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junghelioseok · 5 years ago

Text

covenant.

↳ your best friend’s engagement forces you to reevaluate your own feelings.

◇ hoseok x reader ◇ smut | angst | werewolf!au | f2l!au ◇ 16.4k [1/1]

⇢ arguably also an arranged marriage!au, ft. kinda sorta dumbasses to lovers? a very, very late bday fic for the most beautiful man in the universe and my favorite funky lil dancer. ♡

notes: i started this in my drafts well over three months ago and all it said was “this ain’t gonna be on time for hobi’s bday i can feel it” and damn if past!me wasn’t right on the money!!! this has undergone three edits, going from 14.6k to 16.4k somehow, and i am going to lose my whole damn mind if i don’t just post it so here it is! hope you enjoy!

warnings: dom!hobi, alpha!hobi, bit of dirty talk, oral (f receiving), some grinding against hobi’s thigh, knotting, hobi’s got a big dick idk, also he’s in heat!!! but things eventually get really soft bc i love him and am a Soft Bitch™ 🤷🏻‍♀️

It’s going to rain.

You can smell it in the air and feel the damp chill against your skin, permeating through every layer of your clothing. The surrounding forest and all its occupants seem to be collectively holding their breath, waiting for the first drops to come. Even your footsteps, soft as they are against the loamy earth, sound much too loud in the hush that’s fallen. Dark clouds gather overhead, looming like an omen, and you silently reach into your purse to check that the umbrella you’d stowed this morning is still there. Vaguely, you wonder if it’s big enough for two.

Around you, the trees slowly begin to dwindle, until there’s only open sky above your head and a wide grassy expanse beneath your feet. A certain heaviness lingers in the air here—a low thrum of energy, born from the ancient magic that sleeps in the gnarled roots of the tree that sits in the center of the clearing. You can feel it prickling along your skin, raising gooseflesh and igniting your veins, and the closer you get, the stronger the feeling becomes.

At the far end of the clearing, you spot a small crowd of people, all clad in black. Your best friend—and your entire reason for venturing out today—stands amongst them in a tailored suit, his black tie snug at his throat and laid atop a charcoal gray shirt. He’s chatting with his father and a few other family members, seemingly calm and collected, but you can tell from the sloppy knot of his tie and the way he fidgets with the hem of his jacket that he is anything but. After all your years of friendship, you can read Jung Hoseok like a book. His auburn hair is disheveled as if he’s been incessantly raking his fingers through it, and even at a distance, you can sense the turmoil in his aura, haloing him like the stormy clouds overhead.

Sensing your approach, Hoseok’s gaze flickers up to meet yours. He raises a hand in greeting and bids farewell to the people he’d been chatting with, picking his way over to you with a wan smile.

“Hey. You made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss this,” you reply, reaching out to take his hand. It’s warm and strong as always, but you don’t miss the slight tremor in his grip. “How are you holding up?”

He shrugs half-heartedly, a sigh escaping his lips and dissipating into mist in the wintry air. “As well as can be expected, I guess. It just… it all happened so fast.”

“I know,” you murmur, twining your fingers together in quiet reassurance. “I’m so sorry, Hobi.”

“Thanks.”

Slowly, his gaze flits to the center of the clearing where the ancient tree sits, traversing from the leafy canopy all the way down to where the gnarled roots disappear into the dirt. In its shadow sits a polished wooden casket, and you squeeze Hoseok’s hand gently as he walks closer, his eyes beginning to glisten.

“I still can’t believe he’s gone, you know,” he mumbles. “All these years of war, of negotiations and peace talks, finally seeing the Accords pass and the company flourish… and now he’s gone. Cancer. Just like that.”

His voice cracks on the last sentence, and you clasp his hand a little tighter. You know as well as he does that a healthy werewolf can live for well over a century, if not for the human genetics that remain susceptible to human weaknesses and disease. True immortality afflicts only the faeries and the vampires of your world—and even then, there are still ways that those folk can die.

“He lived a long life,” you say after a moment’s hesitation, grasping onto any semblance of comfort you can offer. Together, you and Hoseok come to a stop in the shadow of the tree, peering at the closed casket where his grandfather lays. “And it was a good, just life. Not all of us can say that.”

A lone, wet droplet falls onto the polished mahogany, and Hoseok hastily wipes his eyes, tilting his head skyward. “Not long enough,” he whispers. “He still had so much to do. I… I still have so much I wanted to do—to say. And now I’ll never be able to.”

You caress a thumb across his knuckles, the motion soft and tender. “I know. And I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

Hoseok glances down at that, a glimmer of something manic and desperate swimming in his amber-flecked irises. “You could,” he says, grabbing both your hands and clutching them to his chest like a lifeline. “You could bring him back. You know how, don’t you?”

You shake your head sadly, hating the way his frown deepens as you free yourself from his grasp. “That’s forbidden magic, Hobi. That’s necromancy. You know I can’t do that.”

Hoseok’s entire body sags, his shoulders slumping as he lets out a heavy sigh. Instinctively, you step forward to wrap him in a hug, and he loops his arms around your waist automatically, pulling you flush against him. “I know,” he mumbles into your hair. Then he huffs out a dry chuckle, humorless and deprecating. “Fuck. I’m a mess, huh?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. Instead, you hold him a little tighter, rubbing his back soothingly in long, slow motions—the same way his mother used to do during bedtime. His heart thuds erratically in his chest, fast and frenzied like a caged bird, but lulls as you continue your ministrations, settling into an even rhythm once more.

“Thank you,” he murmurs after a few moments, his warm breath caressing your cheek. “For coming today. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“You can do anything, Hobi,” you reassure, running a thumb along the sharp line of his jaw when he raises his head to look at you. “With or without me. But… you’re welcome, all the same.”

Your presence at this funeral is unusual, and both you and Hoseok know it. Werewolf packs tend to keep their rites and ceremonies private, and the Gwangju pack is no different. Led by Hoseok’s father, and his late grandfather before him, the werewolves of the city have rapidly risen to prominence and power, aided in large part by the founding of JungTech. The company, started by Hoseok’s grandfather, began as a small operation in a battered old warehouse, but quickly grew to become one of Gwangju’s biggest corporations after the signing of the Accords twenty years ago. The peace treaty marked the start of a tenuous coexistence between humankind and Shadowfolk, and, together with your fellow witches—along with the werewolves, vampires, and the few fair folk who decided to leave their homes deep in the forests��you migrated into cities all over the country to forge new lives.

It’s proven easier for some. While the wolves of the city have found tolerance—acceptance, even—you have not fared quite as well. Humans, you have found, tend to fear the ancient magic that runs through your veins. Though nothing you’ve faced comes remotely close to what your ancestors faced in centuries past, you remain wary of those who take a little too much interest in your abilities.

You’re a bit paranoid, your familiar, Bast, has remarked on more than one occasion. But it’s justified, so I suppose it’s all right.

As if sensing that your thoughts have turned to him, Bast stirs in the back of your mind. You feel him yawn and stretch lazily before there’s a tug on the soles of your feet, as if the force of gravity has suddenly, inexplicably doubled. Then he’s materializing—morphing out of the spot where your shadow would be if the sun were shining, taking the form of an inky black cat with sharp, golden eyes. Hoseok perks up when Bast loops between his ankles, and immediately squats down to scratch behind his ears, a small smile settling across his face as a low, content purr rumbles up from beneath his fingertips. From elsewhere in the clearing, a single howl rises up into the air, forlorn and wavering.

It’s starting, Bast says in your head. At the same time, Hoseok straightens to his full height, fiddling with the hem of his black jacket and looking over at you tentatively.

“Sounds like they’re getting started,” he says.

You nod. “I should go.”

Hoseok opens his mouth as if to protest—as if to say no, stay—but you know better and cut him off with a single raised finger.

“I’ll go,” you murmur. “This is a private rite, and I don’t want to break centuries of tradition by overstaying my welcome. Go join your pack, Hobi.”

“Will I see you later?”

“Without a doubt.”

Your parting gesture is to reach out and grab his hand, tucking a little drawstring bag into his palm and closing his fingers over it. “Valerian root and chamomile,” you tell him gently, taking in his rumpled collar and the dark bags beneath his eyes. “Make some tea tonight. It’ll help.”

Hoseok swallows and nods, his features softening as he gazes down at his hand cupped in your smaller ones. He looks like he wants to say something, but another howl interrupts, disrupting whatever thoughts he may have had. Instead, he nods again, murmuring a soft goodbye before turning on his heel to join the rest of the pack gathering around the raised casket. You turn as well, leaving behind the ancient clearing with Bast trotting by your side.

Up above, the heavens finally open, drenching the dirt path beneath your feet with rain. And behind you, the single howl is joined by dozens more, echoing mournfully up into the weeping sky.

///

You’re in the middle of straightening out a display of dittany when the kettle begins to boil, emitting three short, shrill whistles accompanied by a long stream of whirling steam. When silence falls over the shop once more, you wander over to where the kettle sits—atop a small wooden end table next to an old wardrobe. It’s an old relic that’s been passed down through generations of witches in your family, wrought out of silvery metal and suspended in an iron frame above a single lit candle. The flame is glowing pink, flickering in a nonexistent gust of wind, and you smile. Quietly, you grab two teacups from a nearby shelf.

Not two seconds later, the door of the old wardrobe creaks open, revealing the familiar face of Kim Seokjin behind it. A fellow witch and a good friend of yours, Jin has made a name for himself as a baker, running a café in Seoul that offers all sorts of confections—both with magical properties and without. His hair is dyed a muted dusty rose—a stark contrast to the casual black hoodie and jeans he’s wearing—and you reach out to push a stray lock back from his forehead in lieu of a greeting.

“Your hair’s pink again,” you remark. “I like it.”

Jin grins, his plush lips pulling back to reveal perfect teeth. “Thanks.” Carefully, he steps out of the wardrobe and shuts the door behind him. A beat of silence passes, and you take the opportunity to select a canister of tea leaves. You don’t miss the flicker of solemnity that settles into Jin’s features, though, listening as he clears his throat before voicing the question that is undoubtedly the reason behind his unexpected visit.

“So. How’s Hoseok holding up?”

Jin has never been one to mince his words. You suppose you appreciate that about him.

Quietly, you lift the kettle out of its stand and beckon for him to join you at the little wooden table at the front of your shop. It’s tucked neatly into the nook carved out by one of the two bay windows on either side of the front door, flanked by two well-worn, mismatched chairs. Atop it sits a pile of books—everything from ancient remedies to common household spells.

One book in particular always sits open—a detailed list of all the herbs and plants you carry in your shop, along with the various concoctions you’ve created with them. Hellebore, the spine of the book reads, and it’s the same word that graces your storefront in flowing, golden text. An apothecary of sorts, you spend your days dealing out potions and remedies to those in need, both human and Shadowfolk. You do your best to help, for all the times modern medicine has come up short and left someone wanting.

“Honestly? I don’t think he’s been sleeping.” You set the teacups down onto the table and fill them both before handing one over to Jin. “I saw him this morning, at the funeral. He looked exhausted.”

Jin’s brows disappear behind his pink hair. “You went to the funeral?”

“I didn’t stay,” you clarify, taking a sip of your tea. “Just wanted to drop by, say hello, and pay my respects.”

“Werewolves are a private bunch,” Jin remarks. “I’m surprised.”

You shrug. “Hoseok wanted me to be there. So I went.”

“I see.” He doesn’t say anything further, and neither do you, lapsing instead into a comfortable silence that’s broken only by the occasional sip of tea and the clinking of china. Your gaze wanders, drifting over to the front door of your shop, painted a cheerful green and set with a flowery stained glass window that throws kaleidoscopic rainbows across the cream walls and dark wooden floor. Sunlight streams through the wide bay windows, illuminating the interior in warm, hazy gold. On the other side of the room, Bast is curled up, fast asleep on his favorite plush bench beside the glass door that leads to the greenhouse, perfectly haloed by the sun.

“Must be nice being able to fall asleep anywhere,” you mutter, almost to yourself.

Jin hears you anyway, a chuckle escaping his lips. “You sound jealous.”

“Maybe I am,” you reply, laughing with him. “Speaking of which, where’s Adam? Did he stay home?”

Jin nods, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the wardrobe. “Yeah, he’s keeping an eye on the café. Told me to say hi to you for him, though.”

You giggle at the thought of Jin’s familiar, a long-haired sheepdog with a stubborn streak the size of the Nile and blatant disdain for following orders—especially those that come from Jin himself. “Keeping watch, or trashing the place?” you tease.

“With my luck, probably both,” Jin admits with a sigh. “I should probably get back there soon. He ate all the egg tarts last time.”

“Bring him with you next time,” you advise. “Bast will keep him entertained.”

He grins. “I don’t doubt it.”

Finishing off the last of his tea, he stands up and taps the rim of his cup, murmuring a soft cleaning spell under his breath. You smile gratefully as he replaces it back onto the shelf with the others, and stand to walk him back over to the wardrobe. Opening up the creaky door, you watch him clamber inside, standing amongst the hanging coats and the single pair of shoes on the bottom shelf.

“See you later,” you murmur. “Give Adam my best.”

Jin nods. “See you.”

He shuts the door, and you watch the flame of the candle once again turn a soft, roseate pink. It flickers briefly, dancing in an invisible breeze, before reverting back to the color of regular fire, signaling Jin’s departure. Quietly, you clean your own teacup and return it to the shelf.

The remainder of the afternoon passes with few customers, so you opt to close down early and head to your apartment, located up a short flight of stairs on the second floor of the shop. You’re rifling through the refrigerator for dinner ingredients and humming softly under your breath when your phone suddenly rings, Hoseok’s name lighting up the screen in bright white text. “Hey, Hobi,” you say, swiping across the glass to answer. “What’s up?”

On the other end of the line, Hoseok exhales shakily. “Can you come over?”

You blink, glancing at the darkening sky outside. “Now?”

“Yeah. Fuck, sorry. I know it’s late, but I really… I really need to talk to someone. I—” His voice cracks, and your heart sinks. “I need you.”

“Say no more.” Straightening up, you shut the refrigerator door and tug off your apron. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Have you eaten yet?”

Hoseok sighs. “No.”

“I’ll bring takeout,” you decide, already glancing around for your purse. “See you soon, okay?”

Bidding him farewell, you don your coat and head out the door, locking up behind you. Hoseok lives downtown in a sleek, modern penthouse that’s normally a twenty-minute walk away from Hellebore, but after stopping by the restaurant on the corner for food, you opt to catch the bus instead. Fifteen minutes after you hang up the phone, you are rapping the bronze knocker on Hoseok’s front door, a paper bag and a bottle of wine in hand.

Almost instantly, the door is flung open. Hoseok stands in the threshold as if he’s been waiting there, his auburn hair wild and his eyes even wilder. His aura is turbulent, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Hey.”

“Hey.” You raise the bag. “I brought dinner.”

“You’re the best,” he sighs, stepping aside to let you in.

Hoseok’s apartment toes the line between modern and cozy in a way that only Hoseok’s apartment could—with lush green plants and plushy, earth-toned furniture to offset the cold impersonality of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the stainless steel kitchen. Flicking on the kitchen light, you set the food down on the granite countertop and grab two wine glasses out of the cabinet. Hoseok sidles over as you pour a generous helping into each glass, rifling through the silverware drawer for utensils.

“Smells good,” he murmurs, popping a box open. “I’m starving. Thanks for bringing dinner.”

You brush off his gratitude and hand him a glass, raising yours so you can clink it gently against his. Quietly, the two of you fall into a comfortable routine, with Hoseok grabbing the food and you grabbing the bottle of wine to bring into the living room. You help him clear off the coffee table and arrange the food, then settle onto the couch beside him, sipping your drink in silence and patiently waiting for him to gather his thoughts. Years of friendship have taught you that he’ll talk when he’s ready, and you’re content to wait as long as he needs.

Sighing, Hoseok tips the rest of his wine back into his mouth before setting the empty glass down with a soft plink. “So,” he begins, not quite looking you in the eye. “My dad and I had lunch today.”

You stay quiet, waiting for him to continue. He takes several more seconds to muster up the words, and when he finally finds them, they’re exhaled in a tumbling rush. “He told me that he’s pleased with how I’m running JungTech. It’s been over a year, and things are going well… so he wants to expedite my takeover of the pack. In two months, he wants me to take over as the alpha. And…” He swallows. “He wants me to settle down.”

Perturbed, you blink. “What?”

Hoseok finally looks at you, his expression frighteningly devoid of emotion. “He wants me to get married, {Name}.”

Comprehension doesn’t settle in right away. But when it does, your jaw drops to the floor, landing somewhere alongside the ornamental persian carpet and a stray sock that has no doubt jumped ship from Hoseok’s laundry.

“W-what?” you manage after a few long seconds of gaping at him. “Why? Why now? That’s so… that’s completely out of the blue.”

Hoseok shakes his head, a few shaggy strands of auburn hair falling across his forehead and into his eyes. “It’s not, actually. He’s been talking about it for a long time—trying to arrange something with one of the other pack families. It’s tradition, you know? Mating within the pack, keeping the bloodlines pure through marriage. The difference is that Pops always talked him out of it. Always said I was too young, that there was no rush, that I should wait for someone I love, my true mate...” He sighs, heavily. “But he’s gone now. And Dad’s decided that he’s done waiting.”

You shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t, because you know it’ll hurt, but the question comes regardless—leaving your lips in a near whisper. “Who?”

Hoseok takes a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as he exhales. “Do you remember Im Nayeon?”

You do. You’ve known Nayeon almost as long as you’ve known Hoseok—the three of you having attended the same schools starting from elementary all the way up until Hoseok left to attend university in Seoul. Admittedly, you were never close—and if you were completely honest, you always found her to be a bit disingenuous for your tastes. Nevertheless, you often found yourself at the same events—parties and gatherings you attended at Hoseok’s request, and that she was privy to due to her family’s high-ranking status within the Gwangju pack.

“I remember,” you tell him, your bottom lip finding its way between your teeth. “Does… does she know yet? Have you met up with her?”

Hoseok nods. “She was there this morning, at the funeral. We talked a little bit and got coffee after, but… this is all happening so fast.” Slowly, he tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, a sigh escaping his parted lips. “But there’s nothing I can do, right? It’s enough that Dad’s somehow talked Mom into the whole thing, but now he’s gotten the Council on board too. Did you know that Nayeon has an uncle on the Council? It’s insane, right?”

“Insane,” you agree in a whisper, doing your best to ignore the way your heart is splintering at the edges.

“You know, I always thought my Dad pressuring me was bad.” Hoseok buries his face in his hands, peering at you from between his splayed fingers when you hum in acknowledgment. “But this? The entire Council on my back? This is way worse.”

“I’m sorry.” You don’t know what else there is to say. Your ribcage feels like it’s been split open and filled with burning coals, weighing hot and heavy on your insides.

Hoseok has dated in the past, of course. You both have—chasing that elusive, fluttery feeling called love and never quite being able to catch it and hold on. Hoseok’s last relationship fizzled long before he graduated from university, having lasted only about six months. You distinctly remember meeting the girl during one of your frequent visits to Seoul, at a small party hosted by Hoseok and his friends. By your next visit, however, things had already ended. He never really told you why the breakup occurred either—only that the relationship never would have lasted in the long run.

Perhaps foolishly, you chose not to pry.

“Is there anything I can do?” you ask softly. Reaching out, you take ahold of his hand and tug it into your lap, threading your fingers into the gaps between his. The gesture is familiar and comforting, like cocoa in front of a lit fireplace, and you can’t even begin to fathom the idea of another person sitting here and holding his hand in your stead.

“Just talk to me,” Hoseok entreaties, squeezing your fingers. “Distract me. What’s going on with you?”

You hum, swallowing down the lump in your throat and letting your head fall onto his shoulder as you pick through the events of the past week for the most interesting tidbits. “Bast has been bringing me dead rats lately,” you finally say, nose scrunching at the memory. “You should see the size of them—they’re almost bigger than he is. And they smell like the sewers, because I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s where he’s getting them from. It’s horrid.”

Hoseok huffs out a stilted laugh. “Sewer rats? Gross.”

“It’s not all bad, to be honest,” you tell him, nestling a little closer to the warmth of his body. Hoseok keeps his apartment chillier than you’re accustomed to, and you’re beyond grateful for the furnace-like heat he gives off naturally. “The bones are pretty useful. The tails too, provided you don’t tell people what they actually are.”

His laugh is much more genuine this time. “Tricky little minx,” he says, amusement lacing his tone. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

You ignore the uptick in your heart rate at his approval, grateful that he can’t see your face as a pulse of heat flushes your cheeks. Instead, you burrow into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. Hoseok smells like the forest—fresh and woodsy, with a slight floral undercurrent from his fabric softener. It smells like home, and you smile when his arm comes up to wrap around your shoulders.

“Jin came by today,” you murmur.

“Yeah?” The monosyllabic response rumbles through his chest.

“Yeah. He asked about you, too. You should probably text him later.”

Hoseok hums a confirmation, and, satisfied, you cuddle a little closer to him. You pull at the afghan he keeps laid over the back of the couch, laying it comfortably over your lap as he rests his head gently atop yours, his ear pressed to your crown. Your eyes fall shut as you listen to the rhythmic thud of his pulse—solid and steady, backed by the soft hum of the refrigerator and distant traffic on the street far below.

It’s comfortable, sitting with him like this. Comfortable, stroking his arm with your fingertips, in time with the drumbeat of his heart. Ever so gradually, Hoseok’s breathing evens out, and you briefly think that you could stay like this—encapsulated in this delicate, iridescent bubble of contentment—for the rest of your life.

You know the thing about bubbles, though? Bast remarks dryly in your head. They burst.

I know, you sigh.

I know.

///

There’s something soothing about taking inventory—something calming in the repetition of walking down the aisles of Hellebore and restocking the shelves one by one. You’d woken this morning to an apologetic Hoseok making pancakes in the kitchen, his residual heat and woodsy scent lingering on the blanket tucked around your body. After a harried breakfast and a promise to text you later, Hoseok rushed off to the office.

You, in turn, returned to your shop, where you grabbed every ounce of cleaning supplies you possess and scrubbed the place from top to bottom, foregoing all of your usual dishwashing charms and dust-clearing jinxes. The physical labor is a welcome distraction from the events and revelations of last night, and you’ve thrown yourself wholeheartedly into all the chores you need to complete.

“Almost out of rosehip oil,” you mutter, eyeing the half-empty vial and making a note to extract more from one of several plants in your greenhouse. “Low on valerian too, hmm…”

The bell over the front door jingles merrily, diverting your attention away from your task. “{Name}?” a voice calls softly. A moment later, a familiar head of coppery red hair pops around the edge of the shelves, choppy bangs framing a soft, warm face. “Hey, there you are. You busy?”

You shake your head and shut your inventory book, setting it down on the nearest shelf. “Not terribly, no. What brings you here today, Lisa?”

Lisa’s answering smile is sheepish. “Got something to return,” she says, holding up a little glass jar full of lavender colored pills that you immediately recognize. “I’m guessing you’ve already heard the news. Looks like I won’t be needing these anymore, right?”

Your laugh sounds brittle, even to your own ears. “Right. Yeah. Not anymore.”

For just over ten years, Lisa has been the wolf assigned to help Hoseok through his heat. Between his family’s status and his longtime designation as the next alpha of the Gwangju pack, it’s imperative for Hoseok to avoid anything that might be perceived as scandalous. Torrid sex stories splashed across tabloid covers is the last thing a man like Hoseok needs, and that’s where Lisa comes in. Once a year, for three days, she goes to him, and no one is none the wiser. Her job is one that calls for the utmost discretion, and as the daughter of a high-ranking Council official, no one understood that better than she did. You’d only found out because of your role as one of the few witches in the country who makes and stocks the proper contraceptives for such wolves—the dosage much stronger than the human equivalent.

And when Lisa had first approached you to purchase the pills, you’d dropped two jars and nearly set fire to a third. Your stomach had fallen to somewhere around your toes, right alongside the shattered glass and little lavender tablets.

You’d chalked the accident up to surprise. Hoseok hadn’t mentioned anything to you, after all, and you’d known very little about the intricacies of werewolf heats back then, having just opened your shop at age eighteen. But surprise doesn’t explain the snaking jealousy that bubbles up in your tummy every time Lisa comes in to restock her supply of pills, nor does it explain the overwhelming sense of relief you feel now as she presses the unopened jar into your hands.

“I still can’t believe he’s going to be the most powerful man in Gwangju soon.” Lisa steps back, tucking her hair behind her ear and letting out a soft sigh. “And now he’s engaged, too. It’s pretty crazy, huh?”

“Crazy,” you agree tonelessly, turning to replace the jar onto the appropriate shelf.

Lisa, however, is nothing if not perceptive. A gentle hand lands on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. “Hey,” she begins, soft and slow. “You know you can talk to me, right? Are you—?”

But the sound of the bell drowns out the rest of her question, metallic and bright in the quiet of your shop. “Hello? Anyone home?” a cheery voice asks.

“Be right there,” you say immediately, shrugging off Lisa’s hand and stepping out from amongst the shelves. There’s a young woman standing at the checkout counter, rifling through the collection of seeds on display, and you cringe as she replaces a few packets in the wrong spots. “How can I help you?”

At the sound of your voice, the woman turns gracefully on her heel, her expression a perfectly crafted amalgamation of surprise and delight. “{Name}!” she exclaims, stepping forward with an outstretched arm. “Long time no see!”

“N-Nayeon,” you stammer, the shock of seeing her face freezing you in place. “What… what brings you here?”

The dark-haired woman steps forward to pull you into a hug, enveloping you in her fruity perfume. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to catch up with an old friend?” she asks playfully.

We were never friends, you want to say. In your head, Bast lets out a derisive snort of agreement. Lisa, you notice, has conveniently melted away somewhere amidst the organized chaos of your shop, disappearing into the myriad shelves and knickknacks.

“Plus, I really wanted to look at some flowers,” Nayeon continues, betraying her true purpose at last. “You’ve heard, haven’t you? About my engagement? I’m sure Hoseok—I mean, my fiancé—has mentioned it to you, of all people. You are his best friend, after all.”

The inside of the shop is beginning to feel stifling. Perspiration trickles down your neck and you tug at your collar, loosening the material from where it’s plastered against your skin. “Sure,” you manage, once you feel like you can breathe again. “Right. Sure. The flowers are right this way, if you want to follow me.”

I’d forgotten how much I don’t like her, your familiar remarks dryly in your head.

Shut up, Bast.

Mercifully, he does. There’s a tug on your feet, and you glance down just in time to see him morph out of the shadow you cast against the sun-drenched floor. Ghostly and amorphous at first, he quickly solidifies into the feline figure you’ve grown accustomed to, and slinks protectively around your ankles before darting off to perch in the cushioned bay window seat.

Conveniently, that’s also where the flower display is. Colorful blooms and trailing leaves adorn the wooden shelves and tables in this particular corner of the shop, and you force yourself to shift back into professional mode as you come to a stop in front of an assortment of honeysuckle. “So, what kind of flowers are you looking for?” you ask, brushing your fingers along the pale yellow petals.

Nayeon hums thoughtfully and picks up a potted rosebush, examining it from all angles. “Roses, maybe. Are roses too clichéd now?” She brings the crimson buds closer and inhales, eyes fluttering shut. “No matter. I’ve always liked them.”

“They’re beautiful,” you agree, turning your attention to the selection of roses lining the topmost shelf. “Do you have a color preferen—?”

“Or maybe these would be better,” Nayeon interrupts, plucking up a pale pink calla lily from the bouquet you keep in a table display. “Or that one—what is it?”

You follow the trajectory of her gaze to a bunch of little white flowers with golden centers, stark against the dark dirt and surrounding green foliage. “That would be bloodroot,” you answer. “One of my personal favorites—it’s both ornamental and medicinal. It would look lovely in a bouquet.”

Nayeon pulls a face and shakes her head. “No, no—I don’t want anything with such a horrible name. What about these?” she asks, reaching up to take a closer look at a larger bloom. “Peonies, right?”

By the time Nayeon makes it back to the checkout counter with a few sample rose cuttings in hand, you’re fairly certain that several eternities have passed. “Is there anything else you need?” you ask as you ring her up and wrap the flowers neatly in paper.

“A discount for an old friend?” she queries, shooting you a playful wink. When you don’t answer right away, she giggles. “I’m kidding! Obviously, I’ll pay. It’s not like I’m pressed for money—I mean, you’ve seen who my fiancé is, right? Now gosh, where did I put my wallet?”

Your cheeks are beginning to feel far too hot. Nayeon is still rummaging in her purse, and you quickly duck beneath the counter under the pretense of looking for some ribbon to tie off the bouquet. Fanning your face, you take a few deep breaths, listening as she continues chattering away.

“We’re having dinner tonight, actually, Hoseok and I. It’ll be our second real date, and… wait!” She gasps, and you peer up just in time to see her slap a hand over her perfectly lacquered mouth. “You should come! Bring someone, if you can—it’ll be like a double date!”

If you can? Bast snipes. Curse her.

You sigh inwardly and straighten back up, ribbon in hand. Shut up, Bast.

If you won’t, I will.

You’ll do no such thing.

Mustering up your best, most earnest smile, you hand over the wrapped flowers along with her change. “That sounds like fun,” you tell her, ignoring the way your insides lurch at the lie. “When and where?”

Nayeon beams and rattles off the address of an unfamiliar restaurant. “Don’t be late!” she calls as she heads for the door. The bell jangles cheerily as she departs, and as soon as the door shuts behind her, Lisa pokes her head around a nearby bookshelf.

“Finally,” she sighs, walking over to join you. “I thought she’d never leave.”

Ordinarily, you wouldn’t dare speak ill of a customer, but you’re willing to make an exception today. “You and me both,” you reply, watching as Bast slinks over like a shadow and hops onto the counter beside you. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your elbow in silent solidarity, and you mindlessly begin scratching behind his ears as Lisa speaks again.

“Are you really going to go to that dinner tonight?”

You meet her gaze, shrugging. “I already said I would. Do I really have a choice?”

There isn’t much else to say, and both you and she know it. Pushing off from where she’s leaning against the countertop, Lisa flips her coppery hair over her shoulder and shoots you a look, brown eyes full of sympathy. “Good luck,” she says sincerely. You get the feeling that she wants to say something else, but decides against it at the last minute. Instead, she bids you goodbye and walks out with a wave and another chime of the bell. Silence settles over the shop once more, and you allow yourself a few moments to breathe—slow and deep, in and out—before picking up your phone and opening up the most recent text messages. It doesn’t take long to find the name you’re looking for, but you still pause, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, before you begin to type.

[4:21pm] You: how would you like to join me for a very awkward dinner date?

[4:21pm] Jin: consider me intrigued.

///

You and Jin arrive at the restaurant first. It’s an ornate, palatial place with tuxedoed waitstaff and a coat room, and despite giving the name ‘Jung’ at the door, you’re certain that Hoseok played no part in the venue selection. The host ushers you to a booth tucked in the back, the cushioned seats a velvety burgundy and a chandelier glittering overhead, throwing refracted, iridescent light across the veined marble table. All of a sudden, the simple black dress you’re wearing feels painfully inadequate. Glancing down at your feet, you wonder if you should have worn heels instead.

Beside you, Jin cuts a striking figure in a creamy silk shirt with ribbons that tie into a bow at his throat, the material loose and flowy up until where it tucks into fitted black slacks. His pink hair complements the elegant outfit perfectly, parted and swept off his forehead to reveal his dark brows.

As if reading your mind, he lays a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You look beautiful,” he says, before gesturing at the booth. “Now, do you want the inside or outside? Think you’ll need to make a quick getaway at some point?”

“Probably,” you sigh. Jin nods and sits down first, and you watch him slide across the seat cushion before settling in beside him. “I still can’t believe you volunteered to be here,” you murmur, plucking up one of the folded cloth napkins and fiddling with the crisp white edges. “You’re a saint, I swear.”

Jin chuckles and plucks the napkin from your clasped hands, laying it across your lap instead. “Not a saint,” he says, matching your soft tone. “Just someone who cares about you.”

Your cheeks warm at his sudden proximity. “Thank you,” you tell him, for what must be the umpteenth time. “I can’t even imagine what I’d do without you.”

“Good thing you don’t have to, then,” he replies with a grin. “Now, chin up. They just walked in.”

You can’t help the groan that escapes you. “Is it too late to run?”

“Afraid so,” he answers honestly.

And then Nayeon is slipping into the cushioned seat opposite you, syrupy smile in place on her berry lacquered lips. “Hi!” she chirps, laying a hand on Hoseok’s arm as he sits down beside her. “Sorry we’re late. We, um…” She pauses and shoots Hoseok a conspiratorial look, giggling. “... lost track of the time.”

Your magic flares, hot and bright in your veins, and you know Jin feels it too when he lays a cautionary hand on your knee beneath the table. “We weren’t waiting long,” he says, offering the two a genial smile. He’s perfectly polite as he and Nayeon exchange quick introductions, and gestures toward the assortment of menus on the table as soon as everyone has settled down. “Why don’t we order some wine to start?”

“Oh, that’s a splendid idea! Isn’t that a splendid idea, Hoseok?” Nayeon turns to the auburn-haired man beside her, and you do the same, gaze landing on Hoseok for the first time tonight. He’s in an all black ensemble, sharp jacket layered over a silky black shirt, the top buttons loosened to bare a tantalizing sliver of golden skin. His auburn hair is parted, a stray lock falling across his forehead, and you shiver when you realize he’s staring right back at you with dark, unreadable eyes.

At the sound of Nayeon’s voice, Hoseok seems to snap out of his trance, his expression smoothing out as he plasters on a smile. “Take a look at the menu,” he says, picking up the leather-bound book and offering it to her. “Dinner’s on me.”

You blink. “We can’t let you do that, Hobi.”

“Let me pick up at least part of the tab,” Jin adds, already reaching for his wallet. “I’m no corporate bigshot, but I do well enough for myself.”

“No need to be modest,” you chime in, nudging him playfully. “Weren’t you just telling me about your new restaurant opening on the way over? Next week, right?”

Jin’s ears redden as all the attention is turned onto him. “Next week, yeah.”

“That’s amazing!” Nayeon chirps, pressing closer to Hoseok. “We’ll have to check it out sometime. Maybe a date night, right, darling?”

Hoseok busies himself with rearranging his cutlery, swapping the knife and fork around. “Right—sure. If we ever make it up to Seoul, we’ll, uh… we’ll definitely stop by. Congratulations, man.”

The conversation continues. A server stops by to take your wine order, and Jin decides on a moderately priced bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Glasses are brought over, and wine is poured. Hoseok finishes his quickly and pours himself another, and though his wolf metabolism prevents him from getting drunk off of regular wine, you know that he’s a bit of a lightweight and tends to avoid drinking heavily no matter what the beverage. He’s drinking with a purpose tonight, and you’re beyond grateful when Jin pipes up with yet another story when the conversation lulls.

“And then I found out that the oven was on the whole time! Adam would probably let the entire apartment go up in flames just to spite me—I should watch my back.”

“Or, you know, just watch the oven more closely,” you tease. “I’ve seen your place, Jin—it’s a complete fire hazard. It’s a wonder it hasn’t burned to the ground already.”

Jin sniffs. “You’re exaggerating. Stop making me look bad.”

“You make yourself look bad,” you retort, laughing when his lower lip juts out into a pout.

Across the table, Hoseok clears his throat. “Speaking of fire hazards—did I ever tell you about the time {Name} set me on fire?”

“I did no such thing!” you protest, reaching over to slap his arm. “I mean, okay, maybe a little bit, but that was one time! And you were barely singed!”

Hoseok snorts out a laugh. “Barely singed? I couldn’t sit properly for a week.”

“Oh please, that’s a lie and you know it!”

Nayeon interrupts your conversation with a loud huff, setting her wineglass down with enough force to thud against the veined marble tabletop. “Do one of you maybe want to fill us in on the joke here?”

Abashed, you glance back at Hoseok, watching as his smile slowly fades back into the careful, neutral expression he’s worn all evening. “Sorry,” you murmur. “It’s an old story from when we were kids—when we first met, actually. We were seven years old, and it was the second day of school. I didn’t have a very good handle on my magic yet, and accidentally set Hoseok’s tail on fire during recess.”

“I preferred to run around in my wolf form back then,” Hoseok further elaborates. “There was a big field out behind the school—remember that, {Name}?”

You nod. “Of course. It went right up to the very edge of the woods. And if you kept going and went far enough, you reached the old wooden bridge.”

Hoseok is smiling again, soft and fond. “That thing was a death trap.”

“But the teachers could never keep us away,” you say, grinning at him.

“All right,” Nayeon interrupts again, sniffing disdainfully. “Enough about the old days—I think it’s time to talk about the present. And more importantly, the future.” She sighs happily and props her chin up in her palm, ensuring that the delicate golden band on her ring finger is on full display, the metal glimmering in the warm light. “You’re both invited to the wedding, of course. And I never did properly thank you for the flowers today, {Name}!”

Her words seem to come as a surprise to Hoseok, who straightens up in his seat. “Flowers? You visited Hellebore today?”

“Of course I did!” Nayeon hides a giggle behind a manicured hand. “I wouldn’t even think of trusting anyone else with my bouquet.”

Hoseok’s gaze skitters over to you, awash with concern and tinged with apology, but you ignore him in favor of forcing your expression into something that’s meant to be a smile. Yet no matter how much you strain your cheeks and stretch your lips, it feels—and looks, you’re sure—far more like a grimace.

“I’m happy to do it,” you lie, your teeth gritted and tight. “I don’t mind it one bit.”

///

“So. That was just as awkward as promised.”

You and Jin are walking back to Hellebore, leaving behind the bustling downtown area for the darker, quieter streets of your neighborhood. Your companion’s hair is tinged orange in the glow from the streetlamps, and you can only chuckle humorlessly when he turns to you and raises his eyebrows.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I was duly warned,” Jin agrees.

A car drives by, the headlights throwing Jin’s profile into stark relief. His expression is solemn but he doesn’t say anything else and neither do you. The remainder of the walk passes in silence, broken only by the occasional strain of conversation from passersby and the low drone of late night traffic. You reach Hellebore with no incidents, and you muffle a yawn as Jin steps into the wardrobe to go back to Seoul.

Just before he shuts the door behind him, he shoots you a meaningful glance over his shoulder. “You should tell him how you feel, you know. He deserves to know. And you… you deserve to be happy.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t need him to. Long after he’s gone, his remark echoes in your head, and no matter what, you simply cannot seem to shake it.

///

It’s been years since you’ve last gone to the old bridge, but after last night’s conversation you find yourself pulled back, lured by the promise of memories of a kinder time. The forest beyond the field hasn’t changed much since your school days, and neither, you realize, has the bridge itself. It still stands tall, proudly spanning the steep ravine that your teachers warned you about, the rickety wood splitting apart at the seams and overgrown with lichen and climbing ivy. Far below, the white-capped river rushes by on its long, turbulent journey to the sea.

Carefully, you step onto the bridge—first one foot, then the other. The energy in the air shifts as soon as your feet leave the loamy earth, finding traction instead on hewn wood, and you sigh as your fingertips brush against the railing. The magic here is an old magic—different from the ancient magic that dwells in places like the werewolves’ clearing and the realms of the fae. The low thrum of it fills the air and seeps into your veins, quickening your pulse and prickling your skin.

“I thought you might be here.” The voice comes from your left, barely audible over the rush of the river.

“You thought right,” you reply, stepping forward until you’re toeing the railing and leaning over to stare down into the swirling, eddying waters below.

Hoseok joins you at the edge. His profile is stark against the leafy green backdrop, and for a few moments, all is still. Then: “I’m really sorry about last night.”

The apology hangs in the silence for a few moments before fading into the sound of churning water and wind whistling through the trees. You suck in a deep breath, oxygen swelling your lungs until you can hold it in no longer, before letting it escape in a resigned sigh.

“You don’t have to apologize to me, Hoseok.”

“Maybe not. But I want to.” He shoots you a sidelong glance. “Will you let me make it up to you?”

You raise a brow. “Make it up to me? And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

“Anything you want.” Hoseok smiles crookedly, but you can’t quell the tumult brewing in your belly.

“What do you want, Hobi?”

His smile fades. “I—” He stops and shakes his head, auburn hair flying. “It doesn’t matter what I want. This is about you.”

You gaze up at him, taking in the sharp cut of his jawline and the straight angle of his nose. Your eyes trail along the smooth slope of his rounded cheeks and the soft curve of his mouth, lingering on the little mole atop his upper lip.

And then you reach out and take his hand, savoring the way his fingers immediately, comfortably settle into the spaces between your own. “Why don’t we head down to the river?” you ask. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been, and I’ve missed it.”

Hoseok’s expression softens, a glimmer of something bright shining in his amber-flecked irises. Gently, he tugs on your hand, taking the lead as you leave the bridge behind and head north in search of the sloping path that will take you down and into the ravine that houses the riverbed. You chance a few glances over the treacherous edge, watching the water froth and tumble over the rocks.

“You know, this seems a lot more dangerous now than it did back then,” you muse. “I see why our teachers were always trying to keep us away.”

“We were kids back then,” Hoseok says, grinning. “We thought we were invincible. Nothing could touch us.”

“Simpler times,” you agree with a laugh. “I set your tail on fire, you cried—”

“—and then we became lifelong friends,” Hoseok finishes, joining in your mirth. “Easy-peasy.”

Together, you locate the path down to the ravine. The descent is easier than it was back then, your longer limbs extending your reach, but you’re grateful for Hoseok’s steadying hand all the same. He carefully guides you around the biggest rocks and tree roots, pulling you closer when you lose your footing near the bottom. His fingers remain twined with yours even after you’ve safely arrived at the riverbed, stepping across stones that have been worn smooth and warmed by the sun. You slip off your shoes, letting them dangle from your free hand, and Hoseok does the same.

Sunlight glitters off the water, throwing a thousand refractive diamonds across the surface, but when you dip your toes in you find that it’s cold as a mountain spring in autumn. That doesn’t stop Hoseok from bending down to splash you though, and you shriek in surprise before retaliating with a silent spell that sends icy water splattering across the faded denim of his jeans.

“That’s not fair!” he protests. “You can’t use magic!”

“I’m just using every resource available to me,” you reply with a sly grin, sending a swelling wave of water toward him with a lazy twist of your hand.

From beneath his drenched hair, Hoseok raises a challenging brow in your direction. “Oh yeah?”

Before you can even blink, he’s shrugging off his jacket and pulling his shirt over his head, baring a taut, honeyed abdomen and toned arms. Tossing the discarded clothes onto the bank, he unfastens his belt and lets that drop as well, fixing you with a crooked little smirk all the while. The muscles in his torso ripple.

And then he’s shifting—limbs elongating and reddish-brown fur sprouting from his skin. His remaining clothing rips under the strain of the transformation, floating downstream in tattered shreds, but you don’t pay them any mind. No matter how many times you’ve watched Hoseok shift, you’ll never quite get used to it. He hunches over, more beast than man at this point, his chest rumbling. And before you know it—before you can even pinpoint exactly when the transformation is complete—he’s standing before you as a massive russet wolf, baring ferociously sharp teeth that you know could easily tear a man limb from limb.

His eyes, however, remain the same—warm, molten brown flecked with amber and gold, a devilish twinkle lurking in their depths. You cock your head to the side in a silent challenge, and swear that the wolf in front of you grins before pouncing forward, landing in the river with an enormous splash that leaves you thoroughly drenched.

“Now we’re both soaked!” you cry in between giggles, watching as Hoseok emerges from the water, his fur dampened black and dripping. “How is this a win for you?”

Hoseok rears back and lets loose a triumphant howl, shaking himself out and further drenching you with the spray of water from his coat. You squeal and back up several steps, batting him away, but Hoseok just presses closer and nuzzles his wet face into the crook of your neck. His body heaves with every breath, flaring hot against your skin, and for a few long moments, you simply stand there, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck as icy water rushes past your ankles.

After what feels like an eternity, you step back, releasing Hoseok and staring up into his face. Even in his wolf form, he towers over you, and you reach up to stroke his muzzle tenderly before bopping him on the nose. “Come on,” you murmur. “Let’s dry off.”

Hoseok lets out a low rumble of agreement, and together, you make your way back to shore. You fold up his discarded clothing while he trots off to locate his shredded jeans, quickly finding them caught between some rocks and carrying the denim tatters back over to you in his teeth. Shaking your head, you add it to the growing pile and lay a hand atop it. Heat concentrates in your fingertips, mingling with the magic running through your veins. Stitch by stitch, his jeans repair themselves, drying in the process. Hoseok bumps your cheek with his nose in gratitude and darts off to change, and you dry your own clothes while you wait.

When Hoseok returns, he’s reverted to his human form, fully dressed and raking a hand through his damp hair. “Thanks for drying these off,” he says, flashing you a sheepish grin. “And for fixing my pants. Again.”

“Mending charms are easy,” you reply, and it’s the truth. Over the many years you’ve known Hoseok, you’ve mended his clothing countless times—from the accidental transformations in his early years, before he could control it, to the calculated ones as he got older. Hoseok doesn’t shift terribly often nowadays, but on occasion he still goes out to stretch his muscles and hunt with his pack. His grandfather, in particular, always made the time to take him hunting at least once a month. You wonder if he’s gone since he passed, but decide not to ask.

“Should we go see the Towers?” you ask instead.

“Lead the way,” he agrees, falling into step beside you as you head downstream. The ravine walls are higher here, decorated with gnarled roots and rocky outcrops that obscure the periwinkle sky and cast long shadows across the ground. Cairns begin to crop up on both sides of the river—each tower of stones carefully and deliberately stacked. They’re small and scattered at first, but gradually become taller and more frequent until you’re nearly surrounded by a forest of stone. The air grows noticeably heavier—the magic more potent. It almost feels as if electricity is dancing across your skin, the sparks sinking into your pores and melding with your soul.

Hoseok feels it too, if the look of awe in his eyes is any indication. “I can’t believe I’d nearly forgotten about this place,” he marvels, running a finger across one of the stacked stones. “Do you feel that? The magic?” Then he chuckles. “Wait, of course you do. What am I talking about?”

You smile softly, tracing the path his fingertips leave behind. “Yeah, Hobi. I feel it.”

The topmost stones are almost out of your reach now. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a gray pebble about the size of your palm—a near perfect disc veined with white. Gently, you place it atop the cairn closest to you, watching it glint in the sunlight for a moment before turning to your companion.

“Well?”

Ancient legend dictates that as long as an offering is left, one may take a stone from the Towers. You and Hoseok have each acquired a rather sizable collection during your childhood years, lured by the promise that the stones will bring about good fortune and happiness.

“I forgot to bring something,” Hoseok admits, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “But I can pick one out for you. Hang on…” He hums thoughtfully as he scans the towering pillars, tapping his chin until he alights on one in particular, plucking up a stone that’s been worn smooth, burnished orange and marbled with ivory and copper. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” you reply, admiring the way the marbled surface glitters in the sun.

Hoseok takes your hand and places the stone gently in your palm. “It’s yours.”

Then he’s off—stepping over a fallen log to admire another tower, brushing a curious finger across a moss-covered rock before glancing over his shoulder at you. “Coming?”

You nod, tucking his gift away safely in your pocket. Together, you carve out a path amongst the towering cairns, clambering over river rocks and brushing aside the dense undergrowth. The path opens up again gradually, revealing the burbling water to your left and the steep ravine wall to your right. The river is calmer here—clear enough to see all the way to the bottom where shimmering, silvery fish dart about. A low, flat rock juts out into the water a short ways away, and Hoseok strides over to plop atop it, gesturing for you to join him.

“This is nice,” he sighs once you’ve made yourself comfortable by his side. “The fresh air is doing me a world of good. I’ve been cooped up at the office for so long, I swear I almost forgot what trees smell like.”

“You’re more than welcome to sniff around the shop if you ever need a reminder,” you tell him, nudging his shoulder playfully. “Better yet, I’ll bring you a plant for your office. Spruce up the place a little bit.”

“That sounds great, actually,” he admits with a chuckle. “I don’t have your green thumb, though. I’ll probably end up accidentally killing it.”

“Something low maintenance, then,” you promise. “A succulent, maybe. When should I bring it by?”

Hoseok’s expression sombers. “You can always stop by tomorrow after the hearing.”

Your heart plummets into your stomach. The Ministry—the overarching government body that dictates all Shadowfolk affairs—summons every pack alpha for a confirmation hearing when they first come into power. “They’re holding the hearing? Already?”

He nods. “The Ministry’s summoned me for tomorrow morning. First item on their schedule, I’m pretty sure.” A resigned sigh escapes his lips, dissipating into mist on the air. “And there’s a party at JungTech HQ afterward. You know. So my dad can officially hand the reins over.”

“The most powerful man in Gwangju,” you murmur, thinking back to Lisa’s words.

Hoseok lets out a derisive snort. “Yeah, right. The most powerful man, beholden to his dad, the Council, and the entire fucking Ministry. It doesn’t matter what I want to do. Never has.”

It’s the second time he’s dismissed his feelings, and as much as you want to ask what it is he truly wants, you find that the words are stuck in your throat, your mouth suddenly as dry as the desert on a cloudless day. Instead, you lay a silent hand over his, feeling his warmth seep up into your palm.

“Hey.” Hoseok doesn’t tear his gaze away from the sky, watching a flock of birds fly overhead. “Yesterday, when Nayeon said she’d stopped by… did she say anything to you?”

The sound of her name leaving his lips leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you swallow it down. “Not really,” you tell him. “She looked at some flowers and invited me to dinner. Simple as that.”

Hoseok nods slowly, lips pursed. “Was Jin already there when she came?”

You blink. “Jin? Oh, no—no, he wasn’t. I texted him after Nayeon left.”

“Ah.”

“I’m glad he was free, though.” You stare down into the water, where a curious fish swims in and out of the shadow you cast. “I’m honestly not sure who I could’ve invited if he hadn’t been available. Plus, it’s been ages since I’ve had dinner with him, and it’s been a few months since you’ve seen him too, right? I’m really happy it worked out.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t stop yourself. Hoseok has become eerily still, lost in introspection, and you feel obligated to fill the silence.

“You two make sense, you know.” Hoseok’s voice comes suddenly. “As a couple. Both witches—it makes a lot of sense.”

You peer over at him, eyes widening at his assumption. “We—we’re not actually together, Jin and I. We’re just friends.”

Hoseok straightens at that, his gaze flitting down to meet yours. “Really?”

“Really.”

A beat of silence. Hoseok looks like he wants to say something else, but a quiet buzz from his pocket stops him in his tracks. His mouth clamps shut as he checks his phone, teeth clicking together, and you can tell from the sudden tension in his jaw that it isn’t good news.

“Do you have to head back?”

He nods stiffly, silent apology written all over his face. “Work calls.”

You offer him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about me. Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow after your hearing.”

He nods again and turns to leave. Before he can take too many steps, though, you call him back, reaching into your pocket to pull out the stone he’d gifted you earlier.

“Take this,” you murmur, pressing it into his hands. “I’m pretty sure you need it more than I do right now.”

Hoseok’s fingers curl protectively around the stone, holding on like it’s his only remaining lifeline. “Thanks.”

///

Downtown Gwangju is a monochrome forest of towering glass and steel, clamorous and unchecked by nature, proudly defiant in the face of the earth mother herself. The sidewalks are awash with people rushing back from their lunch break, forcing you to dodge around several businessmen too absorbed in their phones. Just as you are finding your footing again, a hapless intern carrying a tray of coffee cups rushes past, nearly crashing into you.

“Oh, shi—sorry! Sorry, oh, jeez. Are you okay?”

You wave off his apology with a smile, taking in the ill fit of his suit and the messy knot of his tie. “Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, reaching out to help him steady the tray in his hands. A stabilizing spell—silently cast, the magic pulsing through your fingertips—should be enough to get him back to his office with no additional mishaps. You wonder if he’ll notice that his tray is suddenly more well-balanced, or that his hands have steadied.

But then again, you suppose it doesn’t really matter whether he does or not.

Somehow, someway, you make it to JungTech without running into anyone else. The receptionist recognizes you immediately and points you toward the elevator with a smile, and you thank her as you press the up button. It doesn’t take long to arrive, and you take a deep breath as you step inside, staring at your reflection in the mirrored walls.

All right? Bast queries, stirring awake in your mind.

You release the breath that you’d been holding in a long whoosh. Yeah. I’m all right.

The doors open on the top floor, and straight away, you are assailed by a cacophony of sounds. Scattered conversations and laughter intermingle with the clinking of champagne flutes. There are at least fifty people scattered around the open space that lies between the elevator and the glass-fronted CEO’s office at the very back—the office that bears Hoseok’s name on the door. There’s no sign of the man himself, but you have no doubt that he’s nearby. This entire party is a celebration for him, after all.

The elevator doors begin to close, and you quickly reach out to stop them, stepping out before it can protest at your dawdling. A young man in a pristine white shirt materializes on your right with a tray full of champagne flutes, and you pluck one off with a murmur of thanks. Sipping slowly, you wander around the perimeters of the party, listening to the lively chatter. Across the room, you spot Lisa, returning her friendly wave with one of your own.

“Hello, {Name}.”

The deep, familiar voice has you whirling around in an instant, head bowing in automatic deference. “Mr. Jung,” you murmur, not quite daring to look him in the eye. “It’s been a while.”

Hoseok’s father inclines his head in acknowledgment, salt-and-pepper hair gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. No doubt he was a handsome man in his younger days, but the salt in his hair has steadily overtaken the pepper in the last few years, the stern lines around his mouth deepening.

“I didn’t know you would be joining us today,” he says cordially. “But then again, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised after all these years. Have you been here long?”

“Not long. Five minutes, maybe.” Beneath his piercing gaze, you feel like a small child again. Quickly, you scramble for something else to say, gesturing around the sleek glass interior of the office. “This is a lovely party. You must be so proud.”

Another nod. “I wasn’t sure that Hoseok was going to step up,” he admits. “I had my reservations about whether or not he would accept his duties as a Jung, but he has, and I’m pleased that he did. It’s no easy feat, running this company and leading the city’s pack. But I’ve served my time, just as my father did before me.” His gaze flits down to meet yours suddenly, and you find that you can’t read the emotion swimming in them. “I believe I spotted you at his funeral the other day, did I not?”

You nod, resisting the urge to take a sip from your nearly empty champagne glass as your cheeks warm under the scrutiny. “I was, yes. I’m very grateful to have had the opportunity to pay my respects. He was a great man.”

“That, he was,” Mr. Jung agrees. “Hoseok takes after him in many ways. My father—as great as he was—always had a soft spot for the boy. Coddled him a bit too much.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Jung, I think that’s a grandfather’s job,” you reply with a smile.

That earns you a smile in return, the lines around his mouth easing. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Hoseok’s father excuses himself to talk to the other guests, and you set off in search of Hoseok himself. You can feel his aura somewhere nearby, strong and steady, but the room is large enough that you cannot pinpoint his exact location. Not for the first time, you curse the fact that you don’t have a werewolf’s sharp sense of smell. No doubt it could easily be as cumbersome as it is helpful, but it would certainly help you right now.

Turning a corner, you are about to continue lamenting your average olfactory system when you suddenly catch a glimpse of familiar auburn hair, afloat in a sea of black suits. Dodging around a sharply dressed businesswoman and ducking beneath a waiter’s serving tray clears your path to Hoseok, and you’re milliseconds away from stepping forward to greet him when you feel it.

There’s an energy emanating from Hoseok, the likes of which you’ve never felt from him before. It’s heavy and commanding and so potent that the air is laden with it, and a cursory glance at the people surrounding him reveals that they feel it too—their gazes lowered, voices hushed and respectful. In his fitted black suit and emerald green shirt, he looks every bit the alpha he is, and you are quickly realizing that you’re not immune to the power radiating off of him. The Hoseok standing before you isn’t the same Hoseok whose tail you set on fire all those years ago. Far from it. The revelation is somehow simultaneously terrifying and thrilling, and your heart leaps into your throat when you notice that he’s waving you over.

As if compelled, you comply, striding forward until you’re standing before him. “Hi,” your murmur, suddenly feeling shy.

Hoseok’s face splits into a smile. “Hi yourself,” he says, and you would have laughed if your insides didn’t feel like they were about to burst.

“I, um. I brought you your succulent,” you tell him, reaching into your bag. There’s a tiny potted jade plant inside, packaged neatly into a box that you open up and present to him. “It’s jade. Easy to keep alive, and easy to propagate too, if you’re inclined.”

Hoseok accepts your gift, his smile growing as he admires the plump green leaves. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

You shrug and wave off his gratitude, fiddling to clasp your bag shut. “So,” you start, glancing around and gnawing on your bottom lip, completely missing the way Hoseok’s eyes darken as he follows the movement. “It looks like everything went well at the Ministry. Your dad is pleased.”

Hoseok hums, low in his throat. “You talked to him?”

“Yeah, just now.”

“I see.”

He looks like he wants to say something more, but he’s interrupted by a blur of motion and a shrill cry of his name. A moment later, Nayeon is at his side, latching onto his arm and batting her lashes, adorned in a form-fitting red dress and golden jewelry.

“Hoseok! There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you!” Then her gaze alights on you, eyes going wide as if she’s only just noticed your presence. “{Name}, oh my goodness. I almost didn’t see you there, hi!”

“Hello, Nayeon,” you grit out, unable to hide your scowl. You wonder if she spotted it before you hid it behind a large sip of champagne.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice. Her attention refocuses onto a spot behind you, and you watch as her expression lights up, delight etching across her features. “Mr. Jung!” she exclaims. “There’s my favorite future father-in-law. Come and join us—it’s not a party without you.”

Hoseok’s father chuckles lightly, coming forward to stand beside you. “Long time no see,” he jokes, nodding in your direction. “And Nayeon—hello. How are you enjoying the party?”

“Oh, I’m having the loveliest time,” she chirps, simpering up at Hoseok. “How could I not be, when my fiancé is here with me?” Then she smiles—her lips painted the same shade of red as her dress. “But I’m sure I’m nowhere near as happy as you are. You must be beyond excited to spend some quality time with your wife after being busy for so long.”

“I am,” Mr. Jung admits. The severity in his features softens as he seeks out his wife, standing across the room surrounded by friends and extended family. “I’m a very lucky man to have a woman like her.”

Nayeon giggles. “And I’m a lucky woman to have a man like your son. Isn’t that right, darling?”

She tilts her head to look up at Hoseok, who blinks twice in rapid succession, his throat bobbing. “Right,” he says, his voice raspy. “The luckiest.”

And as you turn to engage Mr. Jung in conversation once more, you miss the way his gaze lingers on you.

///

Tuesdays at Hellebore are for brewing. You save bottling for Thursdays—giving your potions and other concoctions ample time to simmer and set—but today, you are hunched over the stove with all four burners turned to different temperature settings, watching over your pots so that they don’t boil over.

A cursory glance out the window tells you that it’s well into the afternoon, the pastel blue sky littered with trailing clouds lit hazy and golden in the sun. You’ve been in the kitchen since early morning, and, desperate for a breath of fresh air, you crack the window open and inhale deeply. Then you turn back to the stove, giving one pot a stir and adding a pinch of burdock root to another.

Wandering downstairs, you head to the greenhouse. The sunlight is brighter here, the air more humid. Inhaling deeply, you breathe in the scent of the hundreds of plants growing inside, before heading for the laburnum tree in the far corner. Carefully, you brush aside the cascading golden flowers, about to gather the dried ones that have fallen to the dirt when there’s a knock on the front door.

“I’m sorry, we’re close—” you say, stopping when you recognize the head of coppery red hair in the window. “Lisa?” Confused, you open the door and let her inside. “What brings you here today?”

“You need to go to Hoseok, now,” she says, foregoing any preambles. “He’s… well, you’ll see. Nayeon’s there right now, but she’s not helping the situation, and...” She sighs. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can help him now.”

All at once, your stomach drops to your toes. “What’s wrong with Hoseok?” you demand. “Is he hurt?”

Lisa shakes her head, red hair flying. “No, he’s fine. I don’t know how much longer that’ll last, though.”

The cryptic response sends your heart into overdrive, pounding against your ribcage like a doomsday drum. Striding over to the bay window, you wake Bast from his nap in a slanted ray of sunlight, scratching behind his black ears and watching as his golden eyes flicker open, pupils going wide when he senses your turmoil.

What is it?

Hoseok, you reply shortly. Beneath your touch, Bast’s ears perk up.

What do you need?

You swallow, hard, and suck in a deep breath. I’m going to open a portal.

It’s a dangerous feat, and both you and Bast know it. Opening a portal requires an immense amount of energy, and maintaining one long enough to travel through is a risk to even the most experienced witches. You’ve heard horror stories of spliced limbs and paralysis, and in some cases, even death.

But for Hoseok, you’re willing to risk it all.

“Lisa,” you say, grabbing your purse and striding back to the front door of the shop. “Can you lock up once I’m gone?”

She nods nervously. “Of course.”

You incline your head in silent thanks. At your feet, Bast is slinking continuous figure-eights around your ankles, betraying his worry at the task ahead. Your own heart feels ready to spring out from your ribcage and onto the sun-drenched floor, but you swallow down your nerves and look down at your familiar once more. Ready? you ask.

Ready, Bast confirms. Be careful.

I will.

Closing your eyes, you begin to visualize Hoseok’s front door, focusing on every little detail you can remember. There’s the scuff in the black paint from when he first moved in and accidentally scraped a table leg against it. There’s the bronze knocker that always hangs slightly askew. The image builds slowly in your mind, coming together like the broken pieces of a puzzle.

The air around you is suddenly much warmer than before, an invisible force sapping away at your strength and weakening your legs. Bast’s energy melds with yours, but it’s barely enough to keep you on your feet. Exhaustion seeps into your bones and steals the oxygen from your lungs. You gasp, chest heaving.

I don’t think it’s going to work. Bast’s voice is a faint whisper in the back of your mind.

It will, you hiss. It has to.

The front door of your shop is beginning to glow white, becoming hazy and amorphous as the edges begin to blur. You spot a splash of black paint coming through the fog, followed by a bronze knocker. A matching handle appears a moment later, growing out of tendrils of mist and solidifying before your eyes.

Sucking in a deep breath, you reach forward to grab it. Slowly, you turn until you can turn no longer.

And then you step through.

The first thing you hear is a low, cavernous rumble—deep enough that you feel it reverberating through your very bones. Then your surroundings begin to come into focus. You’re in Hoseok’s entryway, all your limbs thankfully intact. The relief you feel at your success is quickly eclipsed by worry though, when you see Hoseok himself on the far side of the living room. The look in his brown eyes is nothing short of wild, his white shirt unbuttoned to nearly his navel and his auburn hair sweaty and disheveled.

“H-Hobi?” Your voice is no more than a breath, dissipating in the open air.

“Hoseok.” The new voice has you whirling. Nayeon is pressed against the wall opposite him, her expression harried. “Hoseok, please—“

“Get out,” Hoseok growls, his voice dangerously low. He’s bristling with the same energy as before, the same energy you felt back at JungTech—but this time it’s enough to fill the room and spill out the opened door and into the hallway. You can feel it pulsing against your skin, hot and electric, and know that Nayeon is even more affected from the way her shoulders slouch, her eyes dropping to the floor when he snarls. “Get out, now.”

She does. Nayeon turns on her heel and dashes out, slamming the door behind her and leaving you alone with Hoseok. His eyes are alight with something more wolf than man, his chest heaving with uneven breaths, and it’s all you can do not to shrink back when he turns his full attention onto you. Even from across the room, you can smell the liquor spilled across the coffee table in a dark ooze of fluid, cloying and bitter.

“What are you doing here?” Hoseok asks, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “You shouldn’t be here right now, {Name}.”

“Lisa told me to come,” you whisper. “You’ve been pushing yourself too much, Hoseok.”

Hoseok shakes his head and rakes a frazzled hand through his hair. “You need to leave,” he grunts. Shakily, he reaches out to right the overturned liquor bottle, the pad of his thumb skimming across the shattered edge.

“Let me do that,” you tell him, making to step forward, but Hoseok stops you with a raised hand and a low growl that stops you in your tracks.

“Don’t,” he hisses. “Don’t you dare come any closer to me.”

You shake your head. “Hobi, it’s obvious you’ve been drinking. Let me help you.”

“No!” he snarls, flinching back when you take a step forward. “You need to leave. It’s… it’s dangerous for you here.”

“Dangerous?” Your voice is reduced to a whisper at the severity of his reaction, the energy in the air intensifying until it’s almost unbearable. “Why?”

“Because I’m in heat!” Hoseok spits. He sucks in a deep breath, the air whistling between his teeth, before he lets out an agonized moan and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m in heat,” he repeats, reticence dripping from every syllable. “I can’t even fucking think straight, and I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you if you stay. So please, {Name}. Please go.”

“But Nayeon…” you begin, wavering when his eyes flash darkly at the mention of her name. “Or Lisa… I can call her, maybe—”

“No!”

You jump, startled at the volume of his shout.

“No,” Hoseok repeats, softer this time. “Don’t. I don’t want them. I’m—I’m fine.”

The sticky humidity and the pulsating energy flowing through the room tell you otherwise. “You’re clearly not,” you tell him gently, taking another step toward him. “Let me call Lisa. Or maybe one of the other girls in the pack, I’m sure someone can help y—”

“I don’t want Lisa.” Defeat suffuses his tone, his eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t want any of them. I want—fuck.” Hoseok groans and lets his head fall back against the wall, the dull thunk echoing in the stillness. “It doesn’t fucking matter what I want. You need to leave, {Name}. You’re only going to be in danger if you stay.”

For the second time that afternoon, only one word springs to mind. “Why?”

Hoseok groans again. “Because I’m weak,” he mutters hoarsely. “Because I’m weak, and I’m not thinking straight, and if you come any closer to me, I won’t be able to stop myself from pinning you against that wall right there and having my way with you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. The rippling energy in the air is almost oppressive in its strength, and only grows when Hoseok’s gaze finally lands on you, his pupils blown out and blacker than the night.

“Go,” he entreaties, dragging a frazzled hand through his hair. “Please, {Name}.”

You suck in a deep breath, your lungs swelling and expanding with the newfound oxygen. Then, ever so slowly, you let your gaze flicker up to meet his. “What if I don’t want to?”

Hoseok freezes. Time comes to a standstill, and even the overwhelming energy emanating from him seems to falter. The room is near silent, broken only by your companion’s ragged breathing, his chest heaving beneath the thin white fabric of his shirt. Even from across the room, you can see the sheen of sweat coating his honeyed skin, shining in the light of the setting sun.

“You don’t mean that,” he says at last. “You can’t mean that.”

“I can,” you whisper. “And I do.”

For three agonizingly long seconds, Hoseok remains rooted firmly in place, his throat bobbing harshly. Then, before you can even blink, he’s striding forward—a blur of motion almost too quick for your eyes to follow. He comes to a stop a hair’s breadth from you, one hand reaching up to cup your face delicately, as if you’re made of glass.

“You,” he rasps, “have no idea what you’ve just done.” His thumb traces the swell of your cheek just below your eye, the motion surprisingly tender. Your heart stutters in your chest.

And then he leans down and crushes his mouth to yours.

The rest of the world falls away, dissolving into nothing. Your eyes flutter shut as Hoseok’s hands slide down your sides to curl around your hips, your body melting against his taut frame. He is all you can feel and all you can taste, and you keen helplessly when he grinds against you, his cock hot and hard against your stomach.

The sound seems to awaken something in Hoseok, a cavernous groan erupting from his throat. Pulling away from your mouth, he descends upon the delicate skin of your neck, teeth and tongue blossoming bruises in their wake. Shaky hands find the collar of your shirt, questioning eyes seeking out yours for permission that you happily give. He tugs the garment off almost delicately, his ravenous gaze roving across each bit of newly revealed flesh, and once it’s freed from your head he tosses it aside and sets about doing the same to the rest of your clothing.

Maybe it should feel odd, watching through lidded eyes as Hoseok drops to his knees to pull your jeans down and off your ankles. Maybe you should feel embarrassed, seeing your best friend bury his nose between your legs, delirious bliss etching across his features as he inhales, his strong fingers curling around your thighs to spread you wider. But instead, it feels completely and utterly natural—as if this was always meant to be.

“You smell divine,” Hoseok breathes, slotting himself between your spread thighs and running a fingertip along your lace-covered slit, collecting the considerable slick there and bringing it to his nose. “Fuck, {Name}. Just one whiff, and I can tell that you’re primed and ready for me.”

“Take me, then,” you breathe back shakily, rolling your hips when he slips past the lacy barrier of your panties to find your clit, circling around the sensitive nub until you’re gasping his name.

Hoseok’s gaze darkens to obsidian, his pupils swallowing up the amber-flecked brown of his irises. In one smooth motion, he’s on his feet again, straightening up to his full height as his hands find purchase on your hips. He twirls you around until you’re facing the wall, your palms pressed flat against the woven tapestry hanging there.

“Gorgeous.” A single word, laced with unmistakable awe. Then he’s fumbling with his belt buckle, the metallic clink and tug of a zipper reaching your ears, before he presses against you, clothed chest molding against your bare back. Even through the thin layer of fabric, you can feel the sweltering heat emanating from him, his sweat soaking through the cotton and sticking to your skin. His mouth finds its way to the junction of your neck and shoulder again—teasing at the flesh until you’re quivering—before he begins laying a trail of hot kisses down your spine.

“Wanna fuck you,” Hoseok rasps, tearing your panties away once his lips reach the waistband, the flimsy lace ripped to shreds in his desperate grip. “Want you on your front, want you on your back, want you on my tongue—” His voice drops, rumbling through his chest and sending shivers through your entire body. “Want you. Wanted you for so long.”

And as if to reinforce his words, the velvety head of his cock nestles against the cleft of your backside, hot and slick.

Wordlessly, you arch your back, presenting him with the tempting swell of your rear. A glance over your shoulder reveals the strained clench of his jaw and the bob of his throat, his biceps tensed and his gaze unwavering. His control is undoubtedly dangling by a single thread at this point—a delicate, gossamer thread that’s on the verge of snapping. The delirium of his heat is overtaking his senses, his grip tightening on your hips, and ever so slowly, he begins to press forward until the tip of his thick cock is just beginning to part your walls. Already, the fit borders on excruciating, and your body tenses at the intrusion, stretched to the limit around his thick girth.

Hoseok exhales shakily, his primal instincts warring with his desire to ensure your comfort. Soft lips drop kiss after kiss onto your bare shoulders, your back, your neck—wherever he can reach as he whispers tender praises into your skin. “Breathe, princess,” he encourages lowly. “You can take it—I know you can. You were made for me.”

Obediently, you inhale, focusing on the way your lungs expand and contract as you draw air into them. The pain ebbs away with each breath you take, until all that is left is a low throb of pleasure. Your hips rock back against him, and Hoseok takes it as a sign to push forward once more, parting your walls until he’s fully seated inside you, your body stretched to the limit as you mold around him.

There’s no pain now—only an aching desire for more, more, more. He’s deep enough to reach parts of you that you’ve never been able to explore before—either alone or with other partners—and you moan brokenly when he rolls his hips experimentally. “More, Hoseok,” you whimper. “Please.”

He obliges. One thrust leads into another, the punishing pace he sets fueled by his heady desperation for relief. The full, heavy weight of his cock dragging along your walls ignites every nerve ending in your body, sizzling electricity blazing through your veins. It’s all you can do to plant your palms flat against the tapestried wall, fingers twitching at the woven fabric as Hoseok grabs your hips with enough force to bruise and pulls you back against him in time with his thrusts.

“Look at you,” he says hoarsely. “Love the way you feel, clenching around me like that. My perfect, pretty girl, taking my cock so well. I always knew you were made for me.” He grunts, forehead falling against your back, damp hair matting against your skin as he continues rutting against you. “Always—fuck—knew you were my mate.”

The particularly harsh thrust that follows his raspy declaration sends all coherent thought flying out of your head, taking your surprise along with it. All you can manage is a shuddery whine that vaguely resembles his name, the sound intermingling with the obscene smack of flesh against flesh and the continuous stream of praises Hoseok whispers into your skin.

There’s something building inside you—a dull, throbbing pressure at the point where your body joins with his. He’s still rolling up into you, but each subsequent thrust grows more and more shallow. The realization dawns on your dazed mind all at once, as you feel the growing swell at the base of his cock. Hoseok is rendered near immobile as he finally reaches his high, the entirety of his length sheathed firmly inside your pussy as he spills ropes of white against your fluttering walls. The swelling continues, filling you until you feel fit to burst.

“H-Hoseok,” you gasp. “I can’t. I can’t—you’re going to rip me in half.”

Soothing hands smooth along your sides, warm lips littering kisses onto your bare shoulders. “You can,” he murmurs tenderly. “You were made for me, and I for you. You can take it, princess. I know you can.”

The gentle repetition of his fingertips trailing nonsensical patterns into your skin eases your labored panting somewhat. Beneath his touch, you slowly relax, the pressure in your abdomen abating as his knot begins to subside.

“You did so well.” His voice is no more than a mumble, almost lost in the sweat and slick coating your skin.

You sag against the wall, taking a few moments to catch your breath before slowly easing off of him, the sudden loss leaving your core empty and aching. Gingerly, you turn around to face him, acutely aware of the way your combined juices immediately begin dribbling down your thighs.

“You said I was your mate,” you whisper, almost afraid that the sentiment will disappear if voiced aloud. “Did… did you mean that?”

“Every word,” Hoseok replies, equally soft. “Is that okay?”

A smile blooms across your face. Rising up to your tiptoes, you kiss him again—a soft, reassuring peck that he immediately leans into, seeking out your touch like a flower in the sun. “More than okay,” you breathe, feeling the way his lips stretch upward against yours. “I’m glad, Hobi.”

Hoseok sighs into your mouth, a slow smile settling across his features. “Now it’s your turn,” he says, and in an instant, he’s swept you off your feet, one arm beneath your bent knees and the other around your back. “And I’m planning to take my time with you, princess. You’re not leaving here until I say so.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, crossing your hands at his nape. “Fine by me,” you tell him, earning yourself a wide grin. His lips seek out yours again as he carries you down the darkened hallway and into the shadowy depths of his bedroom, pausing only to nudge the lightswitch on with his elbow. Golden light suffuses the room as he steps forward to lay you on his bed, your back sinking into the plush mattress and dipping further when he joins you. He hovers over you with an arm on either side of your head, and you reach up to trace the vein that lines his biceps with a gentle fingertip, giggling when he gives your bottom lip a punishing nip.

The kiss deepens from there. Hoseok parts your lips and seeks out your tongue with his own, subduing it into compliance. By the time you pull apart, all the oxygen has left your lungs, leaving you flushed and gasping. Hoseok chortles breathlessly and trails down to press a kiss to your navel, before traveling downward until he’s reached your clit. Gently, he wraps his lips around the sensitive nub, rumbling with laughter when you buck against him.

“So needy,” he murmurs. To your displeasure, he straightens back up to kneel between your spread thighs, but your complaint quickly dissolves into thin air when he edges forward until his knee is pressed against your aching clit. Desperate for more friction, you grind against him, your wetness soaking through his jeans in a matter of seconds.

It doesn’t take long for pressure to build up in your belly again, winding tight as a coiled spring. Hoseok is staring down at you, transfixed, and his undivided attention only serves to bring you closer to the edge, teetering on the very brink.

“Look at you.” His voice could almost be described as a purr, if he weren’t so utterly canine in mannerisms and appearance. “Such a greedy little thing, all desperate to get off. You’re making a mess of my new jeans, princess.”

You’re too far gone to care about the teasing lilt that colors his tone. The edge is rapidly approaching, and one last roll of your hips is enough to send you over, your walls convulsing around nothing as you ride out your high.

Hoseok doesn’t wait. In an instant, he’s back between your legs, having moved so quickly you didn’t even see when he’d started or stopped. His tongue darts out to lave at your folds, a growl rumbling through his chest when your hips jump on instinct. Immediately, he tightens his grip, strong arms winding around your thighs and anchoring at your waist to render you helpless in his grasp, only able to take what he sees fit to give.

“How is it that you taste even better than you smell?” Hoseok muses as he leans down to suck your clit into his mouth, lips curling up into a pleased smirk when you gasp out his name. “Cute,” he says, releasing the nub in favor of descending to your drenched entrance instead, flicking his tongue shallowly inside before withdrawing with a chuckle.

“Hoseok—” you begin, only to dissolve into a moan when he sheaths two fingers inside you without any warning, curling them up and in until you’re shaking in his grasp.

“Come for me,” he commands softly. “Go on, let me hear you.”

And you do, chanting his name like a mantra as a wave of pleasure overtakes you. Hoseok’s thumb circles your clit in just the right way to prolong your orgasm, and it isn’t until you’re cringing from overstimulation that he finally relents, descending down to mold his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. His lips part yours, tongue dipping out to explore as he sheds his shirt and shucks off his ruined jeans. His skin, when he presses against you, burns hot as a furnace wherever it touches. Against your stomach, his cock stirs back to life.

He’s gentler this time. Every movement is slow and deliberate and tender as he breaches you, murmuring your name reverentially as he fills you again. Your body bows to his willingly, stretching to accommodate him, and the spike of pleasure that lances through you when he bottoms out is almost enough to send your oversensitive body over the edge again, your walls fluttering around him.

There’s an unmistakable shift in the air when Hoseok starts up a slow rhythm, leaning down to kiss you again. His lips move against yours, soft and tender, before moving past your jugular and down to the crook of your neck, elongated canines scraping against the delicate skin in a silent question. You wind your arms around his neck and nod, giving him his answer. There’s no need for words.

And then his teeth are sinking into the spot he’s so lovingly scoped out, breaking the skin. Your body collapses into a searing orgasm, and the pleasure intermingles with the pain of the bite until you are delirious, rendered boneless in his grasp. Hoseok’s hips stutter, his pace growing erratic as he soothes the wound over with his tongue.

You’re prepared for the swelling this time, but the fullness still manages to knock all the air out of your lungs, bordering on painful as his knot grows. Hoseok quells your whimpers with tender kisses, the instinct to comfort his mate paramount even as he paints your walls with ropes of creamy white. He traces a path from your lips down to where he’s marked and claimed you as his, imbuing your skin with a litany of praises that warm you from the inside out.

“My mate,” he murmurs, reverent. “Finally.”

You lean into his touch with a tired smile. “Finally? How long have you wanted this?”

His lips curl into a smile against your clavicle. “Ages. If I’m honest, I think I fell in love with you the day you set my tail on fire when we were kids. It’s always been you, {Name}. Only you.”

You can’t help it—you need to hear it from his mouth again. “You love me?”

Hoseok chuckles. “Of course I do. My tricky little minx—my perfect, pretty mate. I love you more than anything.” One hand reaches up to caress your cheek, running along the tender skin beneath your eye before cupping the back of your head so he can mold his mouth to yours. “Love you more than I can even explain,” he breathes, punctuating each word with a kiss. His hands blaze trails down the slopes of your body until he finally anchors below the crook of your legs. “So why don’t you let me show you instead?”

And he does. Over and over that night, and in the two days of his heat that follow, he shows you exactly how he feels. Propriety is forgotten, left by the wayside with his scorned fiancé and marriage. He is yours, and you are his.

Consequences be damned.

⇢ aftermath.

also set in this universe:

[myg]

6K notes · View notes

richincolor · 4 years ago

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New Releases for the Week of May 3, 2021

It's great to see so many new books hitting the shelves this week. I know I've been waiting for several of these and am happy to be able to finally read them.

The Ones We’re Meant to Find by Joan He Roaring Brook

Cee has been trapped on an abandoned island for three years without any recollection of how she arrived, or memories from her life prior. All she knows is that somewhere out there, beyond the horizon, she has a sister named Kay. Determined to find her, Cee devotes her days to building a boat from junk parts scavenged inland, doing everything in her power to survive until the day she gets off the island and reunites with her sister.

In a world apart, 16-year-old STEM prodigy Kasey Mizuhara is also living a life of isolation. The eco-city she calls home is one of eight levitating around the world, built for people who protected the planet―and now need protecting from it. With natural disasters on the rise due to climate change, eco-cities provide clean air, water, and shelter. Their residents, in exchange, must spend at least a third of their time in stasis pods, conducting business virtually whenever possible to reduce their environmental footprint. While Kasey, an introvert and loner, doesn’t mind the lifestyle, her sister Celia hated it. Popular and lovable, Celia much preferred the outside world. But no one could have predicted that Celia would take a boat out to sea, never to return.

Now it’s been three months since Celia’s disappearance, and Kasey has given up hope. Logic says that her sister must be dead. But as the public decries her stance, she starts to second guess herself and decides to retrace Celia’s last steps. Where they’ll lead her, she does not know. Her sister was full of secrets. But Kasey has a secret of her own. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

Meet Cute Diary by Emery Lee Quill Tree Books

Noah Ramirez thinks he’s an expert on romance. He has to be for his popular blog, the Meet Cute Diary, a collection of trans happily ever afters. There’s just one problem—all the stories are fake. What started as the fantasies of a trans boy afraid to step out of the closet has grown into a beacon of hope for trans readers across the globe.

When a troll exposes the blog as fiction, Noah’s world unravels. The only way to save the Diary is to convince everyone that the stories are true, but he doesn’t have any proof. Then Drew walks into Noah’s life, and the pieces fall into place: Drew is willing to fake-date Noah to save the Diary. But when Noah’s feelings grow beyond their staged romance, he realizes that dating in real life isn’t quite the same as finding love on the page.

In this charming novel by Emery Lee, Noah will have to choose between following his own rules for love or discovering that the most romantic endings are the ones that go off script. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

They Better Call Me Sugar: My Journey from the Hood to the Hardwood by Sugar Rodgers Black Sheep

Growing up in dire poverty in Suffolk, Virginia, Sugar (born Ta’Shauna) Rodgers never imagined that she would become an all-star player in the WNBA (Women’s National Basketball Association). Both of her siblings were in and out of prison throughout much of her childhood and shootings in her neighborhood were commonplace. For Sugar this was just a fact of life.

While academics wasn’t a high priority for Sugar and many of her friends, athletics always played a prominent role. She mastered her three-point shot on a net her brother put up just outside their home, eventually becoming so good that she could hustle local drug dealers out of money in one-on-one contests.

With the love and support of her family and friends, Sugar’s performance on her high school basketball team led to her recruitment by the Georgetown Hoyas, and her eventual draft into the WNBA in 2013 by the Minnesota Lynx (who won the WNBA Finals in Sugar’s first year). The first of her family to attend college, Sugar speaks of her struggles both academically and as an athlete with raw honesty.

Sugar’s road to a successful career as a professional basketball player is fraught with sadness and death–including her mother’s death when she’s fourteen, which leaves Sugar essentially homeless. Throughout it all, Sugar clings to basketball as a way to keep herself focused and sane.

And now Sugar shares her story as a message of hope and inspiration for young girls and boys everywhere, but especially those growing up in economically challenging conditions. Never sugarcoating her life experiences, she delivers a powerful message of discipline, perseverance, and always believing in oneself. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

Excuse Me While I Ugly Cry by Joya Goffney HarperTeen

Quinn keeps lists of everything—from the days she’s ugly cried, to “Things That I Would Never Admit Out Loud,” to all the boys she’d like to kiss. Her lists keep her sane. By writing her fears on paper, she never has to face them in real life. That is, until her journal goes missing…

An anonymous account posts one of her lists on Instagram for the whole school to see and blackmails her into facing seven of her greatest fears, or else her entire journal will go public. Quinn doesn’t know who to trust. Desperate, she teams up with Carter Bennett—the last known person to have her journal—in a race against time to track down the blackmailer.

Together, they journey through everything Quinn’s been too afraid to face, and along the way, Quinn finds the courage to be honest, to live in the moment, and to fall in love. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

Hurricane Summer by Asha Bromfield Wednesday Books

Tilla has spent her entire life trying to make her father love her. But every six months, he leaves their family and returns to his true home: the island of Jamaica.

When Tilla’s mother tells her she’ll be spending the summer on the island, Tilla dreads the idea of seeing him again, but longs to discover what life in Jamaica has always held for him.

In an unexpected turn of events, Tilla is forced to face the storm that unravels in her own life as she learns about the dark secrets that lie beyond the veil of paradise—all in the midst of an impending hurricane.

Hurricane Summer is a powerful coming of age story that deals with colorism, classism, young love, the father-daughter dynamic—and what it means to discover your own voice in the center of complete destruction. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

Indivisible by Daniel Aleman Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

There is a word Mateo Garcia and his younger sister Sophie have been taught to fear for as long as they can remember: deportation. Over the past few years, however, the fear that their undocumented immigrant parents could be sent back to Mexico has started to fade to the back of their minds. And why wouldn’t it, when their Ma and Pa have been in the United States for so long, they have American-born children, and they’re hard workers and good neighbors?

When two ICE agents come asking for Pa, the Garcia family realizes that the lives they’ve built are about to come crumbling down. And when Mateo returns from school one day to find that his parents have been taken, he’ll have to come to terms with the fact that his family’s worst nightmare has become a reality.

With his Ma and Pa being held in separate detention centers, Mateo must learn how to look after his sister and himself. The choices Mateo makes, and the people he turns to for help, might reunite his family… or tear them apart for good. With his parents’ fate and his own future hanging in the balance, Mateo must figure out who he is and what he is capable of, even as he’s forced to question what it means to be an American teenager in a country that rejects his own mom and dad. — Cover art and summary via Goodreads

Counting Down with You by Tashie Bhuiyan Inkyard Press

Karina Ahmed has a plan. Keep her head down, get through high school without a fuss, and follow her parents’ rules—even if it means sacrificing her dreams. When her parents go abroad to Bangladesh for four weeks, Karina expects some peace and quiet. Instead, one simple lie unravels everything.

Karina is my girlfriend.

Tutoring the school’s resident bad boy was already crossing a line. Pretending to date him? Out of the question. But Ace Clyde does everything right—he brings her coffee in the mornings, impresses her friends without trying, and even promises to buy her a dozen books (a week) if she goes along with his fake-dating facade. Though Karina agrees, she can’t help but start counting down the days until her parents come back.

T-minus twenty-eight days until everything returns to normal—but what if Karina no longer wants it to? — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

All Kinds of Other by James Sie Quill Tree Books

In this tender, nuanced coming-of-age love story, two boys—one who is cis and one who is trans—have been guarding their hearts to protect themselves, until their feelings for each other give them a reason to stand up to their fears.

Two boys are starting at a new school.

Jules is just figuring out what it means to be gay and hasn’t totally decided whether he wants to be out at his new school. His parents and friends have all kinds of opinions, but for his part, Jules just wants to make the basketball team and keep his head down.

Jack is trying to start over after a best friend break-up. He followed his actor father clear across the country to LA, but he’s also totally ready to leave his past behind. Maybe this new school where no one knows him is exactly what he needs.

When the two boys meet, the sparks are undeniable. But then a video surfaces linking Jack to a pair of popular transgender vloggers, and the revelations about Jack’s past thrust both Jack and Jules into the spotlight they’ve been trying to avoid. Suddenly both boys have a choice to make—between lying low where it’s easier or following their hearts. — Cover image and summary via Goodreads

Luck of the Titanic by Stacey Lee G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers

Southampton, 1912: Seventeen-year-old British-Chinese Valora Luck has quit her job and smuggled herself aboard the Titanic with two goals in mind: to reunite with her twin brother Jamie--her only family now that both their parents are dead--and to convince a part-owner of the Ringling Brothers Circus to take the twins on as acrobats. Quick-thinking Val talks her way into opulent firstclass accommodations and finds Jamie with a group of fellow Chinese laborers in third class. But in the rigidly stratified world of the luxury liner, Val's ruse can only last so long, and after two long years apart, it's unclear if Jamie even wants the life Val proposes. Then, one moonless night in the North Atlantic, the unthinkable happens--the supposedly unsinkable ship is dealt a fatal blow--and Val and her companions suddenly find themselves in a race to survive.

Stacey Lee, master of historical fiction, brings a fresh perspective to an infamous tragedy, loosely inspired by the recently uncovered account of six Titanic survivors of Chinese descent.

#new releases #YALit

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cosmicbash · 4 years ago

Note

One the angsty prompt ideas I’ve been thinking about is Kells practicing how to cook for weeks so he can surprise Em by cooking him dinner, maybe for an anniversary or something, and on the day Kells has planned to surprise him, Em is hours late, leaving Kells alone for the evening. If you’re interested maybe you could write something like this? 🥰

3 years together. One thousand and ninety five fucking days between him and this old dorky man.

It's insane. Downright impossible to believe but Colson knows it's as real and true as the 2 year sobriety chip he's got hung around his neck on the gold chain Marshall gifted him with it this morning.

Both their relationship and his sobriety are as intertwined as their lives are now. Marshall's like the glue that holds all of his pieces together. Picking Colson back up, time and time again whenever he shattered in the beginning and filling in the gaps with his own loose pieces until it was Colson's turn to do the same. Which, by then, it only made sense to combine their puzzles and broaden the picture.

Now Marshall swoops in for Casie's PTA meetings he can’t make during tour. Holding the phone and helping him FaceTime for soccer games and school conferences when flight delays or bad luck keeps him late.

Colson tags along to Whitney's first few dates out in LA, weaving through the public spaces Marshall never could without drawing attention just to make sure she's safe and respected.

They tag team any situation involving the girls, even though Alaina and Hailey both still snicker at him from time to time, and Casie rolls her eyes at Marshall's rules. They're more than just dating now.

They're family.

And even just thinking about that brings tears to Colson's eyes.

Or maybe it's the onions. Baze said chewing gum helped mitigate this fucking problem but goddammit does it burn-

"Fuck!"

He has no idea how he got it in his mind that he could actually cook a meal, let alone a full anniversary dinner for Marshall but here he is. A pot and pan already cooking on the stove and his fingers knicked a dozen times in his rush to cut up more veggies for the sauce.

It's insane.

But Colson's following through with it anyway, because he fucking loves Marshall and that bastard cooks dinner for them every single holiday or occasion so it's about time he stepped up to the plate and did it himself.

Plus he's been secretly practicing for weeks with Baze over both FaceTime and a few in person lessons. Perfecting his simmering styles and meat seasoning to make the tastiest meal he can manage all on his own.

So far the last three times he's made the dish his bassist had given stellar reviews so there's little chance he'll somehow fuck it up tonight knowing it's for Marshall…..at least, he hopes.

The minor setbacks his butchered fingers have brought aside though, so far everything was coming along perfectly. His noodles are boiling (never over the rim, thank you wooden spoon trick), his meats marinating, and as soon as he tosses these sliced onions in his sauce will be cooking down beautifully.

All in all the night is starting to look like it just might be perfect.

Until 6 o'clock passes by and Colson's ears never pick up the click of the front door knob, or the hum of Marshall's escalade pulling up front outside.

The food's still simmering, minutes away from being actually done so he doesn't worry too much. Sure he was hoping to have a sweet moment where his boyfriend comes home and catches him cooking at the stove like a traditional housewife, but seeing his face when the food's done and plated promises to be just as cute.

Besides, Marshall has always fit the housewife role so much better than him anyway. Even the apron Colson's wearing is one of the older rapper's, stolen from his small collection in the pantry to protect his designer sweater.

Colson doesn't start to worry at 6. Traffic can be a bitch.

7 though? And then 7:30 when his texts go unread and his calls ring all the way through to voice-mail? That's when the blonde starts to fret.

He's luckily put off plating because some brief flash on uncertainty had run through him after the food finished so it's stayed warm and simmering on the stove. But even that had to come to an end before 7:30 because his sauce would singe or his noodles might squish, so now Colson's trying to keep busy by perfecting the presentation. Shaky fingers swiping around the edges of Marshall's plate to clean up a splatter of sauce. Every Chopped Judge rambling off feedback in his head until he has it looking like something he's certain even Gordon fucking Ramsey would ask for a bite of.

By 8 the dinner table is set. His plate, Marshall's, the bucket of low alcoholic wine they both love chilling as a centerpiece. Colson even lights a few candles and adds some flowers from this mornings gift exchanges to keep himself from screaming.

There's a pit in his stomach that's steadily been growing though. Every passing minute and glance to his phone where he finds no change only carving it deeper.

Marshall should be home. He never runs this late at the studio without a call, let alone without a message. He's treated his work like any other 9-5 job since before they ever even got together, always strict about his routine and careful to make up for over run hours by leaving earlier the next day. Usually Colson likes to bust his balls and insist he live a little more spontaneously but tonight isn't the one to pull that.

Especially not if it means Marshall's going to completely forget to check his fucking phone and leave him trying not to think the worst.

Colson only males it another 5 minutes before he caves and texts Paul. Fingers tapping fast across his screen to draft multiple desperate sounding messages before he finally settles on a "Em bust his phone again?" That feels just casual enough to not embarrass him in the off chance Marshall decides to burst through the front door seconds after it sends.

The door stays closed though and Paul doesn't open the message at all.

Now Colson can't even start passive aggressively eating dinner on his own if he wanted too. The pit in his stomach has torn itself open wide into a nauseous chasm. Every scary possibility he wanted to avoid thinking about spilling forth from the dark trench like ghouls.

He's dead. Some crazy fan broke into the studio and shot the whole place up. No one's gotten around to tell him yet, that's all. They're too busy dealing with the fallout.

No, Em's security is beyond top tier, and with how close Colson and his current bodyguard are he knows the guy would call him immediately. Marshall's fine.

Unless… what if he was in a car accident? Or some road rage incident gone fatal? Colson's seen Marshall's short temper flare up while driving. They've made dozens of jokes about it in the past, so is it really that unreasonable to believe?

Colson's pacing in the front haul when he calls Porter. Phone tucked between his ear and shoulder while he fights his shoe laces, heart racing in his chest. Prepping to fly out of the house the second Denaun tells him what fucking hospital Marshall's staying in, praying it's at the ICU section and not some fucking morgue.

"Kelly?" The older man sounds confused when he finally answers. Voice high and tone light like he's expecting this to be a butt dial. "What's up man?"

The lack of rush or worry in Denaun's voice almost soothes Colson's panic right on the spot. Surely he wouldn't sound so casual if something had happened.

It's enough to keep Colson from immediately pleading for Marshall's safety at the least. "H-hey, uh nothing really-" Maybe Marshall is even with him right now, realizing how fucking late its gotten and how shit of a boyfriend he's been and that's why Denaun sounds awkward too. "Just uh, waiting for Marsh to get his slow ass home ya know? Sorry, aheh, I'm probably sounding like a fucking needy girlfriend right now, calling his friends and shit-" the longer Colson rambles the more embarrassed he actually feels in the moment.

God he must sound pathetic right now. Panicking over Marshall being a few hours late.

"Waiting? Didn't Marshall head out like 2 hours ago?"

"W-what?"

Colson's blood feels like actual ice in his veins.

"He isn't home? I mean, I know he was gonna stop at- fuck is it already half past 8? Marshall seriously isn't home?" Denaun's sudden panic only heightens Colson's own, but he can't get any more words to come out. Not with how a rock feels like it's jumped up his throat. "Shit, Ryan are you getting through to him? Try Paul-"

Ryan's there too?

"What? Paul's gotta fucking answer-"

They can't get ahold of Paul either?

"Kelly have you-"

Marshall's missing. Colson's been standing around making dinner for hours, worrying over the portion sizes and appearance of his plates and Marshall's been fucking missing. What kind of partner is he? What will he even tell Hailey? Alaina? And fuck Casie is supposed to be coming up this weekend so they can all go vacation together before his next tour-

The front door bumping into his shoe startles Colson out of his frozen panic. Denaun's angry shouting dropping from his ear, as he twists and meets a pair of sheepish blue eyes peeking around the hardwood.

"Hey."

Marshall's…..

"Is that my apron?"

So fucking dead.

"Is this your--" Colson's fingers are curling around the edge of the door so fast he doesn't even care that it makes his phone fly to the floor. "That's what you want to fucking say to me!?" His anger is boiling fast, replacing the cold in his veins with lava. "You fucking piece of-"

Marshall stumbling inside with the yanked door is expected, but the flash of bandages and a sling douse Colson's flames like a bucket of water. "Ow, fuck just give me a second to explain-"

He's hurt.

Now with all of Marshall visible Colson's hyperaware of dry blood splattered on his white graphic tee and scratches partially hidden within the rapper's beard along his cheek. "I got in an accident out on the M-8, it was minor but-"

Colson really can't handle all these rapid mood switches Marshall is putting him through today.

“You fucking idiot-“ Tears are bubbling up in his eyes and it’s like his hands can’t reach his partner fast enough. Pulling Marshall into his arms for a tight hug despite the pained noises his actions inspire. “Stupid, old asshole-“ Marshall’s hurt, the cars probably wrecked, but he’s home and that’s enough of a relief to finally smother that pit weighing down his stomach. “Don’t ever scare me like that again!”

A moment passes before he’s hugged back, shock more than likely freezing his partner up but when Marshall does loop his good arm around Colson he pulls him close. So close Colson is the one who’s bones feel like they might ache. “Can’t make any promises about that,” The older rapper’s palm feels warm when it climbs to cup his neck, Marshall’s face turning to press a kiss into Colson’s throat.

That brush of lips is the final crack to release the flood gates.

"I love you."

"I know."

"I really really fucking love you."

"I know baby."

"I don't care how old your ass is, you better hold out and fucking die after me like a proper goddamn boyfriend, you hear me Marshall?" He's getting snot all over the older rapper's shirt. Full on smearing it across his own cheek and the fabric with every pointless rub of his face. "I love you so fucking much. Can't do this without you."

"Told you I'm not dying after you unless you kill me first, and I'm chasing you into the afterlife once you do go too. Fuck all the marriage shit, death ain't parting us either you brat." Marshall's tone is light and his palm is doing wonders to comfort him by rubbing circles into his back. It's enough to slow his hiccupped breathing down a few notches. "I dunno if you noticed but, I'm a little obsessed with you."

That drags out a wet snort. "Y-yeah?" When Colson pulls back to meet Marshall's eyes he swears he can see a wet shimmer starting to glaze over his partner’s as well. "Prove it then."

There's a flicker of something in blue eyes, so fast that Colson almost thinks he hallucinates the emotion altogether. But then Marshall's wrapped up arm wiggles between their bodies. The dark blue of the sling catching and sliding so his scratched up fist can shimmy its way partially out. "Planned on it-" There's something clutched tight there, black peeking out from between Marshall's finger and thumb. It's got Colson's heart dropping down into his stomach all over again. "What do you think I was driving so late on the M-8 for?"

"Marshall-" It can't be.

"Colson." But his shithead of an accident victim boyfriend is pulling back, both his good arm and slung arm awkwardly flailing in the air for a moment as he drops down on one knee. The visible wince not hidden as well as Colson imagines the man wants it to be. But Marshall's eyes are softening, and the blonde feels completely cemented in place. The only part of him moving being the uncontrollable shaky quiver of his bottom lip. "I had a whole moment planned, there were flowers, balloons, and those stupidly expensive alcoholic chocolates you love, but they all got absolutely trashed in the crash. Like, half of Detroit is probably going to think the Macies Thanksgiving parade started early. Paul called to have it all replaced, and honestly some intern is probably going to come banging on the door in about 20 minutes but I don't want to wait-" There's a flash of genuine worry that's furrowing the skin between Marshall's brows as he continues. "So I'm sorry this isn't gonna be that fancy perfect proposal you've always dreamed of-"

"Shut up." Colson's voice can't go above a whisper. His tone quick and clipped from how anxious he is to hear the man finally finish. "Just- shut up, ask me. Ask me Marsh, please-"

"Fine, always need to rush me."The rapper's lip quirks at the corners. Hands transferring the small box between eachother with a bit of fumbling. "Will you, Colson Baker-" Until Marshall can finally get it open with an audible clunk. "Legally commit to being with my annoying old ass forever?"

#sorry i had to give it a happy ending #i hope thats okay #🥺🥺#kells totally snots all over Em's shirt even more #and they end up sitting there at the dinner table #Em shirtless and Kells grinning like an idiot #eating cold food and being utterly inlove until the intern finally shows up #em slipping him a good couple hundred dollar tip #emgk #asks

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callboxkat · 4 years ago

Text

And It All Fell Away

Author’s note: If you don’t mind, anon, I’m going to alter your prompt a bit so it’s during a fictional war. I personally can’t really see Janus fighting for the Confederacy (Plus this way I don’t have to do as much research, but shhhh it’s definitely mostly the first reason XD ).

Hey, why not an AtLA AU? Virgil and Patton are Earth Kingdom and Janus is Fire Nation.

Summary: Two years ago, Patton and his best friend, Virgil, were drafted to fight for the Earth Kingdom in the war against the Fire Nation invasion. Patton has never been much of a fighter, but he'll do what he can to save his people. However, when Patton gets hurt and he and Virgil are separated from the rest of their army, Virgil just might have to look to one of their enemy to save Patton's life.

Warnings: This takes place during a war, so expect stuff related to that. Minor character death, fighting, arguing, swords, fire, near death experiences, referenced genocide, killing (in self defense), desertion, memory loss, head injury, mention of throwing up, blood

Word Count: 9000

Original prompt:

Writing Masterpost!

Ao3 Link

@badthingshappenbingo

...

Patton generally tried to avoid fighting. If he were asked, he would probably describe himself as a pacifist.

This was not a trait that lent itself well to his current situation, as an Earth Kingdom soldier on the front lines of the fight against the Fire Nation invasion.

He did his best to only fight when he absolutely had to, and when he did, to only push back the soldiers, and not to kill them. If what he did do led to the soldiers being killed by someone else, well, he tried not to let that keep him up too late at night.

He had killed before, but not because he wanted to. Rather, it was because his options were to take someone out, or to be killed himself. Or if one of his fellow soldiers was about to be killed. Patton might have been a pacifist, but he wasn’t disloyal.

Perhaps a pacifist was not the ideal soldier to have on the front lines, but an earthbender was. And Patton was one of the best earthbenders in his village, and the people in charge of selecting villagers to draft knew it. Patton wasn’t going to brag about his skills, even if the only “reward” he’d gotten for them hadn’t been being sent to participate in a war he wanted no part of. The bar for earthbending skill wasn’t very high, given how small his village was and how few earthbenders were among them. The village was so small, in fact, that there was only one other soldier in his unit from the same one.

(There was only one left anyway. But that was another thing Patton tried not to think about.)

That other soldier from his village was a young man named Virgil. He was a nonbender, but his skill with his pair of dao swords was considerable.

And he was Patton’s best friend in the world.

For the past two years since they had been drafted and sent to the front lines, Virgil and Patton had been side by side, part of the Earth Kingdom army tasked with fighting back the Fire Nation as they razed forests and invaded towns, destroying everything in their wake and taking prisoners by the dozens.

Patton was not looking forward to when one or both of them was inevitable captured, or worse.

Today, another battle was raging, in the mountains of the north-western Earth Kingdom.

It… wasn’t going the best it could have. The fighting had dragged on into the night, but they could still see perfectly, thanks to the flames raging all around. Plumes of fire shot into the sky, sporadically illuminating the battlefield in harsh relief.

Patton could only be glad that the Fire Nation hadn’t been able to bring any of their infamous trebuchets this far inland, through the mountains. Still, Patton thought as he batted out the flames on one of his sleeves, this was far from an easy battle.

Patton raised a wall of stone and pushed it towards the approaching enemy soldiers, shoving them back the way they had come. Licks of retaliatory flame curled over the top of the wall, which began to groan and crack from the heat.

Sweat dripped down Patton’s face. Not for the first time, he wished his uniform were lighter. They were pretty far north, yes; but it was summer; and they were fighting firebenders.

Virgil stood at his side, panting, his swords half raised. He looked towards Patton and gave a terse nod in appreciation for his efforts. The light from the dancing flames only made the coal dust he smeared around his eyes look even more dramatic.

Intimidation won half the battle, Virgil claimed. If the Fire Nation was going to wear skull masks and spikes, he was going to be just as terrifying. He wore pretty much the same green uniform as any other nonbending member of the Earth Kingdom army; that was true; but Patton had seen many Fire Nation soldiers come up short when they got close enough to see his eyes. And that small hesitation was all the opportunity Virgil ever needed.

A loud thud sounded, and cracks and fissures began to form in the wall Patton had created. He clenched his hands into fists, solidifying it again, but another blow came, and fire surged over its top, and Patton had to step back to avoid being burned. The wall finally crumbled as his concentration broke. Cheers sounded.

Patton gritted his teeth, focused on the earth between himself and the rapidly approaching Fire Nation soldiers, and lifted his arms. The earth shifted, slanting under his control.

“Patton!”

Patton jerked, a shudder going through the earth he was currently bending into a slide to send the nearest Fire Nation soldiers sprawling. He turned, and Virgil was lunging, and Patton barely had the time to feel alarmed before he saw the man, saw the large, spiked weapon coming straight for his face.

Patton ducked, meaning to punch the man in the weak point in his armor, to slow him down—but he wasn’t fast enough.

Not nearly fast enough.

…

Virgil let out a guttural shriek and brought his swords slashing down, but he was too late the stop the weapon that struck Patton’s helmet hard enough to leave a crater. His friend pinwheeled back, the earth he had been bending cracking apart as he lost control of it. Patton fell, but the cracks didn’t stop. All of the other nearby soldiers, nonbenders like Virgil, as bad luck would have it, were quick to back up. Virgil only ran closer, desperately trying to get to his friend!

The earth beneath his feet was falling apart, and Virgil knew it was about to give way completely. He leaped over the fallen Fire Nation soldier, landing hard on the shifting rock. His hand closed on Patton’s limp wrist, and he hefted Patton up in his arms just as the whole section of the mountain really began to move.

He knew he wouldn’t get away in time. So he just squeezed his eyes shut and held on to his friend as the rock broke free and crumbled right off the side of the mountain.

For a moment, he was in freefall.

He landed, his feet slamming painfully into the ground despite how he attempted to absorb the impact. Something hit his shoulder as he fell forward, sending a blinding spike of pain through his body. Virgil shrieked again, but the cry was buried in the sound of the rock and debris falling all around them. Virgil rolled on top of Patton, only able to hope that he and his friend wouldn’t be crushed.

And then, suddenly, it was quiet. All he could hear was his own harsh breathing and the distant sounds of battle.

Virgil groaned, shoving a broken tree branch off of himself. He sat up, sending the stones on top of him rolling, and winced at… well, his entire body, as he looked around. They appeared to be at the bottom of a ravine. The trees here were practically unburned—so far, at least—but he could see broken branches in some of the trees where stray rocks or other projectiles must have hit, and the smell of ash and burning was still strong.

The Fire Nation soldier had fallen with them. He lay face down about twenty feet away, sprawled awkwardly on the ground, only partially covered by the plants and stones where he had landed. He wasn’t moving. Not that Virgil had expected him to.

Virgil turned away.

They were safe enough for the moment, he decided. And if a boulder was going to come flying at him, there wouldn’t be much he could do about it, anyway.

He looked down at Patton.

His friend was unconscious—but he was alive, Virgil noted with dizzying relief, as he pressed his fingers to his neck. His helmet was askew, his uniform as torn and dirtied as Virgil’s own. Virgil shoved away more bits of earth and broken branches and gently patted down his friend, searching for any more wounds, but he didn’t find anything. Probably some impressive bruises, like Virgil was sure he would have, and a few shallow cuts from hitting the trees and sharper stones, but no worse.

Virgil carefully removed Patton’s helmet. He winced at the large welt on his temple.

“F*ck, Pat,” he murmured. His fingers hovered over the wound for a second before he withdrew his hand.

He looked around, hoping for any sign of the rest of his army. Patton needed help. Virgil couldn’t bend them back up the mountain, and there was no way he was going to be able to carry his friend all the way there on his own. Especially with his arm in the shape it was in.

He’d have to wait until either Patton woke up, or help arrived. And he’d have to hope that no one else got to them first.

Virgil looked around for his swords. He had dropped them, but he was pretty sure they had fallen with them. Sure enough, he spotted one about ten feet away, half-buried in rubble, and once he gathered that one up, he spotted the other, pinned under a chunk of rock. A few determined shoves with his good shoulder freed the weapon, which turned out to be badly dented.

Better a dented weapon than no weapon, Virgil thought. He picked up the sword.

He dragged over a few bits of undergrowth to better hide himself and his friend, shifted Patton into what he hoped was a more comfortable position, and crouched down there to wait.

…

Janus missed home.

He missed his people. He missed his aunt’s carefully tended garden; he missed crispy fire flakes at cultural festivals; he missed the chameleon-cats who hung out in the alleyways around the market; he missed the beautiful landscape of his homeland, unlike anywhere else on the planet. He missed a time when he still believed that his country was doing the right thing, trying to share their greatness and prosperity with the world. He missed his mother, who he would never see again, and he missed his sisters, who were probably still in school, still learning about how wonderful their country was and how they should be proud of their brother for taking part in the war.

Proud of a brother who had had no choice in the matter.

Punishments for crime were stiff in the Fire Nation, and they were always looking for new soldiers. Sixteen was old enough to enlist, and therefore sixteen was old enough to be drafted.

Seventeen was, Janus had decided, old enough to desert.

He had had enough. Enough of fighting, enough of watching people he hardly even had time to get to know be cut down in front of him, sometimes by the very flames his own people had started. Always by the very war that his own people had started nearly a century before.

He’d had enough of burning the world. Of going to see beautiful and unique places, and either assimilating them into the Fire Nation, or destroying them completely. And those were the battles they won.

When they didn’t win, well. Janus could name many souls whose absence served as a reminder as vivid as the scars on his body.

He’d had enough of creating orphans, of burning the world, of all of it.

He was done.

Once he had made his decision, he gathered what he needed to make his desertion a success. Maps of the Earth Kingdom, collected from the messenger on behalf of the Fire Nation army and simply never passed on (their loss was easily blamed on an unknown interception), extra supplies for his med kit (from soldiers who wouldn’t need them anymore, before they could be properly redistributed), food (under the guise that he was just a hungry growing boy, a reminder that made the cooks just uncomfortable and sympathetic enough to give in, despite rules for strict rationing for low-level soldiers). Water was plentiful in this part of the Earth Kingdom, and he could worry about that potential need later. He didn’t take anything that he couldn’t conceal within his armor.

Then, all he had to do was wait for an opportunity. The next battle, he decided, when his disappearance would be easily mistaken for something more fatal and less treasonous.

He slipped away during the thick of the battle, as everyone else was busy burning and killing and dying. He found a riderless Komodo-rhino in a stroke of unexpected luck—he was ignoring how it likely got that way—and took it with him, making his way down the mountain. His disappearance was lost in the chaos; and soon enough, he found himself in a ravine, away from the battle but not foolish to think he was out of danger yet.

It was night, the soon-to-be burned forest lit by the glow of orange flames that were distant for now, but not nearly distant enough. Harsh shadows stretched across the landscape, providing plenty of hiding places for enemies or for former allies who might recognize his desertion for what it was.

Janus slid off of the Komodo-rhino’s back now that he was on fairly level ground, deciding that the added height from sitting atop it only made him easier to spot. Plus, were he found, he could more easily dodge and attack from the ground, rather than trying to maneuver from atop a gigantic beast.

Janus and the Komodo-rhino walked through the forest, the crashes of rock and roar of flames growing more distant, but not nearly distant enough to allow the tension to leave the firebender’s body. Occasionally, burnt leaves would flutter down to the forest floor, and Janus would silently extinguish them. Harder to ignore were the stones or boulders that tumbled down, clear products of the earthbenders among the enemy’s—former enemy’s—ranks.

He slowed his pace, spotting something in the brush, on the edge of one of these recent unnatural rockfalls. It was a human shape, sprawled awkwardly on the ground. It was a harsh reminder that earth was not the only thing that could end up cast to the bottom of a ravine.

Janus knew a corpse when he saw one, even at this distance. There was nothing he could do for the man. He kept walking.

Seconds later, a very human sound stopped Janus in his tracks. He looked around, hands raised to defend himself. For a fraction of a second he thought maybe, maybe, he’d been mistaken, and the corpse he had found hadn’t been a corpse at all. But the sound had come from the wrong direction. No, this was something else. He couldn’t see anything out of place up ahead, but that didn’t mean much in this shadowy landscape.

Was it possible that he had imagined the sound? He was rather on edge. Perhaps he was simply being paranoid.

For now, he decided to just keep going, and to keep an eye out.

That was exactly when the underbrush exploded, and a shadow swung a pair of dented swords at his face.

…

A Fire Nation soldier stood in the middle of the ravine, in full battle armor, lit by the orange glow of the flames from the battle that raged at the top of the mountain.

Virgil swore quietly when he saw the all-too-familiar shape, gathering Patton closer to himself.

The enemy soldier walked nearer, and out of the shadows came the beast he led by a thick rope. A Komodo-rhino, Virgil recognized, the favored steed of the nation of colonizers and conquerors.

(They also supposedly made a decent sausage, not that that mattered, or that Virgil would ever try it.)

Virgil drew his swords, waiting, quiet, hoping he wouldn’t need them. One of the weapons had been badly dented in their fall, and Virgil could feel a growing wetness on his left arm, even if the pain hadn’t quite set in yet. The soldier kept walking, occasionally glancing up towards the battle. That made sense, Virgil thought. If he was sneaking around to take down someone important on the Earth Kingdom’s side, or to just die in a literal blaze of “glory” and bring honor to his family, he wouldn’t want to be spotted. And, reasonably, he assumed that he would be alone in this ravine.

The soldier slowed his pace. Virgil’s grip tightened on his swords, until he realized that the man had just spotted the body of the soldier who had attacked Patton. The soldier looked at it for a moment, and then resumed his former pace. Virgil didn’t allow himself to relax, though. They weren’t in the clear yet.

The soldier was almost gone, they were almost safe, when Patton groaned. Virgil tried not to be annoyed with him.

The soldier stopped, and his Komodo-rhino grunted, pawing at the earth. He looked around, putting up his hands and shifting into a wider stance. He had a skull-like faceplate, a clear indication that this man wasn’t just a soldier. He was a firebender.

Virgil wasn’t about to wait to be flushed out. He jumped out of his hiding place and lunged, bringing down his swords.

Only to be blocked by one of those metal-clad arms and sent flying back. But the man fell, knocked off balance by the attack. Virgil rolled as he landed and ran back towards him, raising those swords again.

“Stop!” the soldier commanded.

“What, you think that’ll work?” Virgil said, ducking a fire blast—which seemed strangely small, although it was probably just the angle, or an incompetent firebender—and sweeping the soldier’s feet from under him. Virgil cried out at the way the move jarred his injured arm. He turned the sound into a roar of rage.

The soldier went down with a heavy thump, his metal armor crashing with him. But he wasn’t done: he was already getting back to his feet and turning to face Virgil, his skull-like faceplate as empty and expressionless as they all were. His gloves steamed as he settled into a fighting stance. Virgil took a step back.

And lunged again.

Virgil wasn’t a bender like Patton or this enemy soldier, but he was determined. He wouldn’t let himself be killed. Not by one of the people who was helping all the other ash-makers to take over and systematically destroy the entire world, and not while Patton was injured and needed his help.

…

Metal armor was good for more than just being incredibly heavy and overheating in the summer heat, Janus was rudely reminded as he shoved the Earth Kingdom soldier back yet again.

He was trying to hold back, trying not to kill the guy—that was the whole point of this, to finally stop killing—but he was going to defend himself.

…He didn’t need to hold back much, actually. This guy was really good.

…

“Shut up and die already!”

The words forced their way into his murky mind, dragging him up from a hazy darkness. He scrunched up his face, disoriented and confused. Pain throbbed through his skull.

He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was fire.

Fire, bright orange and yellow and red, flaring in the darkness.

He was too shocked to make a sound, only able to gape, unable to even move away.

Somehow, the fire disappeared as soon as it came, dissipating into sparks.

He shrank back, expecting more flames, but none came. Instead, he heard voices, arguing.

He slowly looked up, struggling in an attempt to sit upright even though his body didn’t seem to want to cooperate; and he saw two figures standing nearby. They were clearly in the middle of a fight. One of them had swords drawn! And the other had a scary skull mask!

He didn’t know who they were, but he knew he didn’t want them to fight. What if they hurt each other? Or worse? No, no. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to stop them.

As he watched, trying to get his body to remember how to get up, the man with the swords lunged, and the other man barely avoided being decapitated. The skull man retaliated with a burst of flame that singed the sword man’s robes, shouting something about enemies. The sword man didn’t seem to care.

He managed to sit up, and everything was spinning, but he couldn’t let these people kill each other. “Please stop,” he said desperately. His voice came out as a hoarse croak.

As quiet as his voice was, the others must have heard him. The man with the swords turned, and his mouth dropped open.

The man’s eyes were like black pits bored into his skull.

He shuddered.

The man with the skull face and the fire looked like he was debating taking a shot at the man with the swords while he was distracted, but he didn’t.

“Patton,” the man with the swords said, abandoning his fight and coming closer. “Patton, are you okay?”

Patton?

Was he Patton?

He thought for a second. His head hurt a lot, and he couldn’t concentrate very well, but that sounded right.

Was this man his friend? Patton tried to smile at him. Would that get him to stop fighting?

Apparently, it would. The man with the swords dropped his weapons, ran over, and fell to his knees at Patton’s side. He reached up, looking at Patton’s eyes and at a spot on his head. The other man hovered nearby.

“Is he okay?” the man with the skull face asked. “That’s a big bump on his head.”

Patton frowned and put a hand up to his head, wanting to know what he was talking about. The man who used to have swords went to stop him, but not before Patton had touched the painful lump on his head. He gasped, and a fresh wave of dizziness washed over him.

…

Janus hung back as the Earth Kingdom soldier went to check on his injured companion.

“Is he okay?” he asked hesitantly, watching the man hover around his friend, apparently not knowing what to do. “That’s a big bump on his head.” And it was bleeding. A little. And while it was hard to tell in this lighting, Janus was pretty sure the soldier’s pupils were two different sizes. That was… not great.

The soldier turned back and glared at him. “He’s fine. No thanks to you ash-makers.”

The injured soldier—Patton, Janus remembered—swayed where he sat. Janus thought of the med kit he had brought, and took a hesitant step closer.

Only to instantly have a sword pointed at his throat. The non-dented sword, he noticed. He slowly put up his hands.

“My mom was a doctor of sorts,” he offered. “She worked on injuries like that. Accidents in the mine back home. I picked up a few things.”

Patton chose that moment to pass out again, falling to hang limply in his friend’s arms. The other soldier gasped, then bit his lip, looking conflicted. Janus could tell the moment he made his decision.

He turned to his should-be enemy and fixed him with a hard look. Janus had to admit it was pretty intimidating, with that raccoon-bear-like makeup he had on. Not a bad intimidation tactic.

“Make one wrong move,” the soldier said, “and I will end you, Smoke Breath.”

The Komodo-rhino grunted.

Janus put up his hands in a surrendering fashion—obviously not a firebending stance. Still, the soldier narrowed his eyes.

Which was a fair response, Janus had to admit. He’d seen his share of false surrenders.

Janus slowly approached, and the soldier shifted Patton to lay on the ground, settling one hand on the handle of a sword.

“I don’t have a lot with me,” Janus admitted. He lowered his hands, ignored the intense scrutiny the move received, and pulled out the med kit he had prepared. He pulled out a roll of bandages and antiseptic. He dabbed the antiseptic on the cut on Patton’s forehead, doing his best to clean it. The entire time he worked, the other soldier’s eyes burned holes through him, deeper than any bender’s fire could.

“My name is Janus,” he offered, not looking up.

“…Virgil,” the soldier said, his tone making it clear that this didn’t make them friends.

…

Patton didn’t stir while the Fire Nation soldier worked.

(Virgil wouldn’t have minded seeing the firebender sent flying by an instinctive rock to the gut, of course. He’d seen more than enough of his comrades cut down by their flames.

Still, they should probably not accidentally kill the closest thing they had to a medic, Virgil figured.)

“We need to get further away from the battle,” Janus said as he wrapped bandages around Patton’s head. “Unless you want to become collateral damage.”

As if to emphasize his point, a boulder crashed down on the opposite hillside, flung who knew how far and reducing the unfortunate tree it landed on to splinters.

“He needs a medic,” Virgil argued, hardly sparing the boulder a glance. He was used to that sort of thing by now. “A proper one.”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed,” Janus said dryly. “How are you planning to get him there? He can’t walk, we’re at the bottom of the mountain, and I’m pretty sure if you were an earthbender, you would have crushed me with a boulder by now. The way I got down here takes us straight to the Fire Nation army, and I’m pretty sure they won’t care how much help you or your friend needed.”

Virgil’s mouth thinned.

“Look. If I was going to kill you, I would have done it by now, wouldn’t I? I’m not here with the army. I left. I’m done killing.”

Virgil narrowed his eyes, searching the soldier. It was hard to look for genuineness in someone whose face was hidden by a freaking skull mask.

“I can take you to a medic,” Janus continued. “We’ll take my Komodo-rhino, and get there in a few hours. It’ll take you days on foot. Days your friend might not have.”

Virgil shifted, still glaring, but Janus had a point. This area was very sparsely populated, especially with the battlefront threatening to encroach further and further inland. It could be quite a while before they found someone who could help Patton.

It was clear that the firebender knew he had convinced him. That didn’t mean Virgil was going to trust the guy, though.

“Come on. I’ll help you carry him.”

Virgil glared. “I’ve got him.”

“Have you seen your arm?” Janus asked, looking pointedly at where red soaked through green. “You’ll probably drop him.”

Virgil gritted his teeth, shifting his sleeve to hide the injury. It hadn’t affected him too much when he’d been fighting Janus, but by now the adrenaline was wearing off, and the pain was setting in. “Fine. But if you try anything, or give me any reason to think you might try something—”

“Let me guess, you’ll kill me?”

“Oh good, you’re not as stupid as you look.”

Not that Virgil could see anything under his armor, since he still wore his faceplate and he even wore gloves on his hands, but that didn’t matter.

Didn’t he get hot? Virgil wondered. Around fire all the time, with heavy metal armor and apparently even gloves? In summer?

Not that he cared, of course. It was probably just more backwards Fire Nation logic.

Each young man took one of Patton’s arms, and they slowly lifted him up to something that resembled standing.

Patton woke up as they moved him, blinking dazed gray eyes. His head lolled as he turned to look at Virgil. Janus twitched. Virgil shifted to help support his neck.

“Group hug?” Patton mumbled. “I love hugs.”

Patton clearly didn’t understand what was going on, because there was no way that he would be so okay with a “group hug” with a firebender.

Virgil tried to look reassuring, but he was pretty sure his smile looked like more of a grimace. He wasn’t sure Patton noticed, either way. His gaze was already drifting away, up towards the burnt leaves fluttering through the air. He watched them with a sort of innocent fascination, like a child watching butterflies.

Virgil and Janus slowly made their way to the stolen Komodo-rhino. Patton tried to help walk, stumbling along between the two opposing soldiers.

Janus hopped up first, making doing so in full armor look way too easily. He and Virgil propped Patton up in the middle of the saddle, between them.

“Well?” Virgil said when they were done, still not quite convinced that this wasn’t a trick. “Let’s go.”

“We have to have a destination first,” the firebender pointed out, pulling out some maps from somewhere within his armor and squinting at them in the dimness. “We’ll find an Earth Kingdom town.”

“Obviously. Your stupid colonies would arrest us. Or you know, just kill us, if they didn’t feel like the hassle.”

“I was thinking more that I didn’t want to be executed for desertion and treason; but sure, that too.”

Virgil scoffed.

“Whazzgoin’ on?” Patton asked, shifting in Virgil’s arms.

“We’re going somewhere safe,” Virgil said.

(“Found it,” said Janus. He put away the map, rolled his shoulders, and flicked his reins. The Komodo-rhino began to move.)

Patton shifted like he was going to try to get away, but failing miserably. “We not safe?” he asked, sounding alarmed.

“No, no,” Virgil quickly corrected before Patton could hurt himself, or accidentally earthbend them all into a crater. “We’re safe. We’re just going somewhere even safer.”

“Can’t you hold him still?” Janus said. “If he keeps squirming he’s going to fall off the Komodo-rhino, and that’s the last thing we need.”

“Remind me why we’re still with you again?” Virgil said, glaring at the back of his helmet.

“Good monster,” Patton told the Komodo-rhino. He’d stopped struggling, thankfully.

“It’s my Komodo-rhino. If you want to walk to the nearest non-barbecued town, be my guest.”

“Didn’t you steal this thing?”

Janus declined to comment on that. They continued on for a while, gradually leaving the battle behind.

They made it out of the ravine, thanks to some luckily less steep topography at the very end of the Earth Kingdom side (Virgil was very glad they hadn’t had to backtrack, and Janus had somehow seemed even less eager about the idea).

The sky began to lighten as they plodded along, and after a while, Patton, who had been half-dozing where he lay propped against Janus’s back, turned to look at Virgil. He squinted, looking confused.

Virgil looked back at him, concerned. “Pat?”

Patton blinked, then patted the Komodo-rhino’s back. He looked back at Virgil, staring at him for a long moment.

…

“Are you a spirit?” Patton asked. He wasn’t quite sure where he was, or what was going on. Maybe this spirit had something to do with that.

“What?” asked the spirit. It frowned at him, only making the dark pits of its eyes look even scarier.

Patton swallowed. “Oh please, spirit, let me go,” he asked. He struggled to get off of the monster’s back, only to realize that it was moving. Arms encircled him, keeping him still. He struggled harder. He had to get away, didn’t he? He was so confused, and his head hurt, and he was scared.

“Hold him still,” another voice said.

“Bite me,” said the first spirit.

Patton turned around, confused at the second voice. He blinked hard at the resulting dizziness, and it took him a second to realize that the big metal thing he had been leaning against was alive. It turned to look at him, and his eyes widened, because its face… its face was a horrible metal skull, white and streaked with ash and mud but still stark against the pitch black and blood red of the rest of its body. This spirit was even scarier than the first. Patton squeaked, and he stopped struggling. Because he did not want to make these clearly evil spirits angry.

The scary skull spirit sighed and turned back around. Patton was just glad that he couldn’t see that horrible skull face anymore.

They started walking through the trees, the only sounds the low groaning of the Komodo-rhino, the breaking of twigs, and the occasional, strangely reassuring murmurs of the spirit behind him. It probably wanted to keep him calm, so they could more easily do whatever they wanted to do to him.

Patton really didn’t feel well. The motion of the trees as they moved forward, bouncing along on the back of the armored gray monster, was nauseating, and the light filtering through the trees and glinting off of the metal skull spirit was only making his head hurt worse. He closed his eyes and leaned forward onto the spirit in front of him. The cool metal was welcome against his throbbing skull. He could worry about what these spirits wanted with him later.

…

“I can’t believe he threw up on me.”

Virgil leaned back against the Komodo-rhino, holding his injured arm with the other, and watched as the firebender removed his soiled metal chest plate and tossed it away. “You need to ditch your armor, anyway, don’t you? Kinda obviously Fire Nation.”

Janus turned, and Virgil was sure he was being sneered at, even if the guy was still wearing his helmet. “We’re twenty miles away!”

“Boo-hoo.”

There was a grumble from the saddle, and Virgil turned to Patton, who lay against the Komodo-rhino’s back, his face pale and pinched.

“It’s okay,” Virgil murmured.

Patton didn’t respond. Virgil sighed through his nose.

They needed to hurry.

Janus continued stripping off his armor and hiding it in a bush. He kept on the helmet, for some reason, as well as the gloves and gauntlets, and his boots. Otherwise, he wore only the simple, reddish gray clothing that the ash-makers all wore underneath their armor.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Virgil said pointedly, tapping his head. He pulled himself up into the saddle and brought Patton up to lean back against his chest.

Janus stared at him for a moment, sighed, and then reluctantly removed his helmet.

Virgil stared.

“Shut up,” said the firebender, getting into the saddle. He flicked the reins, and they started off again.

…

He was in a bed, and it was dark, and there was something warm and soft and slightly itchy laid over him. He heard voices, although they were indistinct, like they were coming from another room.

He turned his head, and oh, that was a mistake.

“Are you awake?” a new voice said. Closer. Higher in pitch than the other two. With a subtle accent that he couldn’t place.

“Hmm,” was all he managed. He was pretty sure that if he tried to speak more, he’d throw up, or crack apart like dried mud, or maybe just dissolve into the earth. At that moment, that last idea didn’t seem so bad, but that didn’t mean he would risk it.

“Can you tell me your name?”

His name.

Did he have a name?

Yes, of course he had a name, he thought. Now if only he could remember what that was.

The answer slowly bubbled up in his mind.

“Pah….” He winced at the scratchiness in his throat, and the way the single syllable made his painful head spin.

“Patton,” the nice voice finished for him, when it was clear he wasn’t going to. “Your friends told me.”

That confused him—confused Patton. If she already knew, why was she asking him?

“Do you remember how you got here?”

He knew this one. Those two scary spirits had brought him, keeping him trapped on the back of a monster. The spirit with the red-black-white skull face and the other with dark pits for eyes.

He shuddered.

“Are you cold?” A hand touched his shoulder. “You don’t feel cold. I hope you’re not running a fever. That’s the last thing you need.”

“Hm?” Why was that? Was something wrong with him? He tried to remember, but remembering hurt, and he didn’t seem to be very good at it.

“You’ll be okay,” the voice assured. She hesitated, then put a hand on his jaw and gently opened his mouth. A few drops of a bitter-tasting substance were placed on his tongue. “Here. You’re going to sleep for a little while,” she said kindly. “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Over the next several seconds, Patton’s already considerable sleepiness became overwhelming. He didn’t try to fight it. Just before he drifted off, though, he felt something cool and wet against his forehead, and as his eyelids just barely flickered, he thought he saw the woman’s hands glow blue.

…

When Patton woke, he felt much better. And much worse, for he remembered what had happened, just how he had gotten where he was, and just who had brought him there.

There had been no evil spirits. Just his best friend in the world, and a firebender.

It appeared that he was alone in the room now—lying on a cot, covered in a thin wool blanket, in a small room that was bare save for an Earth Kingdom tapestry and a table covered in medical supplies. A stool sat empty beside the bed.

Patton sat up, wincing, and pushed off the blanket with frustratingly clumsy fingers. He swung his legs over the side of the cot, taking a few deep breaths. His head still hurt, but at least he wasn’t so dizzy, and he could think again.

He had to find Virgil before it was too late. They had to get back to the army before they were presumed dead, or worse, deserters and traitors. If they hadn’t been already.

He had to find Virgil before the firebender decided to stop playing nice.

He pushed himself to his feet. Once he was sure he wouldn’t fall, he burst through the curtained door and into the next room. There was a gasp.

“Patton!”

Patton skidded to a halt. He was in what appeared to be the main room of a house. Virgil was there, the makeup around his eyes gone, wearing plain green robes rather than his uniform, his left arm in a sling. His eyes were wide, like he could hardly believe what he was seeing. One of his dual swords, badly damaged, lay on the table in front of him. It looked like he’d been trying to fix it before Patton appeared. He started to get up, staring at Patton.

Beside Virgil was a young man—or perhaps a teenager?—that Patton didn’t recognize. He wore similar green robes to Virgil, but his skin was paler, and he had a burn over part of one side of his face, including one of his eyes.

His other eye, the undamaged one, was gold.

The firebender.

Virgil was just hanging out with a firebender, with no armor on or weapons to protect himself, apparently at ease with that fact.

This didn’t make any sense at all. How hard had Patton hit his head, exactly? He felt dizzy, and he wasn’t sure it was just from the head wound.

“You… what are you…?” Patton stared between them, taking a step back and reaching for the wall for something to lean on. “I….”

Virgil hurried over, taking Patton by the arm. “Come sit down, okay? You’re alright. Everything’s fine.”

Patton allowed himself to be guided into one of the chairs. He kept staring at the firebender, who looked uncomfortable under his gaze.

“This is Janus,” Virgil explained, gesturing at the firebender as he sat back down.

“…Hi,” Patton said.

“Do you remember what happened?” Virgil asked, pushing a bowl of rice and a cup of water over to him. “Your head was messed up pretty bad.”

Patton reached up to feel the clean bandages wrapped carefully around his skull. “I… I remember the battle,” he said uncertainly. “I… I think we fell, and….” He glanced at Janus.

“You got hurt,” Virgil said. “One of the soldiers got through and came at you. Probably because you’re a bender.”

Patton winced.

“You were bending when it happened, and I guess you lost control after you got hit…. We ended up in a ravine. Janus found us there.”

“Right.” Patton looked down at the food in front of him. He picked up the cup of water, thankfully didn’t drop it, and took a sip. He didn’t feel up to eating just yet.

“You couldn’t walk, and he had a Komodo-rhino—he is Fire Nation, but he deserted. He found us while he was running away.”

Patton glanced at Janus again, then back to Virgil. None of this made sense. How was Virgil suddenly friends with a firebender, deserter or not?

“How long have we…?”

“The battle was three days ago,” Virgil said. “I don’t know who won. Or if there really was a winner.”

“We have to go back,” Patton said.

“You have to get better,” Virgil countered. “Soon Jee—that’s the healer who’s been taking care of you—she said you need to rest for a few more days.”

“I can rest on the way, I can rest when we get there—Virgil, we can’t desert.”

Virgil looked down at his sword. Janus looked away. “Why not?” he asked quietly. “You hate fighting anyway, and everyone saw us fall off that mountain. I’m sure they’ve already assumed we’re dead.”

“Virgil….”

“We don’t have anything to go back to, anyway,” Virgil said more vehemently. “You know that.”

Patton looked away.

“Patton, I almost lost you—I don’t mean to scare you, but it was really close. Way too close. You and I both know that if we go back, it’s only a matter of time before we die for real. Right now, we have a chance to start over. You and me. And Janus,” he reluctantly added. “Maybe.”

The firebender looked surprised at being included, even as a second thought.

Patton wrung his hands together, his gaze lingering on the bruises along one of his wrists. “Virgil?” he asked, “Why are you friends with a firebender?”

“I never said we were friends.”

Patton waited.

Virgil leaned back, looked towards the door, and sighed, apparently accepting he wasn’t escaping this conversation. “He saved you,” he said. “Janus saved your life. Soon Jee said… when we got here, she said you didn’t have a lot of time. That if we’d gotten here even an hour later, you might not have….” His face twisted. “Janus brought us here on his Komodo-rhino, even though we’re Earth Kingdom, and we’re supposed to be killing each other. It would have taken us at least twice as long to get here on foot, and that’s if you could walk. Maybe he just wanted to know he wasn’t going to be killed as soon as he showed up in this town, I don’t really know—”

Janus looked offended at the suggestion. “Hey.”

“—but he still did it. And you’re alive.”

“You could have brought me back to the army,” Patton pointed out quietly.

“Not in time,” Virgil said. “I can’t earthbend us up a mountain. And everyone was still fighting—the medics wouldn’t have even had a chance to look at you. Not until it was too late.”

Patton took another sip of water, mostly just for something to do with himself.

(Had he really been so close to death only a few days ago ? He wasn’t sure he could believe that.)

Still…

“Okay,” Patton said finally. “Well… thank you, Janus.”

Janus inclined his head. “I decided that I was done killing,” he said. “I’ve only been in the army about six months, but it’s… Well, I’m sure you know.”

Patton didn’t feel the need to confirm that. Everyone at the table knew what the Fire Nation had done. What the war was like for everyone involved.

“How old are you, Janus?” he asked instead.

Janus hesitated. “Seventeen.”

“You enlisted at seventeen?” Patton was surprised. Although, admittedly, not that surprised. It was the Fire Nation, after all. They were always seeking honor; and apparently, invading other nations was very honorable.

“Sixteen, actually. And I didn’t enlist. I was drafted, as punishment. I… might have stolen some money from a noble.”

Patton frowned.

“For medicine,” Janus justified. “My mom… she was really sick.”

He looked to the side, gritting his teeth, and Patton caught a better look at the burnt side of his face. His damaged eye was dull, but it was unmistakably green.

A long moment passed.

“I didn’t know firebenders could have green eyes,” Patton said.

Janus’s gaze darted towards him. “It’s rare,” he admitted.

“Is that why your face got burned? Because you have a green eye?”

Janus was clearly uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “…Among other things.”

“Sorry,” Patton said, feeling a bit bad for the guy. Soldier or not, firebender or not, he was still a kid who had been shoved into a war he didn’t ask for. And if he had wanted to hurt Patton or Virgil, he had already had plenty of opportunity.

“It’s fine.”

Patton looked him over briefly, then turned to Virgil. He frowned at the sling. “Is your arm okay?”

“I hurt it in the fall,” Virgil said. “It’ll be fine in a couple weeks, Soon Jee said.”

Patton’s heart sank. “I hurt you?”

“A rock hurt me. You didn’t do anything.”

Maybe a rock had technically been what hurt him, but Patton was the one who had been bending it, who had lost control, no matter the reason for it.

Virgil cracked a smile. “Besides, since I’m such a powerful evil spirit, this mere flesh wound is nothing.”

“What?” Patton was baffled.

“You kept calling us spirits the other day,” Janus explained, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You were pretty out of it.”

Patton blinked, then sank down in his chair, feeling his face begin to burn. “Oh.”

He was saved by approaching footsteps, and he looked up to see a woman standing in the doorway, carrying a basket of fruit. She smiled, seeing Patton.

“I’m glad to see you up and around,” she said.

“This is Soon Jee,” Virgil supplied. “The healer. She’s letting us stay until you’re better.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you properly,” Soon Jee said. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Patton said. He bowed, not getting up from the table. He didn’t want to find out if he’d fall over if he tried to bow while standing. “Thank you for helping me.”

“It’s no trouble, dear.” She set down her basket. “Why don’t you come back with me, and we can look you over?”

Patton glanced at his friend, who gave him an encouraging nod. “Okay.”

Soon Jee smiled reassuringly, helped him up, and led him back to the room where he had woken up. Patton sat down on the cot, and Soon Jee took the stool.

“How’s your head feel?” she asked.

“It hurts,” Patton admitted. “But… not like I got hit in the head with a club, anymore.”

“Well, you were wearing a helmet, thankfully,” Soon Jee said. She leaned forward, and started unraveling his bandages. “That helped protect you from the worst of it.”

“Yeah, but….” Patton grimaced. “I was still pretty messed up.” He sat there for a second, swinging his legs awkwardly. “I’m not complaining, but how’d I get better so fast?”

Soon Jee smiled. “I’m good at my job.”

Patton looked at her hands. A memory tickled his mind.

“I saw you, before,” he realized aloud. “Your hands glowed.”

“…I’m afraid you must be mistaken,” she said, wrapping fresh bandages around Patton’s head. “Maybe you were hallucinating. You hit your head quite hard.”

“You’re not just a healer,” Patton said quietly, more sure now. “You’re a waterbender.” He’d heard of that before, of waterbenders who could use their abilities to heal. But he’d never met one.

She looked quickly at the doorway, then back at him. Her eyes were a pale gray-blue, he noticed. “Don’t tell anyone. Please.”

“Why? Don’t people know? Why would you want to keep that a secret?” If Patton had talents like that, he’d be proud, not trying to hide them.

“Because I know what kind of people are in this world. And I know what company you keep. Deserter or not, that boy with you is still Fire Nation. Half, at least.”

Patton frowned, not understanding. “But….”

Soon Jee set her supplies back on the table, looking away for a moment. She seemed to come to a decision, and looked back to Patton. “My real name is Kanda,” she began, “not Soon Jee. And I’m not just a waterbender. I’m a Southern waterbender. One of the last, if not the last.”

She told him about the raids. About how again, and again, and again, the Fire Navy ships had come and taken more and more of their benders away and had sent more and more of their once great cities crumbling into the indifferent ocean.

She told him how she had left, both to save herself and to save her tribe from losing yet another to a fate that was almost surely worse than death.

“So…” she finished. “Do you understand? Will you keep this between us?”

“I understand,” Patton assured her, his heart aching. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Soon Jee—Kanda—gave him a sad smile, and sat back. “Thank you.”

Patton looked down for a moment, then said, “Don’t you miss home?”

“Of course I do. But…” she sighed. “Sometimes the best thing you can do, for yourself, and for the people you love, is to leave. I’d give almost anything to go back; but I know that if the Fire Nation found out about me, my people would suffer. I miss home, but I don’t regret my decision. And I’m not ashamed. Even if it were just to save myself, I wouldn’t be ashamed of that.”

Patton nodded. “I understand,” he said softly. He was silent for a moment, then asked, “How did you end up this far north? I know you had to leave, but there’s plenty of places to go further south.”

“I had to get as far away as I could,” she said. “If the Fire Nation heard about me… they would have come, and they would have punished the tribe for keeping me a secret. At least this way, if I’m found, I can claim I’m from the Northern Tribe.”

The Northern Tribe had never been successfully invaded, Patton knew. Kanda doubtlessly knew the same.

“Are you safe here?” he asked. “Maybe you really could go join the Northern Tribe.”

“I could,” Kanda admitted. “But… I’ve heard that things aren’t so easy, for women in that tribe. I’m better off here, where I can help people who need me.” She gestured towards the doorway. “You can go back to your friends now. I do want you to stay here for a couple more days, so I can keep an eye on you. You’ll probably need another healing session.”

“Thank you,” Patton said. He got up, glanced back at her, and went through the doorway.

Virgil perked up immediately when he saw him, getting up from the table and coming over for a hug.

Over Virgil’s shoulder, Patton looked towards Janus, who gave him a hesitant nod of welcome. He looked very out of place.

But he was trying; and, firebender or not, he had brought Patton to the healer who had saved his life.

Patton gave him a small smile.

Virgil pulled back. “Is everything okay? You guys took a while.”

“It’s okay. We were just talking. She wants me to stay a couple more days, just in case.”

Virgil nodded, looking relieved. “Okay. That’s fine. As long as you’re okay.”

Patton nodded, looking between the two of them. “I think we need to figure some things out, anyway.”

Virgil and Janus glanced at each other, and back at him.

“We do,” Virgil agreed.

Patton took a deep breath, and let it out. He sat down at the table, wincing slightly.

“So…” he said. “Let’s just say… we don’t go back. Theoretically.”

Virgil glanced over at the healer, who had come in behind Patton.

“She won’t say anything,” Patton assured him. He turned to look at her. “Right, Soon Jee?”

She smiled, probably relieved that he hadn’t called her Kanda. “I won’t. I’m only here to help people, not to harm them.”

Patton turned back to the two soldiers. “So… let’s just say we don’t go back. What’s our plan?”

“I know what my plan is,” Janus said. “Don’t get caught.”

“Okay. So do we need new names? What’s our story?”

“I’m Earth Kingdom,” Janus said.

“Are people going to buy that?” Virgil asked, glancing at him. “You’re a firebender.”

“I just won’t bend around people. It’s fine. Besides, it’s not really a lie. Just not the whole truth, either. I can go by Lee or something. There’s a million Lees. It’s like the Kuzon of the Earth Kingdom, from what I’ve seen.” He looked pensive. “Maybe we can change it up, make it Dee. I’ve always liked that name.”

Virgil shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”

“We could say we’re refugees,” Patton offered. That way, it would make sense that they didn’t have documentation to back up their story.

“Also not really a lie,” Janus—Dee?—mused.

“This would all be hard to sell if we’re on a Komodo-rhino,” Virgil pointed out.

“Then I’ll get rid of it. It’s in good shape. I’m sure I could get a couple of ostrich-horses for it.”

Virgil tapped his fingers against the blade of his sword. “So, are we actually doing this? Deserting?”

“It’s a little late for me to turn back,” Janus shrugged. “Little late for all of us.”

“But you?” Virgil asked, turning to Patton. “I know you were against this.”

Patton took a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t like fighting,” he said.

And that was that. It was decided.

They weren’t going back.

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shreddedleopard · 4 years ago

Text

A Christmas Wish & A Birthday Gift (Merry Birthday, Captain!)

Summary:

Historia intends to give the Orphans of Paradis a Christmas treat, and manages to convince Levi to assist her. In the process, the Captain ends up with a little treat of his own. Pure Christmas Fluff. Rivahisu, but not overbearingly so.

AO3

Fanfiction.net

Or read in full below.

“Your Majesty, with all due respect, it’s Christmas Day tomorrow.”

Zackley’s rumbling tone cut through the meeting room in the military HQ of Mitras. He sat at one end of a long table, flanked either side by members of the government and higher military. At the other sat the Queen, with Levi at her side. The topic of discussion was the delivery of food and gift donations to the children of the underground. The scouts had worked their asses off gathering it all; now they just needed a little help from the other branches to get it down there. So far it was proving difficult to secure said help.

“Yes, correct, Premiere. I’m well aware of that. Which is why this proposal is so important.”

Levi was silent as he watched Historia speak beside him, eyes burning brightly. He crossed his arms, waiting for the protests from the brass to continue. He’d warned her this would happen, but she didn’t seem fazed in the slightest.

Good. Neither was he.

“But how many children are there in the Underground? It would take a significant number of personnel to support the logistics of such an operation. You can’t really expect us to draft in that many MPs this late in the day? When they should be enjoying the festivities with their families tomorrow?”

Levi gnashed his teeth, uncrossing his arms to take a sip from the tea cup in front of him. Anything to stop himself biting out a response. Historia had asked him to let her handle things as much as possible. She wanted the opportunity to lead properly; he wanted to give it to her.

“We’re well aware of this fact, as you should have been a month ago when we first submitted the proposal for your review, Premiere. If you were familiar with it, you would also have seen that we have the support of the Special Operations squad and Captain Levi.” She gestured sideways to Levi, and he inclined his head. It was true, his squad had been more than willing to give up a few hours of their Christmas for her cause. Their cause. “As well as several other squads from the Survey Corps. They’re happy to assist with the deliveries tomorrow. The only support we need from the Military Police is the opening and manning of two stairways for a few hours. We’ve coordinated drop off points where children can collect the food and gifts that we’ve gathered, we simply need you to open up the Underground to the troops.”

Levi raised his brows as Zackley cleared his throat. He glanced sideways at Historia. Her cheeks were a little flushed, but she held that fierce look of determination she always got when she was dead set on something.

Nicely done.

She might not yet have the experience and wiliness of Erwin, but by nineteen, she had begun to mature into quite the negotiator.

Nile Dok ran a hand over his face, before frowning at the table. “Your Majesty. I understand why you want to do this, but surely one day won’t make too much difference? Why don’t we arrange it for the day after tomorrow? A large number of the MPs based in the districts of the entry points do have families. They’ll want to spend the day with their children. Are we really going to take that away from them?”

Levi couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“Must be nice, to have a table full of food, and a family you can sit around it with while you all enjoy the day. Unlike -”

He felt Historia’s boot meet his shin under the table. He grunted in surprise, and she seemed happy to take the opportunity to cut in.

“We understand. But it’s just a few hours; they won’t miss the whole day. We’ve coordinated everything to be as efficient as possible. Commander, we really need your help. The children need your help. Imagine a world where your own daughters couldn’t rely on the kindness of others should they ever be in a desperate situation. That is a world we wish to move away from.”

Well, shit. Perhaps she was more like Erwin than he gave her credit for.

Nile appeared to war with himself inwardly for a moment, his fingers stroking that pathetic wisp of hair on his chin. He sighed. “Alright. Fine. I’ll allocate the men. Providing the Premiere is happy, of course.”

Levi and Historia both looked over to Zackley, who was regarding them both shrewdly as he rested his bearded chin on clasped hands. “Well then. That’s settled. I think you both got what you came for.”

Levi felt Historia’s knee nudge his beneath the table, gently this time. He made to take another sip of his tea, hiding the way his lips twitched upwards behind the cup.

—

Historia practically skipped out onto the street as they headed for the carriage. “We did it!”

Levi climbed up into the cab after her, grumbling. “You’re the damn Queen. Shouldn’t have even needed to negotiate.”

She made a face at him as he settled into the seat at her side. “Stop being a grump. It’s Christmas Eve, and we’re going to make a lot of children a whole lot happier tomorrow!”

Huh. That was true, although it was going to take a whole lot more than a few turkey drumsticks and knitted scarves to solve the problems of the Underground. He didn’t voice this, though. He didn’t want to do anything to endanger the way she beamed in the moment.

—

Levi let her chatter on about the joys of Christmas as the carriage wheels clattered along the cobbled streets. For a kid that had been robbed of love in her youth, she sure seemed to have an abundance of it to pour out these days. One of the reasons he admired her so much. She told him animatedly how pretty the fir tree - the one his squad had felled - now looked, adorned with decorations in the playroom of the orphanage, and how the children had made Christmas cookies decorated with questionable looking snowmen, and how the holly she’d cut to lay across the banisters and mantlepieces had left her with several war-wounds.

Levi gave a small tch at that, taking her soft hands in his rough. He inspected the small cuts with an arched brow. “Barely even a scratch, brat. Call yourself a soldier?”

“Not any more,” she elbowed his side with a grin.

Levi grunted, releasing her hand. “Fair.”

—

They were less than ten minutes away from the Orphanage in Orvud when she sprung the request on him.

“Are you shitting me?”

“Go on, please!”

“Zero chance, Your Majesty.”

Historia pouted at him as she held up the red suit and hat she’d miraculously produced from one of the packages they were supposedly delivering to the orphans in her care that evening.

“The children will love it! I won’t tell anyone.”

“Absolutely not.”

Historia sighed wistfully. “Alright. I should have known you’d be the same as Commander Dok when it comes to these sort of things.”

He turned his head to look at her, eyebrows raised in disbelief. She batted her lashes at him, still wearing that ridiculously will-shattering pout.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Give it here.” He yanked the suit from her hands, doing his best to ignore her little whoops of glee.

—

The fake cotton-wool beard itched his face like hell. How in the name of the three walls did people willingly not shave? Facial hair was disgusting.

The door to the playroom slid open slowly.

“Surprise!” Historia exclaimed beside him, hands in the air.

The children stared, round eyed. She elbowed him.

“Ho ho ho,” Levi muttered.

That seemed to do it. Dozens of tiny feet pattered against the floorboards as the brats flew at him with cries of ‘Santa!’

Amidst the chaos of being accosted by the group of frenzied children, Levi felt Historia’s warm hand slip into his own. She lead him and his band of followers over to an armchair by the fireplace.

“Sit.”

He did as he was told, although he tutted quietly beneath the beard.

Historia turned to the children while gesturing to Levi’s lap. “Who’s first?”

—

And so it went. Kid after kid, they all perched their bony little asses on his thigh, told him what good little brats they’d been all year long (which, quite frankly, was a pack of lies from most of them) and they got a red and white striped candy cane for their trouble, which Historia surreptitiously slipped him. He spoke as little as he could help it, merely giving hums of agreement or nods of his head.

If Erwin and Mike could see him now, they’d piss their pants, the pair of bastards. Thank fuck Hange wasn’t around.

“Tell anyone about this, and I’ll kick your ass.” He muttered, leaning toward Historia.

“A promise is a promise.” She muttered back, pressing her hip into his arm.

The final kid, and the biggest pain in Levi’s ass, was a boy named Freddie. They went through almost the whole charade without problem, until it got to the part where he was supposed to slide off Levi’s knee. He didn’t. He turned his pink little face, framed with dark curls, up at Historia, and yelled, “your turn!”

That set them all off. A horde of banshees, all screeching about how Historia also needed to sit on Santa’s lap, because she had been the ‘goodest girl of all.’

Levi would strangle every last one of them. But not tonight. It was almost Christmas, after all.

He didn’t look at her, but he could still see from the corner of his eye that she was the colour of the shitty suit he was wearing. Huh. Served her right for coming up with such a ridiculous idea.

He patted his thigh, mirroring her earlier command. “Sit.”

Her ass was much less bony than the kids’, despite still being as petite as she was at fifteen. Her hand went to his shoulder to steady herself, and he felt the softness of her body as it sat flush to his.

Womanhood suited her.

He turned to meet her eye. The shared glance was momentary, before both had to look away. He could feel his own neck reddening now, too. He was finally grateful for the disgusting cotton-wool beard.

“What do you want?” He muttered.

She was staring resolutely out of the window. “What?”

Levi rolled his eyes. “Tch. For Christmas, brat. What do you want?”

“Oh.” She shifted in his lap, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from hissing at her to keep still. “Ah … well …”

“C’mon. Haven’t got all day - gifts to deliver, and shit.”

“Oi.” She jabbed him in the chest for his language. He grunted, poking her in the back to try to get her to hurry the hell up.

“Alright. For Christmas, what I’d really like … is for someone not to spend their birthday alone. I’d … like to celebrate my … friend’s birthday, with them.”

Well, that was unexpected. He cleared his throat in an attempt to hide his surprise. “Oh. I see.”

Suddenly, one of the brats near the back piped up. “Captain Levi! She means Captain Levi!”

How the fuck?

He peered up at her beneath his oversized hat. “Seems like someone couldn’t keep their mouth shut,” he mumbled. “Sure you’ve been the goodest girl?”

Finally, she looked at him properly. Her mouth curved into an apologetic smile, cheeks still glowing. “Sorry. But we really would like you here, with us?”

Her words made his chest go tight.

“Santa is coming to spend Christmas with us, too?” An excited voice chirped.

Historia fumbled. “Captain Levi. I mean, we would like Captain Levi here!”

Levi hated his birthday. Historia had only found out about it by accident. But now, it seemed, he was stuck between a rock and a hard place as dozens of little, expectant eyes stared up at him and the pretty Queen sat upon his lap.

To hell with it, then.

“Mmm. Sure the Captain could stop by. I’ll ask him to make time in his busy schedule. He’s got some presents to deliver himself, first.”

Historia seemed to get the joke. She squeezed his shoulder gently.

“Thank you.”

Levi nodded once. “Fine. Now shift, brat. You’re heavy,” he lied. “I’ve a dead leg.”

—

It was far later than it should have been by the time he made it to the front porch, after having one too many Christmas cookies and glasses of eggnog thrust his way. It wasn’t even damn Christmas yet. Not for a few hours, at least.

He felt a tug on the back of his red suit. Oh, how he couldn’t wait to get this scratchy shit off of him in the carriage that was waiting at the end of the path.

“Hey.” He turned to find Historia staring at him, her cheeks rosy, but this time likely due to too much eggnog rather than embarrassment. “You were wonderful.”

“Shut up.” Despite himself, he could feel his mouth twitching upwards beneath his beard. Damn him.

“You can take the beard off now, you know. They’re all in bed.”

Right.

Levi ripped it from his face, eternally grateful to feel the cold evening air against his clean shaven skin. “That shit was irritating as hell,” he grumbled, shoving it into his pocket. He looked up to find Historia laughing at him. “Oi. It’s not funny.”

She quietened, although she was still smiling when she asked, “you will come tomorrow, won’t you? Afterwards. Once we’ve delivered everything. I won’t make a fuss, promise. I haven’t even got you a gift.”

Levi shoved both his hands in his pockets. “Good. Alright. Not like I have much choice now, is there? Apparently Santa is going to have a word with me.”

She laughed again, this time softer. “I’ll look forward to it. Goodnight, Captain.”

Levi inclined his head. “Night.” He turned, but before he could take another step, her voice halted him again.

“Wait -“

He rolled his eyes, sighing loudly in exasperation. “What now?”

Before he had chance to process what was happening, Historia was on the porch beside him, leaning on her tiptoes as she kissed his cheek.

His eyes widened as she settled back to look at him. “Changed my mind; about the gift. Happy Birthday, Levi.”

Levi tried desperately to hang on to his trademark expression of boredom. He was well aware he failed miserably. “Huh. Not my birthday, yet.”

“Oh. Of course,” Historia gave him a shy grin. “True. I’ll have to give it you again, tomorrow, then.”

No longer sporting a cotton wool beard to hide his blush, Levi spun quickly around and marched down the path. He was sure Historia must know he was fighting a smile, though.

#happy birthday captain levi #rivahisu #santa levi #historia reiss #Levi ackerman #rivahisu fanfiction #levi x historia #snk christmas #queen historia

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years ago

Text

Wait For Me || Morgan & Deirdre

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @deathduty & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: “I don’t know if I can do this. Not if this is who you are going to be. Not if this is what our future has to look like.”

CONTAINS: descriptions and discussions of self-harm, references to suicidal ideation

It was gauche, Deirdre thought now, to come bearing flowers whenever she had something to apologize for. But the flowers were pretty, and rare, and only grew one place in the world---a place Morgan may not ever come to, though Deirdre ached to take her. The fae world she held delicately in her heart wasn’t friendly to outsiders. But it had saved her life, and it had clothed her, and it had given her the strength to come back home to the person her heart belonged to. And She’d make a place for Morgan there. Deirdre wore a stolen sweatshirt, about three sizes too large for her, and shorts that covered nothing. In her crudely bandaged hand she held a bundle of flowers from the mirrored district, some of which were like mirrors themselves with their reflective petals, others as bright and pale as the moon. And a few, from the Lydia tree, striking red against the rest. She groped around the large sweatshirt pocket for her keys only to remember that she’d lost them in the forest--right along with her phone. All she felt there was the crinkle of the articles she cut. And so, she stood awkwardly in front of her own house, like a stranger--a beggar. In the days of her absence, the fog of rage and grief had lifted from her mind, and left behind a hollowed woman. What pieces she needed to pick up, where she went from here, she didn’t know. But one thing had remained true, and she always knew the place to start remembering herself. Deirdre lifted her hand and knocked against the frosted glass of their door. In the cloudy, skewed reflection, she could see a face that hardly looked like her own under all of her injuries. Stiffly, she tried to adjust her damp hair to look more the way Morgan remembered it, even if the ends had been singed in the fire. She was more bandage than skin now, and had about half a dozen jokes about being a mummy she would never say.

Instead she stood there, and waited.

Nothing good knocked on your door in the middle of the night unannounced. After almost forty years grappling with a curse, Morgan knew this better than most. So she held no hope, no illusions of her world getting one stitch better when she opened the door. Then she saw Deirdre, or what was left of her. What precious bits of skin she could see were swollen and streaked all the wrong colors. Blood crusted the edges of her bandages, and in her hand… a fucking bouquet of flowers. Morgan took her in with a long, terrible look; she couldn’t hide how sick, how wrong Deirdre looked with the stain of violence on her in its stiff, crusty, puss tinted glory.

“What the fuck,” she hissed, her voice cracking with sobs. “What the fuck was that? What were you fucking-- What is this fucking bullshit, Deirdre--” Morgan wanted to shake her, scream at her, knock those flowers out of her hand, show her exactly how much of an insult they were. But the woman before her was Deirdre, broken and small and finally home. Morgan shook her head, still burning with rage, and flung her arms around Deirdre and dragged her inside.

Resolve cracked. All the fancy words she drafted in her head on the way back home crumbled against her quivering lips, and Deirdre let loose a volley of apology and sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, my love.” She breathed Morgan in, held her back just as tight, just as desperate. She threw her flowers aside, they were dumb anyways. “It’s the—it’s the way the mirrored district works; it takes time away and I just—“ She trembled against her love, pain flaring in the places she was hardest held, and in the sore muscles that begged for rest—for once. Deirdre ignored it all, eager to be with Morgan again. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “I’ve been so stupid. I’m so sorry. I love you, I love you.” She kicked the door closed urgently with her foot, keeping steady as they backed up blindly into their home. After all this time, after all her thinking, the only thing she could manage now was apology. “I’m sorry.” She pressed her lips firm against Morgan’s skin, peppering her in kisses as she mumbled more sorry’s. “I know it’s not good enough,” she pulled back, “but I am, I am.”

Morgan’s sobs shook her body. This was everything she had craved for weeks, but like some starved human given a five course meal, she was throwing it all back up. Deirdre’s touch burned, her soft voice made Morgan want to scream, and she did: tired and frustrated and bleeding with hurt. “You’re sorry,” she said bitterly, hating how fragile her voice sounded. “Now you’ve decided you’re--” She shook her head, trembling so violently her spine would’ve popped if she were still alive. Deirdre was always sorry. What did sorry mean after six days? “Stupid? Is that the word you--No! It’s not enough!” She pushed one of Deirdre’s hands away, but didn’t move to separate herself. “What were you thinking, what even happened to you, what is this?” She gestured wildly to Deirdre’s latest injuries, her face crumpling as new details caught her eye. Morgan couldn’t help but reach out for her face, even just a little, just enough to brush the patch of bare cheek she could. She shook her head again, uselessly scrubbing her hand over her eyes. “No, why don’t you explain what you’re sorry for now and why you didn’t feel like you could tell me or how I was supposed to know on my own. Tell me. If you are half as sorry as you say you are, you will fucking tell me!”

Deirdre knew now to be less startled by feeling Morgan’s anger against her—it was startling, yes. Something that she never should have let fester to begin with. But it didn’t spark the same bubbling panic it had the first time, or during her moments of immeasurable grief. “I’m sorry…” she mumbled again, face fraught with apology and concern as she looked at Morgan. Her girlfriend lobbied several questions, all good, all she was more than willing to answer. She started with the obvious. “For leaving. For not coming back like I should have. For sending pixies off to deliver you a note. For the way I’ve treated you recently. For the things I’ve done to myself, with no regard for you. For thinking it would have been okay to die on that driveway, for wanting it. For forgetting how much I want this life with you. For not being here to help you too. For running off the first time, and the second time, and this time. For going off and doing these terrible, stupid things, and then leaving you to find out through other people, or not all. I—I’m sorry, Morgan.” Deirdre breathed, eyelids fluttering as she blinked back tears. “I was—I couldn’t contact you, exactly. But I should have come home first, I should have told you. I should have done a lot of things that I can’t change right now, but I’m here, and if you’ll let me...I want to make things right. Please.” She shifted, wondering if Morgan would let her wipe her tears away, and then deciding she would try it anyway. “Do you want to sit, my love?”

Morgan squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t look at Deirdre, so desperate and pleading and soft. It made Morgan want to throw everything from the last two weeks away and forgive her so she could nest in her body. Deirdre wiped her tears and Morgan’s mouth fell in a silent scream. How could she skip to the end of this when she felt as raw and pummeled inside as Deirdre was on the outside? How long did she wait for her before she became pathetic? Morgan hid her face in her hands, nodding. She didn’t want to do anything, exactly, but she couldn’t stay standing in the hall. She stiffened her expression as best she could and led the way to the great room. She sat in the middle of the couch, hugging her knees. “Why should I believe anything you say right now?” She asked, her voice still wet and rasping. “I’m finally worth talking to, but why? Because I don’t understand. I would have done almost anything for you if you had just thought to--” Her voice squeaked with pain again. She shook her head tiredly. “I just don’t understand anything right now. What is this? What’s happening now?”

Deirdre fell beside Morgan, softly as not to disrupt the couch. She hovered anxiously beside her love, unsure how much affection Morgan wanted now, if any. She settled for resting her hand close to her, yearning for her touch. “I don’t know….” she confessed quietly. “I don’t know. And I know you can’t trust me but I can promise it. Everything that I just said, I can say it again as a promise. I mean it. And you don’t have to accept it, my love. I’ll still mean it tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day. I love you, I want our life together—I promise I do. And I’m sorry, I promise I am.” Deirdre breathed shakily, voice quivering. “You’re always worth talking to, you were always, I promise that. I just—I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking right, I guess. Lydia died and in my head I knew everything I had to do. Torture, pain, death...for Lydia’s peace and her justice. I have to do it. But I didn’t want—I didn’t want to bring that to you. You said you didn’t want to be complicit in what Lydia did and I couldn’t make you complicit in my acts. I thought it was right—I was right. I thought a lot of things, I know, but I just didn’t know what to do. I want Lydia back so badly...I want a good death for her, still.” She reached for her girlfriend, hand pressed against her knee. “But then I almost died again, and these fae they—“ She swallowed. “I saw what they did for Lydia. And it was beautiful, and kind and all this pain and anger I have...it hasn’t brought me anything, and it hasn’t brought Lydia back and I haven’t done anything right and I...I’m so tired, Morgan.” Her hand fell down, grasping the air. “What’s happening is that I’ve taken too long to remember what’s important. The thing I’ve always wanted is you, Morgan. And whatever I need to do to bring Lydia peace...I don’t think it means hurting you. I never want to hurt you, not ever. Not for this, not for anything.” She paused. “I’m sorry.”

Morgan slumped as Deirdre made her promises. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t who they were, but Deirdre wasn’t sick or choking on her words. They were true. It didn’t make sense, but she was speaking true. And the choice of what to believe, the woman next to her or the one she remembered, had been taken away. Morgan listened, weeping silently as she did. She understood these words, to an extent. She knew death. She knew loss. She knew bloodlust. (She was still trying to figure out what to do with her own.) And she knew that some pains demanded to take rule. But-- “But you did...” She said faintly. “You hurt me. And you never told me what I was doing wrong. You said I didn’t do anything but you wouldn’t even let me touch you at night towards the end, and then you just vanished! And then that...that note, that didn’t...what was I supposed to do?” She shuddered, whimpering. “I didn’t even do that to you when I died. I came back to you. I always came back. And I know you needed me, and she meant so much more to you than me, and I tried, I swear I tried. I wanted to be here for you! But you wouldn’t talk and I couldn’t do anything…” Morgan clutched Deirdre’s sweatshirt and tried to curl up tighter against herself.

“Because you haven’t done anything wrong. You hadn’t. I promise. I—“ Deirdre grimaced, memory slotting into place. “I didn’t want you to see…” she admitted, small and broken. But she could show Morgan now, not because she had grown any less embarrassed, but because she remembered sharing herself with Morgan was a safe thing to do. And it was the least she could do now. “Hey…” When she peeled Morgan off of her now, she offered explanation. “I need to take off my sweatshirt, okay? I’ll show you. I just need to take it off.” And she pulled up the fabric, wiggling out of its cotton hold until her body was bare and open. Crudely done bandages wrapped around her abdomen, covering the iron stab wound that would’ve claimed her life, if Athena had been any less arrogant. But she gestured to the bandages around her back that wrapped around her arms and chest as the pixies found it hard to secure. They weren’t expert medics by any stretch, but they never questioned her. It was simply what fae did for each other. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Morgan. I didn’t know how to say anything, I…” She trailed off, bitting down on her lip. “I’m sorry about the note, about whatever the pixies wrote. I should have just done it myself. I should’ve.” She sighed, and motioned that she was going to turn around now. Finally, with her back to Morgan, she looked over her shoulder and nodded. “You can take those off...I think all of these need to be changed anyway. But that’s—I was just trying to—“ Deirdre sighed. “I was scared, I suppose. I was hiding.” And underneath the bandages, she’d find the marks of a woman who had tried to seek repentance in an old technique yet found none. Where she couldn’t use her words, it was easy to turn to violence, even if that violence had to be leveled against herself. “I didn’t know what to say.”

Morgan searched Deirdre’s eyes as she spoke, desperate for some deeper affirmation. Are you sure I didn’t do anything? Are you sure I wasn’t being punished? But she had asked, Deirdre had promised, and what else could she plead for? Morgan squeezed Deirdre’s fingers as she stood. She couldn’t stifle her gasp as she saw how thoroughly wrapped in bandages her body was. Morgan meekly stood and undid the knots and unwrapped the bandages. The first few layers came off with ease, but as she got closer to Deirdre’s skin, the color grew brown, then red. There was a sucking sound as Morgan eased off the last layer, whispering, “I’m sorry, I can… I-I can…” Still half in the nightmare version of their relationship, she fumbled for the words that had been slapped out of her hands the most : help, heal, fix, soothe. But then she saw the ruin of Deirdre’s back and there was nothing left to say. Streaks of red sores crosshatched over each other so thick they swelled together in bloody spots in some places. Blood eeked out where the bandages had stuck. Morgan was silent for what felt like a long time, then at last managed, “May I get the first aid tub for you? I’d like to... you need to have these touched up for them to heal right, and you shouldn’t do them by yourself.” She stepped to the side and met Deirdre’s eyes sadly. They hadn’t solved anything yet, and she had more questions, but this much could be simple for them.

Though largely unaffected by the cold, Deirdre shivered. It was humiliating in a terrible way, but then, she supposed she ought to feel it. It was stupid in a thousand more; the desperation of a fraught woman. The only thing her pain had really done was change her body into one she hardly recognized. Deirdre looked up at Morgan, hoping to explain herself, somehow, not that there was much to explain. Instead she found her asking to get their first aid tub, and she shifted in her seat. “Are you sure you—“ she swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, that’s okay. That’s fine, if you want to. You know you don’t have to, right? But yeah, it’s fine. More than. Um—“ In truth, she hadn’t wanted Morgan to leave, some part of her worried she wouldn’t come back. But Deirdre trusted and she nodded, and she hoped they’d be able to get to the thing she actually wanted to confess sometime before it was too late—though it always was too late, wasn’t it? “I’ll be here.”

Morgan held up a finger for enough. “Of the two of us, I’m not the one who’s found ways around honesty,” she said, a solemn statement of fact. “I want this. Thank you.”

It was a while before Morgan padded back to Deirdre’s side. She set everything down in a daze and gave her back another look, still struggling to process the violence on display. “I am going to be as gentle as I know how to be,” she mumbled. “But if anything hurts worse, you need to let me know.” She frowned, fighting the urge to kiss Deirdre’s shoulder with comfort and went to work. Her hands tingled. They seemed to crave giving the tenderness they were finally allowed just as badly as the rest of Morgan craved receiving it. She made tender caresses on the brown, ridge lined scar tissue of Deirdre’s old wounds. She was so soft the movements were discernible to her only by her eyes. After over a week of loneliness, there was novelty in care this exacting and relief in the concentration it required too.

“Of course I hate seeing you hurt,” she said softly into the quiet. “And this is...incredibly extreme. I know what fae funerals ask of you, but there are at least two different occurrences on your back. I’d like the story when you’re ready for it, but this feels like you went back for more just because it’s something you could do.” She continued in quiet, then, “It’s not like I don’t know you sometimes turn to self harm when you’re destabilized. You could just have said. I don’t want this for you, even now, but I’m not going to judge you for it. Just, please stop, my—” Morgan stumbled over the endearment that usually fell from her so easily. It would not come. She sighed, her gentle voice turning tired. “Please. Try your best not to anymore.” She applied salve to the cuts, then a fresh roll of bandages. “You still haven’t said what it is you’ve done. You didn’t do all of this to yourself—“ She came around briefly to look at Deirdre as she wrapped up her body again and gestured with her eyes to the rest of her injuries. “I need to hear what happened. All of it.”

Deirdre frowned, feeling the truth and harshness of Morgan’s statements—and silences—worse than any pain she had put on herself. Even now, she lacked the language to explain the thoughts in her head, the grief in her body—the intensity of it. But she would try. “Six,” she corrected. “Six times, I believe. From what I could remember. You see my family...as a way to...it just—“ She hissed, not from pain—Morgan was unbelievably gentle with her—but from trying to pick apart the things her family told her to make violence okay, an unbiased fact. “Atonement...is not found the way I used to think it was. But it was familiar, and for a moment, it felt like the right thing to do. I didn’t know how to tell you how much pain I was in but this is….I don’t know,” she sighed. “I suppose you know now.” Deirdre slumped, weighed by fatigue, guilt and remorse. She pulled at the bandages on her wrists; iron burns. Her only thought was that Athena could have done much worse, and that she probably should’ve. She reached down and picked one of the articles out of her sweatshirt pocket. Amanda’s face, smiling in black and white, stared back at her. She placed the clipping on the table. “The girl who killed…” she closed her eyes. “The warden who tortured Lydia was close to this girl. Like sisters, in a way.” She opened them and stared down at the headline. This was only the clipping from her disappearance, old now, she wasn’t sure if her murder had been reported. “I wanted the warden to feel pain, like I have. But she—“ she tapped Amanda’s face. “—was innocent, truly. And young. And against everything I believe...I killed her. I needed information from the warden, I needed...Fates, I don’t even know. But I killed her and she didn’t have a thing to do with it.” She reached down and pulled out two more clippings of missing people; Roger Johnston and Joseph Wood. Names she had to hunt down in her memory, faces she had to fight to remember as they were and not as she’d made them. “Those men too. For no purpose, in fact, not even to terrorize someone else. Just because I could...just because it hurt.” she turned back to her injuries, which seemed like too little now. “The warden did this. I’m alive only because she wanted me to feel pain too. That’s the cycle we’re stuck in...pain begets pain. I felt so much of it—I feel so much of it—I don’t know where it goes. But not there, not on them. And not on me...but then where else?”

Morgan finished wrapping up Deirdre’s back and clipped them in place. She couldn’t help but brush her fingers over the spot and down her arm. She’d done a good job, worth affirming, and Deirdre’s body seemed to beg for comfort. “Sometimes the worst things we can do are ones that are most familiar,” she whispered. “But you can’t stay in that place, Deirdre…”

And then Deirdre explained how she had earned her injuries. Truly earned by the bloodsport rules of their world. Morgan dropped her hand and took the clipping, eyes wide with horror. The girl was young, practically Ariana’s age. She crunched it in her fist. “There really is nothing you won’t do,” she whispered. “She didn’t even know Lydia--none of them knew her, or so much as heard of her, much less had anything to do with what happened--and you destroyed them. Not even for fate, or for her. Just you. And I used to think you had more principles than me.” She looked away from Deirdre then, over at the walls where their skeleton paintings hung, the floor where the book of Mary Oliver poetry had fallen, the windows repaired and braced against their trauma, the snow globe (now just a tiny sculpture on a pedestal, without its glass dome) of a winter cemetery, a hope of a future that seemed to disintegrate the more Morgan watched it. “You know, that would’ve been a great question to ask the person breaking herself to try and help you. Before you destroyed yourself and everything you supposedly stand for. That would’ve been something great to figure out together.” She let out a long, shaky breath and shut her eyes. She couldn’t sit in their home and watch the life that had made her into a person again color with pain.

“I need you to swear to me that you understand that you are loved. Even now, you are loved. And none of this was necessary. You are the one who did this, to yourself and to us. You were loved through all of this mess, and a single word from you to clue me in could’ve made it stop. You are so loved, Deirdre,” she whispered, tears creeping over her lashes again. “But I don’t know if I can do this. Not if this is who you are going to be. Not if this is what our future has to look like. I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Deirdre closed her eyes, curling into herself. In her mind swirled a thousand explanations about the rules of the fae; how revenge worked. It didn’t matter what humans were trampled on the way, it didn’t matter how young they were. Lydia would understand, because Lydia was a fae just like her. But Lydia wasn’t here. “The warden took someone from me, I took someone from her. I should have killed her but I wanted pain…” she mumbled to herself, not offering her words as an explanation, but a trickled thought. She turned, and planted her feet on the ground, resting her arms on her legs. “It all seemed so clear at the time, all the things I needed to do, terrible as they were. Everything I was taught,” she sighed, shaking her head and pushing her inadequate explanation away. She couldn’t meet Morgan’s eyes, though she didn’t imagine Morgan was looking at her anyway. She knew what this house looked like before, like the set to someone’s life, but not hers. It was a home now, and she seemed to keep ruining it. “It would’ve,” she agreed, “in some other world, maybe I would have been smart enough to ask it sooner.”

The words that came from Morgan next were no surprise, she had imagined them on her way here. She had feared them. What would I do, she asked herself, if it was what Morgan wanted? She looked up and remembered the empty that her house once was, not a single book or decoration she cared about. No gifts, no cat tree in the corner. “If it’s what you want…” she began, “...then I won’t stop you. And I understand, I do, if it is. Because I love you too, Morgan.” She swallowed and turned to her girlfriend. “But I’m not giving up. When I said I wanted to be a better person, I meant it. When I said cruelty wasn’t a thing I wanted in our lives either, I meant that too. What I’ve done was wrong, and it’s not what I want. It’s never been what I’ve wanted. Because I am tired of it Morgan, these cycles of pain. I don’t want them anymore. I don’t want to hurt people like this. Not without cause, not like...not like their lives don’t mean anything. I don’t want that.” Deirdre tensed, though the desire to turn away flared up in her twisting stomach, she continued to look, determined. “But I do what I have to...sometimes. And most of the time I don’t understand what it is I have to do. I promise you that I will try, because that is what I want. But I can’t say this will never happen again, because I don’t know. My duty is to the greater good and I don’t—“ she swallowed. “No, there’s no greater good that involves death like that; senseless. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know. If trying my best sounds good enough to you, stay and I will give you everything I can. But if it doesn’t….then please, let me take my things out. You should have the house, it suits you. I can stay somewhere else.” She finally broke her gaze, unable to find resolve or foothold in the idea of leaving Morgan. She didn’t want it, she would have done just about anything to avoid it...but lying was not something she could do to Morgan. She could not make guarantees where there were none. “We’ll—“ her voice cracked. “—f-figure something out about the cats. If you...think it’s the best thing for you. I want your future to be good, Morgan. The best it can be.”

For the first time since Lydia’s death it wasn’t the world that cracked in two, but Morgan. Part of her still bled inside, hurt and twisted and needing validation as much as a way to punish Deirdre until things felt fair. Another burned to sweep Deirdre into her arms saying, okay, okay, we’ll be okay. She looked at her sidelong, taking in her familiarity: her sad brown eyes, her trembling lips, her earnest voice, pieces of a woman Morgan didn’t want to do without. But she had looked that way before, and then she’d done this. Morgan continued to watch her and continued to think. There was no way to guess what circumstances they would be faced with, what they would be pushed to consider. Deirdre was offering so many promises, but they brought so little comfort in return. How was she supposed to do this, knowing this woman could drop her and run? And yet…

“If we do this…” she said slowly, reaching halfway for Deirdre’s hand.“If we do this, we have to be different people. Being like this, treating me like this cannot be our normal. You need to tell me things even if it hurts. Before you get yourself into some deadly mess. I get wishing you could join the dead better than most. But I cannot watch you destroy yourself. This needs to stop. And however rare your connection to Lydia was, we are supposed to have long lives. We need something better than this for our grief.” She shifted her body, angling toward Deirdre. “And we can’t pop back into what old shapes we had. I know...there was a time when you were all I had to cling to in this world. You told me it was okay if I made you my sole anchor. And I was scared because it seemed unfair to put that weight on you. You already have so much to carry. But I did it. And because of that decision I am still a recognizable version of myself at all. But what I didn’t reckon on was…building my existence entirely on you meant that whenever you break or leave me, I beak too. Every moment since you sprinted out of our home and practically died in my arms on our driveway has destroyed me. I am nothing without you, the way we’ve been doing this. And that is not fair. And it is not right. I need to do that much differently, for myself, and for us too. We can’t destroy each other so fast with our mistakes. You’ve done a lot, and I think even the strongest version of myself would be wrecked by now, but I fell apart so fast, and I’m still really broken...” Morgan’s voice broke as she remembered screaming and wailing in Lydia’s bedroom. She shuddered, shrinking in on herself. “And, I don’t know, maybe if I was different, some of what happened could have been different too. Does that make sense, what I’m saying?”

Deirdre’s gaze fell, her eyes stuck on Morgan’s hand. Her own fingers twitched. She stared, wondering if it would be okay. She remained silent for a moment before she met Morgan’s hand the rest of the way, held firm in her grip. She looked up. “I think it makes sense. It feels like it does.” She drew her lip in, scraping it across her teeth. She would’ve liked to imagine that she could carry Morgan on her own, but it was true that her own stability had been threatened. She didn’t know who she was, and she couldn’t ask someone to depend on an identity that she wasn’t certain of. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do it, Morgan. I never thought…” She sighed her words away and slumped. “I wanted to be enough. For someone.” Deirdre turned towards Morgan, running her fingers along the fabric of their couch, the same motions of comfort she normally shared with Morgan. “I can do that. I can do better.” But she didn’t have anything better to build her life on; her duty was a demanding thing, the fae had rules that often created more ruin than she wanted. Morgan was her shred of happiness, and she couldn’t imagine finding that any place else. She couldn’t even imagine where to start looking. “Can I--can we hold each other? Can we be doing that now?” Her voice was a soft plea as she gulped the rest of her anxiety down. “It’s just--It’s been so long. I’ve missed you, so much.”

“It’s not about being enough,” Morgan said quietly. “I need some-thing, stars only know whatever that is. And you are someone. My most important someone, whatever else happens. The someone who made me as alive as I’m ever going to be. It’s just different.” She let the thought sit between them and hoped it stuck. She wasn’t sure if she had enough of herself left to try explaining it another way. She ached like her bones were just waiting to turn into putty, and her mind, tortured by its restless shamble from one thought to the next, deflated.

At Deirdre’s question, Morgan slumped, shaking as a sob broke free. “Yes,” she said, her voice whistling shrill. “Yes, please. Please...” She didn’t reach for Deirdre so much as she tipped over and fell against her. Whatever resolve or pride she had left washed away in the tide her tears had unlocked. She clung to Deirdre, careless and full of need. Morgan nuzzled into the crook of her neck and remained there, crying, until new words floated up and cracked through her throat. “I need to release you from the promises you’ve made tonight. I’ve already lost track of them and I don’t want you to be forced into being here.” She hiccuped a cry. “But I do need some, until I figure out how to trust you again. I need something until I’m a whole person again. I still need you…”

“I am a thin-ermng--” Deirdre mumbled, having just enough sense to realize what Morgan was trying to say, and how her self-deprecating thoughts didn’t play a role. She coughed. “I understand. That isn’t going to stop me from wishing I could be, though. I want the best for you, whatever I can offer and whatever I can learn to....You wouldn’t ask me to be something, I know, but I’m saying I would.” As silence drifted over them, Deirdre’s body began to quiver and her face contorted. She erupted in laughter, head raised to the ceiling. “Oh, Fates, that doesn’t sound romantic at all! That just sounds terrible.” She wiped away a tear, bubbling with a smile. Though the amusement was short lived, she offered the grin to Morgan, pulling her love tight into her arms. “I’ve forgotten them too, actually,” she chuckled softly, trying to hold Morgan as tightly as she could, with all the longing of the days she’d neglected. “But I’d be alright with that, all of it.” Working for Morgan’s trust again wasn’t as heartbreaking as she thought it might sound--to have lost it was terrible, was something she hurt for--but to work to love Morgan didn’t sound awful at all. She already did, and finding better ways to love was her honor and privilege. Horrible as it felt to have treated Morgan so poorly, loving her was no task at all---it was a matter of course. “I can work with that,” she smiled softly, “and that’s okay, whatever you need. I can do that. What do you want me to promise? I can do that now, put your heart at ease….I’d like to.”

“I—release you—“ Morgan gasped, mumbling the words into her skin. “From every promise you’ve made tonight. I relinquish you.”

Time turned slippery as she cried, carried off by the current of her tears. After a while it wasn’t even one particular memory she was agonizing over, so much as her pain itself. Maybe if she screamed louder, it would spend itself, and the throbbing would end and her bones would settle. Maybe...

When she could speak more or less without gasping for air, Morgan said, “Will you promise you won’t leave me tomorrow like you have before? And promise you won’t hurt yourself on purpose until your body’s been completely healed for a week. Promise...p-promise me I’m safe with you. For tonight, for tomorrow.” She shivered and dug into Deirdre tighter. “I’m so scared,” she explained in a whisper. “I keep thinking the phone’s going to ring and you’ll throw me away and I won’t know how to get up this time. If nothing else, I need to know I’m safe here, like this, however we are, through tomorrow.”

For all the times Deirdre had held Morgan in her arms, there’d never been a moment so clouded by her own mistakes. Even the times before they started dating, sprung apart by Deirdre’s fear, it hadn’t felt so different. All Morgan wanted was to be with her, and though Deirdre wanted the same, she kept finding some way to twist it. She could’ve promised herself to Morgan for the rest of time and thought nothing of it, she could have sworn to stop tearing them apart. But these promises, just for tonight and tomorrow, were hopelessly Morgan—and heartbreakingly earnest. “I promise I won’t leave you, like I have been, tomorrow. I promise I won’t physically hurt myself on purpose until my current injuries have been healed for a week.” Deirdre shifted their bodies, just enough so she could look at Morgan. “I promise you’re safe with me, today, tomorrow…” she swallowed. The desire to say she would be safe everyday was strong, though it wasn’t what Morgan had asked—and it wasn’t something her girlfriend would feel comfortable holding in the form of a binding contract. Deirdre didn’t think it lessened the truth of her words though, even if she couldn’t say it. “Hey,” she cooed, momentarily lifting her hand away from holding Morgan to cup her face instead. “I lost my phone so you don’t have to worry about that part but how about this?” Deirdre smiled warmly, “I promise I won’t abruptly leave your side without telling you where I’m going.” She pulled her hand away, wrapping it back around her love. “I know that one’s a little bigger…” she leaned in and pressed her lips to Morgan’s forehead. “But you can let that go when you feel like you can trust me again. Until then, for as long as you need it, you can keep that. And anything else you want me to promise now.” She smiled again; promises could be dangerous for a fae, deadly even. But she didn’t imagine these would be hard to keep, or something she’d ever break. It was fine, and even if it wasn’t, she imagined that they’d figure it out. “Is that okay? You can ask for more, my love.”

Morgan whimpered as Deirdre shifted to lift her head. The vulnerability her softness inspired frightened her. Her urge to surrender was almost instantaneous, she barely knew how to keep from hurling herself into this woman, so comforting and painfully familiar. Morgan’s eyes pleaded with hers as they met, clinging to the words spoken and unspoken. Today, tomorrow, and every day thereafter. They couldn’t dare, even if whatever punishment fae magic might devise felt fair in this moment. But it was tempting, more than it had ever been before.

She was awed by the promise Deirdre volunteered. It was so kind, a gentle salve over one of the worst wounds on her heart. She itched to touch her face, to kiss her, and only just held back. “You don’t have to say where,” Morgan whispered. “I know sometimes you need to be away from me, or you don’t know where you’re off to. You can just say why, if that’s better. Either.” She hesitated, searching for any sign of reluctance in Deirdre’s expression, something to keep her back from hope. But there was only her tenderness, only her affection. “Thank you,” Morgan said, mouthing the words more than speaking them. She pressed her face back to Deirdre’s. She had almost forgotten the way her lips brushed so faintly against her skin and how much it felt like love. “Maybe after tomorrow,” she admitted. “We’ll have to see. But there are...I need to know some things, before I get too comfortable too fast. Even if I just want to lay down with you holding me...” If the universe was still in her, she would have reached for it for strength. But there was only herself and her want. Anything more would have to come later. “If I put you on my insurance, would you try therapy? I know we can’t talk about everything, but even just for methods around your self harm, or your idea of yourself, or us. I need to know if you would.” Morgan swallowed thickly. “I need to know if there’s anything else you’re keeping back from me. Because I can’t take more surprises right now, I need all of it, whatever’s left. And I know I can’t make you swear never to do this to me again, but you need to know there’s every chance we won’t make it if you do. I don’t even know if we’ll make it right now, but If you don’t let me stop you, if you don’t let me in enough to even try next time, we’re not going to get years you say you want. And I need...stars, I don’t even know. It feels like so much but I’m so tired… I wish I could sleep, I’m so tired.” She shuddered and clung that much tighter to Deirdre. “Tell me you love me again. Tell me it wasn’t my fault…”

“I don’t particularly think I’d ever want to be away from you…” Deirdre whispered with the same reverence as a promise. It wasn’t want that ever separated her from Morgan, though she knew she’d shattered her girlfriend’s trust. “Then: I promise I will never leave your side abruptly without telling you why and/or where I’m going.” She pressed her forehead against Morgan’s, slow and careful, offering just enough time for her to move away. It had been so long since they held each other, even longer since they’d kissed. But she didn’t dare close space between them as she once had; Morgan said it would be different, and while she learned just how different, Deirdre wanted to respect it. But even for all of the respect she wanted to summon, she couldn’t help the grimace that flickered across her face at the mention of therapy. The fae had their version of therapy, it involved mushrooms and torture, usually. “I went to therapy...actually. Group therapy, if you can call it that. It was…” she sighed; it was helpful, in a strange way. “Are you sure you want me on your insurance? I—well, you know money isn’t an issue for me...the only thing that would do is….well, it would be a commitment. Is that—are you okay with that?” Deirdre shifted, which in her position, amounted to wiggling stiffly. “I could go...yeah. I don’t know how much I could tell a therapist….I don’t know if they understand ancient banshee religious practices. But I would; I would go. If it would help, I’d do it.” And while the imagined embarrassment of having to sit across from a human and tell them all about how much she hated herself was a strange, stabbing kind of pain, it felt more like a step to her. She had tried being better on her own. She had tried it with Morgan’s help. If she could push her own pride aside and try it a little differently, maybe it would stick this time. “I….” Deirdre swallowed. “I’m sorry again, Morgan. And thank you...for letting me try. I love you. Everything that’s happened, the way that I’ve treated you, that wasn’t your fault. None of it has ever been your fault. I love you, I love you so much.”

Morgan soaked up the pressure of Deirdre’s forehead like fresh water. She still felt right. It was almost galling how much she could do and still feel so right. “You...what?” She asked, almost laughing with surprise. “When? Did you--group? Really?” Deirdre didn’t really strike her as the ‘play nice with others’ type. “Would you want to go again?” At the timid mention of commitment, Morgan rolled her eyes with a sigh. “I just mean--the American healthcare system makes enough money off of people without you paying out of pocket, first of all. And obviously someone supernatural would be ideal, maybe through some telehealth service since we probably won’t get lucky looking local, but for now, with what you feel able to talk about, I think it would be ideal. And…” She sighed stiffly. “Even if this didn’t work, I would want to help you. Do something for you. I’d want you to be happy and okay. So...it’s okay. No matter what happens, it’s okay. I’ll do this.” She offered a thin, sad smile, still in the process of reconciling the fact of her devotion with what they could make work in the wake of their mess.

Morgan sank back down against Deirdre’s chest as she made her assurances, sniffling quietly and nodding along. The thought of blame was the hardest to rewrite, and even as she felt the calm of Deirdre’s chest against her ear (no tensing, no gurgling, nothing that felt like a swallowed lie), she tried to replay their interactions and comb them for mistakes she could fix the next time around: when she’d gotten short and frustrated, when she fell to pieces, when she surrendered to Deirdre’s wishes after the first rebuff instead of the third. Maybe it was just that hard, admitting how helpless she’d been.

“It was...a thing for fae who don’t want to hurt humans anymore. They said…” Deirdre swallowed thickly, trying to shrug. “I think I’ll go again. They said they’d have pie for me this time. They only had donuts...which kind of suck as far as dessert foods go.” The food wasn’t the point, obviously, but as Deirdre navigated her own comfort with speaking of the topic, she found herself latching on to what was easiest to talk about; the food, the shitty chairs, the weirdly specific posters. “It felt nice,” she said eventually, “to talk to people like that. I kept thinking they would start laughing at me but they never did.” Deirdre shifted again, as if getting a better position on the couch would magically make talking about her feelings easier. She waited for her mother to materialize and chastise her for her behaviour, to say this was all some elaborate test and she failed terribly—there was always a breath held in anticipation for it every time she spoke of something forbidden. “I don’t think me not paying for therapy is going to ‘stick it’ to the American healthcare system.” She tried to laugh, but the sound came out as a shaky exhale. “If—if this doesn’t work out—which is…” A terrible thought to have. Exactly what ninety percent of her nightmares were filled with. The last thing she ever wanted to think about and even as someone who adored argument, it was a thought she felt horrified to entertain. “...a hypothetical I don’t enjoy considering. I don’t want to make anything harder for you. If it does...I can promise you I will continue to attend therapy, and you don’t need to have me stuck on your insurance. You could….save that for someone else, I suppose.” Or something. Deirdre didn’t want to speak more of it than she had to, but her mind had already worked out the logical steps they needed to take. Morgan would get the house, because she’d always wanted one; everything inside the house would be hers, save for Deirdre’s clothing and personal belongings; and Deirdre would continue to provide financial support, until the day she couldn’t. The only thing she hadn’t figured out was the cats, but every time she tried, her body was seized by sadness. And so, she left that one in the hypothetical space.

There were more important problems to solve, anyway. Like what to say now, if she needed to or could do more, what things had she forgotten to apologize for? It was a long list, when she’d taken mental stock of it, and she felt like she only spoke a fraction. But time, she realized, was what she had to leave the Fate of her most precious relationship to. She couldn’t force Morgan to love her like she had before right now, right away. She couldn’t soothe every issue with some promises just at once, like she hadn’t been gone for days. “Can I kiss you?” She asked quietly, blurted out as her mind drifted. “I know it’s been a while and I know I don’t—it’s okay if you don’t want me to. I understand, I can wait for...whenever you’re ready for that again. I just...thought I’d ask.” She flushed with guilt and embarrassment. “It’s fine if—you can just forget I asked. I’m sorry.”

Morgan couldn’t help the watery smile that spread over her as Deirdre explained where she had been. “You have a fae support group...?” She said faintly. For the first time this night, her voice lilted up with hope. She lifted her fingertips to tenderly brush along Deirdre’s cheek. The faeness of the group made the strange parts fit together, why Deirdre felt comfortable speaking at all, why she took the idea seriously in the first place. And it was why Morgan thought it might stick. Deirdre had a community. Maybe not a banshee community, but one who knew what it was like to be raised similarly, where wings mattered more than hearts. “That’s incredible. You should go, as much as you can. I’m so proud of you, for doing this for yourself.” She kept stroking her face, moving down to her jaw, as she thought about the rest of what Deirdre said. The habit was so compelling, she didn’t want to stop.

“I don’t want to think about there being someone else,” she admitted. “I don’t want someone else. I just…” Say these things to protect myself. Remind myself the woman who hurt me looked just like you. She grimaced, hoping that by process of elimination, Deirdre would understand. “We don’t have to keep talking about this in those terms, though. We shouldn’t. I don’t want to manifest that world. I want…” What she most wanted was for all of this to have never happened in the first place. She couldn’t quite visualize the steps between where she was and where the life she still desperately craved lay ahead of her: happy, vibrant, stable, and pledged to Deirdre. It was painfully ironic. Her whole life she hadn’t even dared to imagine that she could have anything so long lasting as to imagine stability. Having something good for a time, a year at most, was as promising as her reality got. And now that she could almost taste that new, better life, her foundations were in shambles. “...I want…” Morgan hesitated. Deirdre promised I’m safe. She promised she won’t leave. She promised, she promised… “I want this to stop hurting. I want us to be together without it being scary or hurting. I want to be able to hear you tell me something without having to question it. I want ‘us’ to mean something again.”

At Deirdre’s question, and the volley of insecure backpedals and qualifications that followed it, Morgan sat up in her lap. She looked long into Deirdre’s eyes, frowning with heartache at the swelling around one of them. These eyes knew her, understood her, pleaded with her. Even loved her. Morgan brushed back her hair, greasy and tangled. It was as though her grief had torn itself out of her heart and onto her skin. And somehow in the middle of that anguish, she’d had enough sense to try something more for herself. Her poor banshee was so strong. Even if her heart was stronger than she realized, it wasn’t used to carrying so much love or bearing the cost of it. Morgan’s lips trembled as she smiled sadly, then she reached up and cupped her face as gently as she could. “I love you. And I need some time. But you can have this--” She kissed Deirdre, tender, chaste and lingering. She parted, meaning to leave it at that, but the touch had only been a ghost of contact and that faint cotton tingle that was as close to softness as she would ever feel only made her body ache for what it had missed for so long. Morgan met Deirdre’s eyes. If she gave anything more, the promises for tomorrow would mean nothing. Her heart would be sunken too deep and it would be so much harder to pull back if they fell apart too quickly. She didn’t even know what she would supplement Deirdre’s place in her life with. The only thing clear was her want, however terrifying, however unwise. Please help me, her eyes said. Please. “A-and...and now you can kiss me back. Just once.” She whispered.

“It’s not a fae support group...it’s a murder support group...in which we’re all fae.” But the more Deirdre talked about it, the more ridiculous it sounded. it sounded stupid when Sundew took her, it sounded stupid while she was there, and it probably would have sounded stupid to her mother. Did that make it good or bad? As she listened to the hopeful turn in Morgan’s voice, trying not to shiver under her feather-touch, she thought it might have been good. It might have been okay. But she closed her eyes, and there was everything else, everyone else. The idea of a fae that felt bad about killing a human was ludicrous. As a child, every sentence she uttered ended with a glance at her mother. She waited for the hum of approval, the hiss of disapproval; the direction she needed to steer herself. Morgan thought it was good, and Deirdre did too, but when left on her own, would she still look for her mother’s eyes? “They meet often...I can—I suppose I’ll join them.” She lowered her head, Morgan’s pride was not as intoxicating an incentive as her mother’s, but it was gentler. Embarrassingly so. It was the warmth it blossomed, the stirrings of tender thought—her self-worth did not conflate, but it fluttered. Like wings in her chest, waiting for the right breeze to carry them off.

“I don’t want to either. But it’s—maybe it’s something we need a plan for too? To make it less—“ scary? It would always be scary. Terrible? The terribleness of it would not lessen with carefully considered steps. “—I don’t know,” she confessed. “I just thought I was being considerate, by offering. I can barely think about it. I don’t want to.” It occurred to her then that it would’ve been better to discuss a plan for staying together rather than parting. It was better to think about on all accounts, and more important. Those were steps she’d much rather lay out in her head, but they didn’t have easy answers—the solution was subject to the strange, volatile factor of time. “I’m sorry…” she said quietly in a moment, shifting closer to Morgan. “...that I ruined that. But I want us too, I want you to trust me again too, and I’ll work for it—I will.” She bit back a promise, though she would have offered them all out if she thought it would help. What good was a power like that, if she couldn’t even use it to properly explain to the woman she loved just how devoted she was? She was tired of saying she could promise things, if Morgan suddenly turned into such a creature that would bind Deirdre to her; she could do it. She wanted to just do it. But time—terrible, slow and inconsiderate—stood between her. She’d have to wait, for however long it would take. Each second, each hour, day or year—she would wait. “I am yours,” she sighed, “always.”

And she realized her mistake then, in asking for a kiss. Even when she could give them freely—a privilege she would remember to cherish—they were never enough. Too short. Too soft. Too hard, this time. Not right, that time. They were her favorite inadequacy; time after time she could try to get them perfect. Not enough love. Too much. She should hold Morgan tighter. She should kiss her longer. She never felt horrible for falling short, it was just a matter of trying again and again—some were good, some were great, some so instinctual she forgot them (those too, had their merits, she could kiss Morgan again, carrying the value of two kisses). But they were all strung together by a common thread; that she wanted more. Morgan parted from her and Deirdre chased her for the centimetres between—too soft, too short, not enough, come back. But this one could not be fixed with another, or another after that one. And Deirdre blinked, trying to reign her longing to no avail. She wasn’t so sure if she was looking at her desires in Morgan’s eyes, or Morgan’s own staring back at her. But she was such a terrible fool to think she could look at her, drink her in, and want just one kiss. The furrow of her brow alone demanded twenty. And her eyes—big, beautiful, blue—she wouldn’t even start to count how many they’d get in their name. Just once, Morgan urged her, and altogether, Deirdre crumbled. She pushed herself up, meeting Morgan’s eyes. She leaned in slowly, plagued by quivering breath. She held herself those missing centimetres away from Morgan, thinking there was something to savour in the lingering. But as she brushed her lips against Morgan’s, gentle even to her senses, she couldn’t kiss her. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled there, voice heavy with longing. “I can’t kiss you. Not just once. I can’t do that. Not in...any way that won’t be worse for us.” She pulled back, meeting Morgan’s gaze. “I want you, Morgan. Not just once.” She dropped her head, ashamed by her own dramatics—by the ferocity of her love and affection, and all that it wanted. Her mind was still reaching for Morgan, her body trembled with the need to; it had been so long since she had to stop herself from offering affection, she’d forgotten what agony it was. She lifted her head. “I can’t help you,” she said, “I can’t not want you enough to just—“ She swallowed. “I’m sorry. Not just once. I can’t do it once.” Deirdre brought her fingers to her lips, the feeling of Morgan there was already gone, and they burned to be renewed. She’d have to live with it for now, she’d have to wait.

Morgan had nodded encouragingly at Deirdre as she leaned in. She was terrified of what this would do to her, but she ached worse for one more taste of their intimacy. Her hands had slid up Deirdre’s shoulders in expectation. She’d closed her eyes and—nothing.

Morgan’s wide eyes flashed with hurt and confusion. “But—” Her voice cracked in her throat. She cut herself off, lips quivering, and listened. By the time Deirdre finished, Morgan’s body was just as tense with longing as her banshee’s, and her whole mouth trembled. Her hand went out automatically for Deirdre’s, ready to tear it away, to pull her right back in and show her what she’d really meant by once (so long as they didn’t fully part, it was only one kiss, right?) and soothe both of their hurts. But she stopped herself halfway, unsure now. “Worse how? Would it hurt…? Did it hurt before?” Had her kindness been cruel without her realizing? “I was gentle so you’d know I really meant it. So it would be just for you. I was scared, but I wanted to, and I wanted you to have it. And I thought that would be it and I’d be content, but as soon as I felt you, I wanted—” More. So much more. Enough to fill herself up and be sick on. One kiss had seemed like a balanced compromise, but maybe it wasn’t after all. Morgan shuddered and took Deirdre’s bandaged hands, looking earnestly into her terrible, pained expression. “I want you too…” She whispered.

“This is stupid,” she whimpered. “This is so stupid and unfair.” Physical affection had come so easy for them before. It was automatic sometimes, at others, as fluid and nuanced as language, composing poems on each other’s bodies of how much they loved and craved and cherished one another’s presence. “How do we fix this? How do we get to the part where it’s better? If you can’t...if even this isn’t good, we need to figure out something soon, right? We need...a plan, a-a rule, I don’t know. Something to hold onto.” She searched Deirdre’s eyes, finding her own pent up longing reflected back at her. She finally forced her lips to hold their place. “Aren’t you tired of hurting? Can you tell me what you need, what you think will help?”

“No, no! No, it didn’t hurt. That’s not it.” In her eagerness to dissuade Morgan’s worries, Deirdre wrapped her back up in her arms, in the same state that sparked the desire for more in the first place. “It was a good kiss, a really good kiss. That’s the problem…” She sighed, looking into Morgan’s eyes—big, blue, beautiful—and realized the number they would garner was indefinite. How did she ever think just one kiss would be fine? “Would you be okay with that? Would just one kiss be enough? Could you tell me you wouldn’t want more? If you can, I’ll do it. But if you can’t….then we’ve played this game before, Morgan. I don’t want to pretend like I don’t want you as badly as I do, I don’t want to pretend like I can give you just one kiss and move on with the rest of the day.” She pulled Morgan closer, sidestepping a kiss by pressing her lips to her cheek—the same way she’d skirted the definition of a kiss before. “You set a boundary for a reason; you want to feel safe, right? And you don’t right now, you said you don’t. I’ll still be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and the one after that too and so on….and we don’t have to do this now. We can wait until you feel safe again, and it’s okay.” Deirdre smiled, gentle, though she pulsed with the pain of separating herself from Morgan. It was like she’d been peeled off, and half her skin was still stuck to Morgan—and she needed it back, she wanted it back, but she couldn’t take it. She knew the feeling well; the electricity that coursed through her body and the mind that throbbed with longing. She could work herself into a fever just thinking about it; those days, it had been so terrible...but it had been different. She felt strong justification in keeping her hands and lips to herself, now, she had no self-righteous idea to steady herself on. “It was selfish of me to ask, I’m sorry.” She breathed out, heady with the things she could not do. “I want you, Morgan, and I could have you right now that’s not the issue...but would it be okay for you? I don’t—kissing you just once is better than not kissing you at all, but I’m trying to do this right. For both of us.” Of all the things to feel nostalgic of, this was not one she imagined would ever flutter back across her body. “I am so tired, my love. Of hurting...of hurting people…all of it. But what I want is you, what I’ve always wanted is you. But I’ll be here tomorrow, and after that, and all of tonight too….and I want you, and one kiss isn’t enough for me and I’d only want you more. And I don’t know what to do, I don’t. But I can wait. I’ll wait for you.”

Morgan latched on tight to Deirdre as she was brought in and did not let go. “How could you do this? We can’t even kiss without hurting, how could you do this...?” She burrowed her face into the crook of her neck, pressing her lips earnestly to the patch of bare skin there. She trembled, trying to chase after the piece of her that had made this choice too. They were already hurt and agonizing and overthinking—wasn’t it silly not to get something out of it? Or was that just her imbalanced need, clawing for what it knew best? Was it the distance Deirdre had put between them playing cruelly with her body?

Whatever the reason, Deirdre was right. Especially because Morgan didn’t know the reason. How could she stop herself from making old mistakes? And yet how could she pull herself up long enough to do better if she didn’t take what she needed now? Morgan hung on tighter, nodding. At last she said, “Before, when we weren’t having sex for a month and two weeks, it was because you wouldn’t tell me how you felt. It was clear. I didn’t have to guess with myself whether it was time or not. If you told me and you wanted me, we could have that again. But I don’t know what the rule is now. I don’t know what to look for or wait for. I just know I want you right now and I’m so tired even more than I’m scared. I just want something good to hold onto.”

Morgan whimpered as she fought to steady her voice. She risked pulling back enough to see Deirdre’s face, so fraught and soft and horrifyingly hers. Morgan couldn’t figure out where the shift in her expression was, but she knew at once that this so familiar Deirdre wanted to be hers and all Morgan needed was to pick her up and say yes. Her heart would be impaled on another empty silence or dropped down a safety hatch that let her out of all her pain, all with one yes. It was that simple and that hard. “I can’t wait for you to not hurt me, it can’t be an absence. We need to make something, but—” But what the hell was that supposed to be? What did these other versions of themselves look like? “Is it when you’ve found a therapist? That could take ages. Is it when you’ve been to group for a few weeks? When I’ve balanced myself with something besides just you? Because I don’t even know where to start with that!I know...I’m the one who’s scared, but I don’t know when it’ll be better. I don’t know when it’s fine again and I don’t want to rush anything, I just want to feel something besides hurt for a minute, maybe five. Is that bad? Do we really just...have to keep waiting, and hold each other because it’s the only thing we have left? Hope it doesn’t take too long?” As soon as the words left her, Morgan felt a sinking wave of realization: they very well might have to do just that.

“I’m sorry...I’m sorry…” If she once stopped to consider the repercussions of her actions, she wouldn’t have done anything. Amanda would be alive and Athena less heartbroken, yes, but Deirdre could’ve asked Morgan what good revenge looked like. Or...could she have? Maybe Athena was too young for Morgan too, maybe she didn’t see it like Deirdre did. The banshee shook her head, it wasn’t what she wanted to think about now, and it didn’t matter. Amanda was dead. She’d ruined the safety and trust she built with Morgan. “I’m sorry….” she mumbled. It wasn’t worth it, the things that she’d done. None of it was. “I can hold you tighter? Really tight. I can do that.” And she moved to try, except her arms locked at her sides and her throat seared. She tried to lunge out of the strange body lock, but her arms wouldn’t budge even as the rest of her body flailed. “Oh,” she slumped. “No I can’t do that….because that would be hurting myself….” But what was some muscle pain? Who cared if her body was already sore? She could do that much for Morgan, she always had, no matter the pain. She sighed and held Morgan at an appropriate level, enough that Morgan could feel it, but not so tight that Deirdre’s aching body would protest. “A week,” she mumbled, “seven days exactly. I’ll ask you how you’re feeling; if you feel safe now. If the answer is yes then...then it’s fine, we can have each other just like we want to. And if it’s not, then we’ll wait another week. And after another seven days, I’ll ask again. And if it’s still not, then we’ll take another week and so on until you feel safe, my love.” She looked at her, hoping the tenderness and sincerity was readable over the remorse that played in her eyes. “It can’t be a day….because there’ll just be more of this. But a week sounds good, I think. How does that feel to you? We don’t have to use anything else, just time.” A week felt both too long and laughably short, but even if it wasn’t by this week that Morgan felt comfortable kissing her again, then it might be by the next, or the one after that. And Deirdre found herself looking forward to the day. “I don’t know...whatever you need to feel to know it’s okay. If that’s being safe...or if that’s trusting me again...whatever it is, I can ask you in a week.” She searched Morgan for any hint that it was a good idea, or, at least, that her having stopped from kissing her was a good one too. It hadn’t felt right when she’d done it, but she was no stranger to the desperation that could trick Morgan’s mind. All she wanted to do was honour the boundaries Morgan was setting for herself; that wasn’t so bad, was it? “It didn’t last long…” she sighed, “the no-sex thing...we weren’t supposed to kiss either. But then we were, but it was supposed to be one or two...and then it wasn’t. And then it was everything else just shy of sex. But it was important to you, and if this is anything like that, then we should keep waiting. And I’ll be here. I’ll wait for you—for us. And I’ll try for it.”

“A week…until we check in and ask,” Morgan repeated slowly, her eyes locked onto Deirdre’s as if to ask, are you sure? It was fair. She would be the one to determine an answer, which was both a relief and terrifying. She could say fuck it right now and take Deirdre’s mouth with hers. They were both taut with wanting, they could take the relief for a few seconds, maybe a minute—until that made their bodies more glaringly aware of what else was missing.

Morgan’s features fell as she remembered the old no-sex boundary, and considered that even if Deirdre’s body wasn’t one walking wound, sex right now was just a fast track to a panic attack. It wasn’t just bodies fucking anymore, it never could be again. And the way she needed Deirdre in bed, the way she gave herself best, with her body in complete submission… Morgan felt like it would be another month at best until she could bear that again. “I remember,” she mumbled. “That one Saturday visit, I kissed you goodbye on your cheek and went into my car and cried all the way home. But then a few nights later you came to see me...and you were just so happy, like I’d never seen you before. I couldn’t bring you down from that when I could be a part of it instead. And I already wanted you so badly. I think it only took one kiss for me to sign off on a hundred. And the rest came after I was staying with you, I think. It was just so hard to be next to you, to lay with you without touching you. It hurt. I felt like I was giving in and maybe deluding myself into some terrible half-life with you. But it hurt so much worse, keeping everything back. That’s how I made those decisions.” Was hurt the only way to measure her life, even the things that were ostensibly good? Was she so curse fucked that even dead, she couldn’t touch anything without suffering having its way with it?

“I’m so tired of everything hurting,” Morgan whined, a child’s complaint. “I just want it to stop, just for a little…” But what was that quote her mother had liked? If you’re going through hell, keep walking? Morgan clenched her jaw and sank back down against Deirdre’s chest. This was really not a time she wanted Ruth Beck to be right. “Fine. You’re right. In a week we’ll check.” she said faintly. When her heart calmed and the ache had numbed her out, she would be grateful for the decision. Maybe. Hopefully. Morgan reached behind her for one of the blankets draped over the couch. “You need some rest,” she mumbled. Deirdre needed a lot of things, like a shower, and the rest of her bandages changed, but Morgan wasn’t about to walk another intimacy minefield tonight. “Can we just stay here?” Can you just hold me? “Can that be okay…?”

“I don’t want you to make decisions out of hurt, Morgan.” But then what was this? What had she left Morgan to do now? Deirdre frowned; she knew that it wouldn’t be so bad to kiss Morgan. She knew that she was going to stay, and that she’d be here to build their foundation again, but Morgan didn’t. And was it wrong instead, to wield that longing and use it selfishly to fill the hole in her own chest? She wanted to take Morgan’s pain away; soothe her, hold her, love her. Was it wrong then, to give in if it was for those things? But it wasn’t her decision to make, she couldn’t pick what was best for Morgan. That had been her problem before, she thought silence would be better; she thought going off on her own and taking the weight of revenge would all be best. This was Morgan’s choice, and Deirdre wouldn’t take that away. “Back then, the only thing I considered was that I was happy, and that I wanted to be happy with you. I don’t think I even understood why you set those boundaries in the first place. But I’ve grown so much since then, and I know now.” And that made it worse, almost. She knew she didn’t want to kiss Morgan because kissing was fun, she knew she didn’t want sex with her because sex felt good—she loved her, and it was irrefutable now. “I love you,” she mumbled against her skin, staving off the searing desire to kiss her girlfriend. These were the kisses she didn’t even think about before, the ones that came by instinct, that marked her sentences and breaths—the ones she forgot about, and promptly chased with another.

Deirdre leaned up and pulled the blanket down with Morgan; wrapping one around them, and herself around the other. “I’d rather stay here anyway,” she smiled, “and can I hold you? Is that okay?” Though she asked, she already had been, and wasn’t sure she could even take not doing it. “Don’t say no to that one,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. “If it’s true, don’t say no, not just yet. Let’s have this...for a little while...for as long as we can…”

Morgan heard Deirdre’s brave, tender smile in her voice and peeled her face back just to see it. A fresh wave of desire shook her. Deirdre looked so sure, so perfect, even with her body ravaged; her affection for Morgan seemed to shine out of every scar and bandage. Morgan’s eyes burned, finally out of tears but no less anguished. She strained up to bring their faces close and pressed her lips to her girlfriend’s cheek. “No,” she whispered. “I need this too. Please hold me. I’ve missed it so much. I’ve missed you loving me. I’ve missed you.” Her voice tightened, so Morgan left it at that, keeping her face pressed to Deirdre’s as her girlfriend settled the blanket around them. When the seconds seemed to stretch and her awareness of how close she was to the corner of Deirdre’s mouth made the space between them feel like pins and needles, Morgan gave a small affectionate nuzzle that granted permission for more of the same, and settled back against Deirdre’s chest. With her mental fatigue and heightened nerves, she wasn’t able to let her head find the old spot where it fit. She shifted and shifted again, and at last surrendered to the idea that near enough was good enough. She could feel Deirdre’s arms for however long she stayed conscious, she could hear her breath coming out of her wounded body, and as ever, she heard her heartbeat. Slow. So slow you’d think it had stopped and gone away, but perfectly in time, always coming back.

#wait for me #wr deirdre #wr chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #self-harm tw #suicide tw #wickedswriting

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nerianasims · 4 years ago

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Billboards #1 1965

Under the cut.

Petula Clark – “Downtown” -- January 23, 1965

I love this song to bits. I don't entirely know why. Petula Clark obviously sings it wonderfully. There's that little bell that sometimes chimes in. There's a pattern to the song that makes it feel like Broadway, which is, of course, downtown. It's a fantasy version of a downtown in a big city. One thing I love about fantasy is a sense of place, and that's what this entire song is dedicated to. It's an unusual subject for pop music, and it's great.

The Righteous Brothers – “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” -- February 6, 1965

How does one even talk about this song? It feels somehow eternal. This is Phil Spector's production at its best. But Bill Medley's singing is the point. This song is one of the greats.

Gary Lewis And The Playboys – “This Diamond Ring” -- February 20, 1965

Gary Lewis is Jerry Lewis' son. Unlike his father, he does not consist entirely of annoyance-producing molecules, but the song's not good either. In it, the guy's fiancee dumped him and he's selling the diamond ring. A boring, bland heartbreak song that belongs three years or so back.

The Temptations – “My Girl” -- March 6, 1965

My mom used to sing this song to me when I was a little kid. I think a lot of parents sing this song to their little girls; it's that kind of love song. Yet it's not irritatingly antiseptic. It's about true love. True love can be a lot of things. This song is every superlative you can think of. Brilliant in every aspect.

The Beatles – “Eight Days A Week” -- March 13, 1965

It's a good, but not great, Beatles song. Very fun, with a lot of interesting things musically, like the bassline (as usual) and whatever George Harrison does with his guitar.

The Supremes – “Stop! In The Name Of Love” -- March 27, 1965

Finally, Diana Ross actually sounds kinda pissed off. It's also got more of a rock edge. She's still begging, and not threatening to leave the guy's cheating ass. Yet, though there is no explicit threat, I feel like there is an implied ultimatum here.

Freddie And The Dreamers – “I’m Telling You Now” -- April 10, 1965

It sounds like this guy is exaggerating his English accent. Considering the British Invasion, probably. He cackles like a monkey on acid, which is the only interesting thing about the song, which is otherwise a bland love song. Though the cackle is interesting, that doesn't make it good. It's creepy. I don't like this one.

Wayne Fontana & The Mindbenders – “The Game Of Love” -- April 24, 1965

"The purpose of a man is to love a woman, and the purpose of a woman is to love a man." Whoo boy. Dated. But the song is 55 years old. Attempting to put that aside, the music is good. The lyrics sound pushy, though. Also it gets terribly repetitive at the end. Meh.

Herman’s Hermits – “Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter” -- May 1, 1965

Was it once usual for guys to go to their ex-girlfriends' mothers to talk of their heartbreak after the girlfriend dumped them? This song is painfully "look how English I am! You Americans like to throw money at English pop singers, right?" It wears out its welcome quickly.

The Beatles – “Ticket To Ride” -- May 22, 1965

It's interesting how the Beatles seem to have matured five years in one. I can't imagine this group having performed "I Want to Hold Your Hand." The harmonies and rhythms in "Ticket to Ride" are far more complex, the sounds are more varied, and the lyrics are much more mature. His wife/girlfriend is absolutely determined to leave him, and he seems taken by surprise. Yet there are hints he shouldn't have been: "She would never be free when I was around." He goes on, "My baby don't care." Yet underneath there's the suggestion that she simply hasn't got it in her to care any more, because he's exhausted her. Layers of harmony and layers of meaning. It's an intelligent heartbreak song, and those are rare.

The Beach Boys – “Help Me, Rhonda” -- May 29, 1965

I know Brian Wilson was a musical genius but I usually don't like the Beach Boys. It's the lyrics. The narrator was dumped, now he's begging Rhonda to be his rebound. Lucky Rhonda. Then they sing "Help me Rhonda/ Help, help me Rhonda" about five dozen times. Not for me.

The Supremes – “Back In My Arms Again” -- June 12, 1965

Urgh. Don't listen to the Supremes' #1 hits close together. She's got her man back because she stopped listening to her friends' advice. In isolation, there's nothing wrong with that. After all the songs about rotten cheating assholes whom the narrator is desperate to keep, though, it's super uncomfortable. Also using the names of the two backup singers as the friends who give bad advice is in poor taste. And "Flo, she don't know, cuz the boy she loves is a Romeo"? You solely date Romeos! Taken alone, without the context of the other songs, it's good, though I still don't like the strange insult toward the backup singers. Taken with the rest of the Supremes' hits, though, I'm not happy. Especially considering these were all written by men.

The Four Tops – “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch)” -- June 19, 1965

The Supremes weren't the only people in Motown singing about being hopelessly in love with someone who treated them badly. That's what this song is about. I like it, though the line "I'm weaker than a man should be" is a bit wince-inducing these days. But it's an honest sentiment about how men often feel they're not allowed to be idiots over love, though that's a near-universal human experience. Anyway, good song.

The Byrds – Mr. Tambourine Man -- June 26, 1965

The original version of this song was by Bob Dylan, but the Byrds didn't like it, so they changed the sound and ditched a bunch of the lyrics. The lyrics they were left with don't matter at all. This is all about the music, especially the guitar. It's mellow without being soporific, groovy without requiring drugs to understand. It's nice.

The Rolling Stones – “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” -- July 10, 1965

The Rolling Stones were almost never nice. They went straight for the gut -- or gonads -- found all the nastiest things that people are afraid to say and embarrassed to feel, and hung them up on the front porch. "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" sounds kind of silly today, since it's been played and overplayed so much. But that beginning riff still goes straight to the back-brain.

Two years before, pap like "Hey Paula" was clogging the airwaves. Funnily enough, it's the same subject matter: Goddamn I want to get laid. (The idea that Mick Jagger had trouble getting laid is pretty ridiculous, but anyway.) And then there's the critical bit about hating advertisements. They managed to stick a cultural criticism into a song that's about wanting sex. When you can't get no satisfaction, everything is annoying, and things that were already annoying to begin with start to feel unbearable. The Stones go harder in every way than any #1 before them.

Herman’s Hermits – “I’m Henry VIII, I Am” -- August 7, 1965

And here's the opposite. This song must be meant to be annoying, right? One of my friends and I used to sing it at our parents to drive them nuts, and that was before Ghost. It was their fault for exposing us to it in the first place.

Sonny And Cher – “I Got You Babe” -- August 14, 1965

Cher with Sonny is eternally confusing. Though their marriage didn't last, their love was real, and Cher was heartbroken when Sonny died. But anyway, the song. Sonny saying Cher has a "little hand" is goofy. Actually the whole song is kinda goofy, especially the beat that seems to be made of kazoos. Cher's got this powerful, deep voice, while Sonny has a squeaky little thing, but somehow they mesh. The sentiment is sincere, and a good picture of what it's like to be in a happy relationship. It's good.

The Beatles – “Help!” -- September 4, 1965

John Lennon was only 25 when he sang about being "younger, so much younger than today." But for the Beatles, that could have been two years before. They got so famous so fast and so young, I don't know how any of them lived through it. And that is what this song's about; Lennon called it a "public freak-out." But it's still universal. I love this song, and it helped carry me through some tough times.

Barry McGuire – “Eve Of Destruction” -- September 25, 1965

I remember when I first heard this song on the radio in the car with my mother, I asked her what "Old enough to kill/ But not for voting" meant. That's when I learned people used to not be able to vote until they were 21, though young men could be drafted at 18. I was absolutely stunned, and obviously it stuck with me. When you're a little kid, you tend to think the people in charge are generally fair. Then you find out that's not true at all. That's what this song is about, to me.

The McCoys – “Hang On Sloopy” -- October 2, 1965

Speaking of fair, I'm about to be totally unfair. I hate this fucking song. I had to play it endlessly in middle school band, and then I had to play it AGAIN in high school marching band. And the flute part in the arrangements was the most boring thing that has ever been conceived. I hate this song and I will not be listening to it or thinking about it more than this.

The Beatles – “Yesterday” -- October 9, 1965

Why do people in songs lose their significant others so often because they said something wrong and they don't know what it was? That can't be common. Anyway, this song is beautiful and sad. I'm kind of tired of all the covers of it though.

The Rolling Stones – “Get Off Of My Cloud” -- November 6, 1965

I'm listening to the original mono version of this, and mono sounds very strange these days. I keep wanting to check that my speakers are plugged in. Anyway, thanks to Jagger's marbles-in-mouth singing, I can't understand a word of this song except "Hey! you! get off of my cloud!" and I've never known the lyrics until now. And they're not important. Even the chorus isn't that important. This is all about the beat and the music, neither of which I find interesting for the entire length of the song. Not for me.

The Supremes – “I Hear A Symphony” -- November 20, 1965

A thoroughly happy Supremes song! I think Diana Ross is more suited to happy lovesongs than what she had been singing. She has a lot more emotion in her voice than she has before. The violins are lovely. I love this song.

The Byrds – “Turn! Turn! Turn!” -- December 4, 1965

I have always found this song slightly annoying. The Bible verse set to light pop thing doesn't do it for me. The music isn't anywhere near dramatic enough. This should be operatic, or heavy metal, or something else with serious weight. This is thin.

The Dave Clark Five – “Over And Over” -- December 25, 1965

This song is a bit of a throwback to three or four whole years before. It would have been good then. At this point, it's pretty boring. It's about going to a party he didn't want to go to, hitting on a girl, and getting turned down. The snare drum beat is very repetitive, and so is the melody. A big meh.

BEST OF 1965: "My Girl", with stiff competition. WORST OF 1965: "I'm Telling You Now"

#billboard number ones

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makeste · 5 years ago

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BnHA Chapter 242: SANTA IS REAL

Previously on BnHA: We said farewell to the League of Pliff and were finally reunited with the kids of U.A., an institution which I would just like to point out is so diametrical to the League that they literally took the polar opposite route when choosing their name, and focused only on the acronym. I’m 100% sure U.A. doesn’t even stand for anything. Anyway, so Bakugou and Todoroki went on whirlwind press tour following their ch 219 antics, and the resulting interviews were so disastrous that Aizawa decided to bring in Mt. Lady to give the whole class a crash course in PR 101. Meanwhile All Might scoured Ancestry.com for info on the past users of OFA, and Rat Principal announced that U.A. was going to resume its internship program. This is great news for Deku, who’s been taking his sweet time mastering Blackwhip. Like, we’re not even talking baby steps here so much as little tiny flea steps. Kid’s going to need all the help he can get.

Today on BnHA: Horikoshi targets all of my weak points at once. The My OT3 Academia arc gets off to an incredible, award-winning start with a Christmas party and the announcement of Internships 2: This Time, it’s Compulsory. Highlights include: (1) Kaminari and Mina forcing Bakugou to accept the spirit of Christmas into his heart and soul, (2) Iida rocking a Santa beard, (3) Eri holding a giant sword, (4) Bakugou reminiscing about his internship with Best MIA Jeanist, specifically the part where Jeanist was all “A HERO’S NAME IS REALLY IMPORTANT AND SYMBOLIC AND MEANINGFUL, SO YOU NEED TO THINK VERY CAREFULLY ABOUT IT” and oh my fucking god, and lastly (5) Todoroki inviting Bakugou and Deku to come intern with him at the Endeavor Hero Agency (known for its famous business slogan: “Got Plot?”). It’s like I wished on seventeen different falling stars and they all came true at once. I still can’t even fucking process this. kfkdslgk.

(All comments are my unspoiled reactions from my initial readthrough of the chapter. I did a quick edit for grammar and clarity immediately afterward, and added a few ETAs in the process, but aside from that there are no changes.)

I just got like three excited-seeming asks (I haven’t actually read them yet) in rapidfire succession less than an hour ago, and my dashboard is now filling up with filtered “bnha spoilers” posts, so I took this as a sign that I should read the new chapter ASAP. oh gosh

(ETA:

(1) SAMEEEEEE, and (2) YEEEEEEEEP. listen I’m not religious you guys, but I said “oh my god” so much while reading this chapter that I wouldn’t be surprised if he or she finally answers and is like, “YES!? WHAT IS IT???”)

what new state-of-the-art tomfoolery will our intrepid heroes engage in this week. what novel hijinks will they commence. what frivolous escapades will they embark on this lovely Friday morn?

HOMGAAAHHHHHH

THE TITLE IS LITERALLY MY FEELINGS RN. MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS TO ME. YES GOD I LOVE IT. I’LL TAKE A DOZEN

okay. so today, September 6th, is officially Christmas. you heard the man and who am I to argue

so we’re opening with a teacher’s meeting! probably about the internships. or the fact that they’re all screwed. I don’t really know what their priorities are nowadays

okay yeah it’s about the internships. also Rat Principal is nested in Aizawa’s scarf for absolutely no reason, and Aizawa is disgruntled about it. heh. tomfoolery already and it’s only the first panel

oh shit, Nezu’s saying it’s now a government requirement. I got so surprised I actually forgot to call him RP

because ain’t nothing safer than hero internships. if the Basement arc taught us nothing else. it’s that

that was sarcasm in case that’s not coming across. this is clearly a baffling decision. but what are government committees for if not for making baffling decisions I guess

and now Midnight is coming to the same conclusion I was starting to wonder at

can someone please tell me what the PSC’s goals actually are, then? is this not the same group that recently changed the rules of the provisional license exam so that an even smaller percentage of people would pass? so do you want more heroes or fewer? which is it?

how do they cope with it? does anyone even have any idea?? it seems to me like they’re just throwing them to the wolves. we have this problem that we have absolutely no idea what to do about, oh I know, let’s toss a bunch of inexperienced kids at it. and hope that none of them gets murdered I guess

anyway so The Sheriff is speculating that the League must have been involved in the Deika situation, and he’s wondering why the PSC is trying so hard to keep it on the dl

oh yeah. friendly reminder that the PSC, thanks to Hawks, probably knows exactly how powerful Tomura and the League have recently become. so they know full well how shark-infested the waters are, and they’re making it mandatory for the kids to all take swimming lessons. nice

lol back when I was brainstorming ideas for future arcs, I seriously thought Horikoshi would have to go out of his way to come up with excuses for the kids to have future encounters with the League, because the school was so concerned with their safety that they wouldn’t allow them to leave the grounds except on rare occasions. well I sure got that one wrong. though to be fair, for once it isn’t U.A. that’s doing the child endangering here

(ETA: and actually, regardless of how insane it is, I do appreciate that when shit inevitably hits the fan again, at least it won’t be U.A.’s fault this time. I’d like to be able to continue rooting for them, and that can be difficult when they keep doing reckless things that needlessly put children in danger. at least this time they’re not the ones driving the Stupid Bus to Bad Decision School.)

a message to who? the League?? “we’re not scared of you”?? did they seriously not think of all the numerous ways this could backfire?

oh shit Aizawa even went and said the d-word

well there you have it. the government is drafting teenagers to risk their lives dealing with a crisis they won’t out-and-out admit they’re actually having. on today’s episode of “Oh Hero Society, You’ve Got Problems”

anyway so RP is making the admittedly good point that “we’re fucked and everyone is in terrible danger” is hardly a new state of affairs for them these days, and so they’re all moving on. okay then. good talk. lol. gonna need my damn Christmas fluff after all of that

and also RP is mentioning some other mysterious new program to Aizawa too. I wonder what that could be

(ETA: oh yeah I almost forgot about this. thoughts??)

and now we’re cutting to “several days later” oh my god. it’s really happening. I need a moment here, I’m not even ready. gotta get all my Christmas headcanons lined up here. Satou baking cookies. Kaminari and Sero running around arm in arm singing “JINGLE BELLS, ALL MIGHT SMELLS” over and over at the top of their lungs until Bakugou screams at them to shut up. Mineta debating anyone who will listen over the merits of the song Baby It’s Cold Outside. the naturally Christmas-themed Todoroki savoring this, his time to shine

oh shit, we’re still with the fucking Rat Principal. for fuck’s sake

-- ooh but are they talking about the traitor??

will this put an end to the “Horikoshi forgot about it” rumors? several people have mentioned this to me here and there (sorry to everyone whose asks I still haven’t answered), but as far as I know, this was part of a fake interview with Horikoshi that was unfortunately circulated around as though it was the real deal. sometimes people are not cool and think it’s fun to take advantage of communities that are enthusiastic and trusting! always fact-check what you read on the internet just to be safe guys

anyway

so there definitely is one, then. got it

so the traitor is definitely a student in the hero class, then. got it

sob. I got an ask about the whole Kaminari traitor theory earlier this week, so I’m in the process of doing up a whole long post about that. but the cliff’s notes version is, it’s not him. it’s Hagakure. but I will actually go into detail in the post. it’s been a while since I’ve discussed the traitor thing in depth anyway

so RP is asking All Might if he’s coming back today, and All Might is immediately all “WHY, DID SOMETHING HAPPEN TO MY CHILD, OH GOD IS HE OKAY” which, omg. so much love for this man

and RP is like “geez relax” and OH MY GOD

[slaps on a paperboy cap and screeches at All Might in a bad cockney accent] TODAY, SIR?? WHY, IT’S CHRISTMAS DAY

OH MY GOD

I SPOT A GRINCH UP THERE AT THE TOP. SOMEONE NEEDS TO BE VISITED BY THREE GHOSTS FROM VARIOUS DIFFERENT TIME PERIODS

LITERALLY EVERY SINGLE CHILD (GREMLINS ASIDE) IS WEARING A SANTA CLAUS OUTFIT. DID U.A. JUST GIVE THESE OUT FOR FREE

AND IN THE TOP RIGHT NEXT TO SHOUJI, SATOU’S COOKIES! JUST AS THE PROPHECY FORETOLD

I SEE THEY HAVE THE REQUISITE KFC PLATTERS LIKE GOOD JAPANESE CITIZENS. WE SHOULD ADOPT THIS TRADITION HERE IN THE WEST TOO TBH

and last but not least, there are only nineteen children in this panel. it took me forever to figure out who was missing, but pretty sure it’s Iida. Iida where are you. clearly the traitor. certainly not off visiting his brother and the rest of his family, what kind of gullible fool do you take me for

looool

I love when the characters start to become self-aware that they’re the main characters in a story and that plot things keep happening to them at an unreasonable rate

oh my god they really are wearing the suits. it wasn’t just a title page gimmick like I half-wondered

ANSWER THE QUESTION, JIROU. INQUIRING MINDS WANT TO KNOW. do we even know where she did her first internship?? I suddenly desperately want to learn more about this

(ETA: she interned with Death Arms, the traffic cone-looking guy who notably chewed Deku out for trying to save Kacchan’s life in chapter one. Jirou my hope for you is that you find someone better this time around!)

also Tsuyu is observing that Momo doesn’t have a chair, and I honest-to-god was trying to count how much seating there was in the previous page. it seems to me like the common room got a lot bigger. it keeps adjusting to their needs like the room of requirement in Harry Potter

also does anyone else wish that Jirou would move her cup off of the armrest. IT’S GOING TO SPILL ffff :/ this is who I am at parties

oh shit wait, that was Iida with the beard?? I honestly thought that was Satou. well then Satou is the traitor. -- NOBODY TOUCH THOSE COOKIES!!

anyway so he’s all “well Deku not to bring up the elephant in the room but YOUR PREVIOUS MENTOR DIED A HORRIBLE DEATH so what’s your plan huh”

oh sweet god

listen, no offense to Centipeder, he seems like a really nice guy, but if I never see his repulsive face again I will count myself lucky

OH FOR FUCK’S

PLEASE GET RID OF IT IT IS CHRISTMAS!!! here I am trying to have a nice time and!!

god. and like, I feel bad, it’s not his fault he is A GIANT BUG and he has like, fucking mandibles and shit! but I can’t help the fact that my skin is trying to crawl off my body right now, and god but I can barely look at this panel long enough to read the dialogue sob why

(ETA: and now that I’ve forced myself to read it again, this doesn’t even make any sense lol. “we have too much work and not enough help, so we have to pass on you coming back to help us out. ...wait.”)

I want Iida to like. pat his lap and tell Deku in a big booming voice to cheer up and come sit and tell him what he wants for Christmas. not in a weird way you guys, come on. but just, he looks so forlorn. do you want Santa to bring you some cozy All Might socks

or wait, didn’t he want a PS Vita according to that one omake thing. what the fuck Deku. someone get this kid a Switch

anyway so Deku says that participation is mandatory this time, so the school will handle assignments if the kids aren’t able to find someone

meanwhile Kacchan is in the background accusing Mina of stalking him. I think she is trying to get him to wear his Santa outfit. doin’ god’s work

OH SHIT YOU GUYS I CLICKED TO THE NEXT PAGE, AND THIS. THIS IS MY CHRISTMAS OMFG

HORIKOSHI YOU DID GET MY LIST! BAKUGOU BEING TROLLED BY HIS SNEAKY DETERMINED FRIENDS AND MANHANDLED INTO A RIDICULOUS GETUP WHILST ANGSTING ABOUT BEST JEANIST BEING MISSING, YESSSSSS. IT’S SO SPECIFIC, I THOUGHT, “SURELY HE WON’T ACTUALLY DO IT,” BUT SANTA IS REAL, EVERYONE

HFMLSDKMGLKLKL!!!!!LKL:DSF

RED ALERT RED FUCKING ALERT PEOPLE!!! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!! GET OUT OF THE WAY!!!!

AHHHHHHHHHH HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS

“MERRY CHRISTMAS MAKESTE HERE’S A WHOLE FUCKING CHAPTER ABOUT KACCHAN’S FUCKING HERO NAME COMPLETE WITH A BEST JEANIST META ON THE TOPIC” mother fucker I need to start reading these chapters with a goddamn life alert and a defibrillator on standby

“your name represents your wish.” ladies and gentlemen, introducing the new number one hero... Number One Hero!

heh. just kidding. “what do you want to become?” this, though. this right fucking here is why I’ve been dying to know what name he’ll actually choose. because it does reflect exactly what Jeanist is saying. whichever name he chooses will be an insight into who he is, and who he is trying to be

and this meta is making me rethink all my chapter 223 feels, and tbh now I’m back to thinking that it’s not going to be Ground Zero, unless he comes up with a cool reason for why that name ties in to the image of the person he wants to be (because right now, that particular name is tied more to the past than to the future). but oh my god, if he does choose the name Kacchan I am going to spontaneously combust. I will fucking do it. I will fucking die from being a dramatic excited bitch

(ETA: because. listen. there is one person who has always looked up to him in spite of everything and has always seen his potential. “in the end, in my mind, you’re the image of victory.” this, to me, is the meaning that the name “Kacchan” would have if he did choose it. it would symbolize him choosing to be his best self.)

don’t mind me I’m just stanning this child so fucking hard it hurts

(ETA: oh hey, and more feels on the reread because it looks like the reason he’s having this flashback is because he was planning to go back to Jeanist’s agency to do his real internship, and to show him how much he’s grown. but then The Thing happened. Hawks I just want to talk why won’t you answer my calls.)

Mina and Kaminari are the MVPs of this fucking chapter and I owe them my life omggggg. THEY’RE HERE TO SAVE CHRISTMAS

what are you thinking about there, Best Friend?

are you thinking about your daddy angst. penny for your thoughts

(ETA: “how can I cheer up my new best friend? I know, I’ll make him a lucrative job offer.” actually that’s a good way to cheer up just about anyone in this day and age, Shouto.)

okay, is there some sort of perverted context to Christmas that I’m totally missing here?? or is Mineta just really into the holiday spirit?

I feel like I missed something. eh

anyway Mr. Traitor himself is walking out now and HE’S BROUGHT THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE! or turkey! but goose sounded funnier

of all the things to be shocked about?? “SATOU CAN COOK!?!” like um yes hello you’ve been living with this guy for four months already? like the only thing more ridiculous than this would be, “TOKOYAMI IS A BIRD!?!”

(ETA: like I know baking and cooking are two different things, but in a manga they’re the same thing. fact.)

now someone is making a dramatic entrance! IS IT ERI I WILL DIE!!!! BRING IT

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

I HEREBY SWEAR FEALTY TO THIS PANEL OF AN ADORABLY AND FESTIVELY DRESSED ERI MIXING UP HOLIDAYS WHILE DADZAWA PATIENTLY CORRECTS HER. I WILL PROTECT IT WITH MY LIFE. SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS CHAPTER SO THAT I CAN GO DO IT SOME MORE AGAIN, OVER AND OVER AND OVER

Ochako is me

(ETA: DEMONS OUT! DEMONS IN!! THAT’S WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT!! YOU DO THE HOOOOOOOOKEY POKEY.)

and Kiri is out here asking the real questions, but sadly Aizawa says Mirio is spending Christmas with his own class. WELL FINE. I HOPE HE’S EXPERIENCING THE FOMO OF A LIFETIME. HOW DARE HE HAVE OTHER FRIENDS whatever I’m over it

sobbbbb

WELL HOW MANY FUCKING HOLIDAYS ARE THERE!? CAN SOMEONE HELP A GIRL OUT OR WHAT

oh my god I’m just going to reblog every single Dadzawa panel and none of you can stop me go on and try!!

impatiently waiting for fanart of Aizawa tucking Eri in and reading her A Visit from St. Nicholas. get on it, fandom

ohhhhhhhhh my goddddddd

I know it’s not a Christmas song, but I am this close to cranking up “I Gotta Feeling” by the fucking Black Eyed Peas. ya feel

do you guys see him sitting there next to Dadzawa. he finally gave in. Satou is feeding him chicken. his friends will not abandon him to be on the naughty list. motherfucker that’s it. I’m fucking doing it. fill up my cup. mazel tov

lol I don’t even want to click to any more pages because they’re all so happy and it won’t fucking last. :( noooo

good little boys and girls. noshing on that chicken. Kacchan continuing to be stalked by the Ghost of Christmas Friendship. Tokoyami what even is that. lol and is this their weird way of distributing random gifts. did Sero buy Jirou a scarf. did Deku buy Ochako a freaking All Might plush keychain!? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHAT IS THAT THING AND WHY DOES ERI HAVE IT NOW AND WHY IS SHE MAKING THIS FACE

-- holy fuck, IT’S A SWORD. oh my god. THEY GAVE THE SEVEN YEAR OLD A FREAKING BUSTER SWORD AND SHE IS FEELING IT YESSSS THIS CHAPTER TRULY IS ALL MY DREAMS COME TRUE

“dad can I keep it.” Aizawa: [not even opening his eyes, all bundled up in his oogie boogie suit] “sure”

so now we’re cutting to afterwards and everyone’s cleaning up and Deku’s using his freakish super strength to lift heavy things impressively while Bakugou continues to stomp around with his hands shoved into his pockets waiting for someone to finally tell him he can go back upstairs

OH???

motherfucker. are you going to invite them to come intern with you and your dad!!?!?? I know I was all set on Bakugou interning with Miruko just last week, but I TELL YOU WHAT BITCHES, I’M FUCKING FLEXIBLE LIKE THAT

OH SHIT YOU GUYS!!!!

TODOROKI ARE YOU PLAYING THE OT3 SONG BECAUSE HONEY YOU KNOW THAT’S MY JAM, BRO

OH FUCKING SHIT YESSSSS

BAKUGOU DO YOU WANT TO INTERN WITH YOUR TWO BEST FRIENDS, EXCUSE ME, HATED ENEMIES. DEKU DO YOU WANT TO INTERN WITH YOUR TWO BEST FRIENDS. AND THE NUMBER ONE. WHO JUST SO HAPPENS TO BE BEST FRIENDS WITH THE NUMBER TWO. WHO JUST SO HAPPENS TO BE BEST FRIENDS WITH TODOROKI “I DIDN’T HAVE A FLASHBACK IN THE LAST ARC BECAUSE WE WERE SAVING IT FOR THIS ONE!” TOUYA? THAT’S RIGHT, IT’S BEST FRIENDS ALL THE WAY DOWN. OH MY GOD

it’s like Horikoshi made a long and detailed list of all of his regrets about the previous internship arc, and then said, “fuck it. do-over”

you guys. I’m all out of cans. we only have can’ts and cannots. I cannot

Christmas fluff. Dadzawa. Bakugou hero name meta. hints that the traitor plot will soon be relevant again. and the motherfucking OT3 of OT3s, MY SONS, MY THREE RESPLENDENT OFFSPRINGS, interning together at the motherfucking Endeavor Hero Agency because Todoroki is the sweetest most considerate angel, and because KNOCK KNOCK, IT’S ME THE PLOT, I’VE COME FOR YOU AGAIN AT LONG LAST AND I VOW TO NEVER LEAVE YOU ALONE AGAIN FROM THIS MOMENT ON

shit, y’all. I don’t know if it’s possible for an arc to become my favorite motherfucking arc only two chapters in, but damned if this sunnuvabitch ain’t trying

#bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha 242 #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #todoroki shouto #eri (bnha)#class 1-a #best jeanist #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #makeste reads bnha #I gotta feelin'#that tonight's gonna be a good night #let's do it let's do it let's do it let's do it #JUMP OUT THAT SOFA #LET'S KICK IT OFF #lol you guys I am in a *good* freaking mood I tell you what

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canaryrecords · 4 years ago

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When Canary released an LP of Marika Papagika titled The Further the Flame, the Worse it Burns Me in October, 2010, the last line of its accompanying biographical notes was: “This work remains unfinished and ongoing. Corrections and additions will be received with gratitude.” In the decade that has passed, a lot of new documents have become available online and some significant research has been published, notably the slim book by Panyiotis Kounadis with his daughter Elita that includes more of Papagika’s family background and the two photos of her with her husband. These notes will go some way toward correcting mistakes that I made in the Further the Flame and will fill in some of the gaps with what is now knowable.

While her death certificate lists her father’s name as Anastasis Katsoris other documents give his surname as Katsaros. Similarly, her mother’s name Anthoula Monduco appears elsewhere as Anthoula Anthos. Her place of birth on her death certificate, the island of Kos, is contradicted on her 1939 Social Security application, where it is given as Constantinople and gives her date of birth as Sept. 10, 1890. (Several other dates in 1890 also appear on various documents.) In 2019, a researcher named N. Nikitaridis presented documentation online that appears to show that Marika had moved with her family before the age of 10 to Alexandria, Egypt, where she married Costas Papagikas circa 1909. Costas's dates of birth also vary across documents, ranging between June 1, 1882 and August 8, 1883. He consistently listed his home as either Martino or Lamia, towns about 90km from one another in the central Greek district of Phthiotis. Nikitaridis’s work also showed through newspaper documentation that Marika Papagika held at least a dozen residencies as a singer in a half-dozen venues in Alexandria between March 1913 and April 1914: Lazaropoulos’ coffee shop, Barzadaki, Kassandra, Casino Lyon, and the Tornadazaki Cafe among them. Clearly by her early 20s she was a seasoned and popular performer in the Greek-Alexandrian community.

Researcher Hugo Strötbaum found documentation in the EMI Archive in Hayes that Marika and Costas Papagikas recorded six performances for the Gramophone Company in Egypt in December 1913 or January 1914. (Relying inadvisably on my memory, I believe that single copies of two of those discs are now known to exist.) On April 22, 1915, they arrived at Ellis Island, joining the wave of 351,720 Greeks who came to the U.S. between 1901 and 1920 at a time when Greece’s population was less than 2.5 million. They told immigration officials they would go to Chicago, where over 20,000 Greeks had already settled around Halsted Street and Blue Island Avenue. (About as many Greeks were in New York, spread out over Manhattan and Brooklyn.)

Their path over the next three years remains unclear, but by 1918 they were living at 159 W 31st St. in Manhattan. In July of that year, they cut a trial recording at Victor Records’ New York studio and then, December 4th of that year they cut four sides that were released. (The first of those was a take of “Smyrneiko Minore,” which they recut eight months later with a different violinist. The earlier take is included as the final track of this collection.) The only print documentation to have come to light of their performing careers in the U.S. is a February 16, 1919 appearance at the Olympic Theater on 5th Ave. in Pittsburgh, PA. The event was held between armistice at the close of World War I (Nov. 11, 1918) and the signing of the Treaty of Versaille (June 28, 1919) and was a call on the Allied peace authorities to unify Greece with the territories of Northern Epirus and the Dodecanese Islands which were at the time still under foreign rule. Following a series of speeches, Marika (using her Americanized name Mary) stood between photos of President Woodrow Wilson and the Greek Prime Minister Eleftherios Venizelos and sang several songs in Greek including a translation of the popular 1917 American war song “Over There.”

It would be difficult to overstate the role of Panhellenism in Papagika’s artistic output and career. The early decades of the 20th century when Papagika came of age as a performer were a period of constant political upheaval and brutal conflict for Greece - the Cretan Revolution, two Balkan Wars, World War I, the Greco-Turkish War, a military coup, assassination attempts, territorial expansion, endless scandal and intrigue in the government and military, and the ultimate collapse of the monarchy when the last king died at the age of 27 from the after-effects of having been bitten by a monkey, all in less than 30 years and in the context of almost constant financial ruin. A desperate sense of bound unity among Greek-speakers became the basis for both political and artist endeavor for Greeks. As W.H. Auden wrote of Papagika’s Greek-Alexandrian contemporary, the poet Constantine Cavafy, “In [his] Panhellenic world, there is one great object of love and loyalty of which defeat has not deprived them, the Greek language.”

Among her earliest recordings for the Gramophone company were patriotic songs referring to the Balkan Wars, and songs of patriotism and Greek pride, in one form or another, remained a steady baseline of her discography. Apart from her patriotic performance at the Pittsburgh conference and promotional material issued by her record labels, the only other print evidence we have of her in the U.S. is her appearance next to Costas in the front of a 1924 photograph taken at the first annual ball of of the Metropolitan New York City chapter of the newly-formed Order of the American Hellenic Educational Progressive Association on December 15, 1924. The event took place at the Commodore Hotel at 109 E 42nd St., less than twelve blocks from 215 W. 34th St. where Marika and Costas were living at the time. In the photo (used as the cover to this collection) Marika wears a similar headdress as the one she wore for a photo used as the cover photo for a 1921 Victor Records catalog. Behind her to her left is Costas in his ever-present pushbroom mustache.

In the same photo, behind Marika to her right stands a significantly taller man. It is my guess that this is the only known photo of her most consistent accompanist barring Costas, the cellist Markos Sifnios. (Marika’s Ellis Island documentation gives her height as 5’3” and Sifnios’ draft registration states his height as 5’11”.) Sifnios, who was born March 10, 1886 or 1887 in Latomi on the island of Chios, appeared on the vast majority of the Papagikas recordings. He left behind an ex -wife and two children (born 1906 and 1909) on Chios, lived for a while in Djibouti, and ultimately arrived in the U.S. on a boat from Shanghai to San Francisco in July 1917. By September 1918, he was living on W. 31st St., one block down from the Papagikas and was earning his living as musician. When Marika and Costas lived at 215 W 34th St. in the mid-20s, Sifnios moved to number 253 on the same block. He performed with them from their first trial disc in July, 1918 through December of 1928 on nearly all of the 200 recordings they made in New York over the course of a decade. They were, it seems, very close. His death on April 5, 1929 around the age of 41 marks, as much as any other date, the end of the Marika and Costas Papagikas as prolific and popular recording artists. They cut only eight more sides in first half of 1929 without him before going into retirement from recording for nearly a decade.

In early 1930, Marika’s widowed older sister Stamatia Corneliou (or Stamatea Cornelio) emigrated to the U.S., quickly settling on Halsted St. in Chicago, where she ran a boarding house for immigrant laborers and waiters (from Mexico, Spain, Sweden, as well as Greece). Meanwhile, by April 1930 the Papagikas bought a house at 198 Sea Ave. in the largely Italian Arrochar neighborhood of Staten Island for $7,500 (about $117,000 in current money - a significant gain from the $40 they carried when they arrived 15 years earlier). Living with them was one Angelo Basil Greggo, a waiter who’d been born in 1894, emigrated in 1910, and served as a private with the U.S. forces overseas during WWI. (A census enumerator was told that Greggo was both a nephew and a musician like his hosts. We have no reason to believe that either claim is true.) Greggo continued to live with them when the moved to 198 Lily Pond Ave., two doors down from their close friend, the record producer and singer Tetos Demetriades, in the Rosebank neighborhood about a decade later.

Demetriades had lured them out of recording retirement to make four final sides with Marika singing in February and March 1937. Shortly afterward, of nine sides recorded by Costas in July and September, 1939 only two, bearing little resemblance to his 1920s performances, were issued. (Demetriades was listed as Costas Papagikas’s contact on his WWII draft registration card.) Whether these six issued sides were made in generosity toward the Papagikases or as a boost to other musicians using their famous names or some combination, we can't say. In any case, they did not sell well.

July 15, 1943 Marika went to the Staten Island Hospital. She died there less than three weeks later on August 2, the result of a cerebral hemorrhage and heart disease. The following day, the Staten Island Advance announced her death somberly without mention of her performing career, stating that her funeral would be held the following day at Casey Funeral Home and Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church. She is buried in Silver Mount Cemetery, Sunnyside, Staten Island. Her headstone reading “M. Papagikas” gives only her date of death and age as 52.

Costas Papagika’s death from heart disease Oct. 12, 1947 was reported by his niece, Euryklia Staurakuli (whose husband Theophanis had worked in the 1920s at the Hellenic Phonograph Company at 532 8th Avenue.) They had no children. Their friend Angelo Greggo died in Avlonas, Attica in Feb. 1967 and was interned there in his family’s vault.

Among the proliferation of reissued recordings of Marika Papagika, particularly online, a remarkable number have remained unavailable. Partially this has to do with contemporary stylistic preferences for material that fits the image of Marika as a performer of proto-rebetika or Smyrna style music, while a substantial amount of her output was theatrical or in then-popular styles (like tangos, which were enormously popular among Greeks in the 20s) that are now out-of-favor. And partially, it has to do with the fact that the majority of her recordings were made “acoustically” before the advent of microphone recording and survive in disc form in widely mixed states of audio fidelity. This collection, including new transfers of several ubiquitous performances, also includes some that have not been available for nearly a century. Hopefully it inches us closer to a clear picture of one of the most gifted immigrant musicians in America’s history.

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marvelswinterfrost · 5 years ago

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1943 (Part 4)

WARNINGS: WAR, Violence

MASTERLIST

Chapter ONE | Chapter TWO | Chapter THREE | Chapter FOUR

...

Somewhere in a trench; Austria 1944: (a few months after the drafting)

Bucky sat in the mud, pressing his rifle tight against his chest. His back was leaning against one of the wooden trench walls; it was just like him covered in blood stains, dirt and ragged. The bombs that were occasionally fired at their trench destroyed more than a half of what they had dug before the battle started. It had taken sweat and tears, working day and night in the hope to be done with it before the Germans had a solid shelter to hide in, but all in vain. Once they thought they had the upper hand, thought that they’d made it, the enemies already attacked.

They weren’t a lot more than they were, in fact, they almost had the same number of soldiers on each side. ‘Had’. The enemy was fearless, brutal. They took them down without great effort. Bucky saw men dying; young and old. Brave and frightened ones. Ones who had signed up because they wanted to protect their country and ones who signed up for the drill to fight.

The day he was being drafted seemed so far away to the soldier. The day he had seen Loki the last time. He’d thought about writing a letter to the other man, telling him that he was fine. That he’d be home soon. But the longer they stayed at the front, the more Bucky realized that he might never make it back. Each day they spent longer waiting in the muddy trench, ground soaked with the blood of the fallen soldiers, the fallen friends, the more they all lost hope. Their general would tell them it’s a strategy, “let the enemy have the upper hand. Think you’re weak. And then attack.” He would say. They all knew every word coming from him was a lie. Nonsense spoken by a man who sends his soldiers onto the field to die. ‘Died a heroic death’ he would write in the letters that were being sent to the families of the fallen ones.

“Bullshit.” Bucky thought as he straightened his helmet that was constantly sliding over his eyes. His hand trembled and his body jerked when a bomb went off only meters away from him. The dirt was thrown into the air and came crashing down on the men firing back. Bucky could hear voices; they were yelling. But his mind was too far off to understand what they were saying. A man crouched in front of him, gripping his left shoulder firmly.

“Sergeant.” The man said breathlessly. “They’re attacking faster than we can counter.”

Bucky was pulled out of his thoughts and stood up, getting him into a kneeling position and dragging the other soldier a little to the right, so he’d be less likely to be hit by a bullet.

“How many are there?” he asked, looking around to see if the men who defended the trench were in need of help.

“Hard to tell. Bit more than 300? More than us for sure. They’ll have us dead by the end of the night.” Fear was glistening in the soldier’s eyes. Much like Barnes’, his face was bloody and dirty. There was a smear on his left cheek, right under his eye. ‘He’s been crying’, Bucky thought. They’d all been there since they left home. Some days it’s all your body can take, and you break down. Every day you’re losing a friend hit by a bullet or by a bomb. And sometimes all that’s left are bent dog tags in the mud. Bucky had gathered many of them, some men he didn’t even know, and sent them back to their families if their death was confirmed or a month had passed since their disappearance. He’d hoped that maybe then their families find some peace.

“Shit.” Barnes hissed in desperation.

“You can say that, Sergeant. There’s only two options: We surrender, or we die.” Bucky didn’t say anything instead he took another look at the soldiers of his unit. They were on their limit, barely standing on their feet anymore. He turned back to the other man. Only now he noticed the hole in his helmet. He must have taken it from a fallen soldier. Maybe they were close?

“What’s your name, soldier?” he yelled, trying to be heard with the bombs and guns going off around them.

“Private Sean Smith, Sergeant.” The soldier yelled back.

“You’ got family waiting for you back home, Private?”

“Yes, Sir. I’ve got a wife and a small child. Must be ‘bout two years old now. Haven’t seen them in a long time. Promised I’ll be back soon.” He laughed painfully at the memories.

“Yeah, I promised someone as well. And we didn’t have a proper date yet, so I’ve got plenty to do when I come back.” Bucky said amused. They really hadn’t. He made a mental note to himself that once they reached American ground again, he’d take Loki on a date. A proper date in the evening, with candles lighting up the dim room of a restaurant. But right now, this plan seemed to be only a dream. A dream Bucky so desperately wished to become true. Afterall all he had to do was hold on, right?

“That’s one lucky girl, Sergeant. She’s gonna hug the crap outta ya when you’re getting back, I’m sure of it.” The private smiled.

“Yeah, probably.” Barnes smiled sadly brushing off the other man’s thought of him having a female partner. A hug from Loki sure would help him a lot at the moment though. Being pressed against his muscular chest, his head buried in his neck and soft hands running down his waist in a slow motion. All he wanted was to wake up someday and find the man he loved so dearly lay beside him again.

“Private,” Bucky said, gripping the soldier’s shoulder and looked him into his eyes, making sure he understood the orders he was about to give him. “You’re getting ever man we have left of our and other units. Gather them at one point here in the trench where you think it would be safe. We’re not going to give up, but they can’t carry on a battle any longer, you hear me?” the private nodded. “Once you’ve done that, stay with them. Tell them to crawl through the trenches or the Germans might see them. They have to be more careful than usually; do you understand? Once they’re gathered, they’re a greater target with more causalities when they’re spotted.”

“That’s, a big risk, Sir. I’m not sure they’ll be happy about it. Some might refuse the order.”

“They do as I say, or they’ll be killed. Do you hear me? Either by the enemy or by me. We’re a team and when one disobeys, we’ll all pay the price.” The soldier nodded. Bucky had never in his life thought there would come a day where he’d have to threaten people with death. He knew he wasn’t going to take their life, but he couldn’t guarantee his superior wouldn’t. With a small salute, the private left.

“Looks like we’re going all in now.” He muttered to himself. “This is such a Steve thing to do, I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He crawled a few meters before slowly standing up and glancing over the top of the wooden trench wall, his rifle still in his hands. When his eyes met the muddy surface of the battlefield, he was met with a dozen pairs of combat boots. He followed the legs upwards with his eyes and came to a halt when he saw multiple weapons pointed at him. No one shot. All they did was standing there and waiting. James knew that as soon as he’d raise his gun, he’d be a dead man.

“Surrender and nothing will happen. We’ve got the rest of your men in our hand.” A voice with a heavy german accent said. A man in a black leather trench coat stepped in front of the german soldiers, kneeling down right above the sergeant. When the man saw Bucky’s heavy breathing and tightening grip on his rifle he laughed. “Oh, but don’t worry, they’re all well and alive. For now.” Again, he smirked. “So, will you be so kind and accompany us or will you choose to play the hero?”

“I’d rather die than follow your kind of sick bastards.” Bucky spat, his gun now almost to a point where he could possibly take out at least one of them before being shot. The soldiers behind the speaking man took a step forward, ready to shoot any time, but Leather Coat held them back.

“Very well.” He said and stood up, brushing off the mud that had made its way onto his precious coat. “Take him.”

Bucky waited for a shot to ring out, for a bomb to fall from the sky but nothing came. He frowned confused at the missing violence coming from the enemy. But just as he was about to ask what the weird speaking man had meant, something hard hit him from behind and everything went black.

After that he didn’t remember much. He remembered waking up, strapped to a table in a cark and wet room. It smelled terribly. Men in white coats were injecting him some liquids that stood on the small metal table beside him. They were constantly talking about things he didn’t understand. Did he catch the word “Experiment”? He wasn’t sure. He’d just hoped that the others were still alive. He’d hoped Loki wouldn’t be mourning to long when Steve got the letter of him being dead. He wished he could’ve told Loki one last time how much he meant to him, even though they hadn’t known each other for too long. He just wished everyone the best. And maybe some time, when their time came as well, he’d see them all again.

#winterfrost #mcu #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #loki #loki laufeyson #bucky #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #lokixbucky #buckyxloki #loki/bucky #bucky/loki #taggingthisasmymasterlistdontmindme

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crimeronan · 5 years ago

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because i’m flattered about people being interested in my original fiction!! here’s some of my current draft. for all the wlw out there who crave stories about psychologically traumatized narrative foils being desperately in love with each other.

Sol had come here, because Ruby loved everything inside these walls, and as long as Sol remained, she too would be caught up in the spell. Sol had come here, because she needed to be Ruby’s instead of Ruby offering hollow physical comfort and the right words in Sol’s perfectly supportive bed. Instead of Ruby being one more meaningless transaction in an existence built on them.

“Okay,” Ruby said. “Come lay down with me.”

Sol followed her to the bedroom. Ruby’s bed was also made of things she loved. Tattered quilts and pillows decades old, newer and softer blankets, gifted sheets, embroidered pillowcases that were their own art pieces. None of it matched, and most of it was hideous, but Ruby loved it all, so here it was.

Sol took off her shoes and laid down. Rather than joining her immediately, Ruby sat in front of her mirror and pulled the pins out of her hair. There were dozens holding the complex braided updo in place, and so removing them was a lengthy process. Almost ritualistic, artistic. Like building a painting, or wiping a canvas clean.

Here, a braid escaped; here, a section of knotwork collapsed; here, a coil sprung free; here, more and more strands fell like an untamed river down her back. It was a transformation from pretty and professional to untamed and magical. Sol wanted to run her fingers through it the same way she’d wanted to touch the shining, impossible hair of the heroines in her mother’s fairy tales. Memories of nights around a fire were close to the surface, now, but what was one more dull scrape against a nervous system already flayed?

“I would have done it,” Ruby said quietly. She met Sol’s eyes in the mirror.

“What?”

“The channeling. You should have asked me to do it.”

Ruby didn’t even know what they’d done it for. Either she’d decided the reason must be good (desperately needed to believe the reason must be good), or she’d decided they’d have done it whether she approved or not. The latter was unequivocally true; the former depended on where you stood.

“I wouldn’t have,” Sol said.

“Yes,” Ruby replied, impatient, “clearly you wouldn’t have, seeing as you didn’t. But you should have.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

“I can weather this kind of thing, Sol. I do it every day. You, though...”

Ruby paused, swiveling her chair to look at Sol straight on, like she’d just remembered Sol was in a vulnerable state. The backlight from the mirror shadowed her features, created a scarlet halo through her hair.

“Go on,” Sol said. “I can take it.”

Ruby stayed where she was, appraising Sol like she was sizing up a new client. “You’re made of ice. You crack once, you shatter.”

#original fiction #my writing #god i'm gonna need tags for these relationships aren't i #the fire and the ice #will be ruby's and sol's

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anexplanationofunfortunateevents · 4 years ago

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Spooky Stories at Camp Quarantine: The Tale of the Swift Boat

Campfire story (n): a ritual where we all sit under the vast darkness of a midnight sky and tell ourselves a story about the big, scary monster that isn’t lurking just out of sight. You know. Probably.

2004 was a dark and stormy year.

The world pulsed with the still-raw trauma of the September 11 attacks. It was an anxious year of denial and bargaining, a desperate search for the loophole after Sirius Black fell through the veil. The twentieth century was dying and the third millennium was struggling to be born. It was the time of the Swift Boat.

The Usurper Bush the Lesser was in a tough place. If you were paying attention, you could see the signs that his stolen presidency was going to end in disaster and disgrace. And it was an election year, so people were about to start paying attention. So he took a lesson from his dear old Dad: he would unleash the hired help to unload a relentless fusillade of lies against his opponent.

Lying was an important part of the strategy because he was up against a strong challenger. John Kerry of Massachusetts was one of the most liberal Democrats in the Senate; he was also a tall, fit, well-educated, impeccably diplomatic, Irish Catholic patrician who didn’t challenge anyone’s idea of what a president looked like. He talked like Barack Obama and looked like Mitt Romney. He was allowed to get pneumonia without anyone losing their goddamn minds, that’s how white and manly he was.

Most critically, though, he seemed to have almost unique standing to campaign against the Bush administration’s spectacular failure in Iraq. At the time, Republicans had – cynically, but effectively – made themselves synonymous with The Troops. Anyone who questioned their lies or challenged their reckless foreign policy was axiomatically discredited as “hating the troops.” Kerry, however, was A Troop, with a track record of telling the hard truth about an unjustified war. He had earned five medals in Vietnam and then used that moral authority to call for an end to the bloodshed. His service gave him a way to connect to a massive group of voters for whom the war had been a generational trauma – and it was a strong contrast to Bush, who had used his wealth and family connections to dodge the draft.

Enter the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth. This was a group of Vietnam veterans who, in mid-2004, collectively realized that Kerry had lied about his heroism, hoodwinked the military into giving him an award, not once but five times, and successfully covered up his perfidy for thirty-odd years, despite having been scrutinized by Massachusetts voters and press in half a dozen statewide elections. This fantastical tale was largely spun by Jerome Corsi, now known for spreading birtherism (the racist conspiracy theory that former President Obama was not an American citizen), narrowly escaping prosecution by special prosecutor Robert Mueller, and, most recently, hawking Trump’s favorite quack coronavirus cure. They were, naturally, bankrolled by obscenely wealthy Bush supporters.

Maybe these Swift boat veterans were purposefully lying; maybe they were sad old men whose trauma was manipulated by right-wing propagandists. But they did what they were supposed to do. Kerry’s campaign lost its footing and never quite got it back. Instead of being able to challenge Bush’s lies about about the war in Iraq that was happening at the time, he was stuck on the defensive against Bush’s lies about the Vietnam war, which had ended decades before. In one retrospectively critical moment of priming the conservative base for Donald “I like the people who weren’t captured” Trump, delegates at the Republican convention wore silly purple heart bandaids to mock the wounds Kerry received in combat.

We know how that ended. Bush won the popular vote by around 2%, which back in the day actually used to be enough to win the election. Thus, ISIS rose and New Orleans drowned.

The thing is, the bad guys don’t actually forget the past as easily as they hope you do. When a play works, they run it again. When a play almost works, they run it again but better. When a play doesn’t immediately work, it still rallies the right-wing base and softens up the general public for their authoritarian politics of lies and abuse, so they keep it in their back pocket. So we should probably try to understand the specific elements that made the Swift boat propaganda campaign particularly effective.

Imagine you’re an amoral Republican candidate and I’m your mercenary sociopath of a campaign manager. I’ve just said, “look, you’re getting your ass kicked, we’re going to have to swiftboat your opponent” and you’re like “what’s a swiftboat? Write me a memo!” So, here it is. (You may be thinking “but you don’t know anything about me, and I’d never be a Republican candidate for anything!” Lesson the first: it doesn’t matter, because your swiftboat attack has nothing to do with you.)

A swiftboat attack is bullshit. We like to think the truth is the most effective political weapon, but what if there really aren’t any disqualifying skeletons in your opponent’s closet? If you’re going to sabotage them anyway, that’s kind of liberating. After all, true stories depend on facts, which can be too boring to stick with people, and don’t have made-to-spec story arcs that conveniently fit with your campaign’s themes. Plus, if you’re relying on some actual truth that exists in the universe, you’re running the risk that there’s some mitigating factor out there, some witness who can give different context or a wronged party who can say they’ve buried the hatchet. Worse, your opponent already knows about stuff they actually did. Campaigns do a ton of background research into their own candidates, specifically so that they’re prepared for a predictable attack. They can’t prepare themselves for literally anything your army of political strategists can imagine, so you will always have the element of surprise.

Swiftboating isn’t an attack on your opponent’s policy. It’s an accusation that they’ve violated some taboo. There’s some sticky detail that people won’t quite be able to forget, even if they are exposed to the eventual debunking. The story, whatever it is, should be most upsetting to a large, important block of voters who are inclined to support your opponent.

The allegations don’t come from you, your campaign, or even a sympathetic journalist. They’re laundered through apparent private citizens who are part of a group of people that the general public tends to find sympathetic. This makes your story seem more credible to at first glance, wrong-foots anyone who wants to defend your opponent against the allegations, and lets you get credit for insincerely denouncing the attack while continuing to benefit from it.

This is a dick-swinging exercise, so be shameless. You’re not just putting your opponent in their place by showing you can get away with lying about them, and maddeningly rejecting responsibility for your lies. You’re showing off an authoritarian contempt for truth itself.

You need a relentless multimedia assault, impossible for people to miss. You might have to bully legitimate media into teaching the controversy, but they’re wimps. You’re not trying to convince most people that this specific story is true, you’re just trying to plant some seeds of doubt, and to sap time and enthusiasm from your opponent and their supporters. Make the election as miserable as possible and voters will reward you for it.

The most important thing is that you want your swiftboat attack to be on some area where you have a real liability and your opponent has a real strength. You want them to have to defend themselves on something they should get to use as a selling point. Even better, you neutralize a totally fair criticism of yourself – no matter how accurate they are or how ridiculous you sound, the press will dismiss it as “both sides point fingers.”

Kerry’s campaign gets used as some kind of object lesson about the futility of primary voters trying to pick a candidate they think will win: “Kerry was supposed to be electable and Kerry lost, so there.” (You’ve probably heard the even stupider cover version, “if Hillary was so electable, why’d she let herself get targeted by all those criminal conspiracies, HMMMM?”) This is 20/20 hindsight spiked with the just world fallacy. John Kerry seemed like a good candidate because he was, in fact, a good candidate, which is why he did significantly better expected, and he came pretty close to beating the odds. If there’s a lesson here, maybe it’s that swiftboating can keep a clearly electable candidate from being elected.

That’s a real buzzkill because it means we can’t treat the primaries like a round of playoffs where we root for the most exciting player and then kick back to watch the finals. But what it lacks in self-gratification, it makes up for with agency. If a swiftboat attack is supposed to affect how people respond to a candidate, then people get to choose whether or not we play along.

Trump, a textbook narcissist who instinctively projects his infinite failings onto others, is almost a swiftboating savant. His campaign is being handled by the professional Republican operatives behind the original Swift Boat campaign. (Literally, some of the same guys.) So as we move into the general election, know that this is in their bag of tricks. If you start to hear alarming stories about presumptive Democratic nominee former Vice President Biden or any other prominent Democrats on the ballot …. give it the smell test, is all I’m saying.

#disinformation #2004 election #2020 election #swiftboating #john kerry #george w bush

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nethwan · 4 years ago

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A Life By Your Side

Summary: After the drama, Lars decided to know what happened during those erased years.