#anyways I just moved across the fucking country and FINALLY got my drawing pen back oh my god

[mangk0]

IM GONNA DRAW SM OH MY GOD

[2seokfan]

Scarlet & Hazel | Ch. 4

pairings: hoseok x reader x yoongi

genre: fluff, very light angst, smut (future)

warnings: mentions of physical abuse

word count: 5.3k

chapters: ch.1, ch.2, ch.3, ch.4

summary:

Just cause you’re living paycheck to paycheck in a tiny apartment even after graduating college doesn’t mean you’re not happy. So what if your best friend is working her dream job making close to six figures every year?  So what if she’s in a loving, committed relationship with her perfect boyfriend that you’re 99% sure is going to propose to her sometime next year? It doesn’t matter that your idea of a perfect relationship is a $9.99 bottle of wine on Friday nights while you binge watch Netflix specials.

Ok so maybe you’re a teensy bit miserable. Maybe you have no idea what you’re doing with your life. Maybe all you need to do is accidentally cross paths with two hybrids who will drastically change that.

Meet “Scarlet” and “Hazel”, two of the most gorgeous hybrid men you have ever laid eyes on. With their help, you learn that life is an adventure, a roller-coaster with ups and downs, and you were too preoccupied with yourself to climb out of your own predicament. And hey, you’re not much of a romantic, but with these two, you just might change your mind.

a/n: Y/N gets the surprise of her lifetime today! Also to clarify, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly is an old cowboy movie with a very famous theme song (just in case some people don’t get the reference). Thank you for being patient! Please let me know if you have any questions or concerns!

tag list: @wilhelminalucinda @ghostkat23 @ayoo-bangtan @sadgurllayha 

How come whenever you’re excited for something, time purposely slows down?? It’s like the weekend can’t come fast enough. Each day feels like a whole week and each hour stretches like two. You swear the clock hanging on the wall of your clinic has some sort of personal grudge against you, the second hand moving at the pace of a snail.

You’re currently on the last two hours of your shift. The hustle and bustle of morning appointments have died down but that doesn’t stop the constant train of incoming calls. You wonder if there’s an award out there for maintaining a professional voice after getting asked stupid questions, because you deserve that award, exhibit A being the person you’re dealing with right now. You pick at your nails while you balance the work phone on your shoulder.

“Sorry ma'am we’re actually a hybrid clinic so no, I can’t put your son down for a checkup. Mhm. Mhm. Uh huh.” You peel off a hangnail and flick it into the trash can under your counter. “I understand you're frustrated but none of our doctors specialize in human treatment. May I suggest the hospital? Ok have a good day now. Bye.”

You hang up as a string of expletives are leaving the receiving end of your phone. What part of ‘hybrid clinic’ did she not understand?

You lean back into your office chair, vowing for the 100th time to invest in one of those lumbar support pillows for your poor, aching body. Checking today’s schedule, you see that a first-time client should be coming in any minute now. Her voice had sounded eerily familiar when she called all those days ago, but you didn’t bother to think twice.

Right on cue, you hear the clinic door open. A very familiar arctic fox hybrid is ushered in by her impatient owner.

“Hurry up won’t you! We don’t have all day!” 

Yep. That’s blondie alright.

Sylvia has already recognized you, giving you a small smile when her owner isn’t looking. You’re shocked by her appearance, small cuts and bruises adorning her face and a noticeable bandage around her left wrist. You smile back, trying to make her feel as comfortable as possible.

Blondie hasn’t noticed your presence yet, currently rummaging through her gigantic purse for a pen. She freezes when she finally looks up, making eye contact with you.

You both narrow your eyes like it’s some sort of cowboy showdown in the old west, theme song from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly playing in the background. If it weren’t for the counter in front of you you’d probably be slowly circling each other, hands ready to draw your pistols from your holsters.

Except it’s the 21st century and all you can do is clench your jaw and offer her a steely glare.

“What are you doing here?” Blondie is the first to break the silence.

“I work here,” you say matter of factly.

“Don’t you own hybrids?” Her voice is menacing, but it doesn’t mask her confusion. “How can a receptionist afford two hybrids?”

“I’m here on my off time cause I have nothing else to do.” You find it so much easier to lie to her now that you’ve successfully done it before. No harm in stretching your little fable.

Blondie huffs, having no rebuttal ready.

“Anyways, I need you to fill this out here.” You decide not to push her temper further since you’re at work and need to act civilly. You hand her the basic information form and contact the doctor about their arrival. 

While blondie is busy filling out the paperwork, you make quick eye contact with Sylvia, mouthing a silent ‘are you ok?’ to her. She gives you a tense nod but nibbles on her bottom lip and shifts her pupils in blondie’s direction. You can’t forget that look on Sylvia’s face, one of desperation and misery, and you want so badly to pull her out of this situation.

Blondie finishes and hands the papers back to you. You glance down and find her name on the forms. “And Karen,” of course her name is ‘Karen’, “how did Sylvia get these injuries?”

A flicker of panic flashes across her features but it instantly disappears into a frown. 

“She fell down the stairs.” Karen snaps, then proceeds to tap her foot impatiently. “Well? I’ve got an appointment??”

You sigh and swallow down the urge to talk back. “Dr. Lao is ready for you. Just head down the hall and into the office on your left.” 

Karen puts her pen back in her purse, then grabs her fox by the elbow and pulls her down the hallway, out of sight. When they disappear, you sit back and take the time to process what just happened.

You don’t believe for one minute that Sylvia fell down the stairs. Her injuries seem obviously inflicted by another person, most likely Karen, but you don’t want to jump to conclusions. Since you have no proof, you can’t really report the issue. Also you’re well aware of how corrupted Hybrid Services are and you don’t want to leave Sylvia in their hands. 

The phone rings, bringing you back to your senses. Oh yeah, I’m still at work. You remind yourself to google some safe hybrid help centers when you get home. There’s nothing you can do now but you’ll be damned if you won’t try.

The two emerge from the checkup after an hour or so. Karen turns to your counter, face still in her signature scowl as she approaches you.

“I need to schedule a second appointment.” Her tone sounds a little stiff, as if she didn’t want this outcome. “Sylvia will need another checkup for her wrist.” Her entire demeanor is suspicious to you at this point. When you met her for the first time, you were only focused on getting her to stop bothering your two hybrid friends. You regret not noticing her obvious physical aggressiveness.

As the two head out, Sylvia turns back and gives you a small ‘bye’. You melt at how cute she is despite all her injuries. You give her one last wave, determination welling up inside.

You head home and immediately dive to your laptop. Sylvia’s next checkup isn’t till two weeks later so you want to use that time to become as productive as you can in finding the numbers of various hybrid centers. Even though your work revolves around hybrids, you have no personal experience helping any of them out of trouble so you need the advice of professionals. You have no idea what any of these centers can do and you’re aware that your lack of information means you’re starting from scratch but you refuse to sit by and do nothing. Not when something fishy is obviously going on.

You’re surprised to find no decent hybrid centers, even though you live in a pretty big city. Most seem like shady adoption centers that put in the bare minimum amount of effort in taking care of and re-homing their hybrids. One center was so repulsive you’re surprised they’re legally allowed to operate. You click on their ‘About’ page for shits and giggles and the description makes you want to gag. ‘Having problems with your hybrid? Don’t worry! Call this number and we’ll take them off your hands!’ What the actual fuck!? It’s like one of those junk collecting commercials where they take away your old furniture except they’re talking about living, breathing hybrids, not an old refrigerator. This goes to show how little the government actually cares about hybrids and you find yourself involuntarily clenching your fists.

After a few websites that lead nowhere, you stumble across one for a Hope Hybrid Center that seems promising. The description indicates how they’re dedicated to the ‘safety and comfort of all hybrids without discrimination’. The only catch is that the particular center in your city has just been built and will not open till later this week. Nevertheless, you decide to trust this location since there are several other branches under the same name littered across the country that all have raving reviews. You bookmark the page and remind yourself to contact their main call center tomorrow.

You don’t know what’s come over you. It’s true you’ve always had a soft spot for hybrids, and you’ve always been in full support of every new law that passes, bringing them closer to citizenship. But you’ve never been this passionate about personally helping them. It’s a good feeling, being actively involved in something you care about. Saving your two hybrid friends two months ago has really opened your eyes to what human bystanders can do. Every action, big or small, can have an impact and you mentally scold yourself for not being aware of your surroundings previously. Oh how ignorant you were.

The rest of your research is futile, and you end up closing your laptop with a sigh of defeat. This is all you can do right now. Who do you think you are? Some sort of vigilante? What power do you have to make any change?? You’re just one silly receptionist against the big bad world.

Before you start mentally beating yourself up even more, you close your eyes and remember the image of Sylvia’s face. She looked so hopeless, so resigned to her fate, that all your self pity dissipates. Whatever miserable situation you’re in, you know she’s probably experiencing something ten times worse.

You think about bringing this run-in up with Scarlet and Hazel but you chicken out last minute. They’ve been pretty busy on the days leading up to your dinner doing god knows what. They’ve been polite enough to reply to you but you can tell from the short, quipped answers they supply that they have other things going on right now. You know that they’re not doing this on purpose so it doesn’t bother you too much, but you do miss the comic relief they provide in your hectic life. Guess you’ll tell them all about it when you see them on Saturday.

The last thought in your head before you shut your eyes is to call the Hope Hybrid Center as soon as you go on break tomorrow.

“Hi! Thank you for calling the Hope Hybrid Center! This is Jodie speaking, how can I help you?”

“Uh, hi yes!” Jeez why are your palms so clammy? It’s just a phone call, you do these everyday! “My name is Y/N and I was wondering if you can help me with a couple questions about hybrids, if that’s ok?”

“Of course!” Jodie sounds all peppy and excited. You wish you still had her energy when you do your customer service calls. You were like her for only a brief period all those years ago when you began at the clinic. Boy did that die down fast.

“Um,” You’re not really sure where to start. Do you just straight out say someone is hurting their hybrid? That might sound a little too accusatory. “What do I do if I think someone is abusing their hybrid? Like I have no proof but I still feel like it’s happening?” You’re not used to doing things behind other peoples’ backs, even for someone as awful as Karen, and it’s got your entire body erupting in cold sweat. You mentally reprimand yourself. I’m trying to help. This is for a good cause.

“That’s a good question.” Jodie’s voice is reassuring, like she can hear the nervousness of your tone through the call. “There are several things you can do actually! The first thing we recommend you do is observe their behavior as much as you can and try to record or take note of any signs of aggression displayed by the supposed abuser. This can be used in case any legal action is taken.”

“Uh huh.” You reach into your purse and grab your handy dandy little notebook, pull out the pen stuck in the spiral, and quickly flip to a random blank page to jot down everything she says.

“Now if you want to take direct action, that can be a little riskier but it is possible. The best option is to take one of our unique business cards and pass that along to the hybrid in need.”

“Unique business cards…?” She lost you there.

“Yes. You can find them at each of our shelters or we can mail them to you.” She answers fast, and you have a feeling she’s used to this question. “Each of our business cards contain an emergency phone number, a security code, and are coated with a unique scent that is virtually undetectable by humans. When the number is called, our first question is to ask for the security code, then confirm the matching scent of their business card. These cards work best with the majority of hybrids that contain a heightened sense of smell, such as the mammalian hybrids. We may need to adjust for certain bird or aquatic species that rely on other senses.”

Your writing arm is sore from taking all this down but you pause to answer Jodie. “She’s a fox hybrid, so that should be ok I think?”

You hear a large sigh of relief over the receiver. “Ok that makes things a lot easier.” Her tone switches to serious once again. “But remember this can only be done if the hybrid is willing to contact us in the first place. Beyond that, someone will have to catch them in the act of abuse and that can be very hard to do.”

You nod your head in agreement, forgetting that she can’t see you. “I understand. There’s a small chance this may just be nothing but I want to try and help at least.”

“That’s awesome! It takes a lot of guts to report these issues and you’d be surprised how many people let them slide under their noses.” She’s so encouraging that for a short, sweet moment, you envision the whole plan falling into place. You can see it now, a happy Sylvia free from her oppressive captors. Wow they really do a good job. Jodie deserves a raise.

“Thanks Jodie that means a lot!” You shake your sore arm, trying to relieve the pain. “I might need you to mail me a business card since the Hope Hybrid Center in my city isn’t open yet.”

“No problem! I’ll just need your full name, an email and phone number, and your address.”

You relay all your information over. By the time the call is finished, you have a whole 2 minutes left on your lunch break. You look down at your untouched PB&J sandwich and cry internally. It’s for a worthy cause you repeat again and again in your head like a mantra.

Friday. Finally. This week has been the longest you’ve experienced since midterm week of college. You received a package from Hope Hybrid Services this morning and it’s currently sitting on your bedside table. You won’t need to open that up till Sylvia’s next appointment.

You power through another hectic day at work, motivated by the prospect of seeing your two friends in person tomorrow. Both boys are now well aware of your work schedule and take extra care not to text you until you’re off.

5pm rolls around and your phone vibrates just as you enter your car and buckle your seat belt. You check and see that it’s from ‘Hazel’s Nuts’, your favorite groupchat. You gun it towards your apartment, wanting to reply to them in the comfort of your own home. You must have made it in record time and you’re surprised you didn’t get a speeding ticket. Listen, you aren’t the best driver out there but no one’s died on your watch so you count that as a win. When you arrive home you immediately jump onto the couch and unlock your phone.

Hazel: Hi Y/N. Sorry we’ve been so busy this week but we’re excited to see you tomorrow

You: that’s ok! I figured you were occupied

Hazel: Yep. Had to take care of some stuff but we’re all set now

Scarlet: Y/N!!!!!!! I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOOUUUU

Scarlet: (excited emojis)

You: Same!!!

Hazel: Oh yeah

Hazel: We’re meeting at La Cucina Classica tomorrow btw

You let out a small gasp of surprise. No fucking way?! La Cucina Classica is one of THE most expensive restaurants in your city. You’ve never stepped foot inside their doors because they’re usually booked months in advance. Karli’s lucky ass managed to eat there once before and she described the food as, and you quote, ‘orgasmic’. How on earth did they manage to nab a spot there?

You: No way! Really?

Scarlet: Yes way!!

You: how the hell did you manage to get a table???

Hazel: We pulled some strings

You: omg u mysterious boys

Scarlet: We promise to tell you everything tomorrow!! <3

You: ok! but don’t feel obligated or anything

You: i trust u guys

Hazel: Good

Hazel: So tomorrow. 7pm

Scarlet: Oh yeah! Also dress nice

You: you bet! It’s a fancy place so i can’t let them know i’m secretly poor

Hazel: Lol

Hazel: I have to make a call for work so bye for now Y/N

You: bye kitty

Scarlet: See you tomorrow! I can’t wait!!!

You: me too!! 

You: bye!

You set your phone down and whisper to yourself. “What does he mean by ‘work’? They have jobs??”

And they got a table at La Cucina Classica by ‘pulling some strings’, like it was no big deal to them?! Oh my god do you need answers!

You wake up promptly at 9am.

Why? Because it’s #SelfcareSaturday. And this has nothing to do with seeing the boys in person tonight at 7pm. Nothing at all.

You usually have a lot of shit to say about how crappy your little apartment is but today you’re feeling thankful because your dingy bathroom comes equipped with a little tub. You have a bath bomb that was a birthday gift from one of your college friends and you pray these things don’t expire (they do lol) because you’re about to crack this baby open for the first time.

You’ve still got 9 hours, 23 minutes, and 16 seconds till dinner tonight but who’s counting? Not me, you think as you slowly sink into the rainbow-colored tub water. The atmosphere is perfect. You’ve lit up two of your scented candles and have a lofi hip hop playlist on shuffle. You should really do this more often except, you know, water bills.

Right after bath time you decide to do one of your more elaborate skincare routines, hoping to remove the stress and fatigue from your face after a week of work. You facetime Karli so you’re not alone during the whole process.

“Hi Y/N!!” Karli’s face pops up onto the screen. It’s a little more blurry than usual and the sunlight is harsh behind her so she must be outdoors. “Why is your face all glittery?”

“Oh this?” You point to your cheeks. “Remember that fancy Japanese face mask I bought when I got my holiday bonus?”

“Oh yeah! But you said you’d only open it for a special occasion. Unless,” then she comes to a conclusion. “is it for the boys??”

“No!” You correct her too fast. “I mean yes, but also no.” There’s a blush creeping onto your cheeks. “Sometimes a girl just wants to treat herself…”

“Sweetie, your idea of treating yourself is ordering takeout and drinking wine on the weekends, but I’m not gonna pressure you.” Karli sure loves to tease.

“Shut up you don’t know me,” you pout. You’re furiously red at this point.

“Au contraire, I know you too well. You’re like that mole I have on my left ass cheek, I’ll never get rid of you.”

Classy.

“True.” She’s not wrong. You two have been through thick and thin and everything in between. It’ll take divine power to separate you now.

“Oh yeah good thing you called! I’ve got some news!” She’s raising her voice since the background noise of traffic behind her is a little deafening. 

You tilt your head, a question forming on your lips. Is it about the wedding?

“Remember that Bryce guy?”

You do now, since she brought him up. But it does bring back a few embarrassing memories. “Yeah?”

“Well he told me he has a football game coming up so he’s probably gonna text you soon to ask if you can go.” 

“I forgot I said yes to that,” you wince as you suddenly remember that night.

“I mean, you can always let him down gently,” Karli suggests.

“No, I shouldn’t. That would be mean. I did agree to go.” Just admit it. You don’t like disappointing people. 

“Ok girl, if you say so.” She doesn’t push you, probably cause it looks like she’s hurrying somewhere. “Ugh I promised to meet my coworkers for lunch but why did I wear heels downtown!”

“I don’t know girl, sounds like a ‘you’ problem.” You snicker at her.

“Hey don’t be fucking rude!” She quotes that famous Kim Kardashian meme perfectly.

“Stop! Don’t make me laugh too hard!! It’s gonna mess up my face mask!” You’re trying to keep your face still but it’s damn near impossible at this point.

The rest of the day you spend pampering yourself, the whole nine yards. You even booked an appointment with the nearby nail salon after one glance at your unkempt cuticles. God you’re a mess. All you had today was a salad you picked up after your nail appointment because you want your stomach to prepare itself for the gorging you’re about to do tonight.

As the evening approaches, you hunt in your closet once again for appropriate dining attire. The words ‘dress nice’ echo in your head. This time you do open your ho drawer, because you remember having some sort of shimmery dress that isn’t too bad and can probably pass for being presentable in such a fine dining environment. You reach into the furthest corner and finally feel the soft, silky fabric, pulling it out and hoping against all odds that it isn’t full of wrinkles. Lucky for you, the dress is still in good condition. It’s a spaghetti strap and flows all the way down past your ankles. You’ve never found the occasion to wear it, only buying it cause it was on sale and you thought it was so pretty at the time.

You put it on and glance in the mirror. Usually you have a lot to critique about your physical appearance but today you admit you don’t look so bad. The dress shows a little bit of tasteful cleavage and there’s a slit that rides up your right leg but it isn’t too revealing. Attach some chunky, strappy black heels and you’re good to go. Except makeup, you’ve gotta do that first.

As the clock ticks closer to 6:30, you finish up on your smokey eye and swipe on a little lip tint. You’re definitely taking an uber tonight because you don’t want to miss out on the restaurant's excellent drink selection. Also parking on a Saturday night? Absolute nightmare.

The place is downtown and a good 20 minutes away so once you get in the car you tell the driver to step on it, promising to tip him extra when you get off.

You can’t stop the constant drumming of your heart as the car nears the location. You feel like a kid who’s been told they’re going to Disneyland and you’re giddy with excitement. Maybe it’s better not to see them in person because you might faint on the spot.

As the car pulls up you take a deep breath. Calm down Y/N, you think to yourself, I’m just meeting two good friends for dinner.

The restaurant is located at the rooftop of one of the taller buildings downtown. You enter the elevator, smoothing your dress and your nerves at the same time.

When the doors slide open, you’re greeted by an immaculately dressed hostess. You glimpse at the restaurant behind her. Expensive is definitely the right word to describe this place. There’s dimly lit, warm lighting above each of the tables, and a live band is playing soft tunes in the corner. Waiters and waitresses are carrying loads of food on only one hand, serving each table with grace and poise.

“Name?” The hostess asks you, breaking you out of your observation.

“Um,” You’re unsure what to say. Did they put the table down under Scarlet or Hazel? That can’t be right since those are fake names. 

“Y/N?” You try with your name first to see if that’ll lead anywhere.

“Right this way Miss Y/L/N.” Holy shit, ok. Guess that worked.

You’re led past the many tables, ladened with various couples, and back into a private room. They even managed to book a private room?!?! You really feel out of place with your drugstore makeup and cheap dress.

The hostess graciously opens a door for you and-

“Y/N!!”

“Ooof!” You’re enveloped by the familiar scent of honey and cinnamon. “Hi Scar.” You try to compose yourself since he smells too good to be true. Hazel is right behind him, signature sleepy smile on his face. You back away from them, taking in their appearance

Oh. My. God.

Your jaw drops. Beautiful isn’t enough to describe what’s standing in front of you. Scarlet is in a perfectly fitted, baby blue suit that shows off his lean physique. One of his top buttons is undone, revealing his caramel colored skin and collarbones. You pry your eyes away from such sin and opt to look in Hazel’s direction but that does nothing to help you since he’s also dressed to the nines, wearing all black, silver jewelry sparkling on his neck and fingers, a stark contrast to his milky white skin. You look in between them instead, fearing you’ll drool if you stare at them any longer.

Hazel steps forward and also gives you a small hug. His scent is floral, with a spicy undertone, and you want nothing more than to drown in it.

“Hi Hazel,” God you must be blushing like crazy right now. You can’t help it since they look so delicious. Stop that! They’re your friends and they’re not interested!! You want to slap yourself for thinking such impure thoughts.

Well you say that but the way they’re taking in your outfit sends a shiver down your spine. Is it just you or did their eyes darken? The atmosphere quickly returns to normal and you start to wonder if that moment was all in your imagination.

“Look! We already have the champagne ready!” Scarlet’s tail is wagging a mile a minute as he returns to his seat. Hazel slides next to him right after, trying to swat away the offending appendage that’s taking up his spot.

“How ‘bout you control that tail of yours, hm puppy?” Hazel huffs, finally managing to sit down once he successfully shoves the tail back into Scarlet’s lap.

“Hey!” Scarlet looks downright offended. “I’m a fox, not a dog! We’re a much more sophisticated creature.” He crosses his arms and states pointedly, “just like you can’t control your purrs, we can’t control our wagging.”

Hazel only sighs. “Sometimes I wonder why I’m mated to you.”

“Because you love me. Now shut up or poor Y/N’s gonna feel like she’s being third-wheeled.”

Now this is the Scarlet and Hazel you’re used to. You sit across from them, nursing the sparkling flute of champagne that’s calling your name and trying not to snort out loud at their antics. It’s still extremely hard to maintain eye contact with either of the boys but you put in effort all the same.

“I hope you don’t mind, but we already ordered.” Hazel shifts in his seat, one hand ruffling the back of his hair.

“Actually that’s perfect!” You chuckle. “I have no idea what to get in places like these.”

“Ok, good.” His voice is now sounding a little bit shaky, which is very puzzling. Is he nervous?

You take a better look at them, temporarily ignoring their attractiveness (which is a very hard thing to do), and you notice their body language is off. Both their tails are now twitching anxiously and their ears are a little droopy. What’s going on?

“Hey guys.” You keep your voice gentle. “Is everything ok?”

“Yeah! There’s just, um…” Scarlet is twisting the napkin in his lap. “We have some very important things to ask you and-”

“Wait!” You interrupt him, putting one hand up. You need to get this across before the boys tell you anything. “Before you continue, I just want you both to know that under NO circumstances do you ever have to tell me anything you’re uncomfortable with. I understand that you have a lot of secrets to keep, being two hybrids who probably don’t have owners. I want to respect our friendship and your privacy, and if that means not knowing a lot of your secrets, then fine by me.” You’re almost out of breath from letting all this out but it’s worth it because you truly value your friendship with them. You always joke to yourself about wanting to know what they’re hiding but deep down you cherish being their friend more than anything.

Both boys glance at each other for a second, nerves having vanished, then they suddenly throw their heads back and erupt into giggles. Scarlet is full on shaking, slapping his knee while he roars with laughter. Even Hazel is cackling, gummy teeth on full display.

This throws you off and your eyebrows furrow together. What’s so funny? You were being sincere and trying to protect them from revealing secrets they don’t want to tell you.

By this time the waiter has come by with a tray of small appetizers so you grab an olive and chew on it in confusion, waiting for their laughter to die down.

“See? What did I tell you about her?” Hazel is wiping a stray tear off his face.

“You’re right, you’re right!” Scarlet nods back in agreement.

Their laughter has finally fizzled away and they both turn to face you once again.

“Um,” You’re completely lost for words so you take another sip of champagne for courage. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No not at all!” Scarlet is quick to reassure you. “In fact, we were nervous at first but you’re making this so much easier for us.”

“Easier?” If you had a penny for all the times these boys have confused you, you’d probably be a millionaire by now.

“Right.” Hazel leans into the table a little bit, a small smirk on his face. “You see, there’s something very important we want to ask you tonight.”

“But first,” Scarlet juts in, also leaning in next to Hazel, “just to clarify. You trust us right, Y/N?”

“Of course.” You say without hesitation. These boys literally have no reason to harm you. Except they’re a little too close to you now and you resist the urge to fan yourself because oooh boy do they have the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen. And their ears! Why are their ears so fluffy looking?! You bet their super soft to touch but you dare not reach out.

“Even though you don’t know our real names?” Hazel urges you on.

“Well, I always figured you’ll tell me when you’re comfortable...” Your voice is getting smaller now, and you feel yourself getting red from head to toe. They’re too close to you and you try not to let your obvious attraction show so you look down and twiddle with your silverware.

“Excellent.” Both boys snap back into their seats, startling you.

“Y/N.” Scarlet clears his throat and tries to make his voice sound serious but he can’t hold back his smile. “We would like to officially ask you to adopt us.”

The fork you’re playing with clatters onto the table.

Previous

[maple-writes]

WHG 14: post games 3

whg tag list: @ratracechronicler (Alvira) @concealeddarkness13 (Zenith), @nightskywriter , @rhikasa , @the-moving-finger-writes , @aeslin-writes @knmartinshouldbewriting , @pen-of-roses @timefirewrites 

(skipping right to the stealing part cause I couldn’t think much to add to the practice scene)

###

Shine gave us the directions to the facility where the shockers and other equipment were stored. It stood non-descript and heavily guarded just outside the main part of the city. Zenith and Elvira had gone ahead, leaving me hidden in a little dark alley just outside the loading bay. I peered out as far as I dared as nerves crawled up and down my skin. How long had they been gone for? Did something happen?

Someone stepped out into the street and I ducked my head back in with a sharp gasp, but then I recognized Elvira’s voice. A moment later they rounded the corner, Zenith dragging a struggling guard with him. I scrambled back, gesturing for him to bring the man down to the far corner of the alley.

I turned to face our victim, curling my fingers at my sides. “Sorry about this.”

He didn’t have time to react before I snatched the soul from his chest, holding it tight in one hand, tighter than what had to be comfortable, but I didn’t want to drop him. Didn’t want to make Zenith hold him down again. The guard flared cold against my skin, panic shooting up my arm and quickening my heart.

Now Zenith. “Ready?”

He nodded. “Let’s go.”

I plucked him into my other hand. Stiller, calmer than the other, he still buzzed and chilled the blood running away from my hand, running up through my shoulder and into my heart until I pushed him into the guard’s empty body. As soon as he started to move, I steadied myself and forced the guard’s soul through the wall of my chest, working him through the muscle and bone to settle beside my heart.

 #

Immediately, I winced as the guard flared out from my chest, pushing against my lungs and trying to claw back out through the muscles binding my ribs. You! You’re that, that tribute, shit. I hunched over, holding a hand over my chest as I fought to catch my breath, to take it back from his attempt at control. He probably didn’t even know he was doing it. Don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me. I won’t. You’ll be fine.

I took a deep breath, pushing him back beside what was left by my own half soul. He protested, but slowly succumbed enough for me to look back up with a nod and a quiet thumbs up. Zenith nodded back and started to slip out of the alley, but Elvira held back.

She glanced back at me. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Right. I nodded again. I forgot sometimes how it must look from the outside. Shaking and sweating with uneven breath and clenched teeth. She didn’t look fully convinced, but there was a plan we had to follow, so she left, following Zenith out towards the building.

I leaned back against the wall, resting my head against the worn cement. It was silent, silent besides the pounding of my own heart in my ears. My chest ached, heavy with the guard’s soul where it didn’t belong.

What are they doing? Where are they going? What’s going on? I turned my head, half my own idea, half his, blinking down the alley the way they’d gone. Panic knotted tight in my stomach, organs twisting in on themselves and my skin crawled up and down and up and down. I closed my eyes and forced my gaze ahead again. It’s fine, everything’s fine. They’re going to go in, take something, and come back. That’s all. That’s all.

Is it about that girl? The girl? The tribute, Lynne. Yeah, her and the other Lynn. I swore under my breath. I probably shouldn’t have told him that, but really, how hard would it have been to put two and two together. Not very hard. Exactly.

I sighed, letting my shoulders fall as my heart started to get a hold of itself, slowing, slowing enough to calm some of the tremors running up and down my arms. Without meaning too, I let out a groan and massaged closed eyes. Fuck I’m so getting fired after this.

Huh? I shuddered as disappointment crushed deep on top of my chest, heavy and guilty. I had one job, just one job and then one guy comes along and drags me away like nothing! I hunched over, resting my hands against crossed legs. My heart started up again, halfway back to it’s fast-paced panic. I took a deep breath, and then another. Easy, relax. To be fair, Zenith is very strong. Easy, relax.

I shook my head, hands starting to shake even as I opened and shut my fingers. I’ve never been fired before. What am I going to do? My hands went to my head and my eyes widened, staring, staring down at the cement, fingernails digging into my scalp. What am I going to tell my wife?

Come on, I shook my head out, taking control of my arms back and setting them back in my lap. It’s not like it’s the end of the world or anything. I counted on shaky fingers. I mean, I’ve been fired from like, five different places. It sucks, but it could be worse. I guess… Honestly you could probably do better than guarding torture devices anyway. I frowned. Torture devices? What else would you call those shocker  things, the ones fitted to Lynne and Lynn?

The guard stilled, settling quiet and cold just under the base of my throat. I could still see them, up on the screen and trying their best to act like they weren’t in pain in front of the entire country. Like nothing was wrong, and they weren’t in pain. Oh. Oh is that what was in there? Probably not the only thing but yeah, yeah that’s what we’re here to take.

There was a shipment, a small one. I stood at my watch in the loading bay as some of the higher ups chatted over the delivery. Boxes marked as an electrical hazard. My boss laughed,laughing along with the others, one a strange man I’d never seen before with silver hair and red eyes. Probably some new fashion I guessed. I strained my ears to try and hear what they were talking about, anything to chase away some of the boredom eating at the back of my mind, but they were too far away and too drowned out by the echoes against hard cement.

I can’t believe someone would do something like that. Really? I couldn’t help but laugh, just a little in spite of it all. You can believe they’d send tributes to fight for entertainment, but this goes just that little bit too far? Yeah, but… I sighed, letting my eyes slide closed. It feels different when I’m involved. My hands went up again, this time massaging the sides of my head. Fuck, I don’t even like this job that much and now I have to live with this. I blinked. Maybe this is for the best then, an excuse to find something better.

A grin spread across my face, wide and mischievous. What if you got hurt today, on the job, and were able to collect some kind of compensation while you look for a new job? Nerves jolted through my arms. What are you suggesting? I shrugged. It probably wouldn’t be out of the question to call this an injury. You were forcibly ripped from your body against your will after all. Maybe you need a few days to recover. Maybe this is something you weren’t trained to handle safely by your employer. I shrugged again. I don’t know, I don’t work there.

I sat up straight with a sharp breath. Shit that’s genius. Least I can do for putting you through this. If I could ask a favor though, could you let us get away before you put it in motion? Fine. I smiled. Thanks. My name’s Asher, by the way. Though he probably already knew that, with the whole being a minor celebrity for a few weeks thing. I laughed. Yeah, that sounds familiar. I’m Ryan.

Time went on, or maybe it didn’t take too long. It was always hard to tell like this. But my eyes  grew heavier, and my arms shook when they moved. It’d been a while since I’d taken someone in for this long, and then I hadn’t been running around in the snow for weeks beforehand.

Finally though, Zenith and Elvira returned. I smiled up at them, trying but failing probably to hide the tiredness weighing on my eyes. “All done?”

Zenith nodded. “We were seen, so we should probably get out of here quickly.”

Be more surprising if they hadn’t been seen. I barely stopped the joking grin he tried to put on my face.

“We got away with it for now,” Elvira added, almost as if trying to reassure me we weren’t about to be picked up and arrested right this second. “But I agree, We ought to hurry.”

I nodded. She was probably right. I waved Zenith other to his body. “When I put you back please stay quiet like we talked about okay?” Had I said that out loud? Yeah you did. I shook out my head. Lets just get this over with.

Hold still and it’ll be faster. Me? Yeah. Ryan stilled, drawing himself into the center of my chest, brushing up against my sternum. Perfect. I caught hold of him and he slipped smooth through my body and kept still as could be expected as I held him in my hand. I took Zenith out of Ryan and pushed both souls back into the right bodies.

For a moment, I watched them, leaning forward in case something went wrong, but when both opened their eyes and seemed to be more or less themselves, I leaned back against the wall with a sigh. It worked. My heart slowed, my breathing quieted, and every muscle felt heavy and tired and all I wanted to do was close my eyes. Was I this out of practise? No. I took a deep breath and forced myself to stand, bracing against the wall. It’d just been a long time since I had to do anything like this in this kind of situation, so far from home, away from everything I usually counted on. Usually people were already dead but did that matter?

I shook out my head and followed the two of them back, glad I didn’t have to do the thinking to find our way back. But even still I stumbled on the concrete, and my legs trembled. Zenith must have noticed, and he held his arm out to help me along. I didn’t think twice before taking the offer. If I leaned too much of my weight on him, he didn’t say anything.

#

When we got back I let Zenith and Elvira handle the debrief and slipped away back to my room. Curled up under the blankets it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep. When I woke later, it was quiet outside, and when I sat up I noticed an enveloped just inside the door, probably slipped under while I was out.

I picked it up and brought it back to the bed, opening it up as I settled back down. inside were two papers, one handwritten and the other typed.

The handwritten one was on top. Ginger sent this for you but I didn’t want to wake you. -Triel

Ginger? I scrunched my face as I unfolded the second note.

Hey Asher,

Triel tells me you and Cirrus survived. I’m very glad to hear it, I was worried. I hope you’re doing alright, and I wish I could be there to help you more but I have to lie low until the investigation concludes that I did not have a hand in any kind of illegal extraction cover up and the case is closed. They’ve already interrogated me twice so I don’t think I’m yet in the clear. This can’t be easy for you, and if you need anything you can reach me for now through Triel. She’s very good at staying covert. I have not told Striker that either of you are alive and I advise you to do the same until everything winds down. Look after yourself, don’t push yourself too hard, and I hope to see you soon.

So their cover story, that had been Ginger? I re-read the note, typed out in such an uncharacteristically impersonal font. She could be arrested for what she did, or worse if they’d decided to let the Shades try things out of her instead. All for me? I swallowed and rubbed my eyes with the back of my sleeve. At least she was being careful about it. But, did I really have to hold back on telling Striker I was alive? My shoulders fell as I found his nurse ID in my pocket. How long would he have to wait? It wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to stay away from him for his own safety, but, but this time… This time didn’t feel so certain. Last time he at least knew where I was. Last time we could talk over the phone, and I could see him once Charlotte had delivered Ginger’s webcam to the cabin. This time he was completely in the dark, mourning lives that hadn’t actually been lost. 

But Ginger was probably right. It was for the best to keep him out of it a little longer. I sighed and laid back down, staring up at the ceiling. Just a little longer, then a little longer after that…

[nerdiests]

would that be enough? (i don’t know if it would)

sup lads, i haven’t... put stuff i’ve written on here in a while, but i thought there’s no time like the present! so here’s what i wrote for the @linkeduniverse weekly prompt over on the discord - warriors week (again). i love my lad, that’s all. 

check it out on ao3 under the same name! 

(chapter 1: ready set... not yet)

Anyways, as I write this last paragraph, we’ve been in our Hyrule for two days. Right now, Wild’s making some sort of dish with salmon, though I’m not sure what it is. In all honesty, I’m upset we ended up on the exact opposite side of the country. We’re in the Faron Woods, when I wish we were just right outside the village. It feels like it’s been too long since I’ve seen you, and I hope that I’ll be able to see you soon. I miss you. 

Love, Link.

With a flourish, Warriors signed his name on the letter for Thom, drawing a small heart next to both his and Thom’s names. Goddesses, he was being sappy. But he missed his boyfriend. 

“Finished writing another love letter, Warriors?” Legend snarked. Warriors brushed off Legend’s usual snark in favor of grabbing his pack, putting it on his lap, and rummaging through it to find his envelopes. 

“Why do you call them love letters? I doubt Warriors is spending the entire letter waxing poetic about Thom anyways,” Twilight said, attempting and failing to give Warriors a subtle thumbs up. Considering everyone else could see Twilight’s thumbs up, it wasn’t all that subtle. Twilight wouldn’t know subtlety if it hit him in the face. Several times. 

“I think it’s sweet!” Sky said, a sappy smile on his face. 

“It’s practical too, especially if he’s not getting to see Thom all that often,” Four added, a grin on his own face. Goddesses, they all knew he was a sap, didn’t they? Ignoring that thought, Warriors carefully folded the letter to fit into the envelope he had grabbed and put the folded letter inside. 

“Why not just tell Thom about everything when you see him again, though?” Wind asked, his voice a lot closer than Warriors was expecting. Turning towards the youngest hero of the bunch that had apparently taken the space on the log next to him, Warriors pulled out his bundle of letters from his pack sitting on his lap. The letters had amassed over the last month and a half, and after a quick movement of Warriors’ pencil, he slid the envelope with Thom’s name on it into the stack. 

“There might be something that I really think is important in the moment when I’m writing that I’ll forget about when I see him again,” Warriors said, slipping the bundle back into his pack and placing it on the ground. 

“True…” Wind replied, putting his chin on one of his hands. Warriors chuckled at the sight - he looked like a little philosopher. 

“It’s also a tradition back from when we first got together. I was off at war and I couldn’t see him as often as I would’ve liked when the war got in full swing, so I started writing letters that I’d deliver whenever I saw him. Typically it was every month, sometimes less, so he’d usually get five letters every time I visited,” Warriors explained. Legend laughed from across the campfire.

“I knew you were a sap!” Legend said triumphantly. Warriors only rolled his eyes. He knew that Legend was just trying to get a rise out of him. 

“Leave Warriors alone, Legend. We’ve all got people back home we care about,” Time said, with both Sky and Wind nodding. 

“Coming from the married man,” Legend shot back, although it was fairly obvious that he wasn’t being serious. Warriors laughed, right as Wild turned around with a flourish. 

“Dinner’s ready!” Wild said, lifting up his spoon and accidentally flinging a bit of whatever he made onto Hyrule’s tunic. For a moment, they all went quiet, until Hyrule reached down and swept up the bit of food with a finger and ate it. 

“Wh-” Four started to speak, but Hyrule quickly cut him off. 

“Delicious!” 

“I… Guess you like the risotto then?” Wild asked, getting a series of nods from Hyrule. Time raised an eyebrow from across the camp and cleared his throat.

“So… Are we all going to be served like that or was it just a Hyrule thing?” Time asked teasingly. Wild’s face went red, before reaching for the bowls he’d set down near the campfire. 

Dinner was quickly passed around, compliments were given to their wild chef, and everyone started wrapping everything up for the evening. As they did so, there was a rustling sound in the forest around them. Warriors straightened up from where he sat, scarf wrapped partially around Wind as he read an interesting novel about a Hyrule that had harnessed electricity without magic and created a functioning society around it. It was intriguing, which was why Warriors was loath to put it down in favor of reaching for his sword. 

Warriors and Twilight shared a glance across camp as the rustling grew louder and everyone grew quieter. Right as Twilight lifted up his sword and took a step forward, a figure stepped out from the bushes. The postman, his hat and banner slightly askew, walked out with a small bundle of letters in hand. 

“I have some letters for a Link Ellanher? They’re from one Thom-” Before the postman could finish speaking, Warriors cut him off. 

“That would be me. And I’ve got a few letters to deliver back, if you wouldn’t mind,” Warriors said, stepping forward to trade bundles of letters. The postman looked a bit affronted at Warriors cutting him off, but he couldn’t care much at the moment. He wanted his letters from his boyfriend! 

After the postman made his hasty departure, Warriors sat back down and ignored the curious looks from the rest of the group. 

“Why’d you cut the postman off like that?” Wind asked curiously. Warriors shrugged, not actively saying anything in favor of opening up the letter at the bottom of the stack of three - Thom wrote twice a month, unlike his own weekly letters. No matter what, though, they both put the oldest letters on the bottom. And as everyone started to wind down from their surprise visitor, Warriors started to read. 

As Warriors scanned over the first two letters, he smiled softly. Thom’s alright. He’s safe, no one’s coming after him, he’s safe. All Thom’s been up to is experimenting with some new combinations of fruit for fruit tarts and taking Zelda on her biannual veterinary visit. Everything was calm. He had nothing to worry about. And with that, he moved onto the third and final letter, which appeared to have been written rather recently. The ink looked the freshest. 

Warriors’ soft smile persisted as he started to read this newest letter in more detail. 

Dearest Link,

This is the third letter I’ve penned for you, and I find myself growing more and more anxious for your return. I know that you must miss me as much as I miss you, but still. Some days, the longing feels like too much. I want to hold you, I want to see you, and I long for some quality time once you do arrive again. I miss you so much, pumpkin. The day where you walk through the front door of the bakery can’t come fast enough. 

But I do have news! Something important happened a few days past, something that I can’t necessarily talk about in detail. All you need to know is that once you get home again, we’ll be going out to dinner at the nicest place in town and then you’ll know. I can’t wait!

There was more to the letter, but Warriors’ eyes glazed over near the end of the second paragraph. Dinner at the nicest place in town, and he’ll know then… That. That sounded. Wait. 

Is Thom going to propose?

Oh goddesses, Warriors can’t have that. He really can’t. He didn’t know how it got into Thom’s head that a proposal was a good idea. Sure, the two of them had been together for almost three years at this rate, but that wasn’t a long enough time to date to know that they would want to spend the rest of their lives together! They should date for at least another three years, if not another five! If Thom was really dedicated to their relationship then he could wait that long, couldn’t he? 

“Warriors? Are you alright?” Warriors heard a familiar voice somewhere nearby. But he didn’t focus on it. Thom was going to propose. Golden Goddesses above, he was not ready for this! He wouldn’t be able to treat Thom the way he should, especially if he was away all the time like this! A husband shouldn’t be away from his husband all the time! And a boyfriend shouldn’t be away from his boyfriend all the time like he was now! He was being a bad boyfriend, and he’d be a bad husband too!

“Warriors!” A different voice yelled. He still continued to catastrophize. About all the things that would go wrong when Thom proposed. Because that’s what Warriors knew he was going to do. His vision was a blur, his ears were ringing, and-! Someone was touching him.

Without thinking, Warriors swung out a fist wildly, hearing a satisfying smack not even seconds after. His vision cleared, and Twilight was hunched over, one hand over his middle as he tried to breathe in. Everyone else was either looking at him with concern or anger or a mixture of the two. 

“What the fuck Warriors?” Wild said, tone accusatory as he started to walk forward, a knife in hand. Time tried to grab Wild, because it would not be good if Warriors got stabbed. Time didn’t need to do that, though, as Warriors yanked his scarf and unravelled it from around Wind, before running into the woods. 

-

Warriors didn’t know what he’d been thinking. He didn’t know what he was thinking now, even. All he knew is that he had to get away. Away from the campfire and the accusing looks. Away from the letter Thom had written. Away from… Everything. Why had he punched Twilight? Why had he panicked like that? Warriors was fine! Thom proposing would be fine! It would be! He would make it fine! It didn’t matter if the idea made him quake in his boots like nothing ever had before, or if it made him feel a bit queasy, but Warriors would manage it. He had to! For Thom!

“Who am I kidding,” Warriors muttered to himself, bringing himself to a stop. His panicked sprinting had gradually slowed to a jog, and as he stopped, he glanced around. There wasn’t a path to be found, and he knew he was nowhere near anywhere he’d been in the past. Despite spending excessive time in Faron Woods during the war, Warriors hadn’t seen every nook and cranny of the woods. And this spot was an unfamiliar one to him. At least there was a tree nearby. 

Sighing quietly to himself, Warriors plopped himself down with his back against the tree, immediately reaching to fiddle with his scarf. His scarf that he’d had ever since that first battle back at the beginning of all things. Before he even knew Thom. Goddesses, he. Really needed to stop bringing everything back to Thom, because that would only get his mind racing again. He’d run from everyone else to get away from that line of thinking, not immediately bring himself back to it! Warriors tightened his grip on the scarf, trying to ground himself. He was sitting in a forest, leaning against a tree, and he was fine. 

Except he knew he wasn’t. 

Warriors sighed to himself, hunching over as he started to fiddle with the embroidered end of his scarf. He’d have to go back eventually, considering he left everything there. Though Warriors didn’t fancy having to explain what happened to everyone else. He wasn’t even sure he could really explain what happened. 

The bushes around him rustled. Sitting up straight, Warriors looked around. He didn’t have any of his items with him - all he had was the dagger that he kept on his person at all times. If it was a monster or any other sort of enemy, Warriors would be screwed. Right as Warriors reached to grab the dagger, the rustling grew louder and Twilight walked out of the bushes. Huh?

“Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you,” Twilight said, sounding a lot calmer than someone who had recently been sucker punched in the stomach had any right to be. 

“What are you doing here?” Warriors asked. Why would Twilight follow him? If he had any sense at all, Twilight would’ve stayed back at the camp and left Warriors to panic by himself! Wait. Warriors wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t. 

“When you started reading that last letter, you looked… Really out of it. Everyone got concerned, and I was the unlucky one that decided to try and shake you out of it. Bad idea, in hindsight, heh,” Twilight replied, before moving over and sitting down next to Warriors. Warriors tensed up, prepared for Twilight to do something. What it’d be, he wasn’t sure of. But Warriors fully expected for Twilight to do something.

“...And now you’re tenser than one of the strings on Wild’s bows. What’re you afraid of, Warriors?” Twilight asked. Warriors, to his credit, tried to not be as tense. It didn’t work as well as he hoped, but he tried. But Twilight was still there, in the corner of his eye. Probably raising a brow and expecting an answer. 

“I’m not afraid!” Warriors replied, unable to stop the slight crack in his voice. That hadn’t happened since he was fourteen. A slight pink coloring his cheeks, Warriors turned away from Twilight, keeping his eyes locked on the ground. 

“Alright. If you say so,” Twilight said. 

Their shared space was quiet, for a while. Neither of them said a word, whether it was from sheer stubbornness or patience. All that could be heard were birds chirping and the occasional sound of a branch moving in the trees above them. 

“I’m sorry for punching you, Twilight,” Warriors muttered, breaking the silence. Twilight reached out for a moment, hesitating. Eventually, he decided against what he was going to do, and put his hand back where it was. 

“It’s fine, Warriors. I get it,” Twilight said, catching Warriors off-guard. His head jerked up and he whirled around to look at Twilight.

“How can you get it? You haven’t felt anxious at the idea of marrying someone because you’re afraid of losing them! I-!” Warriors cut himself off. That is not what he wanted to say. Oh beans. 

“Is… Is that what happened earlier? You normally look so happy when you read over Thom’s letters to you,” Twilight said. Warriors looked away, his eyes locked onto his boots. He didn’t want to… To talk about it.

“Heroes are… Are supposed to be strong, not… Not be a farce! I can’t even think about Thom proposing without panicking!” Warriors’ voice rose as he spoke, throwing his arms up in frustration. 

“Warriors.”

“I want to marry Thom one day, but! I just can’t think about the idea without feeling some level of nausea!”

“Warriors.”

“It’s not like I don’t love my boyfriend, because I do-!”

“Warriors!” 

Warriors blinked. Huh.

“I understand what you’re going through, Warriors,” Twilight continued. Now that Warriors was skeptical of.

“You remember that we talked of our journeys in some detail when we first met one another, yeah?” Twilight paused for a moment, allowing Warriors to nod. “And you remember that I went on my adventure because some of the children in my village went missing, right?” 

Oh. Right. 

“I’m guessing you forgot that, then?” Twilight asked. Sheepishly, Warriors nodded. Twilight put a hand on his shoulder and grinned. 

“Don’t worry, it’s not like everyone would remember that detail. I can guarantee that most of the group’s forgotten about that at this rate.” Now that comment got Warriors to laugh, if only a little bit. 

“And besides, you know Midna. You know she was with me on my adventure,” Twilight said as he took his hand off Warriors’ shoulder. 

“Yeah. What about it?” Warriors said, finally voicing a reply. Twilight was quiet for a moment.

“After my adventure, she left,” Twilight said, and goddesses his voice sounded so raw. Tentatively, Warriors put one of his hands on Twilight’s shoulder, which got a slightly shaky grin from him. Taking a deep breath, Twilight continued talking. 

“She was there for my entire adventure, and I know she had a kingdom to rule, but! We didn’t really get a proper goodbye!” Twilight’s head fell into his hands, while Warriors awkwardly patted his shoulder. Warriors was… Not as good as he should be at comforting people, so the only thing Warriors could do was let Twilight talk it out. 

“She closed the only way for her to come back, and goddesses I miss her,” Twilight said, lifting his head up slightly. 

“Is it bad? That I wish she hadn’t done that? That she could’ve stayed, that I could’ve told her the one thing I regret leaving unsaid?” Twilight said, turning towards Warriors, who let his hand slide back into his lap. Before Warriors could reply to Twilight’s question, he continued to speak. 

“And that’s not to mention that I’m so afraid that anyone that I grow close to is going to disappear! I already lost the children back in Ordon, who’s to say that it won’t happen again?” Warriors ducked as Twilight threw his arms up again, turning away from Warriors as he spoke. 

“I… I get that,” Warriors said quietly, catching Twilight’s attention. 

“When I was fifteen, my mom got really sick, and she passed away. She was the only person I was really close to for most of my life, and it took another two years for me to get close to anyone else. I thought they’d leave like my mom, even if she didn’t choose to leave,” Warriors explained, his voice not raising above a murmur the entire time he spoke. The duo was quiet for a moment, the birds filling the silence between the two. 

“That… Must’ve been hard,” Twilight broke the silence between the two. Warriors nodded slightly, not wanting to continue his train of thought. There was only one way it was going, and he didn’t like the conclusion it would bring. 

Unluckily for him, Twilight knew where that was headed, and knew Warriors needed to talk about it. 

“Is that why you’re afraid to get married to Thom?” Warriors flinched as Twilight spoke. Twilight blanched himself, shaking his head slightly. 

“That is… Not how I wanted to say that.”

“Oh I can tell,” Warriors replied, chuckling. Twilight rolled his eyes.

“I meant… Your mom’s death had a very large effect on you. You’re afraid of people leaving because the most important person in your life at that time left. But do you really think Thom will leave you? How long have you two been dating?” Twilight asked, quirking an eyebrow as Warriors averted his eyes. 

“Over two years, almost three,” he replied quietly, eyes focused on a bird in the trees. 

“If Thom was going to end a relationship that’s lasted this long, wouldn’t he have to have a valid reason for it?” Twilight said. 

“I mean, yes, but I’ve spent more of our relationship away from him than with him, and isn’t that a shitty thing to do?” Warriors said, turning back towards Twilight. As interesting as that bird was, it was better to at least have eye contact during a discussion. 

“Warriors, I doubt you’ve spent that much time away from him. You said that the two of you met about a quarter of the way through the war, and got together officially about halfway through, right?” Twilight asked. Warriors nodded, glancing down at his lap. 

“And you visited as much as you could during the times when you couldn’t stay?” Twilight continued. Warriors nodded again. 

“We moved in together after the war ended, and I spent as much time with him as I could, but! What if it’s not enough?” Warriors said, worry creeping into his words. Twilight paused for just a moment, before putting a hand on Warriors’ shoulder. 

“Warriors. Thom loves you, and if he had any problems with you being gone, he would say so, wouldn’t he?” Hesitantly, Warriors nodded at Twilight’s words. It… It made sense, but. 

“I…”

“Warriors. If Thom has problems, he will tell you. And you can always ask the next time he sees you,” Twilight said. Oh. Right. He could do that. 

“It’s just… In the most recent letter, he said we’d be going to the nicest place in town and he’d have news for me, and I can’t imagine that as anything but a proposal!” Warriors exclaimed, smacking one of his hands on the tree trunk. Oops. 

“Would you be okay with a proposal?” Twilight asked in reply. Warriors blinked. He hadn’t thought about if he would be okay. He’d thought about what would happen when he inevitably freaked out at the words “will you marry me?” Thinking about a proposal in a purely objective view made it seem like a good idea, yes, but the idea of something more permanent… Scared him. The perks of calling Thom his husband were high (mainly just being able to say he had a husband), but Warriors wasn’t sure if he could deal with that level of commitment just yet. One day, absolutely, but… 

“Not yet,” Warriors said, voice soft. 

“Then that’s the answer you’ll give,” Twilight said. Warriors nodded.

“Yeah. I suppose it is.” 

-

When Warriors and Twilight walked back into the campsite after a bit of finagling to find the path again, Warriors nearly got tackled to the ground by a very angry Wild. 

“What the fuck Warriors?” Wild asked, grabbing Warriors’ tunic collar. Which was a bit amusing, but also? Warriors did Not like that. 

“Wild!” Twilight snapped, and almost immediately Wild turned to look at Twilight. He didn’t let go of Warriors’ collar, though, which. 

“Do you mind?” Warriors asked. Wild ignored him. 

“Let go of Warriors, Wild. It’s fine,” Twilight said, locking eyes with Warriors for a moment. Warriors was going to be a bit agitated if… Wild let go of the collar of his shirt. Warriors sighed as he walked over to the log he had been sitting at. The last letter from Thom sat on top of his pack, and as he picked it back up, Warriors looked around camp.

“I put the letter on your pack,” Hyrule said, answering the question that Warriors hadn’t even asked. 

“And before you ask, I didn’t read it. I know you really cherish those letters, and reading them would be rude,” Hyrule continued. Warriors nodded.

“Thanks,” he replied, getting a smile from Hyrule in reply. 

“What was that even about, Warriors? Wouldn’t expect you to punch someone in the stomach,” Legend said as Warriors tucked the letter away. He could read over the rest of it later. 

“Hm…” As Warriors thought to himself, Twilight cut in.

“He was having a gay panic.” For a few seconds after Twilight spoke, the group was silent. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Legend asked as he started wheezing. Warriors blinked a few times as the group devolved into laughter. From across the campfire, Twilight locked eyes with him and winked. 

“Thanks,” Warriors whispered, his voice unheard among the raucous laughter of the rest of the group. Twilight only shrugged, and Warriors had to smile at that. Leave it to Twilight to use what technically counted as the truth to mask what actually happened. 

[glittership]

Episode #76 — "Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons" by Jennifer Lee Rossman

Direct download here.

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Episode 76 is part of the Autumn 2018 issue!

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  Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons

By Jennifer Lee Rossman

They weren’t real, but they still took my breath away.

The model dinosaurs and other prehistoric beasties lived on and swam in the waters around three islands in Hyde Park. Enormous things, so big that I’d heard their designer had hosted a dinner party inside one, and so lifelike! If I stared long enough, I was sure I’d see one blink.

I turned to Samira and found her twirling her parasol, an act purposely designed to bely the rage burning in her eyes. She would never let it show, her pleasant smile practically painted on, but I’d spent enough time with her to recognize that fury boiling just beneath the surface.

Befuddled, I looked back at the dinosaurs, this time flipping down my telescopic goggles. The craftsmanship was immaculate, the color consistent all along the plesiosaur’s corkscrew neck, and the pudgy, horned iguanodons looked structurally sound, what with their bellies dragging on the ground.

Dinosaurs were Samira’s everything; how could seeing them practically coming to life not give her joy?

  [Full story after the cut.]

  Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip episode 76 for June 24, 2019. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Today we have a GlitterShip original, which is available in the Autumn 2018 issue that you can pick up at GlitterShip.com/buy, on Gumroad at gum.co/gship08, or on Amazon, Nook, Kobo, and other ebook retailers.

If you’ve been waiting to pick up your copy of the Tiptree Award Honor Listed book, GlitterShip Year Two, there’s a great deal going on for Pride over at StoryBundle. GlitterShip Year Two is part of a Pride month LGBTQ fantasy fiction bundle. StoryBundle is a pay-what-you-want bundle site. For $5 or more, you can get four great books, and for $15 or more, you’ll get an additional five books, including GlitterShip Year Two, and a story game. That comes to as little as $1.50 per book or game. The StoryBundle also offers an option to give 10% of your purchase amount to charity. The charity for this bundle is Rainbow Railroad, a charity that helps queer folks get to a safe place if their country is no longer safe for them.

This is a great deal, so if you want to take advantage of it, go to Storybundle.com/pride soon! The deal only runs through June 27th, depending on your time zone.

    Today’s story is “Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons” by Jennfer Lee Rossman, but first our poem, “Shortcake” by Jade Homa.

  Jade Homa is an intersectional feminist, sapphic poet, lgbtq sensitivity reader, member of The Rainbow Alliance, and editor-in-chief of Blue Literary Magazine. Her poetry has been published in over 7 literary magazines, including BlazeVOX, A Tired Heroine, The Ocotillo Review, and Sinister Wisdom (in print). Jade’s work will be featured in an exhibit via Pen and Brush, a New York City based non profit that showcases emerging female artists, later this year, along with being featured in a special edition of Rattle which highlights dynamic Instagram poets. In her free time, Jade loves petting dogs, eating pasta, and daydreaming about girls.

    Shortcake by Jade Homa

you called me your strawberry girl / and I wondered if it was / the wolf inside my jaw / or the red stained across my cheeks / or the way I said fuck / or that time I yanked your / hair / or every moment / you swallowed me whole

    And now “Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons” by Jennifer Lee Rossman, read by April Grant.

  Jennifer Lee Rossman is that autistic nerd who complains about inaccurate depictions of dinosaurs. Along with Jaylee James, she is the co-editor of Love & Bubbles, a queer anthology of underwater romance. Her debut novel, Jack Jetstark’s Intergalactic Freakshow, was published by World Weaver Press in 2018. She tweets about dinosaurs @JenLRossman

April Grant lives in the greater Boston area. Her backstory includes time as a sidewalk musician, real estate agent, public historian, dishwasher, and librarian. Among her hobbies are biking and singing.

    Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons

By Jennifer Lee Rossman

They weren’t real, but they still took my breath away.

The model dinosaurs and other prehistoric beasties lived on and swam in the waters around three islands in Hyde Park. Enormous things, so big that I’d heard their designer had hosted a dinner party inside one, and so lifelike! If I stared long enough, I was sure I’d see one blink.

I turned to Samira and found her twirling her parasol, an act purposely designed to bely the rage burning in her eyes. She would never let it show, her pleasant smile practically painted on, but I’d spent enough time with her to recognize that fury boiling just beneath the surface.

Befuddled, I looked back at the dinosaurs, this time flipping down my telescopic goggles. The craftsmanship was immaculate, the color consistent all along the plesiosaur’s corkscrew neck, and the pudgy, horned iguanodons looked structurally sound, what with their bellies dragging on the ground.

Dinosaurs were Samira’s everything; how could seeing them practically coming to life not give her joy?

“What’s wrong?” I asked quietly, so as not to disturb the crowds around us. Well, any more than our mere presence disturbed them by default.

(It wasn’t every day they saw a girl in a mechanical chair and her butch Indian crush who wore trousers with her best jewelry, and they did not particularly care for us. We didn’t particularly care what they thought, which really didn’t engender ourselves to them, but luckily polite society frowned on yelling at people for being gay, disabled, and/or nonwhite, so hooray for us.)

“It’s wrong.”

“What is?”

She gestured emphatically at the islands, growing visibly distressed. “It! Them! Everything! Everything is wrong!”

If Samira’s frustration had a pressure valve, the needle would have been edging toward the red. She needed to get out of the situation before she burst a pipe.

I knew better than to take her hand, as she didn’t always appreciate physical touch the way I did, so I gently tugged at the corner of her vest as I engaged my chair. The miniature steam engine behind me activated the pistons that turned my chrome wheels, and Samira held onto my velvet-padded armrest as we left the main viewing area and took refuge by one of the fountains in the Crystal Palace.

She sat on the marble edge, letting a hand trail in the shimmery water until she felt calm enough to speak.

“They did it all wrong, Tilly. They didn’t take any of my advice.” She rummaged through her many pockets, finally producing a scrap of paper with a dinosaur sketched on it. “This is what iguanodon looked like.”

Her drawing showed an entirely different creature than the park’s statue. While theirs looked sluggish and fat, kind of like a doofy dragon, Samira’s interpretation was nimble and intelligent, standing on four legs with a solid but agile tail held horizontally behind it. And its nose horn was completely absent, though it did have a large thumb spike, giving it the impression of perpetually congratulating someone on a job well done.

It certainly looked like a more realistic representation of a living creature, but these things lived, what, millions of years ago? Even someone as brilliant as Samira couldn’t possibly have known what they were really like.

But I couldn’t tell her that. Girlfriends are supposed to be supportive, and I needed to do everything I could to gain prospective girlfriend points before I asked her out.

“What evidence did you give them for your hypothesis?” I asked instead. “All we really have are fossils, right?”

Her face lit up at the invitation to delve into her favorite subject. “Right, and we don’t even have full skeletons yet of most of them. But we have limbs. Joints. And if we compare them to skeletons of things that exist now, they don’t resemble big, fat lizards that could hardly move around. That makes no biological sense, because predators could just waltz up and eat them. They had to be faster, more agile. They wouldn’t have survived otherwise.”

“So why wouldn’t they have listened to you?” I asked, perplexed.

“Because they don’t understand evolution,” she said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “Or they don’t want to be shown up by a girl. A lesbian girl with nonconforming hair and wardrobe who dares to be from a country they pretend to own.” She crossed her arms and stared at her boots. “Or both. But there’s no excuse for the plesiosaurs. No creature’s neck can bend like that.”

I wasn’t sure exactly how I was supposed to respond to that. Samira never complained about something just to commiserate; she expected answers, a solution. But I couldn’t very well make them redesign the statues, no matter how happy that would have made her.

So we just sat together quietly by the fountain, fuming at the ignorant men in charge of the park, and I schemed for a way to fix things for the girl that made my eyes light up the way dinosaurs lit hers.

  Every problem had a solution, if you tinkered hard enough.

After my accident, I took a steam engine and wheels from a horseless wagon and stuck them on a chair. My mum hadn’t been amused to lose part of her dinette set, but it got me around town until I could build a proper wheelchair. (Around the flat parts of town, anyway. My latest blueprints involved extending legs that could climb stairs.)

And when Londoners complained about the airship mooring towers were ruining the skyline, who figured out a way to make them retractable? That would be me. The airship commissioner hadn’t responded to my proposal yet, but it totally worked in small scale on my dollhouse.

It was just a matter of finding the solution to Samira’s dinosaur problem.

I spent all night in my workshop, referring to her sketches and comparing them to promotional drawings of the park’s beasts. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider breaking in and altering the statues somehow, but the sheer amount that they had gotten wrong precluded that as a possibility. This wasn’t a mere paintjob or moving an iguanodon horn; they needed a complete overhaul.

I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration.

The day they announced that they were building realistic, life sized dinosaurs in Crystal Park was the day I fell for Samira.

I’d always thought she was pretty—tall, brilliant smile, didn’t conform to society’s expectations for women—but the pure joy radiating from her… It was like she’d turned on a giant electromagnet inside her, and the clockwork the doctors had installed to keep my heart beating was powerless against her magnetic field.

So I listened to her gush about the park, about how the statues would make everyone else see the amazing lost world she saw when she looked at a fossil. I didn’t understand a lot of it, but I understood her passion.

The grand opening was supposed to be the day I finally asked her out, but now it would have to be when I presented her with my grand gesture of grandness…

Whatever it was.

  I woke abruptly to the chimes of my upcycled church organ doorbell and found a sprocket embedded in my face.

Groaning, I pushed myself off my worktable and into a sitting position. “Did you let me sleep out here all night?” I said into the mouthpiece of the two-way vibration communicator prototype that fed through the wall and into the kitchen.

A moment later, my mum picked up her end. “‘Mum,'” she said, imitating my voice, “‘I’m a professional tinkerer and nearly an adult. I can’t be having a bedtime!'”

“Point taken. Have I missed breakfast?”

The door in the wall opened to reveal a plate of pancakes.

“Thanks!” I tore a bite out of one as I wheeled over to the door. My crooked spine ached from sitting up all night.

Activating the pneumatic door opener, I found George about to ring the bell again.

George, my former boyfriend and current best friend. Chubby, handsome, super gay. We’d tried the whole hetero thing for two whole days before we realized it wasn’t for us, then pretended for another six months to keep his father from trying to matchmake him with one of the Clearwater sisters.

I wouldn’t have minded being with a man, necessarily, but ladies really sent my heart a-ticking, so it was no great loss when George told me he was a horticultural lad.

(You know, a pansy. A daisy. A… erm. Bougainvillea? I must confess, flowers didn’t excite me unless they were made of scrap metal.)

George raised an eyebrow. “I take it the declaration of love went well, then?” When I only frowned in confusion, he pointed to my face. “The sprocket-shaped dent in your cheek would suggest you spent the night with a woman.”

“Samira isn’t an automaton, George.”

“No, but she’s got the…” He mimed having a large chest. “And the, um… Scaffolding.”

“Do you think women’s undergarments are made of clockwork?” I asked, amused. I mean, mine were, but that was just so I could tighten the laces behind my back without assistance when I wore a corset.

Which wasn’t often. My favorite dresses were the color of grease stains and had a lot of pockets, so it should come as no surprise that I didn’t go anywhere fancy on a regular basis.

George blushed. “So… it did not go well, then?”

He came in and tinkered with me over pancakes while I told him about my predicament, making sympathetic noises at the appropriate times.

When I was done with my story, he sat quietly for a moment, thinking while he adjusted the spring mechanism in an old cuckoo clock. “And you can’t just go over with flowers and say, ‘Hey, gorgeous, wanna gay together?’ because…?”

“Have you met me? I don’t do romance. I make things for romantic people.” I gestured to the wind-up music boxes, mechanical roses that opened to reveal a love note, and clockwork pendants scattered about my workshop. All commissions from people who were better at love than I was.

“Then pretend you’re a clueless client like Reverend Paul. Remember what you did for him?”

The reverend had come in wanting to woo Widow Trefauny but didn’t know a thing about her except that she liked dogs and made his heart smile. I thought my solution was ingenious.

“I built a steam-powered puppy.”

George held his hands out, prompting. “So…”

Suddenly, it all clicked into place, like the last cog in a clock mechanism that makes everything tick.

“I need to build a steam-powered dinosaur for Samira.”

  Dinosaurs, as it turned out, were huge. I mean, they looked big on the islands, sure, but that was so far away that I only truly got a sense of scale when I started measuring in my workshop.

Samira’s notes put iguanodon, my dino of choice, at around ten meters in length. Since a measuring tape required more free hands than I had, I tied a string around one of the spokes of my chair’s wheels, which had a one-point-eight meter circumference, and measured five and a half revolutions…

Which took me out of my cramped shop and into the street, forcing horses and their mechanical counterparts to divert around me.

“Don’t suppose it would do to detour traffic for a couple weeks, eh?” I asked a tophatted hansom cabbie, who had stopped his horseless machine to watch me in amusement.

“Reckon not, Miss Tilly,” he said with a laugh, stepping down from his perch at the front of the carriage. He pulled a lever, and the cab door opened with a hiss to reveal a pile of gleaming metal parts.

“Ooh!” I clapped my hands. “Are those for me?”

He nodded and began unloading them. My iguanodon was going to be much taller than me, and even though George had promised his assistance, I needed to make extendy arms to hold the heavy parts. “Is there somewhere else you could build him?”

I supposed this wouldn’t exactly be stealthy. I could stop Samira from going in my shop, but it would have been substantially more difficult to stop her from going down an entire street.

But where?

  I got my answer a few days later, when the twice weekly zeppelin to Devon lifted off without Samira on board. She was usually the first in line, going not for the luxury holiday destinations that drew in an upper-class clientele, but for the fossils.

The coast of Devon was absolutely lousy with fossils. The concept of extinction had been proven there, Mary Anning herself found her first ichthyosaur there, and all the best scientists fought for the right to have their automata scan the coast with ground-penetrating radar.

Samira’s life revolved around trips to Devon and the buckets of new specimens she brought home every week.

“Why aren’t you on that zeppelin?” I asked as we sat in her room, sorting her fossilized ammonites. She’d originally had the little spiral-shelled mollusks organized by size, but now thought it more logical to sort by age. Me, I thought size was a fine method, but I didn’t know a thing about fossils and was happy to do it however she wanted.

She didn’t answer me, just kind of shrugged and ran her thumb over the spiral impression in the rock.

“Is it because you’re upset that they didn’t take your advice on the dinosaurs?” I knew it was, but I had to hear her say it.

“I don’t see the point of it if no one will care about what I find.” She sounded so utterly despondent. Joyless. The one thing that gave her life purpose had been taken away by careless men.

They probably only cared about whether the park was profitable, not if it was accurate.

I couldn’t make them change their statues, and I couldn’t make the public care that they were wrong. But I had to fix it for my best girl, because there was nothing sadder than seeing her like that.

“Can I hold your hand for a second?” I asked quietly. She gave the slightest of nods and I took her hand gently in mine, my clockwork heart ticking at double speed. “You’ve got a gift, Samira. Scientists have to study these bones for months just to make bad guesses about the animals they came from, but you can look at an ankle joint and figure that it was a quadruped or a biped, if it ate meat or plants, and what color its skin was.”

She gave me a look.

“Okay, I’m exaggerating, but only a little. I don’t agree with the way they’re portrayed, but this world is going to love dinosaurs because of the ones at Crystal Palace. People are going to dig for fossils even more, and they’re going to need someone amazing like you to teach them about the new things they unearth.” I tried to refrain from intertwining our fingers; just touching was a big enough step. “I need you to promise me something.”

Samira pulled away, and I had to remind myself that this didn’t necessarily mean anything more than her just being done holding hands. “What is it?”

“A week from today, be on the zeppelin to the coast.” The coast, with its ample space and no chance of Samira discovering my project before it was ready.

She made a face. “I don’t know.”

“Please?” I begged. “For me?”

After a long moment’s consideration, she nodded. “For you.”

  George and I caught the midweek zeppelin. Lucky for us, most tourists went down for the weekend, so all of our metal parts didn’t weigh us down too much. We did share the cabin with a few fancy ladies, who stared in wordless shock at Iggy’s scrapmetal skull sitting on the chair beside us.

I’d named him Iggy. His head was almost a meter long. Mostly bronze and copper, but I’d done a few tin accents around the eyes to really make ’em pop.

When we arrived at the shore, we had to fight a couple paleontologists for space on the rocky coastline. Not physically fight, fun as that might have been. Once they realized we weren’t trying to steal their dig sites, they happily moved their little chugging machines to give us a flat stretch of beach.

Which just left us with three days to assemble Iggy, whose hundreds of parts I had not thought to label beforehand.

Another thing I neglected to do: inform George of the scope of this project.

“Matilda, I adore you and will always help you with anything you need,” he said, dragging a tail segment across the rocks with a horrific scraping. “But for future reference, the next time you invite me to Devon to build a life-sized steam-powered iguanodon? You might mention how abysmally enormous iguanodon were.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” I teased, my voice echoing metallically as I welded the neck together from the inside. I’d actually gotten out of my chair and lay down in the metal shell, figuring it would be easier to attach all the pneumatics and hydraulics that way.

I should have brought a pillow.

At night, because we were too poor to afford one of the fancy hotels in town, we slept on the beach beneath a blanket of stars, Iggy’s half-finished shape silhouetted against the sky.

“Samira’s a fancy lady,” I said to George as we lay in the sand. “She doesn’t wear them, but she has expensive dresses. All lacy and no stains. Her family has a lot of money. Could she ever really want to be with someone like me?”

He rolled over to face me. “What do you mean, someone like you?”

“Poor mechanic who can’t go up stairs, whose heart is being kept alive with the insides of a pocket watch that could stop at any time.”

I didn’t try to think about it a lot, but the fact was that the doctors had never done an operation like mine before. It ticked all right for now, but no one knew if my body would keep it wound or if I would just… stop one day.

The fear tried to stop me from doing things, tried to take away what little life I might have had left, but I couldn’t let it. I had to grab on as hard as I could and never let go. In an ideal world, Samira would be part of that.

But the world wasn’t ideal. Far from it.

Was I too much to put up with? Would she rather date someone who didn’t have to take the long way around because the back door didn’t have steps? Someone who could give her jewels and… fine cheeses and pet monkeys and whatever else rich people gave their girlfriends?

Someone she knew would be around to grow old with her?

Maybe that’s why I’d put off asking her to be my gal, because even though we got along better than the Queen’s guards and ridiculous hats, even though we both fancied ladies and wanted to marry one someday, I couldn’t stand to know she didn’t see me that way. I cherished her as a friend and didn’t see romance as being somehow more than friendship, but she smelled like cookies and I just really wanted to be in love with her.

“Hey,” George said softly, pulling me closer to him. “She loves you. You realize that, don’t you?”

“I guess,” I said into his shoulder. He smelled like grease. A nice, comforting smell, but too much like my own. At the end of the day, I wanted to curl up with someone like Samira.

“You guess. You’ve held her hand, Tilly. She’s made eye contact with you. That’s big for her. You don’t need a big gesture like this, but I know she’s going to love it because she loves you.”

I hoped he was right.

  I saw the weekend zeppelin from London come in, lowering over the city where it was scheduled to moor. Samira would be here soon.

And Iggy wasn’t finished.

He towered over the beach, his metal skin gleaming in the sun, but something was wrong on the inside. The steam engine in his belly, which was supposed to puff steam out of his nose and make him turn his head, wouldn’t start up.

George saw me check my pocket watch for the umpteenth time and removed the wrench from my hand. “I’ll look into it. Go.”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

My wheels skidded on the sand and rocks, but I reached the mooring station just as the passengers were disembarking. The sight of Samira standing there in her trademark trousers and parasol combo made my clockwork heart tick audibly. She came. I didn’t really doubt that she would, but still.

She flashed me a quick smile. “I don’t want to fossil hunt,” she said in lieu of a greeting.

“That’s not why we’re here,” I promised. “But I do want to show you something on the beach, if that’s okay.”

She slipped a hand around my armrest and walked with me. When Iggy’s head poked up over the rocks, she broke into a run, forcing me to go full speed to keep up.

Laughing, she went right up to Iggy and ran her hands over his massive legs. “He’s so biologically accurate!”

But did he work? I looked to George, who gave his head a quick shake.

Blast.

Samira didn’t seem to mind, though, marveling at every detail of the dinosaur’s posture and shape. “And the thumb spikes that aren’t horns!” she exclaimed, her hands flapping in excitement.

And she wasn’t the only one who appreciated our work. A small group of pith-helmeted paleontologists had abandoned their digging and scanning in order to come and admire Iggy.

“It really is magnificent,” one scientist said. “The anatomy is nothing like what we’ve been assuming they looked like, and yet…”

“It’s so logical,” his colleague agreed. “Why should they be fat and slow? Look at elephants—heavy, but sturdy and not so sluggish as their size would suggest. There’s no reason these terrible lizards couldn’t have been similar.”

A third paleontologist turned to George. “My good man, might we pick your brain on the neck of the plesiosaur?”

George held up his hands. “I just did some riveting—the real geniuses are Matilda and her girlfriend Samira.”

“Mostly Samira,” I added, glancing at her. “And I’m not sure if she’s my girlfriend or not, but I’d like her to be.”

She beamed at me. “I would also like that.” To the men, she said, “I have a lot of thoughts on plesiosaur neck anatomy. I can show you my sketches, and I saw a layer of strata that could bear fossils over here…”

She led them away, chattering about prehistoric life with that pure joy that made her so amazing.

That girl took my breath away.

  END

  “Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons” is copyright Jennifer Lee Rossman 2019.

“Shortcake” is copyright Jade Homa 2019.

This recording is a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license which means you can share it with anyone you’d like, but please don’t change or sell it. Our theme is “Aurora Borealis” by Bird Creek, available through the Google Audio Library.

You can support GlitterShip by checking out our Patreon at patreon.com/keffy, subscribing to our feed, leaving reviews on iTunes, or buying your own copy of the Autumn 2018 issue at www.glittership.com/buy. You can also support us by picking up a free audiobook at  www.audibletrial.com/glittership.

Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with a reprint of “The Quiet Realm of the Dark Queen” by Jenny Blackford.

Episode #76 — “Of Clockwork Hearts and Metal Iguanodons” by Jennifer Lee Rossman was originally published on GlitterShip

[clubofinfo]

Expert: Orientation What does it mean to be a political agitator in the 21st century? Until about a year ago, political agitation for me was inseparable from face-to-face interaction in one-on-one group settings or in making or listening to a public speech. This was the foundation for building and sustaining political solidarity. But is there a place for agitation on Facebook? After all, in political Facebook groups there is discussion about what is going on in the political economy but how much do these discussions contribute, if anything, to building socialism. Is it “just talk” which doesn’t lead anywhere, or does Facebook discussion move people to then take action in face-to-face settings? Is participating in Facebook political discussions an incipient form for political activity or is it a distraction from it? While face-to-face agitation is clearly superior in terms of getting anyone to commit to anything, face-to-face is limited in its reach. The Facebook group Jill Stein Dank Meme has about 50,000 members. The reach of Facebook is overwhelmingly superior to face-to-face. My other question has to do with whether intergenerational solidarity can be built better through face-to-face encounters or on Facebook. In face-to-face interaction, status indicators of class, race, gender and age are present. You can find out where the person lives, what kind of work they do, and who their friends are. Knowing these things both can provide the deepening of political relationships as well as boxing them in. But on Facebook this kind of information can be somewhat suppressed. In terms of building political relationships does relative anonymity work for or against building an intergenerational political community? I do not have answers to these questions, but I do want to share my experiences in with both settings and then draw some tentative conclusions. In the first section I want to show the power of face-to-face intergenerational influence by telling a story of the impact of three encounters I had with the anarchist Murray Bookchin in the early 1970’s. In the last section I will discuss my own fledgling influence over young socialists on Facebook over the past few months. In order to show the power of face-to-face interaction, I need to talk about the class and political implications of my first 22 years before meeting Murray as a testament of how powerful face-to-face can be. From grease ball to proto-hippie I am no red diaper baby. I was born to a conservative Italian Catholic family in 1948 in Brooklyn. My mother’s father was a shoemaker in a tiny store on Bushwick Avenue. He had no employees. My father’s side of the family was very poor (“on the dole”, as they used to say). His own father deserted them and his single mother, along with six other siblings, raised him. My father’s side of the family resembled some of the old James Cagney movies: his brothers were all petty criminals — numbers runners, betting on the horses, loan sharks – and the women joined the convent to pray for the men. My father had drawing talent, which he cultivated despite his family making fun of him. When he was 17 he took his pen-and-ink sketches into Manhattan and some of the commercial artists took him under their wing. He was the only one on his side of the family to “make good”. My parents understood that while economically they were middle class they really were not culturally middle class. They hoped to bridge the gap by sending me to Catholic schools—grammar school, high school and college. When we moved from Brooklyn to Jamaica, Queens they did not know which neighborhoods had Catholic schools that were middle class. The grammar school they sent me to, Saint Nicholas of Tolentine, was in a working class neighborhood. Most of the kids I went to school with were Irish or Italian and their parents were butchers, firemen or cops. Class conflicts arose between how my parents wanted to raise me against the expectations from these kids. I had the same situation when I played baseball in the sandlots. In both cases I got my first taste of what Erik Olin Wright called ���contradictory class locations.” In both cases working class kids won. You either learned to fight or you were ostracized, shunned or tormented as only children can do. Like most people of my generation, I can testify that Catholic grammar school was hell on Earth. Holy Cross High School wasn’t much better. For twelve years I received about 30 hours a week of authoritarian propaganda along with another two hours on the weekend. By my junior year the cracks were starting to show. Thanks to “Murray the K” of WINS radio station, I got exposure to rhythm and blues music, which besides baseball, was an island of sanity. I used to go to the Brooklyn Fox Theater which was predominantly working class. Then I stumbled across three rhythm and blues stations—WWRL, WLIB in New York and WKJR, in Newark. I used to go by myself to the Apollo Theatre in Manhattan to catch some of the acts. When my parents enrolled me in a Catholic community college it was the last straw. I dropped out of college, moved away from home and back to Brooklyn. I went to work in music stores in Manhattan, including the famous Colony Records, for a couple of years. By this time it was 1968, the Attica riots, the Anti-war and Civil Rights movements were coming to a head. Thanks to a few of the political “freaks” in the music store I finally made the transition from “Flatland” to “Spaceland”, as mathematician Edwin Abbot called it. After about a year I applied to VISTA to avoid the draft for the Vietnam War. Then I received a letter from VISTA inviting me to their training program in Atlanta. I “decided” to go (as much as a 20 year old “decides” anything). I lasted a week. There was one of the VISTA orientation leaders who I really liked. On about the fifth day of training, our group was on a bus with him heading for some workshop. I cornered him on the bus and asked him some very pointed questions. He admitted to me he was a Communist and this was all reformist crap. That was all the reassurance I needed. By force of circumstances that would require more space than I have, I spent the next two years hitchhiking around the country with a six-month stint in Denver Colorado. Once I began hitchhiking, I started to develop an interest in reading. I didn’t have a mentor to teach me the order in which to read things. So when I settled in Denver, I developed my own six month reading program in which I read about 6-8 hours a day five days a week, in addition to holding down a part-time job as a library page in the Denver Public Library. I read about the history of socialism, the elite theory of Mosca and Pareto, McNeill’s Rise of the West, Mumford and Wilhelm Reich – who was white-hot at the time. Despite being enthralled with my new self-education, I was lonely. I attended some of the demonstrations in the city, but they all were about single issues. I wanted to find a socialist group which could frame these issues, but I didn’t know where to look. All the books I read were about anarchism as a historical movement. Woodcock’s history of anarchism claimed that anarchism had its day. I didn’t quite believe that. Weren’t there contemporary anarchists? I made friends with people who had a radical bookstore in Denver. There was some anarchist literature in the bookstore, but it seemed like there was a current anarchist organization that was writing about contemporary issues. One guy, Tuggie, was very friendly to me. He told me about their collective, but I really did not know what the next step was. I felt that there was some secret code I had to decipher to “join the movement”, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I was too embarrassed to ask. In any event, Tuggie showed me a book called Post-Scarcity Anarchism by Murray Bookchin. I tore through that book in three days. “This guy must be alive!” I thought. No more dead anarchists for me! I found out Murray lived in New York. I packed my stuff and moved back to New York and stayed with my parents till I could find a place to live. First Encounter with Murray Some time in January of 1972, feeling very lonely, I decided to see if I could find Murray in the phone book. Part of me thought “If you were a famous anarchist, would you have your phone number in a phone book?” Hell no! But desperately I poured through the Manhattan phone book anyway. I couldn’t believe it! There was his name in the book. What the fuck! Now for the real test. Do I have the nerve to call him up? There was something about the way Murray wrote that book that made him seem approachable. After about an hour of pacing around in the kitchen, I picked up the phone and called. Of course, I hoped no one would answer to let me off the hook. But someone did answer. It was some kid about my age. “Can I speak with Murray?” I said, my heart racing. The kid said “sure”. After a few seconds of talking behind the scene, Murray came on the phone. “Murray, you don’t know me,” I blurt out, “but I read your Post Scarcity Anarchism book and I want to be part of this. I’m pretty isolated now. Can you give me some direction?” He asked me if I wanted to come over. What the fuck! “Yeah! Where are you?” He gave me his address. It was something like 2nd Avenue and East 6th street. I told him I lived in Jamaica, Queens and I would be there in about 45 minutes. I left the house and probably ran the entire five long blocks to reach the subway. I reached his address. It was kind of a beat-up apartment building, but nothing was going to stop me. A young kid answered the door. I think his name was Joel Whitehouse. Very friendly, he said “are you Bruce?” I nod nervously. He directs me to the kitchen where Murray must have been holding court. There must have been about three kids my age. Murray asked me some questions about myself. I was able to convey to everyone that I was serious about anarchism, that I had some experiences that qualified me, including some LSD trips which I’m sure met with approval from the other kids, if not Murray. The whole time I was there all of them made me feel that I was welcome and that I was part of something larger. Most of the time was spent with them telling me places I could go to get plugged in. That was the best 90 minutes of therapy I ever had! I don’t remember if I hugged Murray or not. Being Italian it wasn’t far-fetched, but I think I was too much in awe of him to do that. Romance among the anarchists Within the next day or so I started to volunteer at the War Resisters’ League. I did phone calling, leafleting and general office work. People were very nice to me but I could see that there were tensions between some of the volunteers. What came as a shock to me (and which I’ve never gotten over) was how miserable leftists treat each other over the slightest theoretical differences. I thought leftists would embody the new world we wanted to create in how they lived and treated each other. I guess I was too much of a psychologist or process junkie to understand that a lot people join the movement for reasons other than to just build socialism, as Eric Hoffer argued. At one of the War Resisters League meetings I noticed a woman named Susan. I first worked with her one-on-one as a volunteer. She was very kind in explaining to me how things worked. Now at the meeting I saw her power to articulate things at a higher level in a group meeting. I become even more attracted to her. We continued to build a relationship. Finally after a couple of months, I asked her if she had a boyfriend. “Yes”. I was disappointed, but not surprised. Then she said “are you asking me out?” “Well I was going to” I said, “but you are taken”. “My boyfriend and I do not have a monogamous agreement”, she responded. This confuses me. “You mean you want to go out with me even though you have a boyfriend?” “Yes”, she replied. Now I am really turned on and petrified all at the same time. We fooled around. A week or two later she told me her boyfriend, Jack, who lives in the West Village, is looking for a roommate. “Would you be interested?” she asks me. Whaaaatttttt?? “Yeah,” she said, “I told him about you and he’d like to meet you.” So this is what Emma Goldman went through, I thought to myself. “OK, I’ll meet him”. I meet Jack and like him very much. Nothing between Susan and me is mentioned. I say I need to think about being his roommate. I have to figure out whether I want to go on as a threesome and jeopardize my potential living situation with Jack or do I want to be safe, stop seeing Susan and just work on building a stable home-life with Jack. In one of the few sane decisions of my 20’s, I decided on the second course. Susan seemed to take everything in stride when I explained that I am in over my head. I continued to volunteer with War Resisters League, go to demonstrations with Jack and Susan and others and work for United Parcel Service at night unloading trucks. Second Encounter with Murray At UPS I worked a graveyard shift: 11 at night till 3 in the morning. I took the train home from the Long Island City plant back to the village, got to sleep about 4:30 AM and was up by about noon. One day in the late morning I was on 6th Avenue in the West Village around 8th Street where the great basketball games go on, and had just come out of a supermarket. I saw an older guy walking toward me. It looked like Murray. “Could it be? I haven’t seen him since I met him a couple of months ago at his place. It is him!”. I didn’t expect him to remember me because I figured I was just one of hundreds of lost hippies looking to him for direction. But I was also happy to see him because I was in a much better place psychologically, and wanted to show him I turned out okay and was no longer a basket case. “Murray, remember me? You invited me to your house a couple of months ago?” He looked at me hard, and then said “yes” after pointing his finger at me a couple of times. “How are you doing now?” I rolled my eyes and said “I am in such a better place now. I volunteer at the War Resisters League and I live in the West Village with another anarchist roommate. I work at UPS at night unloading trucks.” After a pause, I looked him straight in the eye and said “you really helped me Murray”. “Well, good” he said. That was the last time I ever spoke with him directly. In retrospect, I wish I could have said “I’ll never forget you”, but I had no way of knowing it would be the last time. Third Encounter with Murray �� One of the benefits of working with the War Resisters League was that I also found out about radical events around Manhattan. One event was a book club meeting, which I think was sponsored once a month on a Thursday night by the Libertarian League. I had never heard of this, but one of my comrades told me about it. When he told me Murray Bookchin was going to speak, I was ecstatic. Two weeks later I came upon this sturdy one or two story red brick building. I got there 30 minutes early to look around. There were these wonderful old people, but they were not like the old people I was used to: cranky, complaining about their children. These people were warm, offering me cookies. They were like my Italian grandparents, but they were radicals. Around me I could hear others arguing about the Spanish and Russian Revolutions. I remember someone telling someone else he knew Lenin was full of it even before the Bolsheviks took power. However, I began to feel uncomfortable when the number of old people in the room kept growing. I began to feel out of place. Then Murray came in and immediately started talking with the old-timers. Slowly, close to 7:00 some people my age began to drift in. Murray ambled to the lectern at about ten minutes after seven and began speaking. Within about 10 minutes the place was packed. People were standing around the perimeters. There were now many people my age, naturally late. I was riveted by what Murray had to say, but I was also able to take a step back and notice what was before me. This was a truly intergenerational event that I had never seen before. Well, of course, I did: when I was in church as a child with my parents. But this was no church like I had ever seen! It was better than any church. My eyes moved around the room. I saw old people listening, young people listening and the room was electric. Imagine this intergenerational gathering as a gathering of trees. On the periphery were the old grandfather trees on their way out, yet soaking it all in, many, perhaps, feeling more confident that with Murray at the helm, the next generation couldn’t go too far off. At the core were us seedling trees, green and immature. At the center, at the heart, stood Murray Bookchin, spanning the generations, in his prime. That is one of my fondest radical moments ever. Many people may disagree with all of Murray’s politics or some of it, as I do now. But few would deny that despite being 50 years old he had a way with people in their twenties, at the very time when Jerry Rubin or Abbie Hoffman were saying to never trust anyone over 30. When I tell my story about my encounters with Murray to older anarchists they shake their heads and say that was typical of him. It was all in the setting of political organizing. He did not get this following because these people were his students. He was drawing people to him for 10 years before he was eventually given a professorship. Murray knew how to build intergenerational solidarity like no one I had ever seen. I’ve been a college teacher for 27 years and I certainly have influenced students. I have learned to get along with people 40 years younger than I am, but this is not political organizing. Most of my students have to take my classes for reasons that have nothing to do with my political views or me. Murray drew people to him without having anything to hold over them like a grade. From Face-to-Face to Facebook At this time last year I had no Facebook page and was completely cynical about the whole operation. But last spring my partner and I hired a social media movement consultant, Susan, to help us with our political website, and she insisted we have a Facebook Page. Since my partner manages our website and already had her own Facebook account, I figured I’d leave it to her. It was only a casual comment by Susan that helped me change my mind about Facebook. She talked about people who went on Hillary’s page in order to “start up trouble”. Since she was no doubt a supporter of Clinton, I had to be delicate. I asked about what you had to do to make comments. When I found out how easy it was, my mind began racing. At the time I was very excited about the followers of Bernie Sanders as possible converts to socialism, but wasn’t sure how to reach them. Then I thought about Facebook. I searched for the most left-wing group of the Democratic Party, which seemed to be “Bernie or Bust” Facebook group. Posting on my partner’s Facebook account, I then began agitating for the Sandernistas to get out of the Democratic Party. As my posts were controversial and constantly generated responses, my partner began to insist that I get my own account. After a couple of weeks of arguments, I agreed. I lasted on Bernie or Bust until primary night when I was kicked off. I did this for two months until the primary was over. Then I switched to the Jill Stein Dank Meme group and tried to move people to make a more explicit commitment to socialism. Before any of you think I have become obsessed with Facebook and spend all my time there, I actually treat it as a job. I spend an hour every morning on it. This is part of my political commitment to agitate every day. Is Intergenerational Solidarity Possible on Facebook? Is it Desirable? I am very fussy about who my Facebook friends are. I examine their posts, look at their profile, and peruse the groups they belong to before deciding to accept their friend requests. As I said earlier, the status markers like class, race, gender, age, occupation and where they live are less easy to determine. What is even more interesting is that I don’t seem to care, since no one asks me about the kind of work I do or where I live, maybe it doesn’t matter to them much either. Still, one thing does stand out. Most of the “friend requests” I receive include their tiny profile pictures. They are not large enough to see clearly unless I go to their page. But when I look at their pictures occasionally I am astounded by how young they seem. Some of my Facebook friends look like they are still in high school, and I’d say most are in their twenties. I am old enough to be their grandfather, yet here we are pecking away. There is a group called “Baby Communist Support Group” which specifically helps young comrades to get their bearings. I have sometimes used my training as a psychologist to help people in this group with depression and anxiety in the similar ways that Murray helped me in my first encounter with him. What’s cool is that they don’t ask me for my credentials, nor do I volunteer them. Is there such a thing as electronic intergenerational solidarity? The cynic in me says no. You have built nothing with these people. They know nothing about you and there is no continuity developing. It is true that when I have tried on occasion to take the next step: to send an email or have a phone conversation, it has not worked very well. Other than my partner – and 4 or 5 other friends that I know personally as well as through Facebook, I have not yet met a single one of my Facebook friends. If I never actually meet any of my Facebook friends, is that a sign the whole project is a failure? If we never talk on the phone or exchange emails, does this mean I am deluding myself? Most of all, if the fruit of all these electronic interactions does not result in the formation of joint political in-person actions, like founding a party and engaging in a strike does that mean I am not doing any “real agitation”? Granted Murray Bookchin influenced many people, not just because of building face-to-face political relationships, but because he wrote books, made public speeches and attended conferences. Still he could not reach potentially thousands of people every day. I am no Murray Bookchin, but I have thousands of young people I can influence every day by investing at least an hour or longer if I choose. Am I co-creating intergenerational solidarity? Am I wasting my time? My conclusion is that Facebook is good for spreading seeds far and wide and talking people through the clarification and support stages of being political radicals. Face-to-Face work is for nailing down the time, place and circumstances and for building a political practice. However, all the political practice that develops can in turn return to Facebook for consolidating and spreading more seeds. Since my story is experiential and I claim no expertise, I welcome your feedback either in direct emails or by sending me articles pertaining to the subject. http://clubof.info/