but only now he could see it with shining clarity.

He was falling in love.

The feeling was new, something he'd never experienced, but still he recognized it for what it was.

 Love.

***

[woman-loving]

I don’t identity as a “bi lesbian,” but I feel there is room for a woman to identify as both bisexual and gay/lesbian, and I don’t agree with the arguments I’ve seen against “bi lesbian” identity.

One thing that annoys me about detractors of the identity is the occasional claim that it is basically an internet phenomenon that arose within the last five years or so. Actually, women have been claiming both bisexual and lesbian identities for decades. There have constantly been debates about how bi women fit within lesbianism, lesbian identity, and lesbian community since the gay/lesbian movements have been active. This isn’t something that has ever been universally agreed upon, and there never will be universal agreement on it.

Just for reference and historical interest, I’ve compiled a few selections from articles and books, mostly from the 80s and 90s, that are by or about lesbian-identified (or gay-identified) bisexual woman, or that at least mention them. Inclusion doesn’t indicate my approval of the author’s perspective or argument; this is to provide a bit of history on the discourse.

What is a Lesbian? To me, a lesbian is a woman-oriented woman; bisexuals can be lesbians. A lesbian does not have to be exclusively woman oriented, she does not have to prove herself in bed, she does not have to hate men, she does not have to be sexually active at all times, she does not have to be a radical feminist. She does not have to like bars, like gay culture, or like being gay. When lesbians degrade other lesbians for not going to bars, not coming out, being bisexual or not sexually active, and so on, we oppress each other.

--Trish Miller, "Bisexuality," Lavender Woman, Vol 2 Issue 5, August 1973.

*

The definition of lesbian that I suggest, one that conforms to the two methodological considerations above, is the following:

5. Lesbian is a woman who has sexual and erotic-emotional ties primarily with women or who sees herself as centrally involved with a community of self-identified lesbians whose sexual and erotic-emotional ties are primarily with women; and who is herself a self-identifed lesbian. 

My definition is a sociopolitical one; that is, it attempts to include in the term lesbian the contemporary sense of lesbianism as connected with a subcultural community, many members of which are opposed to defining themselves as dependent on or subordinate to men. It defines both bisexual and celibate women as lesbians as long as they identify themselves as such and have their primary emotional identification with a community of self-defined lesbians. Furthermore, for reasons I will outline shortly, there was no lesbian community in which to ground a sense of self before the twentieth century, a fact which distinguishes the male homosexual community from the lesbian community. Finally, it is arguable that not until this particular stage in the second wave of the women’s movement and in the lesbian-feminist movement has it been politically feasible to include self-defined lesbian bisexual women into the lesbian community.

Many lesbian feminists may not agree with this inclusion. But it may be argued that to exclude lesbian bisexuals from the community on the grounds that “they give energy to men” is overly defensive at this point. After all, a strong women’s community does not have to operate on a scarcity theory of nurturant energy! On feminist principles the criterion for membership in the community should be a woman’s commitment to giving positive erotic-emotional energy to women. Whether women who give such energy to women can also give energy to individual men (friends, fathers, sons, lovers) is not the community’s concern.

--Ann Ferguson, “Patriarchy, Sexual Identity, and the Sexual Revolution,” Signs, Autumn 1981.

*

Individuals who came together a month ago to discuss bisexuality and its relationship to radical feminism decided recently to begin a serious, regular study group on human sexuality and its social/political/psychological manifestations in our culture.

There are eight of us in the group. For all, understanding bisexuality, both in our own lives and and in our society, is a primary goal. To this end, we decided on a format of readings and discussion, with a facilitator for each meeting, that would bring us through the range of sexual options available in the United States today, from male-identified heterosexuality to lesbianism, to a final informed examination of bisexuality in the context of all that we had learned. Throughout our exploration, feminism will provide both a point of departure, and a point of return.

We started by trying to define some terms, specifically "feminism," "gay-identified bisexual," and "bisexual". Alot of us were amazed to see how many different interpretations each term, especially "gay-identified," could have. Is someone "gay-identified" because they devote a majority of their time, energy and emotion to the gay community? Or does an individual's radical critique of heterosexuality make them "gay-identified"? And does "gay-identified" also imply "women-identified"? Some people felt that one could be gay-identified, and still not be woman-identified. And exactly how many Meg Christian concerts make you "lesbian-identified"?

We didn't reach any conclusions, but had fun realizing that being bisexuals, we are dealing with a whole realm of experiences that can be classified in any number of different ways; and that the variety of possible bisexual lifestyles is as varied as the women who are in the Network.

--Barb H, “Study Group,” BBWN, Vol. 2 No. 4, July-Aug 1984

*

I recognize that homophobia is at the root of biphobia. I came to lesbianism long before my sexuality was clear to me. I lived an open lesbian lifestyle for four years. I cannot deny the importance of this experience, nor do I want to. For me lesbian identity is more than, and/or in addition to sexuality; it is a political awareness which bisexuality doesn't altar or detract from. 10 years ago when I left my husband and full-time role of motherhood, it didn't make me less conscious of what being a mother means. In fact, it gave me a deeper understanding. I am still a mother. That experience cannot be taken away from me. In much the same way, my lesbian awareness isn't lost now that I claim my bisexuality. When I realized my woman-loving-woman feelings, and came out as a lesbian, I had no heterosexual privilege; yet there were important males in my life, including a son. I am bisexual because it's real for me, not in order to acquire or flaunt the privilege that is inherent in being with men. My political consciousness is lesbian but my lifestyle is bisexual. If I keep myself quiet for another's sense of pride and liberation, it is at the cost of my own which isn't healthy--emotionally, politically or medically. Not only is it unhealthy, it's ineffective.

Since I have come out I have triggered many lesbians to blurt in whispered confidence--"I have a man in the closet. You're brave to be so open. What am I going to do?" These are not easy times. AIDS has given biphobia free reign in the lesbian community (and admittedly with much less destructive effect than how AIDS is fueling homophobia in society at large), it is all right to trash bisexuals, not to trust us for fear of AIDS. Bisexuals are untouchable to some lesbians.

We have to deal with oppression in a constructive way or we will be factionalized forever. Time is running out. We have to see the whole and the part we play in it. Forming family communities with people who share your sexual identity is important, but trashing is nonproductive. The sexual choices we make are equally valid for our individual experiences. AIDS is not a gay disease; it is a human tragedy, a plague that doesn't recognize boundaries. I urge bisexuals to take a political stand, and to become a visible, viable energy force. It is important and timely to open this dialogue in each of our communities. Nobody belongs in the closet. The only way to get a sense of "our" community is for us to begin to speak out and identify ourselves. When we verify the connections and the networks of our oppression, we build a unity that avoids the, "I'm more oppressed than you" syndrome

--Lani Kaahumanu, “Bisexuality & Discrimination,” BBWN Vol. 3, No. 6, Dec 1985-Jan 1986; Reprinted from the 1985 Gay Pride March magazine, San Francisco

*

What makes the Third Annual Northeast Conference on Bisexuality what it is? The breakfasts and dinners--the entertainment--the excitement of meeting others who feel like family. My first event of the conference was stumbling onto a cocktail party just around the corner from the Registration Desk, which turned out to be part of the Woman's History Week! A bit embarrassing after greeting many people with wine glasses in hand, asking them how they heard about the bisexuality conference!

I'll skip now to describe my experiences at the lesbian-identified affinity group and the two workshops I attended. Why do women who identify as lesbians go to a bisexuality conference? There were about 10 of us in the room, each with a different answer. Most of our relationships at the present time were with women; after that the similarity ended. One woman had affairs with men when not seriously involved with women. Another, in a non-monogamous long-term lesbian relationship, had recently begun a sexual involvement with a man. one woman, now involved with a bisexual woman, was here to discuss her feelings about the situation. Some of us had led exclusively lesbian lives for a number of years and were wondering if we'd closed off important parts of ourselves. Whether or not we would act on our sexual attractions for men, acknowledging them were important to us.

Our personal herstories contributed to our diverse opinions. For some, coming out was relaxed and easy and relationships with women refreshingly egalitarian. Others found sexual awakening and coming out difficult, and lesbian relationships fraught with many of the same difficulties as straight ones. We also discussed reasons lesbians don't accept bisexual women, such as fear that she'd leave for a man or desire to preserved woman-only space. We questioned the reality of "heterosexual privilege," wondering whether any women could really have it. We discussed the sorrows in our lives, such as family histories of alcoholism, incest or physical abuse, and the joys of our relationships, our work and our lives.

--Stacie, “Lesbian-identified Affinity Group Workshops: Lesbian Sexuality & Politics of Sexuality,” BBWN, Vol. 4, No. 2, April-May 1986

*

[Robyn Ochs]: What is your current sexual identity?

[Betty Aubut]: I call myself a "bisexual lesbian." I will always politically identify as bisexual, which to me means opposing restrictive categories. Some days I feel real separatist, and other days I feel that I want to be involved with men. Being bisexual to me means that I see men and women whom I'm attracted to. A man would have to be very special for me to want to get involved with him but I will fight for bisexual rights whether or not I'm sleeping with men. I see the bisexual community and movement as a very important bridge between gays, lesbian and straights. As long as gays and lesbians are considered completely 'other' from the mainstream, we'll never have any power. I consider myself gay. I think bisexuals are gay and gay liberation is our liberation. I don't consider myself 100% straight and 100% gay; I am 100% gay. That doesn't mean I won't sleep with a man every now and then--some lesbians do that. I never used to identify as lesbian out of respect for women who made the lifelong choice never to sleep with men, but then I realized that was a lot of bullshit. Calling yourself lesbian does not necessarily mean you have made that lifelong decision. Now I mostly identify as a lesbian--so I call myself a bisexual lesbian. I don't sleep with men right now, but I have male friends whom I spend time with and cuddle with. I've even become socially involved with some of the men from the men's network. I'm proud of where I am now because it's been so hard for me. People who have known me for a long time can't believe the change.

--Robyn Ochs, “Bi of the Month: Betty Aubut,” Bi Women Vol. 5, No. 2, April-May, 1987

*

Sharon Sumpter is a bisexual lesbian activist and psychotherapist who works with women survivors of abuse, institutionalization and sexual oppression. Her book-in-progress, In Pieces, is dedicated to opening the closet doors for former "mental patients." "I went into my work to undo the criminal things that were done to me and that I saw done to other women." She thanks Deena Metzger and Asherah for this, her first published work.

--Contributors' Notes, Sinister Wisdom, Issue 36, Winter 1988/89

*

Representatives of lesbian-feminist separatism may feel singled out as special targets of our anger and distress. To the extent that this is true, the seeds of anger lie in lesbian separatism as a politic: In this reading of feminism, specific sex acts take on politicized meaning. These are said to have consequences for the consciousness of the person performing them. Lesbian feminism is arguably the most proscriptive gay or lesbian politic, generating in its adherents the greatest tendency to judge others' (especially sexual) behavior. Gay men, for example, seem more likely to cite personal antipathy or simple stereotypes about bisexuals as a source of their chagrin. A great many bisexual women, particularly those who are feminist and lesbian-identified, have felt both personally and politically rejected and judged by the separatist sisters. Even those with no such experience may feel wary having heard of other bisexual women's stories. No one like to feel attacked, even politically.

----Carol A. Queen, "Strangers at Home: Bisexuals in the queer movement," Out/Look, Vol. 4, Issue 4 (16), Spring 1992

*

Closer to Home successfully deals with these and other problems of self-identification. As most of the writers are "lesbian-identified bisexuals" (one of several labels used for the sake of convenience), the definition of lesbianism is also reevaluated. Is a lesbian a woman who relates emotionally and erotically with women or a woman who does not relate emotionally and erotically with men? Must a woman fit both criteria to be considered a lesbian?

The "Principles and Practice" section expands these main course theories of identity with side dishes of memories and personal feelings--feelings of not being queer enough; of breaking all the rules, even the gay rules; of being dissatisfied with the waste of energy from political infighting. It's odd for lesbian-identified bi's to find themselves viewed as politically incorrect. It's maddening to have one's past feminist work invalidated by the inclusion of a man (or men) in one's life. It's frustrating to find oneself faced with a choice of being honest or potentially losing support of women's groups. It's confusing to work for the freedom to come out of one closet only to be asked to stay in another. As Rebecca Shuster write:

"If we choose a lesbian identity, we are subject to systematic oppression and internalize that oppression in a package that includes marginality; invisibility; isolation...; and countercultural rules about how to relate to women and men. If we choose a bisexual identity, we are subject to systematic oppression and internalize that oppression in a package deal that include a feeling of not belonging or having a home; defensiveness; isolation...; and countercultural rules about how to relate to women and men. Precisely because bisexuality represents freedom of choice, society ensures that the identity comes with its own package of mistreatment and constraints."

----Beth Herrick, "Bisexual Women Pushing the Limits," Sojourner, Vol. 18, Issue 10, June 1993

*

The first step is to move toward building alliances within our bisexual communities. Many communities are united by a commonality of the oppression. This is not so in our community, partly because of the different ways people identify as bisexual: gay-identified, queer-identified, lesbian-identified, or heterosexual-identified. Some people are bisexual in an affectional manner only; some are bisexual both affectionally and sexually; and some are bisexual only sexually. Since there are so many ways to express our bisexuality, the first step toward alliance-building is to work internally to accept all members of our own community. It is imperative that we build alliances across our own differences; otherwise, alliance-building will fail. Acceptance of the diversity of bisexual labels within our community will allow us to pursue alliance-building with decisive strength in the heterosexual community and what many of us consider our own lesbian/gay community.[3]

--Brenda Blasingame, "Power and Privilege Beyond the Invisible Fence, in  Bisexual Politics: Theories, Queries, and Visions, 1995

*

Personally, I am unable to separate out the various ways that I am oppressed (as a woman, as an African American, as a bisexual lesbian, as an impoverished single mother) and say that one oppression is worse than the other, or that I desire one form of liberation more than another. I do not want to experience threats to my life, my child custody, or my job security because of racism or homophobia. I don't want to be oppressed for any reason!!!

--Dajenya, "Which Part of Me Deserves to Be Free?," in Bisexual Politics: Theories, Queries, & Visions, ed. Naomi Tucker, 1995

*

A good deal of criticism has been written about heterosexuals who are surprised when they find out the true sexual orientation of someone who they didn't think "looked gay." These criticism assert what is of course true--that there is no such thing as a gay or lesbian "look," since of course, everyone who is gay, lesbian or bisexual, looks that way.

Unfortunately, many of my experiences as a lesbian-identified bisexual woman have said to me that having an appearance or demeanor that diverges from the expected means I will not be accepted as truly belonging in the lesbian community. Despite my attendance at gay pride parade, dollars spent at gay resorts and in support of gay causes, and numerous attempts to participate in gay and/or lesbian groups and volunteer events, I have often felt unaccepted by this community.

--Amy Wyeth, "Don't Assume Anything," Bi Women Vol. 13, No. 4, Aug/Sept 1995

*

Joan Tollifson relays her struggle to make sense of her life and her spiritual awakening in Bare-Bones Meditation. Born with only one hand, she grew up feeling different, found identity and purpose as a bisexual lesbian and a disability rights activist, but struggled with drug and alcohol addiction. She first embraced Zen Buddhism then a very bare-bones form of spirituality that has no form. This exuberant and amazing testament is for the many people who don't fit into the conventional molds of existing religious traditions.

--"And on Publisher's Row," complied by Jenn Tust, Feminist Bookstore News, Vol. 19, Issue 4, Nov-Dec 1996

[meret118]

Eleanor and Hick - THE LOVE AFFAIR THAT SHAPED A FIRST LADY By Susan Quinn

A warm, intimate account of the love between Eleanor Roosevelt and reporter Lorena Hickok—a relationship that, over more than three decades, transformed both women’s lives and empowered them to play significant roles in one of the most tumultuous periods in American history.

In 1932, as her husband assumed the presidency, Eleanor Roosevelt entered the claustrophobic, duty-bound existence of the First Lady with dread. By that time, she had put her deep disappointment in her marriage behind her and developed an independent life—now threatened by the public role she would be forced to play. A lifeline came to her in the form of a feisty campaign reporter for the Associated Press: Lorena Hickok. Over the next thirty years, until Eleanor’s death, the two women carried on an extraordinary relationship: They were, at different points, lovers, confidantes, professional advisors, and caring friends.

They couldn’t have been more different. Eleanor had been raised in one of the nation’s most powerful political families and was introduced to society as a debutante before marrying her distant cousin, Franklin. Hick, as she was known, had grown up poor in rural South Dakota and worked as a servant girl after she escaped an abusive home, eventually becoming one of the most respected reporters at the AP. Her admiration drew the buttoned-up Eleanor out of her shell, and the two quickly fell in love. For the next thirteen years, Hick had her own room at the White House, next door to the First Lady.

These fiercely compassionate women inspired each other to right the wrongs of the turbulent era in which they lived. During the Depression, Hick reported from the nation’s poorest areas for the WPA, and Eleanor used these reports to lobby her husband for New Deal programs. Hick encouraged Eleanor to turn their frequent letters into her popular and long-lasting syndicated column “My Day,” and to befriend the female journalists who became her champions. When Eleanor’s tenure as First Lady ended with FDR’s death, Hick pushed her to continue to use her popularity for good—advice Eleanor took by leading the UN’s postwar Human Rights Commission. At every turn, the bond these women shared was grounded in their determination to better their troubled world.

Deeply researched and told with great warmth, Eleanor and Hick is a vivid portrait of love and a revealing look at how an unlikely romance influenced some of the most consequential years in American history.

[laurelsofhighever]

Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again. 

--

CW: mild gore

The light burned low in Alistair’s room, wobbling as the hearthflames sifted moodily through the dying embers for fuel, outcompeted by the gleam of Sevuna through the large windows that overlooked the formal gardens of the Winter Palace. If he had cared to, he could have spoken the command to wake the lyrium glowstones dotted around the room, but he preferred the silence. In the brooding dark, he could look out at the frozen splendour of the grounds, with its hibernating fountains and spears of topiary, and his thoughts could chase themselves in circles at their leisure.

How could the world have tilted so far sideways in such a small span of hours? If he turned inwards deeply enough, a molten core still burned with the anger of being lied to, but the surrounding fire had been doused almost the moment Rosslyn had stepped back into the ballroom, vanishing as the realisation of his own stupidity came crashing down around him. He had lost her. Again. That she was alive, and somewhere within the labyrinthine decadence of Halamshiral, tormented him as much as it made him breathless with joy.

She was alive. But she was also out of his grasp, with no one to blame but himself. His hands flexed against the window frame as his memory spat back the things he had said to her, accusations and disbelief and the promise that he could never hate her turned around not a moment later to be flung in her face.

You aren’t who I thought you were.

And yet, how could he doubt her identity when she had taken the blow with such grace, and pinned him with the steel in her eyes as she left him to the frost. Fear had gripped him then, more tightly than the idea that she had spent two years laughing at his grief; he watched her retreating back with her gaze a haunt of tacit pain, and only the jolt from his reawakened sense of politics had kept him from going after her.

Someone had to be coercing her, and in order to sneak her into the Orlesian court under a false name, whoever it was had to be powerful. Revealing her might only put her in more danger, even without the less than favourable reaction that could be expected from Celene. Not since his soldiers, digging through the ruins of Ostagar, had presented him the battered remains of the falcon helm had he felt such a bottomless drop to his stomach, such a bleed of strength from his legs. When he had staggered back from the terrace his shock had excused him from the rest of the party, but such an early night had so far only given him a better opportunity to berate himself. He doubted sleep would come for him before morning.

A chill whispered through the thin fabric of his sleep clothes, drawing him from his reverie. Confused, he glanced to the fireplace, where the flames burned low but undisturbed, and then to the rest of the dark room. From the corner of his eye, he spotted a slight billow in one of the curtains, from a draught through a window he was sure had been locked.

One of the shadows moved.

Before he could cry out, the assassin flashed out a hand, and a glitter of sharp powder caught in his lungs, stinging his eyes and choking his breath so that instead of a shout, only a dry rasp emerged from his throat. On instinct, he snatched up the closest curtain to foil the glint of the blade lunging for his stomach and flung it out as far as he could, already thinking about the dagger he kept within easy reach on the bedside table. The tearing fabric behind him told him he had little chance to reach it. His limbs wouldn’t move as they should. He had to hurl himself across the bed, with a whirl of dark velvet in the air above, throwing pillows and anything else his hands could scrabble at for distraction, before his fingers finally closed on the dagger’s hilt and swept it up in an arc that drew sparks from the assassin’s descending blade.

He tried to shout again as he kicked out and rolled away, savouring the muffled grunt he got for the effort, but only until he managed to right himself. His strength was slipping, adrenaline giving way as the effects of the powder worked into his blood. Desperate, he staggered behind one of the many overstuffed chairs that littered the room, knowing it would do little good. The smirking porcelain mask, floating like a phantom above the assassin’s dark clothing, had blocked the path to the door.

Waiting for the drug to take its full effect.

Then something else moved in the darkness. In the heartbeat it took for the assassin to follow the flick of Alistair’s gaze, a second figure leapt out from behind the bed to collide bodily with the first. The momentum of the blow threw the assassin into the nightstand hard enough to send the water jug shattering to the floor, but not enough to knock them down. As Alistair watched, the white porcelain flashed, turned, lunged forwards – and stopped, impaled on the stranger’s blade.

Even with a blank, black mask disguising her features, Rosslyn could not be mistaken. She straightened as her opponent convulsed in one last gurgle and slid off the end of her sword, impassive but taut as a drawn bowstring, radiating a cold fury that froze Alistair worse than the draught blowing in from the window. He swallowed. If he could just get to her, reach out –

“Your Majesty!”

He turned too quickly at the crash of the door and had to catch himself on the chair to avoid collapsing completely. In the confusion as his guards poured into the room, weapons drawn, he lost sight of Rosslyn, with only a current of air at his back to follow her passing.

“Your Majesty, are you alright?”

He tore his gaze away, from how she pressed herself into the side of the chimney and the frantic, pleading shake of her head as their eyes met. “Uh…”

“What happened?” Morrence demanded. She had already sheathed her sword and was kneeling to examine the corpse.

“I –” Even that small attempt at speech left him coughing. His eyes watered as he tapped his throat and managed to rasp out the word assassin. “Caught me by surprise. Got lucky.”

“Hm.” His guard-commander drew a dagger from her belt and used the tip to lift the porcelain mask away from the assassin’s face. The slender features and scraggy attempt at a moustache hardly made Alistair feel better, but before he could dwell too deeply on the age difference between him and his would-be killer, he caught Morrence peering at the blood trail leading away from the body.

He shifted his weight to block her line of sight.

“Looks like he got in through the window,” one of the other guards called from across the room.

“I want someone out there now to see where he came from,” Morrence ordered. “And alert the palace guard that there’s been an attempt on His Majesty’s life. It could be whoever’s responsible wants to try for the empress as well.”

Both the look on her face and the sullen note in her voice conveyed her suspicion about Celene’s role in the whole affair, the hope – on the slim chance she wasn’t behind the attack – that the assassins creeping into the empress’ chamber were having more luck. Even more than Alistair, she had found Orlais unwelcoming. Dismissed as both a Fereldan and as someone with obvious elven ancestry, her temper had been hanging on rather a fine string ever since crossing the border.

“Either way, it sounds like all the excitement is over for me,” Alistair huffed, flashing a brittle smile at the improving quality of his voice. “What a shame, I do so love being the centre of attention.”

“Your Majesty, this man was killed with a sword.”

He quelled the urge to glance behind him. “Was he? It all happened so fast – are you sure?”

“And yet there’s no sword in this room,” she pressed, rising from her crouch. “I still have yours right here.”

“What are you suggesting, Guard-Commander?”

Her eyes narrowed at the uncommon use of her title. “It would be a good idea to make a thorough search of these rooms in case of accomplices.”

“What? No, I don’t –” He coughed, fixed his gaze on a mountain in one of the tapestries so he wouldn’t give Rosslyn away – “That won’t be necessary, surely? Can’t you just take the body, maybe put a towel over the bloodstain?”

“Your Majesty –”

Sensing defeat, he sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. “Look, it’s been a long day of disappointments, and someone just tried to kill me, if you didn’t notice. I really think if there’d been an accomplice they would have jumped out of the wardrobe while I was occupied.”

“You take your safety too lightly,” she protested. “At least let us get you checked over by a healer.”

“A good night’s sleep, that’s what I need.” He tried to smile again, to hide the lurch in his stomach at the idea that Rosslyn might disappear again if he gave her the opportunity.

“But –”

He held one arm out, the other firmly supported on the back of the chair. “Look at me, I’m not even injured. And whatever got thrown in my face, it’s wearing off. If you don’t take that body away right now and leave me to rest, you can be the one to tell Élodie why I spent half the night being prodded at by Wynne instead of getting my beauty sleep.”

For a long moment, he worried she would insist anyway, but at last she turned with her fingers tight around the hilt of her own sword, and he knew this particular battle was won.

“Fine,” she bit out, and nudged the assassin’s body with her boot. “With your permission, I’ll have Leliana take a closer look at this for any clues about just who might have wanted to kill you.”

“Good idea.”

“One of us has to have sense.” She sighed. “Allers, get over here and help me, would you?”

The guard still standing by the door saluted and stepped forward to take the assassin’s legs, while Morrence hefted him up beneath the shoulders. Shuffling and cursing, they hauled the body through to the next room, while Alistair kept up his smile and eased around the chair to block their view as much as he could, despite the pins-and-needles starting to shoot up his legs as the drug wore off. When the door finally clicked shut, he allowed himself to sag and turned, only to find Rosslyn leaning against the chimney, head bowed forward, a picture of exhaustion that pulled at something unpleasant deep within his chest.

“Rosslyn –”

“Thank you,” she interrupted. “For not revealing me.”

“Thank you for saving my life,” he replied, but the smile died on his lips. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if his legs were strong enough yet to cross the distance between them, or if she would even want him to. “That poison powder has a kick.”

“I remember.”

So did he. The night after they met in the mountains on his return from Orzammar, the first time he truly feared for her life, when had had so much left to tell her.

“It should wear off soon,” she said, pushing off the wall, her eyes still on the floor. “With no permanent damage.” She paused. “He would have killed you.”

“Then I guess it’s lucky you were here.”

No response. She half-turned to him as if to reply, but not far enough to meet his gaze. Instead, her eyes caught on her hands, as if she hadn’t yet noticed the assassin’s blood coating both them and the length of her sword. There lay the last piece of evidence carving away the doubt that it really was her; Talon’s blue-gold colour shone through the gore as it cut the light, the runestone in the pommel winking with power.

“There’ll be a guard outside the window soon,” she started. “I should –”

He staggered towards her. “Don’t. Please don’t go. What I said before – I couldn’t bear to lose you again.”

“What if I’m not who you think I am?” she replied, every word laced with sudden venom. For the first time, she looked at him, not bothering to hide the hurt within the depths of her glare.

“How could I mistake you?” he asked her, or himself. “How could I not recognise the woman who –” His throat wouldn’t work, though his mind screamed what he wanted to say. “I haven’t been able to stop wondering if it was a dream, if I really could be that much of a fool, but I was. I am. You could have let me walk away and I would have deserved it, but you didn’t, and I…” His laugh tasted bitter, and his eyes stung as he dared to edge the distance between them. “It’s crazy, right? Two years of wanting to see you again and the moment all my wishes came true I drove you away. I am so sorry, just – please, don’t go.”

Shrinking away again, she turned her eye to the tapestries, to the fire, to the blood on her hands that gleamed black in the low light, until the silence had stretched for so long it left a ringing in his ears and made his mouth dry, but he didn’t dare move. Finally, she wrapped her arms around her upper body with Talon held carefully to avoid its edge, steadying herself with a breath.

“I didn’t exactly make it difficult for you.”

Hope flared. As before, he approached her with halting steps as if she were an apparition likely to disappear, only this time he reached out to her in full knowledge that she wasn’t, that this encounter really wasn’t some Fade trick or conjuration. Her hands still held the cold of the Harvestmere night, the blood tacky against his skin, but she returned his grip with fingers that bore the callouses he remembered, the ones born from her dedication to her training, and when he breathed her name again she met his eyes with that fathomless winter grey he could spend hours studying without boredom.

“Come here,” he offered gently. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She followed him through to the suite’s tiled salle de lavage without complaint and watched him turn the taps. “I can manage.”

“Of course.” He tried to smile. “I didn’t mean to… well. You’ll need a new shirt, though, since that one’s got blood on it. I’ve got – I mean, do you want to borrow one?”

She froze with her hands running a cloth under a cool stream of water. Silence pooled like marsh fog between them, where the memories ran thick; once upon a time, his shirts had been her nightly attire, borrowed, and then naturalised to their new owner until her scent clung to the cloth even after he managed to steal them back, until it was the only thing he had had left of her. He shoved a hand backwards through his hair and coughed away the unpleasant rise at the back of his throat, made worse by the aftereffects of the powder.

“You don’t have to if you’d rather keep that one – it is quite nice, now that I’m looking – not that I’m looking – but it’s really the least I can do after the whole saving-my-life thing.”

“I’ll take the offer,” she told him with perhaps a shade of her familiar wry amusement. “Thank you.”

“Great! I’ll, uh… leave you to it, then.”

When she emerged from the washroom a little while later, he had stoked the fire and lit the glowstones, and found a spare blanket to soak up the bloodstain on the floor. He startled from his rummage through his drawers for a shirt to find her still rubbing at imaginary specks of blood in Talon’s hilt, the intense concentration in what he could see of her face throwing him back to old nights on campaign, when they would sit knee to knee, cleaning their equipment as an excuse to spend time in each other’s company.

“What’s so amusing?” she asked when she caught his expression, finally satisfied enough to sheathe the sword and throw the cloth onto the corner of the bedside table.

He turned away to hide the flush of heat up his neck. “Nothing, I just recognise that look on your face.”

“I don’t have a look on my face.” But she touched her fingers to the mask nonetheless, as if to check it was still there.

“If you say so,” he answered, grinning, and held out his least wrinkled shirt. “Here, this one shouldn’t smell too bad.”

The corner of her mouth ticked upward as she took the garment from him, but it faded into uncertainty when she glanced between it and the tunic she already wore. With an apologetic look over her shoulder she turned away, hiding herself from him as she started on the fastenings that kept the mask over her face. He tried not to let the action sting. Two years before, he might have helped her change – or hindered her, if they had time – and more than anything else so far this evening, the idea that she might not be comfortable in his presence cut deep, reminded him just how far the gulf between them had grown. He ought to respect her privacy, and tried to, but as she drew the tunic over her head the swish of the fabric caught his eye, and the sight of her held it.

Her scars were the same. The white starbust on her left shoulder from the crossbow bolt he had pulled out with his own hands on the night they first stumbled into each other; the small leaf-shaped depression below her ribs where Loghain’s sword had pierced her back. He knew them, by sight and touch and tongue, but the canvas upon which they were painted now sent a lance through his chest. What had she suffered to become so thin? How did she still endure, when he could count her ribs and see every strand of wasted muscle working beneath her skin? He had added to that pain. His gut churned with the guilt of it.

Before he was aware of moving, he had crossed the space and wrapped his arms around her waist almost before the new shirt had settled, burying his face into her neck and hating how she tensed.

“Alistair…”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her shoulder, hoping she wouldn’t pull away. “I’m sorry for everything. Everything you’ve been through. Everything I couldn’t protect you from.”

She drew in a breath and let it go, laid her fingers over his. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“The things I said tonight were,” he insisted. “You deserved better. All those vile things – it was unforgivable.”

“And yet you appear to be asking forgiveness.”

She broke his embrace, just enough to turn in his arms, and this time as she looked up at him, without darkness or resined paper to hide her features, he forgot to breathe. The familiar, teasing curl of her mouth drew him in, but he stopped, and brushed a hand along her cheek instead. How many times had he wished for just one more look, bargained his entire kingdom to the dark for one more moment to admire the straight line of her nose, her high cheeks, the way her fine lashes fanned against her skin and perfectly framed her eyes?

“Alistair?” she prompted.

“What?”

“You were staring.”

“Oh! Well…” He resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck. “The clockwork’s a little rusty – you know how it is. I forget to wind it up. Ah.” He swallowed, dared to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “I don’t suppose you’ll forgive me for that, too? I remember you being very forgiving.”

She chuckled. “Do you?”

“Very clearly. You’re the most merciful person in Thedas.”  

For an instant, he watched a retort dance on the tip of her tongue, but she held it back and dropped her gaze to the middle of his chest, and he started forward to ask what he’d done wrong.

“You left me,” she said, before he could open his mouth. “On the morning of the battle I woke up and you weren’t there. Why?”

He flinched away from the quiet, even tone of her voice, as if she had shouted instead. There was no answer he could give beyond an admission of cowardice, nothing that would excuse it.

“I have regretted that every day,” he told her. “I couldn’t face that being the last time I would see you, I was terrified I’d change my mind. I wondered, after, if that was why…”

“You think I went and faced the Nightmare out of spite?” she checked.

“No! I mean… Sometimes. In the beginning, I was so angry, but you would never stand by while you could help. I should have known better than to try and make you.” His memories from those early weeks without her existed in a haze of vitriolic self-destruction, recalled only as flashes where he cast blame at anyone who dared come near him, until even Cuno was banished to the kennels after pacing one too many times from room to room, searching for the mistress who had not come home. He had begged the mages to help him, to offer him some hope that she lived, and now before him stood the proof that he should have tried harder.

Cool fingers laced tentatively with his. “I should have let Morrence lead the cavalry.��

“You saved us all,” he insisted, but sighed and looked away, because the wound still throbbed. “And you deserved more from me.”

“I promised you I would stay behind.”

“Shhhh…” Weary to his bones, he pressed a kiss against her forehead. “It’s alright. You’re here. And I should have known that not even death could ever stop you. It probably took one look at that glare of yours and decided to turn tail.”

The comment earned a brief, wet chuckle as he pulled her close, and left in its wake a more comfortable silence than those that had gone before, a relief and a comfort, taming the shadowy beast that since Ostagar had clawed its way through his mind and body both. That Rosslyn now clung to him too opened a new, bright kind of pain beneath his ribs, clean and healing where before his wounds had festered. He never wanted to let her go.

“I did everything I could to get back to you,” she said after a long moment. “I’m sorry I couldn’t reach you sooner.”

“It’s alright,” he whispered, with another kiss to her forehead as if reassuring nothing more than a bad dream. “It’s alright.”

He trailed the declaration down the side of her face, his lips brushing over the lid of an eye, her cheek, the very corner of her mouth, while her hands curled slowly into his waist and the back of his neck. At the last, she turned her head and his mouth found hers of its own accord, instinct more than effort that sent sparks to the tips of his still-numb fingers.

“Say you’ll stay with me,” he breathed, not daring to pull away. “Don’t go.”

“I won’t,” she promised, and leaned forward again.

“Wait, does that mean you won’t stay or you won’t go?”

The sound of her laugh made him giddy as she pushed into him, rising onto her toes so the arms around his neck could pull him into a deeper kiss. Any caution urged by the overwhelming shadows still ranged against them fell to the press of her body against his, the beat of her pulse under his thumb and the whimper that slipped her throat as his hands wandered.

And yet even here in such a perfect moment, responsibility nagged at him. The gaudy porcelain clockwork on the mantelpiece chimed the early hour and drew them apart, flushed and breathing heavily and still joined by the gentle brush of fingers over each other’s skin. He had meetings to attend in the morning, and Élodie’s wrath to face if he spent them trying to hide yawns behind his hand.

“We should go to bed,” he murmured, with a rush of longing and doubt so strong his head spun. “To sleep! Not for anything nefarious. I mean –”

Breaking into a smile, she stopped him with a swift kiss. “You’ve never been nefarious in your life.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You should know… I don’t sleep much these days,” she admitted. “Not since I came back.”

He stroked his thumb over her cheek, at a loss for how to comfort her. He didn’t want to pry.

“Don’t worry about it. Perhaps this is what I’ve been missing.”

“You say the nicest things,” he replied, to cover, and brought the back of her hand to his lips.

In the few paces to the ridiculously ornate canopy bed, his heart thundered, stalling his breath with memories of the nights he had spent wrapped up with Rosslyn nestled against him, and after, even more nights when the place at his side lay cold and empty. He bit down on the urge to tell her sleep would likely elude him too, for fear of waking to that nightmare again, even as his heart ached with the stilted atmosphere between them, the experiences that had pushed them apart. His body responded to hers in a way it hadn’t for longer than he cared to think, automatically and carelessly, but reaching for her now felt like reaching across a tidal strait too deep to swim, close enough to hear her voice and see her waiting on the far shore but unable to cross the gap. But he would not push. The day he had spent with her in the meadow high in the Frostbacks loomed in his mind, when she had told him of her lacking desire and the fear that to others it would not matter, and the promise he had made to never be that person to her which still held true.

It didn’t mean he had to be tired of kissing her. They had two years to make up. Every line of muscle yearned towards her as he turned and found her still behind him, not an apparition, her hand warm in his and her breath soft and sweet across his face. He felt her smile as he leaned down to her, and then the jolt in his blood when the tip of her tongue darted out over his bottom lip.

“Does that convince you I’m really here?” she teased.

He bumped his nose against hers. “Just about.”

Humming her satisfaction at the response, she left him to sit on the edge of the bed, smirking as she lifted one leg across the other. “What, you don’t expect me to go to bed in boots, do you?” she asked when she noticed his frown. “I’ll get mud all over the sheets.”

“As much as I’d love to explain that one to the servants…” He shrugged as he knelt and waved her hands away from the buckles. “Let me do that.”

“I’m perfectly capable –”

“I want to see if you’re wearing embarrassing socks.”

The brief chuckle earned by the remark drew his eyes upwards. Rosslyn watched him, her head tilted in a wistfulness that reached down through her fingers as she twined them into his hair.

“You’re staring again,” she noted.

He turned to kiss the inside of her wrist. “Must be the view.”

“Hm. Get back to it, Your Majesty.”

Smirking, he did as he was told and set to the straps, content to go slowly, working his way down her calf. The boot slipped off her foot with a minor tug, accompanied by a sigh from above. She had lain back to gaze at the canopy of the bed while he worked, entirely at ease, and the normality of the whole scene eased a sigh between his lips.

“I’m disappointed in these socks,” he informed her as he started on the second boot.

An answering hum of laughter. “I will endeavour to do better next time.”

“Good.” He stayed on the floor a moment longer, kneading his thumb along the lines of hard muscle between ankle and knee until she relaxed under his touch. When he finally moved to join her on the bed, her head lay propped on one arm, her eyes warm as he settled at her side and laced his fingers into her free hand.

“Is that better?” he asked.

“Mostly.”

“Oh?” He quirked a brow. “And what would make it all better?”

The corner of her mouth tugged into a smile as she untucked her arm from behind her head and rose onto one elbow, closer to him, and his eyes fluttered shut with the gentle fingertips she traced along his jaw.

“Just this,” she murmured, and tilted forward to kiss him, long and sweet.

When she finally pulled away, the lack of her froze his skin as if he had turned from a campfire on a cold night. He followed after her, pressing his forehead to hers and curling his hand around the precious shell of her ear. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too.” She paused. “This beard, however…”

He jerked his head back, one hand already flying to his chin. “What’s wrong with my extremely manly beard?” he demanded.

Laughing, she scooted around him so her legs no longer dangled off the edge of the mattress and did not answer, preoccupied instead with unbuckling Talon from her waist. He noticed she laid it still within easy reach as she peeled back the covers, but he pushed down the twist of pain caused by the implication in favour of a more pressing matter. He followed her up the bed.

“Teagan says it makes me look distinguished, you know.”

“Teagan’s never had to kiss you with it,” she retorted. “Or at least I hope not.”

He frowned as he settled next to her under the covers, on his side with his chest tight and heart dancing for her closeness. Their legs tangled together. As his hand found its old place on her hip, it awoke every forgotten habit his mind had sealed away, like a limb released from a tourniquet and allowed to move again, and when her arm slipped up to rest in a loose embrace, a sigh painting her lips, he never wanted to move again.

“I haven’t kissed Teagan,” he told her. “I haven’t kissed anyone.”

Damn those grey eyes. The intensity in them could turn a charging horse, or reduce a hardened criminal to gibbered pleading, and Alistair doubted he turned away fast enough to hide the well of loneliness that had eaten away at him for so long – perhaps stoppered now, in her presence, but still aching like the echo in an empty cave. Her touch burned on the side of his face as she sought to comfort him.

“You really don’t like the beard?” he checked, before she could speak.

“You mean these boar bristles?” she asked gently. She stroked her fingers along the edge of his jaw and the unexpected shiver it sent down his back made him want her to do it again. “The overall effect has… a certain charm. Perhaps it’ll grow on me.”

“I certainly hope not! The beard can stay on my face, thank you – but I’ll let you borrow it whenever you like.” He pulled her close, forgetting his earlier caution in her giggle as he held her face and rubbed his stubbled cheeks all over hers as if he were a cat, kissing where his lips brushed skin, until her hands twisted into his hair and they had turned so she was beneath him, wrapped in his embrace with her hair coming loose from its pins across the pillow. She bared her neck to him and he obliged, rediscovering the trail that led along her pulse as her breath turned to gasps and her hands fisted in the collar of his shirt.

But she wasn’t free, not yet. Even as he nipped at her skin and soothed the bite with his tongue, she drew his head up to bring his mouth to hers again, seeking comfort, the frayed ends of their connection severed at Ostagar. He embraced her tighter and at the sound of her name she turned his head and kissed along the exposed length of his neck, the juncture of his shoulder. Eventually they lay wrapped together like tree roots, quiet, lost and found without the need for words.

“Staying here won’t affect your mission, will it?” he asked when he again trusted himself to speak. “You won’t get in trouble?”

Silent, Rosslyn shook her head.

“Tell me about it.” He pulled back. “I want to help, whatever it is.”

“Alistair…”

“I’m serious.”

Defeated, she huffed and pushed him onto his back before tucking herself down against his chest, shuffling until she got comfortable. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” he replied. “Who’s behind it? Not just anyone could keep you on such a tight leash.”

She tensed. “It’s Flemeth.”

“You mean –” The nerves at the ends of his fingers tingled like they had been dipped in hot water after coming in from the snow. “Flemeth Flemeth?”

“She’s the one who pulled me from the Fade. If not for her, I’d still be there.”

The reminder settled like lead in Alistair’s stomach. He curled his arm more snugly about her waist, as if that alone might keep her from being dragged back into the formless world beyond the Veil, to face demons and who knew what else. To turn his mind from the image, he set it the task of wondering what an all-powerful swamp witch might want with the glitter of the Orlesian royal court.

“It’s something to do with Morrigan, isn’t it?”

Rosslyn glanced to him. “You know about her?”

“I met her this evening,” he said. “Very like her mother, though I don’t think I’d dare say that to her face.”

“She has possession of an artefact, an enchanted mirror that acts as a portal to… somewhere, or something. Some ancient elven magic. Flemeth asked me to destroy the mirror before Morrigan can work out how to use it.”

“I wondered why Celene was bothering to keep the templars off her,” he mused. “Ancient magic the world has never seen could be powerful in the wrong hands.”

She hummed her agreement. “And as far as Ferelden is concerned, you can’t get much worse than Orlais.”

“No, you can’t. No wonder you didn’t want to be found out.” Discovering the supposedly dead Queen of Ferelden sneaking about the halls attempting to thwart the schemes of a political adversary would have lit a flame to the waiting pyre of Orlais’ warmongering nobles – could still, if Rosslyn were caught. Celene had made her intentions towards the Fereldan Crown very clear, first by housing Alistair in the Emperor’s apartments under the guise of having nowhere else fit for his entourage, and then by having him attend her and her proxies all evening, her charm a militant campaign of flattery he had no doubt could turn sour the moment she found herself upstaged. And that was without the threat of an ancient weapon held like a knife above the heads of his people.

“I can hear you thinking,” Rosslyn mumbled into his side.

“Not so much of a rare occurrence these days,” he told her. “Kings who are fools don’t tend to last long.”

She pushed herself up onto an elbow and turned to face him properly, palm flat against his chest. “You were never a fool.”

Celene posed a threat. He had no explanation for Rosslyn’s presence, and no way to protect her should the empress discover her purpose in Halamshiral. If she did not succeed, Flemeth might not release her, and Ferelden might suffer an Occupation more ruthless than the last. And yet…

“You do know I’m not letting you go again, right?” he asked though the sting at the corner of his eyes. “You’ll have to stay with me forever, and we’ll have to stay here in this bed because I never want another moment without you.”

Quiet, she leaned forward to stroke his cheek. “There are worse fates.”

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “Glad we sorted that.”

There was a long silence as she curled into his side again, punctuated only by the command for the glowstone to dim. In place of words, their hands found each other in the darkness and chased random patterns from fingertip to wrist in slow arcs, reassuring touches that gave a focus beyond the disinclination for sleep. For Alistair, it was the lingering fear that Rosslyn might vanish as soon as he closed his eyes, the desire to savour having her warm and heavy against him. They had a whole lifetime for sleep, endless days where he wouldn’t wake and have to steel himself to brave the emptiness on the other side of the bed. At least, so he hoped, if she wanted it too.

[drakewalkerfantasy]

The Secret of Downfall (Tatum x F!MC)

Summary: The Secret is the only way for them to be together. But how long will they be able to keep it until Madam President will find out the truth? And how easily it will be for them not forget about the rules in public? Couple of drinks in and the darkness… will it be possible for them to keep a secret? Or will they fall ones again in the arms of each other?

Words: 2216

Rating: T

Warning: fighting / cruelty / violence

Authors notes: I really hope you will enjoy this. Please let me know if still want to be tagged and what I can improve. I hope you will like this chapter, it’s quite short and probably mostly not what I expected it to be at first. I hope you still enjoy reading this series.

Sequel for The art of Foreign Affairs

Previous parts of The Secret of Foreign Affairs.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

The next morning, after getting caught in a compromising situation, Claire entered the common room of the suite only to find her mother and her whole team camped out around the kitchen island.

Nervously Claire looked around the room, throwing a quick glance toward Tatum. Her eyes trying to catch his gaze, but he almost seemed to be going out of his way to not meet hers. His fists clenched by his side and he looked as professional as ever, if not for the way his eyes darkened slightly, that it could be easily missed, but not by her.

“Uh, good morning,” she cautiously said looking around the room, feeling the tension only grew when all eyes fell on her. “Mom? I thought you left.”

“Really? I was forced to come back to clear your mess. Apparently, my daughter failed to notify me that she got caught by paparazzi with her pants down,” she snapped, showing a copy of Voyeur magazine into Claire’s hands with a picture of herself and Tatum on the cover. She could feel how her heart skipped a beat, while she took in the picture. Breathing out in relief only after realising that it wasn’t possible to tell who was on the cover with her.

“Ohmygod...,” gasped Claire, feeling how her face went pale. Thankful that no one could possibly know who she was with, blurting that out loud. “At least you can’t tell who it is with me...”

“THIS... THIS what you can tell in your defense???” fumed her mother, her eyes narrowing with spite when she glared toward Tatum. Her gaze calculating, trying to break through his facade, to read him, but still in vain. And her lips pursed by barely suppressed fury.

“It does provide us some cover...,” intervened one of her mother’s political analysts. “But it’s also causing a feeding frenzy online. Everyone is speculating on who your mystery lover is. I would suggest to give a statement identifying the mystery lover. Once we can show this isn’t Claire being... promiscuous with some random stranger...”

“So... Claire? Who is it?” asked her mother, tapping her stiletto heel against the wooden floor impatiently. “You heard her,” she said nodding her head toward the political analyst from her team. “If you want your name to be cleared and all that mistake left behind, you cannot keep that to yourself. The only way we can fight this thing is if you tell us who it is."

Claire’s eyes snapped up to meet Tatum’s gaze across the room. His expression is as impassive as ever, but the spark of fury in his eyes flaming.

“I will NOT name them,” exclaimed Claire fiercely, crossing her hands over her chest, stubbornly meeting her mother’s glare. “I will not drag them into this. The world doesn’t need to know every single detail about me or my love life.”

“Don’t you think that this is a little bit too late to thing about that? And clearly this person is a bad influence on you. You never acted like that before,” snapped her mother.

“Or maybe I just realised that I own it to myself to live a little,” bit Claire back.

“Claire...,” hissed her mother, lowering her voice so only she would hear her. “I will go through your phone if I have to. Is it clear?”

“Seriously? You have so little respect for my privacy?”

“It’s not that, but your future is in jeopardy now. And I’m worried about you.”

“Let’s at least be honest with each other. All that you care about is you and your campaign.”

Claire’s mother opened her mouth to retort, but Winston cut her off.

“Let’s all calm down and see what we can do to spin the story with information we already have,” said Winston, looking around the room before placing his hand on Claire's mother’s elbow and pulling her to the side. His voice lowered to the whisper so only she would hear. His eyes surveying the room so they wouldn’t be overheard by anyone. “Madam President, we don’t have enough evidence that this mystery lover is your daughter’s bodyguard. Last time we had letters, this time we have only words of some guy from Vancross and the fact Claire was lying. We will make sure that our plan is set in motion as soon as possible, but meantime you need to wait while your team will gather more evidence of who this mystery lover is and twist it so he is the one who sold pictures.” Both eyes fell to Tatum, watching him to put a hand to his earpiece before stepping forward.

“Madam President, the limo is ready for you,” said Tatum. His posture stiff, his voice even and his eyes looking into nowhere.

“Good. Tatum, escort me to the airport. I want to talk to you about a few things. Demarco can oversee Claire’s security this afternoon.”

“Yes, ma’am”

Claire’s stomach twisted, when her eyes passingly met Tatum’s, while he followed her mother out the door. Leaving Claire and Winston alone.

———————————————

Hastily, they walked to the limo, Tatum following only a few paces behind Claire’s mother with her security team walking in front of them. His mind racing, and he couldn't help but have a really bad feeling of where this was all going. The same way as all these years ago.

Just before the limo he looked back to the building, catching a quick glance of Claire, behind the blinds. Even from there he could see the worried expression painted on her face before finally tearing his gaze away, and sliding into the car.

“I know you and Claire were at the club together last night, care to explain?” started Claire’s mother, as soon as they sat in limo.

“I’m the head of her security team, ma’am. And it is my responsibility to follow her everywhere and to make sure she is safe,” said Tatum.

“Yes, but Winston checked and at this time you should have been off duty and Demarco should have been with her, and even more so not to let her wander at night to some underground club.”

“She would sneak out anyway. I overheard her speaking with some of her classmates. Ma’am with all due respect,” he spoke through gritted teeth not even looking at her. “But you know there was no way of stopping her, she would sneak out anyway with me or without and she would never take agent Demarco with her.”

“Fine, but people noticed how cosy you seemed to be... getting tequila shots, and then disappearing... together. Am I wrong?”

“No... but she insisted. She cannot understand why I’m like... like that.”

“Like what?”

“We were friends for more than a decade for almost two decades, and then I just disappeared from her life for 5 years only to suddenly reappear now.”

“Lie to her.”

“I tried, but if you think that your daughter is so naive to believe some white lies you don’t know her at all. She can see straight through me. Always could,” said Tatum with cold blooded calm, finally meeting Claire’s mother’s gaze.

“Then make her believe. I have ears and eyes everywhere, so better do as I ask and don’t you dare lie to me. As, if I will find out you or she are lying, and it seems she became surprisingly good at it, the consequences will be for both. You and her. Is it clear?” said Claire’s mother waiting for Tatum to nod, when the limo stopped. “Good. But I still believe you may need a reminder of what will happen if you will disobey me,” spoke she when the doors suddenly slid open revealing the iron walled warehouse of Vancross’ airport. And she nodded in a silence order for Tatum to get out of the limo.

He looked around after stepping outside of the vehicle, noting the fighting ring in the middle of the floor and five bodyguards waiting already next to it. Claire’s mother walked silently behind him.

Her stiletto heels tapped on the metallic floor, and her next words bounced as a muffled echo from the iron walls of the warehouse, when Tatum stopped. His eyes calmly following Madam President’s movements till she finally sat in a comfortable chair covered by the darkness.

“Fight,” the cold order came from the shadows, while Tatum’s calculated gaze moved from one President’s personal bodyguard to another.

All strong. All coming from the Rutherland’s best fighters club. All ex-soldiers... and all hated him.

He knew that he had no chance for a fair fight. He also knew that willingly or not he still will need to fight them. And he doubted that he had even a slightest chance to remain unscratched, but he still needed to try... for Claire... Always for her.

“Ma’am, wouldn’t it be easier just to kill me?” asked Tatum in a calm voice, throwing only a sideway glance at Claire’s mother, regretting only one thing, that he couldn’t say proper goodbye to Claire, couldn’t kiss her like it would be their last time. Not sure if he ever will have another chance to kiss her again.

“You may get your wish... later. After I will get more proof that you are her mystery lover. For now it’s just a warning to keep your distance from my daughter. No more disappearing together... no more smiles... no more eye contact. You may think you are subtle, but she isn’t. So you will fight them, and you,” she looked at her bodyguards with a cold unmoving gaze. “Make sure that every blow you will send his way will be excruciatingly painful but not visible. He is still a head of my daughter’s security team, and I don’t need unnecessary questions. Not from her, not anyone. I want him to remember this last lesson, and my last warning... but still be alive, at least for now. Now fight,” she barked, nodding to two others bodyguards to get Tatum and throw him onto the ring, taking him by surprise.

He landed on his hands and knees with a thud, groaning from the impact, when the first blow went straight to his guts, but his reaction was faster. He blocked it with a side of his shoulder. The force of the block sending the attacker to the floor before getting back to his feet and looking around.

His eyes darkened with rage, but it was the only thing that gave him away. With his peripheral vision he could see another blow coming his way, blocking it faster than it could reach its destination, but almost missing the swing from behind. The one that he managed to dodge at the last second, only to be met with a sharp blinding pain from someone hitting him straight in the stomach with the heavy military boot.

The pain made him sway, but he stubbornly held his balance gritting his teeth. No way he will let them beat him so easily... the thought is fleeting, but strong enough to almost physically heighten his senses, making him dodge the next strike easily. Overcoming the pain and finally sending his own hand to connect with one of the bodyguards’ jaws. Feeling how the skin on his knuckles split from the impact.

His breath elevated and ragged. And he could see how the rage started to rise in the attackers, when the blows began to pour one after the other from all directions, making them much difficult to dodge or block, and more often to miss. But he was still trying, desperately.

Tired. Angry. Bleeding. He was still bravely fighting. Gritting his teeth, ducking the punch after the punch, before landing a couple of his own. Watching how the five fighters getting tired... exhausted, but still unable to send him to the ground and make him stay there as every time he fell he was stubbornly rising back to his feet. As he was fighting for her... she was the only thing that kept him going... Claire... his Claire. The same thing, that he was so cruelly beaten for loving.

And after a while it started to seem that even five of them would be not able to break him. His eyes meeting Madam President’s gaze, distracting him only for a split second to miss the attacker behind him. He could feel a pair of hands gripping him from behind. Felt how the others started to punch and kick him from all sides taking the opportunity as a sign, while two held him still. And he could feel how with the next blow in his groin followed by another one in his stomach the wind was knocked out of him, and he fell to the cement floor with a gust of pain. His ribs aching, and he could barely breath feeling the sharp pain shooting through him with each gulp for air. His eyes closing, but he still could feel the pain, wishing for the darkness to follow, when he heard the quiet voice whispering right into his ear:

“Now clean that mess, and make sure tomorrow you will be good enough to accompany Claire to her date... with Blaine.” The cruel last words like a sharp blade sliced through him before the merciful darkness finally swallowed him.

Tagging: @choices-bound​​​ @jamespotterthefirst​​​ @mercury84choices​​​ @k2624​​​ @thefrenchiemama​​​ @choicesreal​​​ @starrystarrytrouble​​​ @boneandfur​​​ @walkerswhiskeygirl​​​ @sophxwithers​​​ @ramseysrookiex​​

[broughttoyoubytheletterf]

Telling the Family (ficlet)

At one time I was going to write an entire series of how different people react to finding out Elizabeth is running for President but this is the only one I ever finished. I’m cleaning out old files, so here have it. 

“You have to talk to your family you know.”

“Hmmm?” Henry continues to keep his eyes on the book in front of him.

Elizabeth plops down on the other side of the bed, disturbing Henry and causing him to give her an annoyed look. “I’m just saying, you should have a conversation with them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The campaign,” she responds simply. She settles into bed, pulling the covers up to her waist and grabbing a policy book from the floor.

He stares at her, agape, “Really? You’re just going to throw that out there and leave it to me? Isn’t it a little early to tell them anyway?”

She avoids his gaze and flips open the binder. “Give them some time to process everything, you know Maureen will have thoughts she needs to share. Plus, it’s going to be an invasion of their privacy as well.”

He huffs. “Well shouldn’t you be there when we talk to them then?”

“No.”

When she doesn’t elaborate further, he tugs her reading material out of her hands. “You’re telling me that you’re ready to face the scrutiny of the entire country but you won’t come with me to talk my family.”

“Yes,” she says blithely. She looks thoughtful, “What do you think the chances are that Maureen votes for me?”

He laughs. “Eh, I’d say about 75%, she’s mellowed out a bit since Dad died. So there you go, another reason to come with me, get some experience stumping for votes with intransigent constituents.”

Mulishly she says, “I don’t wanna.”

“Petulant isn’t a good look on you Elizabeth.”

She side-eyes him. “I’m not being petulant, I’m being realistic, I think the chances are better that she votes for me if I’m not there. Also, you’re lying, you like all my looks.” She laughs and straddles his lap.

He grips her waist and smiles. “You’re right.” He leans forward and blows a raspberry on her neck. “But you are coming with me.”

Two weeks later she is sitting on a couch next to Henry at Maureen’s house. She is bouncing Maria on her knees and the four-year old is squealing in delight. She still doesn’t know how Henry conned her into coming and got it to actually happen. She’s dealing with no less than three separate international incidents that could spiral into crises at any moment, but Henry hadn’t let her use that as an excuse. She’s dragged half the State department with her it feels like, Jay is in DC holding down the fort but she has Blake, Kat, Nina, and Daisy in the motorcade out front and Matt is down the street at a coffee shop feverishly writing a speech.

Henry is tapping his feet next to her. He had been uncharacteristically quiet on the drive here, though that could have been because she spent most of the time on the phone, doing her best to restrain herself from yelling at her entire Bureau of East Asian Affairs. She’s not usually a yeller, so maybe Henry is not the only one nervous about this conversation.

Maureen comes back into the room, balancing a tray of glasses. “I have coffee for everyone, but I’m afraid I only have regular creamer, none of that flavored stuff.” She looks pointedly at Elizabeth as she sets her load down. Elizabeth barely keeps herself from rolling her eyes, she asked for vanilla creamer once, a decade ago, and Maureen still likes to act like it was the height of privilege. The child on her lap is getting restless, so she puts her down and she runs off to play.

After everyone is settled into their seats with their drinks of choice, Maureen breaks the now heavy silence. “So is there a particular reason you gathered us all here? Is one of you dying or do you just like to see your subjects scurry?”

Elizabeth lets out a breath, clearly Maureen is feeling particularly intractable, which does not bode well for this discussion, but she also knows that the other woman mostly gets that way when she’s scared. She responds quickly, “Both of us are fine, as are the kids, they send their love by the way.” It’s almost imperceptible, but Maureen relaxes. “The reason you wanted to talk to everyone, all at once, is because…” she rehearsed twelve different was to say this but she still feels unprepared. Henry reaches over and squeezes her hand.

As if saved by the bell she hears the front door open, and when she looks over Kat and Blake are standing there, wringing their hands. She looks at them expectantly. Kat grimaces, “Apologies all for interrupting,” she focuses her attention on Elizabeth, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but we just heard back from Chen’s office, he says they’re moving forward with their plans, immediately, they’ve already started..”

Elizabeth interrupts, her face turns murderous, “Get me Chen on SVTC now.” She might yell that last word. She stands up, “I swear, China is going to be begging us to sell Taiwan drones by the time I lay out the alternatives, which reminds me, Blake let Russell know I am 100% behind repositioning the fifth fleet, maybe some military posturing is just what we need, remind them that we have our own array of antiship missiles and that they do not want to get into a damn shooting war with us. Especially over some fucking drones.” She stalks over to the doorway. Kat looks taken aback, Elizabeth rarely curses at work, or ever. She doesn’t even want to look back and see what Henry’s family looks like.

She purposefully softens her tone, though she feels like preventing World War III, for the fifth time this year, merits some coarse language. She gestures towards Blake who is already on the phone, “Tell Russell I think Conrad should call Li. Ask if he wants me on the call.” Blake nods. “And I swear if this is the Assistant Secretary’s fault again, I’m firing her, I don’t care whose niece she is.” She slams the front door behind her.

Henry stares at the closed door for a moment, and sends up a quick prayer for peace, both for the world and in his family. He turns back towards his family, who look a little aghast. He’s not surprised, Elizabeth has done her best to not talk about work around them, and she definitely never lets her temper show like that. He smiles in what he hopes is a disarming way. “So, that might take a bit, so why don’t we talk about something else? Shane, how’s the new job going?”

Shane starts to respond, but Maureen stops him, “I’m not going to wait around while Elizabeth is off starting wars, so just tell us whatever it is you wanted to tell us Henry and then you can both gallivant back to DC.” Maureen’s husband squeezes her shoulder in support and Erin and Shane are purposefully avoiding his gaze so he imagines that he isn’t going to be able to put this off until Elizabeth gets back.

“This is really more her thing than mine, so it would be best if she could tell you.” Maureen glares at him. “Okay, okay, we just wanted to talk to you guys about some changes in our life, changes that might effect you, though we’ll do our best to prevent that.” They all shift nervously. “Well you’ve probably heard the rumors and speculation, but we wanted to let you know it’s true, Elizabeth has decided to run. She won’t be announcing for a while yet, we’re thinking in about four months, but we wanted to let you know now.”

They stare at him blankly, until Erin asks, uncertainty in her voice, “Run for what?”

He almost laughs, because he forgot for a moment that there is a whole world that doesn’t follow politics obsessively, that doesn’t spend every second enmeshed in world affairs. “President,” he responds simply.

That sends them all atwitter and there’s lots of cross-talk and yelling and accusations. He spends the next 45 minutes fielding questions, from Elizabeth’s position on abortion (he tells them they’ll have to ask her, he’s well aware his wife is ardently pro-choice, but he’s not stepping on that landmine before it’s necessary) to, once the kids wander back in, whether that means they can get free tickets to football games.

Elizabeth slips back in, she looks marginally more relaxed, so he takes that to mean there are no nuclear missiles currently incoming. Maureen spots her first and pins her with a glare. “So I hear you’ve decided you want to be an actual queen.”

Elizabeth moves further into the house and resumes her seat on the couch next to Henry. “Well democratically elected is the plan,” she says lightly and reaches forward to grab her now cold coffee. Maureen guffaws. “And really that’s only if I win, which is still a relative long-shot.”

“Once again you’re only thinking of yourself.” Oddly, Henry notes, Maureen’s voice doesn’t have its usual venom.

Elizabeth takes a sip out of her cup. “I like to think I’m thinking of the greater good, how to ensure a better future for our country and the world. Believe you me this isn’t something I sought out, I never thought I’d do this.” Henry struggles to hide his smile, because Elizabeth sounds exactly like a politician, she doesn’t think she’s ready, but in moments like this he sees it. And if he calls her a politician to her face he won’t have sex for a month.

[oneweekoneband]

her Nebraska (1982)

In July I flew to Massachusetts with a plague on, and I felt that it was wrong, but my mother had begged and I’d been out of work for months. Mornings there I ran in long, uneven ovals on the same roads I’d memorized in high school. There’s no sidewalks, but the few feet of dirt between the craggy pavement and the open mouths of the fields serve all right for a single body in motion. When a truck comes up close from behind, the ground shakes, and I step away bouncingly from the street toward thigh-high yellow weeds and grass, and keep going. I was slowly picking my way back in that dirt, sweat-slick from only a plodding couple of miles in peak summer heat, and sucking the wet cotton of my mask in between my teeth on every inhale, when Taylor Swift announced she was releasing a surprise album produced by the guy from The National. Not the guy from The National, like, the voice, but the guy from The National whose photo was circulated on Twitter earlier this year as some kind of antifa super soldier, which isn’t the case, but would’ve been rad. First, I stopped dead to send some outraged, misspelled text messages, and then I ran home faster than I’d moved in years.

Tall, blonde, patrician pop star Taylor Swift is to me something like a cross-between a wife and a boogeyman. Bound we’ve been since we were really children. Time and its changes haven’t rid me of her, and what’s worse is I have never quite been able to wish they would, though I claim as much all the time. Countless hours of my one wild and precious life have been spent on endlessly analyzing the minutiae of Taylor Swift’s music, the mind that made it, the real world events which influenced it. And though all the while I have known she is only a person, and that people, while each strange and lovely in their own ways, are, in the end, mostly dull, needful in just the regular manner, the fantasy is better, the sick dream of a megalomaniac songstress, curious, thrilling, probably evil, and I choose that. I don’t know Taylor Alison Swift, born to this world in, I presume, the usual way. But my Taylor Swift? I’m a renowned expert. I’ve always eaten up stories—movies, music, celebrity news, the one my grandfather tells about falling off his bike once in Ireland as a boy and his face “cracking open like an egg”—like a starved dog. I’m obsessive about my interests, but not inclined to intense fandom, and certainly not fandom in the mode of the stan. For one, I’m too self-absorbed. But caring intensely for a famous person is falling in love with a ghost, and that’s all right—I mean, what the hell? We’re here together just dying... Let’s enjoy—but is an affair best undertaken with the knowledge that everyone alive has their own complex interiority, as unruly as your own, and that you, a stranger, are not in any real way connected to the lawless, blurry middle of that celebrity, and will never be. It’s freeing and fun to know this. I mean, these people are basically in your employ. Glamorous dollhouse dwellers. Acknowledging that uncrossable distance allows for a different, healthier closeness of pure imagination. My feelings, then, can comfortably be at once both fiercely intense and entirely silly. I am a foremost scholar in the art of the Taylor Swift who exists in my head. The real person raised in Pennsylvania I don’t know at all. I have some conjectures on the matter, and, as with all my conjectures, every hackneyed theory, each picky little opinion, I’m sure they’re perfect, brilliant, just absolutely right, but that’s still all they are. Taylor Swift, figure of the cultural imagination, is the Jodie Comer to my Sandra Oh in Killing Eve, annoying and pretty in frills, taunting me endlessly and holding us trapped together in a dance of most enchanting death. But the real Taylor Swift has favorite bed sheets and a social security number and a British boyfriend, none of which I have any desire to know about, and if I saw her at a restaurant I’d politely avert my eyes before, yes, dive-bombing the group text. There’s nobody on Earth I’d stand in line to speak to, but then I’ve been speaking to a certain figment of Taylor Swift for nearly half my life.

I went to a Taylor Swift concert the night before I moved into college in 2009. My father’s work friend, firefighter by day, near professional gambler by night, got comped tickets to the Fearless Tour stop taking place at the nearby casino, and he let me have them as a reward, mainly, for happening to be seventeen. Live in-person and performed acoustically, “Fifteen” made me cry. A few years after that, in the thick, sticky part of my first post-college summer, I wrote approximately twenty-three million words about her in these very pages.  (”Pages”) At that point, Taylor’s most recent release was 2012’s Red, and the work I produced that long ago July about Taylor and her career, writing I was fairly pleased with at the time, feels now, besides just being extremely clearly written by a twenty-one year old, strange to me for the way it favors the sweet over the sour almost uniformly. There is a wholesome kind of ardor in that writing which maybe I’ve outgrown the ability to hold. Or maybe Taylor just proceeded to spend the next half a decade plus releasing one bad single after another, and it was taste—and trespasses against taste—and not some shift in my nature which altered the tenor of our bond. I have real love for my particular image, gleaned from public statements and published art, of smart, bizarre famous woman Taylor Swift, and I admire the bulk of her output very much. I’m just no longer so inclined to fawn. This is not to say I am here to offer a Taylor Swift hate screed. I couldn’t swing it, and, anyway, I’m not a pop feminist-for-hire circa 2010. But we’re older now. Things are different. At twenty-eight, twenty-nine this month—Taylor will, also this December, turn thirty-one—I regard Taylor Swift warily, like an ex with whom you have a tentative friendship, perpetually on the brink of falling one way or the other into hatred or delight, only to wobble back the opposite direction again at the slightest provocation, but still, despite best efforts, even, I regard her all the time. 

folklore was released at midnight on July 24th 2020, but I was at a cabin in rural Vermont without Internet or cell service. I drank Bud Light seltzers with my mother while watching the eerie pandemic return of Major League Baseball, and when I got into a strange bed there I stewed, knowing there were people out in the world all over who were hearing Taylor Swift songs I never had, and that this was a fundamental wrong, a disruption in the balance of the universe. I listened to it the next morning in a Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. 

And folklore is great. That’s the terrible thing. Slightly less great, maybe, than some people have insisted, tricked, I think, by just the pronounced shift in sound. But it’s great. A little gift I asked for a thousand times and was still surprised to get, like a wife who didn’t expect her henpecked husband to ever follow through and buy the paraffin wax hand bath as-see-on-TV. For years, I’ve been halfheartedly insisting that Taylor had a great album in her. I’d say it even, perhaps especially, while she stubbornly fed me gruel. Or worse, gruel with the occasional whiff of something better. With a ripe, little raspberry dropped into the slop. The bright, villainous thrill of “Getaway Car” made me believe Taylor, my Taylor, was in there somewhere under the lacquer of sequins and synth, which, while not objectionable by default, seemed a costume, and an ill-fitting one. The lived-in world of “Cornelia Street” made those old scars sting. That gay “Delicate” video. When she did “Call It What You Want” on SNL and played guitar while wearing an ugly sweater. If the abominable “ME!”, lead single off Lover, was the stick, 1989’s “Clean” was the carrot. I was Charlie Brown, and Taylor my Lucy, yanking the football back again and again. Over drinks I still yelled that Taylor Swift’s next album would be, “her Nebraska”, referring to my favorite Bruce Springsteen record, and learned to live with that egg on my face for good. I suppose I even came to like it. There was something inherently funny in taking up, like, “blind faith in the as of yet untapped greater artistic potential of massively wealthy and popular singer Taylor Swift” as my totally inane personal cause du jour, and eventually it was a bit, a gag I performed to be obstinate and didactic, but way down somewhere awful near my kidneys I meant it the whole while. And then she did it. A pandemic befell the world and amid a sea of human suffering Taylor Swift remembered she can write. She wrote, and with a massive, crucial assist from Aaron Dessner, whose music on this record is sometimes so beautiful it actually angers me, as the last thing I needed in already perilous times was to be made to try and marry my uniquely perverse emotional responses to beloved divorced dad band The National and fucking Taylor Swift,  she made an album which, if not her Nebraska, per se (I’ve come to realize that a major part of believing Taylor Swift will one day make an album I find as quietly devastating and gorgeous as Nebraska is knowing that no album will ever actually be Her Nebraska... That each will, rather, to me, be more and more evidence that it’s coming still, more proof that the limit is untouched, on and on ad infinitum, or at least until the seas take us into a place of salty peace.) is a shocking credit to all my hard-fought and deluded confidence. folklore is great. This fact has made me feel almost equally as disoriented from my understanding of the world as the time-melting COVID-19 lockdowns have, and it turned my Spotify year in review annual collective AI humiliation kink thing into a glaring indictment of my mental state, but still, I mean... It’s great.

In talking about folklore a bit this week, there are a number of specific topics I intend to cover—what a thrill it is to hear Taylor say “fuck”; Taylor’s terrifying birth chart; the astoundingly perfect bridge of “the last great american dynasty”; “because my ass is located at the back of my body”; the bit in last year’s “Lover” where deranged WASP Taylor Swift implies that to “leave the Christmas lights up til January” is some signifier of being a love-struck bohemian, when actually everyone who doesn’t employ domestic staff to take their lights down does this; how reputation is the best of the Taylor Swift records released in the latter half of the 2010s, actually, and the people who can’t see that are cowards—but intend mostly to let the muse move me where she will. Against the advice of my better angels, she—that tie-in marketing eldritch terror—always does.

[emma-what-son]

How Sir Philip's son cast a spell on Emma Watson: The super-woke Harry Potter star and the playboy son of the disgraced Topshop tycoon - it's hard to think of a more unlikely romance, writes ALISON BOSHOFF

One can almost see her eyebrows raised in quizzical disdain. Hermione Granger would surely disapprove.

Pictures emerged this week of Emma Watson, the serious-minded Harry Potter actress and eco-warrior, hopping out of Sir Philip Green’s family helicopter in Battersea, South London. Curious, some would think, given Emma’s long-standing war against fast fashion, that she would accept a lift from the fallen King of the High Street.

More curious still, however, is that Emma, 31, has apparently been enchanted by Brandon Green, Sir Philip’s 28-year-old son, whose longest relationship to date seems to have been with a Belarusian bikini model. Could there be a more unlikely romance?

Aside from both being awash with money —Brandon is an heir to a £2 billion fortune, while Emma is said to be worth about £59 million —they appear to have almost nothing in common. Yet according to a friend, a certain magic is in the air.

‘Brandon has been wooing Emma,’ says one source. Another says: ‘They are an item, although she hasn’t met the family yet.’

Emma, who once mused about being ‘self-partnered’, has certainly had more suitors than her single status would have you believe.

At 17, an early boyfriend was rugby player Tom Ducker, but her most serious romance seems to have been with another rugby player — and fellow Oxford student — Matt Janney, with whom she broke up in 2015.

Then there was another Oxford student, Will Adamowicz. The relationship lasted from 2011 to 2013.

She was then seen out and about with actor/producer Roberto Aguire, whom she first met in 2005 on the set of Harry Potter And The Goblet Of Fire. She also seems to have a particularly weak spot for young tech millionaires, as she has dated at least three of them, most significantly U.S. entrepreneur William ‘Mack’ Knight, whom she split from in late 2017 following a two-year romance.

Then came a six-month love affair with handsome Glee actor Chord Overstreet. They broke up during the summer of 2018.

She was then spotted sharing cocktails with tech CEO Brendan Wallace, a New Yorker, now 38, who is co-founder of a venture capital fund. By summer 2019 she was rumoured to have moved on to another tech millionaire, Brendan Iribe, CEO of Oculus.

She most recently split from her boyfriend of two years, businessman Leo Robinton.

It’s a longer list of amours than you might expect for someone who claims to be ‘self-partnered’, but then Emma is a woman who solemnly examines her life.

‘The boyfriends or partners I’ve had have generally made me feel really cherished. They have built me up,’ she said.

Quite how Brandon — who featured in Tatler’s ‘most eligible’ list in 2014 and was once caught patting Kate Moss’s bottom — fits into Emma’s orbit of admirers, remains to be seen. Although, like Emma’s other admirers, he does have a job running a tech investments company.

So who is this handsome young man — and what does Emma see in him?

Born in 1992, he was raised in Monte Carlo with big sister Chloe. His mother, Tina, is resident in the tax haven and was the ultimate owner of the Arcadia group, which went into administration last year. He went to the principality of Monaco’s International School.

To say his was a gilded upbringing would be an understatement. A source in Monaco says: ‘All the time he was growing up, the Greens would never fly commercial, always in their private jet.

‘They have a private chauffeur and in the family penthouse at the Roccabella building in Monaco there are uniformed maids standing to attention in every room just in case someone needs something. That’s the lifestyle Brandon was born into and has always thought was completely normal.’

He and Chloe have the use of the 109ft yacht Lionchase — Sir Phil has the 295ft Lionheart —which is moored in Monaco in the winter and cruises around the Med all summer.

I’m informed that his mum will pick up ‘seven-figure’ boat bills for the pair of them at the end of the season without blanching.

Brandon’s 2005 Bar Mitzvah caused a stir. It was held at the Grand-Hotel du Cap-Ferrat, with entertainment provided by Beyonce, Destiny’s Child and Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli. There were 300 guests over three days, all hosted by Sir Phil, who was then the boss of Topshop, BHS and Dorothy Perkins, all part of the Arcadia group.

When he was younger, Brandon seemed to be happy to join Chloe in a celebrity-packed party lifestyle. Locals say he was ���practically living in Monaco’s Sass Café and partying until dawn every morning with a bevy of models’ in his 20s.

Kate Moss — a friend of his father — spent much of her 2011 honeymoon break with Jamie Hince on board his yacht and they got on famously. In 2013 he was spotted playfully groping Moss’s bikini-clad bottom while on holiday in St Barth’s. At the time he was 21.

When she was 21, Emma Watson had been famous for a decade and had just finished making the Potter films.

While Brandon found life one long, joyful party, she was struggling introspectively with having money and acclaim. As she recently said: ‘I’ve often thought, I’m so wrong for this job because I’m too serious.’

She felt physically sick when she found out how much money she had earned from the Potter films, and considered not renewing her contract to complete them.

Following stellar A-levels, she took an English degree at Brown University in Rhode Island — over five years, due to disruption from filming.

Brandon Green doesn’t have a degree. There was some idea that he might buck the family trend and go to university, but Sir Phil told an interviewer at the time: ‘It’s up for discussion,’ and evidently it was decided that was not the right path.

Instead, he spent years learning the ropes of the fashion business with Sir Philip and working for Arcadia.

As the BHS scandal raged in 2016 — after Sir Philip sold the company to a bankrupt, with a hole in its pensions provisions — and the company went bust, Brandon was sent to host a table at the Met Gala Ball in New York in his father’s place.

For three years, he was also a regular at the Topshop show at London Fashion Week, sitting with model Jourdan Dunn and chatting to Vogue editor-in-chief Anna Wintour.

He began to go to Cannes, again as part of Topshop’s presence at the film festival, and to attend the Amfar charity gala on the arm of girlfriend Maryna Linchuk, a Victoria’s Secret model who towered over him.

But when Chloe became more involved in the family business and started designing shoes, Brandon stepped back from the spotlight.

They are a close family, all the more so since the woes that beset the Arcadia Group and Sir Philip before it collapsed. In fact, this seems to have acted as a wake-up call for Brandon.

A source said: ‘Once Philip fell from grace so badly, all the A-list celebrities and many of the world’s elite dropped the Green family completely. It really shook them up.

‘There was a party in Monaco that a family friend threw for them in the middle of the BHS pensions scandal. Brandon looked around aghast and said to Tina, “We don’t know anyone here!”

‘They felt the world hated them. Philip would fill his days doing laps of Monaco on foot with his bodyguard and personal trainer. Tina would busy herself in her art gallery or with her interior design business. There were a lot of tears; it was an awful atmosphere for the staff and for the family.

‘Brandon could see how transient popularity is and how big A-list stars had been using them for free holidays on their yachts for years. The whole experience sparked a “woke-over” in Brandon.

‘He got very interested in biodiversity and saving the oceans. He does a lot of charity and advocacy work with both Monaco’s Prince Albert’s Foundation and Princess Charlene’s Foundation. He is a trained deep-sea diver, he is very into fitness and gets involved with galas and charities that help the planet. He does frequent beach clean-ups and whatever he can to help.

‘It’s all very low-key, as he doesn’t want to be seen to be doing charity work for PR. But he’s been getting Tina to donate a hefty amount of money to charities that help save the planet too, saying they should do some good with their huge fortune.’

A second source says it is now Brandon, rather than Chloe, who is the apple of Tina’s eye, and he who is seen as the one who will eventually turn the family’s public reputation around.

A friend says: ‘He is very disciplined, intelligent and keen on study. He reads a lot, he travels a lot. He’s polite and well-mannered. Whatever he does, he embraces it fully. His parents are proud of him.’

His hobbies include skiing, at which he excels. He trains almost daily and took part in a gruelling cycling and swimming charity event last year for Princess Charlene of Monaco’s charity, going from Corsica to Monaco.

The friend adds: ‘He eats right and doesn’t drink or party — he is a very nice young man.’

How Brandon came to meet Emma, whose woke credentials may prove challenging for his family, is somewhat unclear, although it is believed his newfound interest in charitable ventures may have steered him her way.

Last year Miss Watson joined the sustainability committee at Kering, the owner of top fashion brands such as Gucci. She was labelled ‘Hollywood’s queen of ethical dressing’ by Vogue.

She has been taking a break from acting after appearing in the 2019 film Little Women but remains an active advocate for ‘race and gender justice’ via various charities. In 2014 she became a UN Women Goodwill ambassador, and she also ran a feminist book club, Our Shared Shelf, on Twitter.

She loves writing poetry, jigsaws, cats and nights in.

Her first purchase with the Potter millions was a ‘brick-like’ Toyota Prius. She said: ‘It’s sensible and boring, like me.’

Not that Emma is as staid as she says. In conversation with Gloria Steinem at an event in London in 2016, she revealed that she subscribes to a sex education website called OMGyes.

It’s a far remove from the days when she was cast in the Harry Potter films at nine years old, having been found via the theatre club she attended. She only completed filming the last Potter when she was 20, in June 2010.

Sources who knew her in the Potter days say her father Chris’s influence was paramount, even though she lived with her mother in Oxford.

The experience of growing up on Potter was so constricting and stressful, when the cast and crew held a ‘wrap party’ at Harry’s Bar after the final set of reshoots in 2010, she didn’t attend.

She said in 2017: ‘It’s something I’ve really wrestled with. I’ve gone back and quizzed my parents. When I was younger, I just did it. I just acted, it was just there.

‘I was finding this fame thing was getting to a point of no return. I sensed that if this was something I was ever going to step away from, it was now or never.’

Post-Potter, her films have been generally low-key. It is said she turned down the La La Land role that brought Emma Stone an Oscar.

Her £3 million London home was selected after she viewed it over Skype, because she can come and go unobserved.

That’s not to say her life is in any way normal: her social circle includes fashion figures such as Antoine Arnault of the LVMH dynasty, she has been the face of Lancome perfume and launched a collection with the ethical fashion label People Tree.

The question now is, will Emma finally find lasting love with a most unlikely Green?

[introvertguide]

The Apartment (1960); AFI #80

The next film on the list that we reviewed was the one of the last black and white films to win best picture, The Apartment (1960). The film actually held the title of last B&W Best Picture winner for 50 years until The Artist came along in in 2011. Along with Best Picture, the film was nominated for 10 Oscars and won Best Director, Best Screenplay, Best Art Direction, and Best Editing. The film also won Best Picture from the Golden Globes, the BAFTAs, the Director’s Guild Awards, and the Critic’s Circle Awards. Truly a great synthesis of acting, directing, cinematography, music, and story, this movie is one of the lesser known greatest films of all time. I have more to say about this film, but I want to go over the story in all of its excellence. But first...

SPOILER ALERT!!! THIS COMEDY HAS LEGITIMATE SURPRISES AND SUBJECT MATTER THAT WOULDN’T FLY TODAY!!! TRULY A GREAT FILM THAT NEEDS TO BE SEEN!!! I STRONGLY SUGGEST WATCHING IT INSTEAD OF JUST READING THE STORY LINE!!!

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An opening run of establishing shots with a voice over by the main character lets the audience know that he is a drone accountant at a giant firm with little chance to move up in the world. C.C. Baxter (Jack Lemmon) is a lonely office drudge at a national insurance corporation in New York City. He has lucked out and found a way to leverage his home in order to climb the corporate ladder. Baxter allows four company managers to take turns borrowing his Upper West Side apartment for their extramarital liaisons, which he manages with a detailed schedule. Baxter has not seen any movement, but he is constantly offered the promise of a promotion since he is a “team player.” 

One of the serious down sides of this ploy is that his apartment is in constant use and the bosses are making a mess and drinking all his liquor. C.C. has no place to go some nights so he stays and works late. Because C.C. is constantly going in and out and people can hear women in his apartment, he is starting to develop a different kind of reputation with the other tenants. While unable to enter his own apartment when it is in use, his neighbors assume that their neighbor is a playboy bringing home a different woman every night.

C.C. is able to get glowing performance reports from his four managers and he is able to submit them to the personnel director, Jeff D. Sheldrake (Fred MacMurray), in hope of a promotion. Sheldrake promises to promote him, but demands that he also receive use of the apartment for his own affairs, beginning that night. As compensation for such short notice, he gives Baxter two theater tickets to The Music Man. After work, C.C. asks Fran Kubelik (Shirley MacLaine), an elevator operator in the office building, to go to the musical with him. She agrees but goes first to meet with a "former fling," who turns out to be Sheldrake, and let him know there will be no more meetings. When Sheldrake dissuades her from breaking up with him and promising to divorce his wife for her, they go to the apartment as poor Baxter waits forlornly outside the theater.

Later, at the company's raucous Christmas party (there is dancing on the tables and the lamest strip tease of all time), Fran is told by Miss Olsen (Edie Adams), Sheldrake's secretary, that Sheldrake has also had affairs with her and other women employees. Later at Baxter’s apartment, Fran confronts Sheldrake with his lies. Sheldrake maintains that he genuinely loves her, but that he has no intention of splitting up with his wife. He then leaves to return to his suburban family as usual and Fran is so depressed that she finds sleeping pills in the apartment bathroom and attempts suicide.

Baxter learns through finding a dropped hand mirror that Fran is the woman Sheldrake has been taking to his apartment, so he goes to a bar and lets himself be picked up by a married woman. When they arrive at his apartment, he is shocked to find Fran in his bed, seemingly dead. He sends his pick-up away and enlists the help of his neighbor, Dr. Dreyfuss (Jack Krushen), to revive Fran without notifying the authorities. I should not laugh, but it is pretty funny that the doctor goes straight to slapping Fran in the face to wake her up. The actors did not hold back; he is slapping her in the face really hard, so much so that you can tell her cheeks are reddening even in black and white. Baxter makes Dreyfuss believe that he was the cause of the incident and, scolding his neighbor for his apparent philandering, Dreyfuss advises him to "be a mensch, a human being."

As Fran spends two days recuperating in the apartment, C.C. takes care of her, and a bond develops between them, especially after he confesses to having attempted suicide himself over unrequited feelings for a woman who now sends him a fruitcake every Christmas. While they play a game of gin rummy, Fran reveals that she has always suffered bad luck in her love life. As Baxter prepares a romantic dinner, one of the managers arrives with a woman. Although Baxter persuades them to leave, the manager recognizes Fran and informs his colleagues. Later confronted by Fran's brother-in-law, Karl Matuschka, who is looking for her, the managers direct Karl to the apartment out of jealousy. At the apartment, Karl's anger at Fran for her behavior is deflected by Baxter, who again takes responsibility. Karl punches C.C. (and interviews with Lemmon revealed that the punch did land), but when Fran kisses him for protecting her, he just smiles and says it "didn't hurt a bit."

Sheldrake learns that Miss Olsen told Fran about his affairs, so he makes the poor choice of firing the woman who knows of all his dealings, and she retaliates by meeting with Sheldrake's wife, who promptly throws her husband out. Sheldrake believes that this situation just makes it easier to pursue his affair with Fran. Having promoted C.C. to an even higher position, which also gives him a key to the executive washroom, Sheldrake expects Baxter to loan out his apartment yet again. Baxter gives him back the washroom key instead, proclaiming that he has decided to become a mensch, and quits the firm.

That night at a New Year's Eve party, Sheldrake indignantly tells Fran what happened. Realizing she is in love with Baxter, Fran abandons Sheldrake and runs to the apartment. At the door, she hears what sounds like a gunshot. Fearing that Baxter has attempted suicide again, she frantically pounds on the door. Baxter answers, holding a bottle of champagne whose cork he had just popped in celebration of his plan to start anew. As the two settle down to resume their gin rummy game, Fran tells C.C. that she is now free too. When he asks about Sheldrake, she replies, "We'll send him a fruitcake every Christmas." He declares his love for her, and she replies, "Shut up and deal."

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This film is one of the most praised movies of all time, but it is not one of the most generally well known. This is probably due to the subject matter, although It’s A Wonderful Life also deals with suicide and is one of the America’s most popular family films. The problem is most likely that extra marital affairs by big company management as a normal thing was highly frowned upon. With the whole #MeToo movement, it seems that this kind of philandering culture might very well have been a known problem for decades. A movie based around the premise that office managers need a nice place to have sex with secretaries and elevator girls would not have been acceptable under the Hays Code. This is also the second film on the AFI list where Fred MacMurray plays a bad guy before being the understanding patriarch on My Three Sons and the first person honored as a Disney Legend in 1987. Fun fact, MacMurray was an uncredited extra in a film called Girls Gone Wild in 1929.

Billy Wilder knew that this was going to be a divisive film due to content, but he also had the confidence that everything would work out following the massive success of his previous film, Some Like It Hot. Wilder had considered a film based on adultery back in the 1940s but was unable to get funding at the time due to the Hays Code. The film was also based on a real life Hollywood drama in which an agent was shot by a producer over an affair (in which a low level employee apartment was used) as well as a friend of a co-writer who returned home to a dead ex-girlfriend following a break-up. 

It is amazing to think that this film is described as a comedy. There are office politics in which mid-level managers use local celeb status to take advantage of their subordinates. There are half a dozen cheating husbands that string along their affairs. There are characters so hurt that they would rather die than deal with what is done with them. There are raging parties at work where everyone gets massively drunk and dance on the desks. Women are treated like objects that either need to be protected with violence or thrown away. And yet the film is legitimately fun with characters that are worth rooting for.

Some of the success rides on the fabulous acting of Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine and the witty dialogue written by I.A.L. Diamond. In fact, the dialogue and limited characters feels a lot like a stage play, which come to fruition in the form of Promises, Promises on Broadway by Burt Bacharach, Hal David, and Neil Simon. Dealing with real sets and locations, however, resulted in some colds and sickness since the actors were really out in the New York snow. Some other realism in the film came from both lead actors taking blows for the film: Shirley MacLaine got proper slapped by the doctor and Jack Lemmon was really punched by the brother-in-law.

A stand out aspect for me in this film which I talk up quite a bit is the cinematography. I have used many screen grabs from the film and used them as my avatar. I identify with the feeling of being used for something which made a mid manager look good while allowing them to do bad things. In fact, I am sure that everyone has felt like a Baxter at some point, and it is great to see him stand up for himself. Here are a couple of screen grabs (besides the top photo above) that I have used:

That lonely man in the middle of countless empty desks, that look of frustration when others are using your things to live a better life than you, and that time that love makes utility become fun and gadgets seem pretentious. It is very easy for me to get lost in how much I love this film. It has been far and away my favorite find from the AFI Top 100 between when I first saw the film in 2014 and now.

So, should the film be on the top 100 list? It has the awards and the history along with being a fantastic film. Of course it belongs on the list. Would I recommend it? Yes. This film is the type that makes people like me want to go through lists like this. I had never heard of the film in 2014 and it floored me how good it was. Each time I watch I appreciate it more, and the whole film project becomes well worth my time and effort. This film is so good, it affirms my life choices. I invite and implore you to check it out for yourself.

[96thdayofrage]

How Native Americans adopted slavery from white settlers

And how black people in Indian Territory were denied their rights even after their emancipation.

Last week marked the 153rd anniversary of the ratification of the 13th Amendment to the US Constitution in 1865. Rightly celebrated as a milestone for the black American community, the 13th Amendment led to the eventual liberation of all African Americans enslaved in the United States of the late 19th century. But the 13th Amendment did not free all black enslaved people in the boundaries of modern-day US.

Members of five Native American nations, the Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminole Nations (known as the Five Tribes), owned black slaves. Then located outside the territorial boundaries of the US in a region known as Indian Territory (modern-day Oklahoma), these sovereign nations were not affected by proclamations or constitutional amendments. Instead, separate treaties had to be made between the US and these Native American nations not only to free enslaved peoples, but also to formally end the American Civil War battles and antagonism between American and Native American troops.

The fact that by the time of the Civil War black chattel slavery had been an element of life among the Five Tribes for decades is rarely discussed. It is, however, an important aspect of US history which serves to remind us of the complexity of colonialism, exploitation and victimisation that laid the foundations of our country.

Captivity and slavery among Native Americans

The indigenous peoples of North America had utilised a form of captive-taking and involuntary labour long before European contact. But this form of bondage was neither trans-generational nor permanent. Captive-taking was most often used to replace a dead loved one within the family with a new person. The captive would then take on this deceased person’s sexual or labour-related capacities.

Through various avenues, such as “sexual relationships, adoption, hard work, military service, or escape, captives could enhance their status or even assume new identities.” After European contact in the 1500s, white Europeans persuaded Native Americans to enslave members of other Native American tribes using the European method of slave-trading, which focused on the accumulation of captives for sale and thus, profit, rather than for population augmentation.

The Native American slave trade thrived for over a century, but began to be largely phased out in the early to mid-18th century. An important factor in its decline was the Yamasee War of 1715-1717. After colonists in the English colony of Carolina began defaulting on some of their trade agreements and enslaving even members of their ally tribes, the Yamasee Nation began to question its own alliance with Carolina. Along with the Lower Creeks and the Savannahs, the Yamasees declared war on Carolina, killing 400 colonists, approximately seven percent of the white population. The Carolinian colonists put together a force of black slaves, militiamen, volunteers and friendly Native American nations, which defeated the Yamasees and their allies.

While the Yamasees lost, they succeeded in forcing European colonists to reconsider the risks inherent in the system of Native American enslavement. If Native Americans became angry at the terms of enslavement or allied Native Americans were accidentally enslaved, they might once again retaliate militarily. In addition, enslaved Native Americans often successfully escaped from their owners, as they were familiar with the geography and could elude slave catchers and return to their homelands.

Therefore, after the Yamasee War, the African transatlantic slave trade to the North American colonies drastically increased to account for the loss of Native American slaves.

Some members of the Five Tribes became owners of enslaved black women and men themselves, as they increasingly adapted to Euro-American norms, such as style of dress and governmental structure. Beginning in the late 1700s and intensifying in the early 1800s, members of the Five Tribes used enslaved black women and men as domestic and agricultural labourers. For example, Chickasaw planters exported an estimated 1,000 bales of cotton in 1830; this cotton was picked and processed by black slaves. Comparatively, in 1826, the state of Georgia produced 150,000 bales of cotton.

In 1860, about 30 years after their removal to Indian Territory from their respective homes in the Southeast, Cherokee Nation citizens owned 2,511 slaves (15 percent of their total population), Choctaw citizens owned 2,349 slaves (14 percent of their total population), and Creek citizens owned 1,532 slaves (10 percent of their total population). Chickasaw citizens owned 975 slaves, which amounted to 18 percent of their total population, a proportion equivalent to that of white slave owners in Tennessee, a former neighbour of the Chickasaw Nation and a large slaveholding state.

This made the Chickasaws the largest slave-holding nation of the Five Tribes, in proportion to their population. National laws restricted the movement of enslaved people, preventing them from learning to read and write, and prohibited interracial relationships.

However, as in the US, the majority of people in these nations did not own slaves. Large-scale crop production and the system of slavery that made it possible and lucrative were mainly adopted by wealthier Native families, whose prosperity allowed them to influence the political, social, and economic affairs of their nations. Thus, an influential proportion of tribal citizens stood to lose a vital part of their economic resources if emancipation took place.

The Five Tribes involved themselves in the Civil War militarily to preserve their practice of slavery and to fight for political autonomy. Members of all nations served on both the Union and Confederate sides of the war, and a number of battles took place within Indian Territory. After the war, the treaties signed between the US and all five of these slaveholding Native American nations, called the Treaties of 1866, ended wartime hostilities and freed and enfranchised people of African descent. These treaties were part of a larger American mission to take over Native American land, and also included land cessions and American settlement and railway construction in Indian Territory.

Citizenship rights

While the former slaves of the Cherokee, Creek, Seminole, and Choctaw Nations became tribal citizens due to the Treaties of 1866, throughout the 20th century, all of the Five Tribes eventually rescinded the tribal membership of these freedpeople and their descendants. Although their former slaves had lived among them for generations, sharing land, history, and trauma with them, the Five Tribes claimed that they were interlopers who had no place among them because they had no Native ancestry.

The descendants of these former slaves fought back, filing several lawsuits. On August 31, 2017, the descendants of people enslaved by members of the Cherokee Nation were victorious. The US District Court in Washington ruled that these descendants should have citizenship rights in the Cherokee Nation. Now the descendants of people enslaved by the Creek Nation have filed a similar suit, hoping to find commensurate validation.

So, when we observe and honour the anniversary of the 13th Amendment, let us remember that not all people of African descent had the same experience of freedom. Those African Americans living among western indigenous nations waited until the summer of 1866 to gain their freedom, and even then, they fought to find true liberation from economic, social, and political duress.

Just as our current moment sees white and black Americans arguing over the memory of the Civil War and the removal (or not) of Confederate monuments, so discussions of slavery in Native American nations and the historical relationships between the Five Tribes and people of African descent are also fraught with many difficult issues.

The story of the people of African descent owned by Native Americans is unique, but also simply another tale of coercion and community in the diverse African American experience.

Alaina E Roberts

Alaina E Roberts is Assistant Professor of History at the University of Pittsburgh.

[rsadelle]

The best books I read in 2020

I read 167 books in 2020, which is a little more than one and a half times as many as I read in 2019. (I had a crisis of counting at one point when I read a string of novellas, but ultimately came down on the side of if I can check out the ebook from the library as a single volume, then it counts as a book for the purposes of my list.) Only ten of those are books I reread, which is a fairly low reread number/percentage for me. The large number of books I read this year made it extra difficult to narrow down a small number of the best ones, which is why this list is longer than in previous years. It is, in fact, long enough that I have put it behind a cut to spare your dash.

Top 11 fiction books/series I read for the first time in 2020

Bread Alone trilogy (Bread Alone, The Baker's Apprentice, and Baker's Blues) by Judith Ryan Hendricks - I so enjoyed this trilogy about bread baking and figuring out your life and building a home/community and love. I read it at the beginning of the pandemic, when everyone was baking bread, and it was one of those things I was sad to finish because I didn't want to leave the characters.

Never Have I Ever by Joshilyn Jackson - I have read a lot of suburban housewife with a secret books over the last couple of years. This was an excellent example of the genre with the good use of a thematic motif and a second secret reveal after you learn what you think is the biggest secret. Content notes: I had to skim a few chapters because of the large amount of weight and disordered eating content (which is relevant to the character), and there is sexual abuse of a young teenager by an adult as part of the story.

The City We Became by N.K. Jemisin - This was such an interesting concept and done so well. It was one of the most popular books my sci fi book club read this year, and the New Yorker in our group said it was her favorite New York book ever. The most disappointing part of this book is that it's the first book in a trilogy and the other books haven't been published yet. Content notes: eldritch horror and realistic racism.

The Sci-Regency Series (My Fair Captain, The Englor Affair, My Regelence Rake, Diplomatic Relations, and My Highland Laird) by J.L. Langley - The delightfully ludicrous premise of this series is that there is a gay Regency society in space, which makes for some really fun romances. I've loved this series for over a decade, and I was thrilled to reread the first three books before reading the two new books that came out this summer. I recommend reading the novels in order, as there is an overarching plot involving the Intergalactic Navy that is interesting and ongoing without overshadowing the romances. Content note: these are on the erotica end of the romance spectrum, which means they have very explicit sex scenes. I wrote a lot more about this series in a Yuletide promo post comment.

The Most Fun We Ever Had by Claire Lombardo - I was so sad to finish this book! I have read a lot of commercial/literary fiction about families in the past few years, and this might be my favorite. I found the characters really compelling and enjoyed seeing their differing perspectives. I didn't want to leave this family.

Throne of Glass series (Throne of Glass, Crown of Midnight, Heir of Fire, Queen of Shadows, Empire of Storms, Tower of Dawn, and Kingdom of Ash) by Sarah J. Maas - This YA fantasy series shouldn't work given its constant escalation, and yet, somehow it does. I greatly enjoyed it, and I cried more than once at the last book. This is a series where I recommend not reading anything about future books until you've read all the books before them so you can enjoy the continual reveals. These are very much genre novels, and if you don't like the genre, these books will not be for you. Content note: there is a lot of genre-typical violence.

The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai - I admit that I was mildly skeptical about this book given that what I knew about it was that it was a story about the AIDS epidemic where one of the two timelines is about a woman trying to reconnect with her daughter, but I ended up loving it. The two alternating timelines fit together beautifully, and I thought it did a good job of not eliding the horror of the AIDS epidemic experienced by the gay community in favor of the straight woman's experience. I do remain skeptical of how many awards it won; while it was a genuinely excellent book, I also know that awards bodies love dead queer people.

We Set the Dark on Fire and We Unleash the Merciless Storm by Tehlor Kay Mejia - I loved this YA dystopianish (more cultural class divide than apocalypse or singular villain in control) duology about queer women falling in love while working toward revolution. The world building was good, the plot was good, and the romance was good.

Sisters of the Vast Black by Lina Rather - This novella about an order of nuns who travel through space in an organic slug-like spaceship was absolutely wonderful. It deals with issues of faith, purpose, central control, and doing what you can to make the world a better place.

Sorcery of Thorns by Margaret Rogerson - I loved this YA novel in a sort of Regency-ish setting about a girl who grew up in a library full of magic books and her dealings with some sorcerers, complete with a romance. Content note: attempted mental coercion and institutionalization.

The Wren Hunt and The Wickerlight by Mary Watson - This is a YA duology about rival druid groups in modern day Ireland. I found both books totally compelling with interesting druid politics and magic. It was also really interesting how well we get to see the worst of both sides of the rival druid groups in the two different books.

Top 5 books/series I read and then thought about a lot in 2020

The Twisted Ones by T. Kingfisher - A friend recommended the author to me. This particularly book is a supernatural horror novel I don't necessarily recommend. However, I have continued to think about elements of it since I read it. (Before you @ me about the author's other work, this was the third of her books I read and the other two were in the more beloved fantasy novel genre.)

The Calculating Stars by Mary Robinette Kowal - I actually didn't like this book that much. We read it for a book club, and it had an interesting concept that wasn't super well executed. However, I have thought about elements of it a lot since then, particularly in comparison to some of the other sci fi I encountered this year.

Gideon the Ninth and Harrow the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir - I don't know how much "I actively thought about these a lot" describes my actual experience of having read these, but given their popularity and the number of conversations I had about them, I can't omit them from this post entirely. I liked the first one once I figured out what kind of story it actually was, had absolutely no idea what was happening at any point in the second one, and discovered with both of them that I have a much more limited vocabulary than I thought, at least when it comes to death-related words. I am invested enough that I will read the third book when it comes out, but probably won't read any more of the author's work beyond that. If you want to know more about what I thought, I wrote a very spoilery post about them.

The Sixth World (Trail of Lightning and Storm of Locusts) by Rebecca Roanhorse - This is a pair of novels set in a post-apocalyptic world where there's a magically/divinely-erected wall around Dinétah (the Navajo lands). The worldbuilding and characters are so interesting, and it's a series where some of the details stuck with me and I would randomly think of them. I'm looking forward to reading one of her other books in a few months for my sci fi book club.

Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics by Mirabai Starr - This was one of two books about women mystics I read and disliked this year, and the more disappointing of the two as I'd heard an interview with the author that I found interesting. I continued to think about this one a lot in an angry, "and another thing!" way, which did help me articulate more of the things I dislike about new age-ish framing of "feminine" wisdom/divinity/knowledge.

Top 3 non-fiction books I read in 2020

The Vagina Bible: The vulva and the vagina - separating the myth from the medicine by Dr. Jen Gunter - This is probably better as a reference work than as a straight read-through, but it was interesting enough to read straight through. The book is deeply rooted in science and facts, and she has a whole chapter on "Vaginas and Vulvas in Transition" specifically about anatomy for trans people.

Here All Along: Finding Meaning, Spirituality, and a Deeper Connection to Life - in Judaism (After Finally Choosing to Look There) by Sarah Hurwitz - This is a useful, contemporary introduction to Judaism from someone who shares a lot of my values. The first half is an introduction to Jewish thought, while the second half focuses more on spirituality and practice. The book is part general introduction and part spiritual memoir. I found it deeply inspirational and I added it to a wish list of books I want to own copies of (I read it as a library ebook) because I would like to both reread it in hardcopy where I can easily flip back and forth and use it as a resource for further study and reading.

You Can Draw in 30 Days by Mark Kistler - You may remember that I wrote more about this when I originally finished reading the book. I found it a gentle, funny, helpful book to teach you the basics of drawing.

The 2 authors I read the most in 2020

Jennifer Lynne Barnes - I read fifteen of her books in three weeks in January, when I was still working full time, and a sixteenth after it was published later in the year. Her books are fast-read YA novels that are deeply engaging and generally have some sort of mystery element to them which may or may not involve family secrets. She has a tendency to write variations of the same characters, which meant that I enjoyed mentally mapping the characters from various books onto characters from other books. Also, her werewolf trilogy does one of my favorite werewolf story things that you almost never see (but it doesn't happen until the end of the first book, so I won't spoil it by telling you what it is). Many of her books involve violence, so heed the summaries or email/message me if you want some content notes.

Laura Lippman - I read nineteen of her books this year, eighteen novels and a non-fiction essay collection. She's an excellent mystery writer with a distinctive voice. The time I read four of her books in four days, I found myself thinking in her style. Even if I hadn't otherwise enjoyed My Life As A Villainess, her essay collection, it would have been worth reading just for the kicker on "The Thirty-First Stocking." Content note: her novels frequently involve violence or its aftermath.

[moonlightmurder]

Favorite True Crime Books – part 1

The Peyton-Allan Files by Phil Stanford : Two teenagers, making out one night in a car on the edge of town ― slaughtered by person or persons unknown. No physical evidence to speak of. No known motive. For all the Multnomah County Sheriff’s Office knows, there’s a psychotic killer roaming the hills west of town. Until they arrest someone for the murders of Larry Peyton and Beverly Allan, no one will rest easy. The Peyton-Allan Files is the story of the savage double-murder that changed life forever in the deceptively peaceful town of Portland, Oregon. A true-life murder mystery, guaranteed to keep you turning pages till the last guilty party has been brought to justice ― or maybe just framed. Because one way or another, this case has got to be solved.

House of Evil: The Indiana Torture Slaying by John Dean : In the heart of Indianapolis in the mid 1960’s, through a twist of fate and fortune, a pretty young girl came to live with a thirty-seven-year-old mother and her seven children. What began as a temporary childcare arrangement between Sylvia Likens’s parents and Gertrude Baniszewski turned into a crime that would haunt cops, prosecutors, and a community for decades to come…

When police found Sylvia’s emaciated body, with a chilling message carved into her flesh, they knew that she had suffered tremendously before her death. Soon they would learn how many others―including some of Baniszewski’s own children―participated in Sylvia’s murder, and just how much torture had been inflicted in one house of evil.

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote : On November 15, 1959, in the small town of Holcomb, Kansas, four members of the Clutter family were savagely murdered by blasts from a shotgun held a few inches from their faces. There was no apparent motive for the crime, and there were almost no clues.

As Truman Capote reconstructs the murder and the investigation that led to the capture, trial, and execution of the killers, he generates both mesmerizing suspense and astonishing empathy. In Cold Blood is a work that transcends its moment, yielding poignant insights into the nature of American violence.

Bind, Torture, Kill : The Inside Story of BTK by Roy Wenzl, Tim Potter, Hurst Lavigne and L. Kelly: For thirty-one years, a monster terrorized the residents of Wichita, Kansas. A bloodthirsty serial killer, self-named “BTK”—for “bind them, torture them, kill them”—he slaughtered men, women, and children alike, eluding the police for decades while bragging of his grisly exploits to the media. The nation was shocked when the fiend who was finally apprehended turned out to be Dennis Rader—a friendly neighbor … a devoted husband … a helpful Boy Scout dad … the respected president of his church.

Written by four award-winning crime reporters who covered the story for more than twenty years,Bind, Torture, Kill is the most intimate and complete account of the BTK nightmare told by the people who were there from the beginning. With newly released documents, evidence, and information—and with the full cooperation, for the very first time, of the Wichita Police Department’s BTK Task Force—the authors have put all the pieces of the grisly puzzle into place, thanks to their unparalleled access to the families of the killer and his victims.

The Road to Jonestown: Jim Jones and Peoples Temple by Jeff Guinn: In the 1950s, a young Indianapolis minister named Jim Jones preached a curious blend of the gospel and Marxism. His congregation was racially mixed, and he was a leader in the early civil rights movement. Eventually, Jones moved his church, Peoples Temple, to northern California, where he got involved in electoral politics and became a prominent Bay Area leader. But underneath the surface lurked a terrible darkness.

In this riveting narrative, Jeff Guinn examines Jones’s life, from his early days as an idealistic minister to a secret life of extramarital affairs, drug use, and fraudulent faith healing, before the fateful decision to move almost a thousand of his followers to a settlement in the jungles of Guyana in South America. Guinn provides stunning new details of the events leading to the fatal day in November, 1978 when more than nine hundred people died—including almost three hundred infants and children—after being ordered to swallow a cyanide-laced drink.

Guinn examined thousands of pages of FBI files on the case, including material released during the course of his research. He traveled to Jones’s Indiana hometown, where he spoke to people never previously interviewed, and uncovered fresh information from Jonestown survivors. He even visited the Jonestown site with the same pilot who flew there the day that Congressman Leo Ryan was murdered on Jones’s orders. The Road to Jonestown is “the most complete picture to date of this tragic saga, and of the man who engineered it…The result is a disturbing portrait of evil—and a compassionate memorial to those taken in by Jones’s malign charisma”

Nothing Is Strange with You: The Life and Crimes of Gordon Stewart Northcott by James Jeffrey Paul: A young man kidnaps his own nephew and makes him his servant and sex slave. He abducts young boys, has his way with them, and, if they know too much, kills them. He forces his nephew to participate in his crimes and to consign these little victims, sometimes still living, to their graves.

His father is afraid of his own son. His son mocks and abuses him, falsely accuses him of incest and child abuseand still he supports his son.

His mother loves her boy and will do anything to help himeven commit murder.

The Gordon Stewart Northcott casea part of which is fictionalized in the major new Clint Eastwood film CHANGELING, starring Angelina Jolieis still, eight decades later, one of the most nightmarish in American criminal annals. This booknearly two decades in the research and writingtells the whole story for the first time.

Fred & Rose: The Full Story of Fred and Rose West and the Gloucester House of Horrors by Howard Sounes: During their long relationship, the Wests murdered a series of young women, burying the remains of nine victims under their home at 25 Cromwell Street, Gloucester, including those of their daughter. What was left of Fred West’s eight-year-old stepdaughter was dug up from under the Wests’ previous Gloucester home; his first wife and nanny were buried in open country. Most victims had been decapitated and dismembered, their remains showing signs of sexual torture. These twelve are just the ones police found when the Wests were arrested in 1994. There may be more whose bones have not been located . . .

Howard Sounes broke the first major story about the Wests as a journalist, and covered the murder trial of Rosemary West, before writing Fred & Rose, the definitive account of this infamous case. Beginning with Fred’s and Rose’s bizarre childhoods, Sounes charts their lives and crimes in forensic detail, creating a fascinating and truly frightening account of a marriage soaked in blood.

The Blood of Emmett Till by Timothy B. Tyson: In 1955, white men in the Mississippi Delta lynched a fourteen-year-old from Chicago named Emmett Till. His murder was part of a wave of white terrorism in the wake of the 1954 Supreme Court decision that declared public school segregation unconstitutional. Only weeks later, Rosa Parks thought about young Emmett as she refused to move to the back of a city bus in Montgomery, Alabama. Five years later, Black students who called themselves “the Emmett Till generation” launched sit-in campaigns that turned the struggle for civil rights into a mass movement. Till’s lynching became the most notorious hate crime in American history.

But what actually happened to Emmett Till—not the icon of injustice, but the flesh-and-blood boy? Part detective story, part political history, The Blood of Emmett Till “unfolds like a movie” (The Atlanta Journal-Constitution), drawing on a wealth of new evidence, including a shocking admission of Till’s innocence from the woman in whose name he was killed. “Jolting and powerful” (The Washington Post), the book “provides fresh insight into the way race has informed and deformed our democratic institutions” (Diane McWhorter, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of Carry Me Home) and “calls us to the cause of justice today” (Rev. Dr. William J. Barber, II, president of the North Carolina NAACP).

In Broad Daylight by Harry N. MacLean: Ken Rex McElroy terrorized the residents of several counties in northwestern Missouri for a score of years. He raped young girls and brutalized them after they went to live with him or even married him; he shot at least two men; he stole cattle and hogs, and burned down the houses of some who interfered with his criminal activities. Thanks to the expert efforts of his lawyer and the pro-defendant bias of state laws, he served no more than a few days in jail, the author shows. In 1981, sentenced for the shooting of a popular grocer and free on bail, he was killed by the men of Skidmore, the center of his felonies; they closed ranks against all attempts to identify those who had pulled the triggers. Written by a first-time author, this is an engrossing, credible examination of the way vigilante action can take over when the law appears to be powerless. BOMC and QPBC alternates.

Killer Clown by Terry Sullivan: He was a model citizen. A hospital volunteer. And one of the most sadistic serial killers of all time. But few people could see the cruel monster beneath the colorful clown makeup that John Gacy wore to entertain children in his Chicago suburb. Few could imagine what lay buried beneath his house of horrors–until a teenaged boy disappeared before Christmas in 1978, leading prosecutor Terry Sullivan on the greatest manhunt of his career.

Reconstructing the investigation–from records of violence in Gacy’s past, to the gruesome discovery of 29 corpses of abused boys in Gacy’s crawlspace and four others found in the nearby river–Sullivan’s shocking eyewitness account takes you where few true crime books ever go: inside the heart of a serial murder investigation and trial.

Inside Alcatraz: My Time on the Rock by Jim Quillen: Jim Quillen, AZ586 – a runaway, problem child and petty thief – was jailed several times before his twentieth birthday. In August 1942, after escaping from San Quentin, he was arrested on the run and sentenced to forty-five years in prison, and later transferred to Alcatraz.

This is the true story of life inside America’s most notorious prison – from terrifying times in solitary confinement to daily encounters with ‘the Birdman’, and what really happened during the desperate and deadly 1946 escape attempt.

Go Down Together: The True, Untold Story of Bonnie and Clyde by Jeff Guinn: Forget everything you think you know about Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker. Previous books and films, including the brilliant 1967 movie starring Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway, have emphasized the supposed glamour of America’s most notorious criminal couple, thus contributing to ongoing mythology. The real story is completely different — and far more fascinating.

[thetpot]

I just read you 10 stories post and I never knew you wrote Once upon a play and inconveniences. For some reason I realy love Once Upon a Play since it is such a fun story! So I had a question, since I think that I can safely assume you won't finish any of your old work. How were all you old stories supposed to end? So inconvenieces, on the sands of time (which is also a good story but just never got that far), etc. And maybe even what happened with Aang and Zuko later in Once Upon a play, since being gay illegal was in the fire nation.

oh my god, i’m screaming that someone who read my old work found me. biting my fist and screaaaming. 

first of all, i’m glad you enjoyed them :) all those stories have big (huge, gargantuan, unavoidable!!!) issues but writing them brought me joy too. once upon a play especially was such a shitshow lmaoo, i was hammering out like 4000 word chapters a day and then doing the whole shitty “comment for an update thing” in the a/n. ew lol, anway :)

yes, it’s safe to assume i’ll never finish them. maybe i’ll adapt the concept for once upon a play and revamp it with more of an understanding of how ember island players was imperialist propaganda rather than just a cutesy fun play. something like: what might it mean for certain earth kingdom political figures, who perhaps were doing better under the fire nation (currying the fire nation’s favour by weakening the earth kingdom’s infrastructure), to leverage something outrageous like a play claiming the scion of the fire nation and the last airbender are in an illicit affair, and use it to weaken specifically zuko’s position back home and threaten to destabilize the peace. something along those lines.

i also quite like on the sands of time, but i’m iffy now on divorcing the characters from the world of atla and dropping them in some ahistoric middle eastern setting. i’d have to think long and hard on what kind of cultural and religious influences i want to include and what i want to ignore. it’s unlikely but if i was to work on any of them again, i’d pick those two. 

as for how they were going to finish (or at least what was planned next, because i did not used to entirely outline all my fics, i think that might be obvious on re-reading once upon a play especially lmaooo), some elements i wanted to explore in inconveniences was that toph and iroh had an existing friendship that aang and zuko didn't know about, big party at sokka and katara's house, shenanigans with jet at that party, zuko and jet finally ending their fling at some point. aang's central arc within that story was basically this (taken from an old zipped file in the depths of my google drive, i didn't even remember i had this anymore lol): aang is tired of the sheltered life has been forced to live under gyatso’s wing. dissatisfied with his life, he is convinced that the answer lies in the conventional teen life – in parties, girls and alcohol. almost everything he does throughout the course of the story is in an attempt to live life to the fullest, to find the key to making himself feel whole for the first time in his life. however, as the story progresses, aang realizes that the void in his life does not need alcohol or drugs or parties or girls to fill it. he realizes that the only thing lacking in his life may have been maturity on his part.

which is yaknow… some characterization? not  sure how i feel about it now, but at least, it's something lol.

as for zuko, he comes to realize the full extent of his disillusionment from life and considers that aang may be the key to fixing it once and for all. as the story progresses, zuko tries to find with jet the connection he feels with aang but is disappointed when he realizes that jet is nothing like the person he imagined him to be.

even though jet initially appears to only be a conventional villain, he is later fleshed out as we see that zuko is his safe zone, the only person with whom he relaxes. this connection, however, is negated by the fact that jet constantly does things to sabotage his relationship with zuko.

the thing about jet is interesting because it's more nuance than i gave him within the story in the first 8 chapters. i'm not convinced how well i would have been able to execute those layers of his characterization but yaknow, i guess it's nice to know i wasn't just trying to demonize him? i can promise you that i had no intention 11 years ago of extending even an ounce of that same nuance to the female characters, sadly.

anyway, the story was intended to wind down with aang being really reckless with his freedom, gyatso returning and aang needing to reckon with the fact that his actions have consequences (probably something to do with accidentally outing zuko since he treated his relationship with jet with a lot of disregard in the story, as far as i remember), and aang needing to repair his relationship with gyatso once he returns.

i'm iffy on the characterization of aang, looking back, but i won't say much on it coz it's a characterization, i guess? just not the one i'd go for if i was writing aang today.

as for on the sands of time, the next phase of the story would have been zuko realizing that azula is hot on their heels and separating from the group, realizing he cannot best azula on his own and so deciding to play double-agent with azula and string her along long enough to allow aang a chance of survival. azula and zuko would then chase them to the edge of the desert and gyatso dies before he can tell aang he is the avatar. to escape azula (and zuko), aang ends up bending both water and air. 

as per gyatso's instructions, aang, katara and sokka venture deeper into the desert and along the way run into suki and the kyoshi warriors (who guard the boundary deeper into the desert), jet and his pals (who guard a part of the desert with huge geoglyphs of animals in exchange for the spirits granting them reduced dependence on water and food) and also zuko as the blue spirit. as they progress through the desert, they are aided by two mysterious figures who seem to be aiding them (surprise, it’s zuko and azula because the ozai actually does want aang to end up at the spirit gathering, he just wants to engineer that arrival to exploit that spirit energy for... something?). 

end of the story, zuko and azula finally catch up, big fight between azula, zuko, the gaang, the freedom fighters and the spirits, and zuko almost dies. aang goes into the avatar state for the first time. and apparently, according to my bizzare notes, that's the end of volume 1 (?!!!). i literally forgot until this very moment that it was supposed to be a multi-volume story (lmao what). basically volume 1 was supposed to build this attraction between zuko and aang which comes to a head at the end of volume 1, when aang's distress at seeing zuko hurt activates the avatar state, and zuko nearly gets aang killed by revealing his hand to azula.

and then there's volume 2 (?! i still can't get over 12 year old me's ambition lmao). after the gaang and zuko flee from azula, both he and aang acknowledge their feelings for one another but iroh back in the white lotus is well aware that zuko is endangering the avatar because of his feelings and assigns someone else to protect the gaang.  zuko leaves without telling aang, but instead of recalling zuko back to the city where iroh is, he makes zuko stay in the same city where aang is. aang tracks him down and they run into each other constantly while aang masters earthbending, and tension builds between zuko and aang as they resist their feelings for one another. the major conflict of this volume is when iroh tries to assign someone else as aang's firebending teacher. shenanigans ensue, tension galore. meanwhile, azula moves in to attack the city and once again, zuko and the gaang run (definitely sensing some repetition here lmao).

and then i never outlined volume 3 because i was a moron - an adorably ambitious one, but alas, one lacking the discipline to write what i think was supposed to be a 150k+ saga (?!).

as for what comes after once upon a play, i can promise you i barely thought about what was going to happen next in that story, much less what would happen after it. 

anywho, i hope that answers your question :). it was nice to pull out my decade old notebook and realize i still had all these notes squirreled away somewhere lol.