#this is such an ambiguous line but i am cackling about it

[haru-dipthong]

Ep 8 of my Utena fansub is out!

生意気でブサイクで男女の天上をめっためたに打倒して

“I’ll rip apart that annoying ugly dyke

男女 is a hard word to translate. It’s basically a slur - the word is made up of the kanji for “man” and then the kanji for “woman” (so, “manwoman”). I’ve seen “shemale” used as a translation but the transness of that word is a bit strong. I’ve also seen “tomboy” but that’s not a slur, it’s barely even an insult (and it’s not trans-y enough). Anya suggested to use “dyke” if I was comfortable with it, and I am. I think it’s perfect honestly.

-----

私のお兄様があんた達にちょっかいを出すはずないでしょ？

My big brother would never be so interested in you.

ちょっかいを出す has two meanings according to the Japanese dictionary weblio.jp. 1. to interfere with in a negative way by doing something that really shouldn’t be done. 2. to hit on a woman.

Obviously both meanings are important here. Nanami is obsessed with being the only girl her brother thinks about, and Touga is sexually interested in Utena and politically interested in marrying Anthy. I see this line as intentionally ambiguous, maybe even a bit of a freudian slip. I think I captured that ambiguity with “interested in you” - it could mean sexually/romantically interested, or it could mean interested in the sense of just like, living in someone’s head rent free like Anthy and Utena do in Nanami’s head.

-----

辛さ爆発木っ端みじん、幻のゾウが「パオーン」、超辛九千億倍カレー

“Spice So Extreme You’ll be Blown to Smithereens and Hallucinate a Horde of Trumpeting Elephants: 900 Billion x Curry.”

I HAVE A FEW THINGS TO SAY about this extremely stupid joke line.

Thing number 1: the way she says 「幻のゾウがパオーン」 in such a sad, sad voice made me cackle the first time I heard it. I’m not funny enough to translate the joke properly but suffice it to say, she’s essentially saying “ghost cows go moo” (but for elephants) in the saddest most apologetic tone possible and it kills me. In English elephants don’t really have a childish onomatopoeic noise word like “moo” so I had to settle for “trumpeting”.

I think the 幻のゾウがパオーン line is a really interesting example of coherent Japanese grammar. Like, if we translate the whole line literally, look at how weird it sounds:

Explode into smithereens, illusory elephants go “paōōōn” level spice: Extreme spice 900 Billion x Curry.

Like, the elephant part is literally just describing what noise an “illusory elephant” makes. Under English language rules, this is a non-sequitur, but in Japanese it makes sense and fits into the sentence because the implication that the spice makes the “illusory elephants” appear is enough. You don’t need to say the spice makes it appear!

Thing number 2: This is the only time in the episode we hear the full name of the 900 Billion x curry, and it’s important as a translator that I lay the groundwork for the interpretation that the elephants the girls encounter for the rest of the episode are hallucinations. I actually find it really weird that no other translation calls the elephants “hallucinations” or the spice “hallucinogenic”, because that’s the translation that makes the most sense for 幻 within this context IMO. 幻 can be translated as “illusion”, “phantom”, “vision”, and it essentially means “something you’re seeing that isn’t actually there”. Let’s look at some other translations:

So hot it will blast you to smithereens and make phantom elephants trumpet loudly (from ohtori.nu)

So spicy it’ll blow you to smithereens! Secret Pa-Ohn ultra spicy nine billion-fold curry. ←????????!!! (from internet archive video encoded subs)

and then a later line where they’re talking about the spice itself:

By the way, have you heard of the Phantom 900 Billion X spice? (from ohtori.nu)

By the way, do you know about the nine billion-fold secret spice? (from internet archive video encoded subs)

Like… what? The spice is clearly meant to be hallucinogenic. And don’t get me started on the internet archive video subs! Just totally opting out of translating it completely and going with “secret”! So boring and such a cop out. My only guess as to why these have been done like this is an attempt at censorship? Cause hallucinations = drugs? Well, I’m not pulling punches on my translation! I’m writing them the way I interpret the Japanese - if that includes swearing, sexual references, or drugs, so be it. The goal is to make the most authentic translation, not one that will actually be marketable to TV or streaming networks.

Speaking of…

This is the most egregious translation from the ohtori.nu scripts yet. They translated 色ボケ (a person, often an immature man/boy, obsessed with sex; vulgar, insult) as, get this, "Casanova".

Does this look like a man who has just been called "casanova" by his crush?

"Fuckboy" was my first pick but I would also have accepted "wanker", "jerkoff", "sleezebag", "douchebag", "fuckwit", "coomer" or simply "cunt".

-----

Thanks again to @dontbe-lasanya for your fantastic editing as always, but especially for helping with "dyke" this episode!

Be sure to follow for updates! For all episodes released so far, go here:

[marvel-starwarsfangirl]

Episode 9 "The Harbinger" Review

Ah Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer... you love to watch us get all worked up don't you? But in all seriousness, I really enjoyed this episode. It's so beautifully animated and scored. I need the Kiners to drop the OST asap because man was the music stunning. (This episode also further proves that Echo clearly was the braincell of the group and I'm cackling).

As always, spoilers below:

BEHOLD! THE RETURN OF OUR QUEEN VENTRESS! I loved how she was utilized. I was surprised to see her actually be there on Pabu, but it makes sense since Fennec told her to find them. However, I am wondering how she did find Pabu. My guess is that Ventress was given Hunter's photo and meditated with it until she felt his presence... somewhere. Or she knew a guy who knew a guy who knew Phee. Everything from Ventress' design to voice acting was perfection. The animators really popped off with her Dark Disciple look. But, how did she survive? Nightsister magic? There's probably some explanation, but it'll be left ambiguous for reasons.

Her relationship with Omega was very well done. She's changed so much since her first appearance in CW. I liked the balance between her ability to still kick butt while also being a good person at heart as shown with Omega. She doesn't kill the Batch even though they got defensive (and I understand why they did). The scene where she calms the giant kraken-like creature was so so good. It's a nice way of showing how Ventress has found the light with the Force. Her line about being on a side of her own was also good and pretty much sums up her character perfectly. She's neither dark nor light, she's just right.

It's also obvious from the title that she's the harbinger. Harbingers are people that herald the approach of someone or danger. For the Batch, she's a harbinger of doom. That doesn't mean she herself brings the danger, but she tells them that their time is up. Repeatedly, she tells the Batch that they aren't safe even on Pabu. Which means that Pabu is gonna go down next week *cue sad yaying*. Even the lighting this episode signified doom. Pabu is shrouded in fog and the only light we see is from a sunset, indicating the end of the Batch's peace and safety.

Speaking of the Batch, they really do share one braincell and even then, it's usually with Echo. It's so awesome to see them work together again in combat. And we got to hear their theme again!! It was so triumphant and such a great moment! I know we'll hear it again, but this was such a good moment. I love that most of their moments were them just watching out for Omega. I know we all joke about the Jango Fett Mandalorian dad genes, but it's so true. Hunter, Wrecker, and Crosshair love their sister so much. Every time Cross was like "we're not handing her over," I got excited. Omega aside, the smaller moments like Wrecker teasing Crosshair or Wrecker mimicking his brothers were gold.

My favorite moment with the three was when Crosshair threw Hunter and Wrecker's weapons to them. The music went hard and the camaraderie between them is so heartfelt. These brothers will always have each others' backs. (Also, this is the first time we hear Cross call Tech by his name. Tech is still with them, even if it's in their hearts).

And of course there's our sweet bean, Omega. Next week will definitely be about her conflicted over the possibility of being Force Sensitive. It breaks my heart to see her so lost and confused. The Batch can try and help, but they're so out of their depth. I honestly think Omega will go back to Tantiss simply to see if she is capable of using the Force. There are so many questions about her identity. Why was she created? Why is she so important? I know a lot of people now think that she will off with Ventress in the finale if we do get a confirmation that she is force sensitive. Honestly, I hope she stays with her brothers. If they kill the Batch off, then I can see the Ventress end working, but I really hope that's not the case.

I wonder how the Empire will find Pabu. They could get really lucky, find a bounty hunter to track them, or even have a brainwashed Tech. I know the theory about Cross having a tracker or something was popular, but if that was true, then the Empire would've already descended upon them. Maybe Palpatine finds them through the Force; that I would believe. Either way, it will be very angsty and Pabu is doomed. But what do you guys think?

Anyways, that's all I have for now. Let's all prepare mentally for next week. Our little family is gonna need all the therapy and support they can get.

[creampuffqueen]

I saw that post you reblogged about being open to followers asking about your fanfics, so I'm going to take you up on that. I wanted to ask if you have a favorite among the works you did for the Yangvik Week, but maybe that would be too unfair. So my question is: can you tell us what you, the author, like about each of those works specifically, or if you have a favorite line from them? (Bonus: was there a challenging part?) It's always so interesting to hear a writer be meta about their process! Thank you 🩵

Ahhh thank you so much for asking!!! You’re right, choosing a favorite would be very difficult and would probably end in like. A 3 or 4 way tie lol. But i would absolutely love to share my thoughts on my fics and some of the behind-the-scenes things about writing them!!

Gonna go ahead and put this under a cut because i have zero doubt it will get very long haha. Read on for even more yangvik ramblings :) 

Cover Story: 

The part about this fic that was the most fun to write and the part that was the most difficult to write happened to be the same thing - figuring out their secret mission. I truly have to give my props to f.c yee here; writing spy missions is not as easy at it seems! I had to figure out a realistic way to get Yangchen and Kavik alone in a room together, AND in a situation where their only way out was to kiss, without it feeling too contrived. Which meant I was having to think of backups for my backups. A lot of “okay, here’s a way they could get out - how can I make that way impossible?” I truly am quite proud of how it all turned out in the end!

Another favorite part was undoubtedly writing Kavik being absolutely head over heels the entire time. It was the first time I’d written from his perspective, and his head is quite fun to be in. His pining definitely created a few of my favorite lines from this one, such as “In this room full of beautiful things, she’s still the most captivating.” Or “The glow from the fire makes her gray eyes look like molten pools of silver. For a moment, Kavik nearly forgets where he is.”

Also, this entire interaction: ““I think we’re a bit past caring about how I feel about a plan; tell me what it is.”

“You need to kiss me.”

“What?!””

I made myself absolutely cackle with delight when I wrote it. It was so fun.

And then I’ve already shared in another post how I ended up entirely rewriting the entire kiss scene. It just wasn’t hitting in the way I wanted, and I’m much, much happier with how it turned out when I wrote it the second time.

I’ve also particularly enjoyed seeing peoples’ interpretations of this one! Some people think that Yangchen is totally oblivious to how hard Kavik is crushing, while others think she totally knows but is pretending not to. I won’t give an answer as to which is correct, because I think it adds a lot more to be ambiguous enough that it could go either way!

i can’t read your mind (though i’m trying all the time):

Little warning here because this fic is nsfw, so if you’re not comfortable with that topic of discussion feel free to hop ahead to the next section!

I think of all the fics i wrote for yangvik week, this one was the most challenging. I came up with the premise for this fic (yangvik bathtub sex) well before yangvik week, but planning out my fics for the event gave me the motivation to actually Write It. But even after decided I wanted to write it, I spent a lot of time waffling around with it, not totally sure how I wanted to take it. Add in at the time I was really struggling with my self confidence as a writer, and that led to me just being generally unhappy with the whole thing. 

What ended up happening was that I put it on the back burner for a bit, wrote some of my other fics for the event, and then came back to it. Having finished some other fics gave me the little boost I needed to push past the corner I’d stuck myself in (what felt like at the time endless dialogue) and finally write the whole thing. 

Random side tangent: i did not write my yangvik week fics in order lol. It ended up being Day 1-4-2-3-5-6

Anyway. Favorite bits? Quite a few haha

“Yangchen’s eyes don’t leave his, stormy gray meeting ocean blue. Kavik would drown in them if she’d let him.” <- I posted this one as a snippet but I still just love it so much. They’re so utterly whipped for each other it’s crazy.

““Kavik, I’m tired,” Yangchen breathes.

His lips still. “Do you want me to stop?”

A pause. Then, slowly, she drags their joined hands upwards until one of his palms is cupping her breast, showing him where she wants to be touched.

“No. Don’t stop.””

^ I had been planning out this specific bit pretty much since I got the idea for this fic. So I’d been hanging onto this for a few months. Finally getting to write it down was so incredibly satisfying. I HAVE to write my scenes in chronological order. Sometimes if I have ideas for single lines or specific words I want to use I’ll write them down just so I remember, but if it’s an entire exchange like this I force myself to wait for it.

I originally intended to write this fic going at an even slower pace, which looking back now is kinda crazy haha. It’s already got quite a slow buildup. But when I was writing I came to the conclusion that things needed to heat up at least a little bit, hence all the heavy making out that happens. 

“Seated above him, Yangchen has to look downwards in order to connect their gazes. A queen sitting on her throne.” <- I was very proud of this line and the imagery it evokes, and I was very glad to hear that others felt the same! I had several people point out just how much they liked this part, and it’s always very gratifying as a writer to hear that a scene created the feelings you were going for.

The premise of this fic is basically Yangchen going “I want that man on his knees and whimpering” and Kavik going “yes ma’am”

Another random fun fact: it’s a blink and you’ll miss it kinda mention, but the thing that brings them both over the edge during this is making eye contact with each other ;) 

And last but not least, I find it very funny that this fic is the most popular of my yangvik week fics, at least according to the stats on ao3. It has by far the most comments, kudos, and hits. By a long shot. 

Oh my god, you guys are so horny!!! (says the horny bitch who wrote the fic)

Anywayyyyyyy

i’m glad i get forever to see where you went:

So, although this fic was certainly the one with the darkest topic, I think I enjoyed writing it the most. It was an extremely cathartic write, and while I was writing it the words just seemed to flow nonstop. The whole fic came so easily to me, and with very little prior planning. Part of it might be that it was a very different writing style than what I usually use, with it being a more broad overview of an ongoing situation rather than one specific point in time. I really enjoy fics written in that style, and I was very excited to finally create one of my own!

Now for some random notes about the content of the fic itself. I don’t think I mentioned this in the end notes of the fic itself, but there is a reason that Yangchen and Kavik are living near the Eastern temple rather than the Western. In some random, older A:TLA media, it was said that Yangchen retired to the Eastern Air Temple, and she spent her last few years living in a hermitage near the temple. I suppose that narratively it makes more sense for her to live in the west, but I decided to go with it to sort of keep it ‘canon compliant’. I wonder if that will ever get retconned now that we have more content about Yangchen.

But I digress. A part I really enjoyed about this fic was being able to intersperse all the heavy moments with little tidbits that show just how much these two love each other. Even aside from the big, grand, devotion that they show, I also liked showing that they still flirt, they still banter, they still cuddle and watch the sunset together. Just casual moments of a long-time love. 

“Life continues on, though. The endless wheel of time won’t stop turning, even for the most powerful being in the world.” <- Very proud of this line. It just came to me right in the moment and it felt so perfect. 

“Perhaps a part of him is just hoping they’ll adjust. She’s still Yangchen, whip-smart and compassionate and always ready with a quick remark. She’s still every bit the woman he fell in love with, just a bit more forgetful these days. They’ll get through it, surely.” <- Again, very proud of this part. It accomplished several things I wanted to convey: showing the passage of time, as this isn’t something that just happens overnight. It’s a slow, progressive thing. Also adding in some more slightly positive views of Yangchen, as I’d just put her through a whole lot in the previous scenes and felt I needed to add a reminder that despite it all, she’s still Yangchen. And lastly, also adding in Kavik’s sense of desperation that things get better. Or, at least, that things don’t get any worse.

“He loves her, though. The world is always changing, and nothing is ever constant. The deepest truth that he knows in his life is this: He loves Yangchen with everything he has, for everything she is.

He loves her. He squeezes her hand while she sleeps, finally at peace for a change, and hopes that it’s enough.”

^ Yet another part I love. I just really loved my writing in this whole fic. I don’t really have much to add but I just had to put it here because I love it so so much.

Now, for the final scene. I was considering having this not be the last scene. I was going to make it worse. I had a few ideas, all incredibly angsty. Something like Yangchen getting hurt (working ideas were her leaving the fire on and forgetting about it or getting into a situation where she needed to bend a certain element but forgetting she could bend it) or her actually forgetting Kavik’s name for little bit. But in the end it didn’t feel right for the direction I wanted to take this. I wasn’t writing angst for angst’s sake. I didn’t want to end the fic on such a bitter note, on a feeling that all was lost for good. There needed to be some hope still left. Which is why I ended up going the direction I did with it. 

I was veryyyyyy proud of myself for the total genius moment I had in the final scene. Namely, Yangchen starting to return to herself when Kavik hands her the glider. It’s very subtle because in these kind of situations, it’s not like the person comes back to the present all at once. It’s very gradual. But, if you read closely, Yangchen begins to calm down when she gets the glider. Both because it’s something familiar and personal, and because it’s meant to mirror the scene in Legacy where Kavik originally hands her back her glider. Now, in order for this to happen, I had to backtrack very far to get this moment. Like; okay, Kavik hands Yangchen the staff and it helps. Why does he bring the staff with him? Oh, what if he’s using it as a cane! But wait, I never wrote him as needing a cane in previous scenes. Ah, he gets out of bed too fast and pinches a nerve in his back! (sorry Kavik).

And last but not least, the final scene, where Yangchen finally admits out loud how scared she is and she and Kavik both cry, probably has to be my favorite scene of this entire fic. Possibly one of my favorite scenes that I’ve ever written. It was so incredibly cathartic to write. I’m being completely truthful when I say I teared up while writing it. Yes, it was incredibly devastating, but very beautiful in its own way. It was just the culmination and release of all the heartbreak earlier in the fic, and gave way to the wonderful moment of Kavik promising to always be there for her, whether she remembers him or not, which is everything she needs to hear in that moment. I just really love it.

Breakfast and a Braid:

This one was pretty short and sweet so there isn’t a whole lot to say about it writing wise haha. I think the biggest challenge was getting them to the point where Kavik could talk about what he was doing while braiding her hair without the situation feeling too forced or awkward. I think I ended up doing okay, though!

Also while writing this and looking through the fic I realized that I mentioned the gong of Jonduri… the gong is in Taku. *facepalm* I’m gonna have to go fix that at some point. Whoops. 

When Yangchen says that she doesn’t remember breakfast being delivered, it’s meant to imply that she was sleeptalking again, the way she did to Boma at the beginning of Legacy. And I’m not sure why but I enjoy the way I wrote her waking up at the start of the fic. I think it’s just some funny imagery, of her startling awake and throwing her papers everywhere.

Another thing about the writing process of this one is that the part that goes “Tangles removed, Kavik draws his hands smoothly through her thick tresses. Yangchen nearly arches into his hand, like a cat-goose getting its back scratched. If she could purr she’d probably be doing it.” actually had a duplicate paragraph written a few paragraphs before it. I’m very glad I read through this one again, because that would have been awkward lol. I ended up liking the second use of it more, so I rewrote the paragraph earlier in the fic so I could keep it in this spot. Still not totally sure how I basically managed to copy an entire paragraph without realizing it!

“Still, she can’t resist reaching behind her to grab at his collar, dragging Kavik towards her for a proper kiss. He puts up no resistance, grinning softly as Yangchen presses their lips together.” <- and of course, writing kisses is one of my favorite things, so it’s no surprise that it’s one of my favorite lines in this fic :) 

Something Nice:

Not entirely sure why, but of the 6 fics that i posted for yangvik week, this is probably my least favorite 😭😭. Again, no idea why. Like i can’t even pinpoint what i don’t like about it, but whenever i compare it to the others i wrote i just feel. Kinda ‘eh’ about it.

I am however still patting myself on the back for the bit about the wool on the kuspuk being from Nujian’s older sister. I very clearly remember having this complete enigma while planning it out and being like ‘YES ITS PERFECT IM A GENIUS!!!’. So that’s definitely a positive.

Other positives include writing some team Yangchen shenanigans. I really love Yangchen’s team avatar in the books, and so whenever i can i try and include them in my writing, even if it’s just a little mention. But being able to include full on conversations in this fic was very fun.

Although I don’t feel completely satisfied with how this fic turned out (again, for reasons I’m honestly not quite sure of) I do still have a favorite line. That being “Even after she calms, a small part of her wants to stay there forever, held in the little bubble of Kavik’s embrace, safe from the needs of the world.”. I just loved showing how safe Yangchen feels when she’s with Kavik, and how she can just be herself around him. 

The other part i really enjoyed writing with this one was the PINING. Oh the pining. It’s always so delicious. And then the moment at the end where Jujinta interrupts them hehe. I’m definitely a sucker for the ‘moment interrupted’ trope… which i’m now realizing might be a bit obvious considering my other works… oh… oh dear…

darlin’, oh, you see i’ve never felt this way before:

Almost all of my writing is very ‘flying by the seat of my pants’ style as I very rarely go into anything with a concrete plan, but this one was EXTRA off the top of my head. I had a vague idea and a vibe to go off of when I started writing, and I’m pretty pleased with the results!

A few highlights of writing this include: contriving ways to get Kavik shirtless, letting the air nomads be the thirsty mouthpiece of the fandom, and pretending I’m back in middle school and turning absolutely everything into a ‘that’s what she said’ joke

I included this fun fact in the notes on the ao3 version but if you only read it on tumblr you might have missed it! When Kavik is playing the string game with the kids and he makes a shape called ‘the polecat-wolverine’ it is for multiple reasons. 1. ‘The wolverine’ is an actual shape that can be made during the real life string game that Inuit and other Indigenous groups play, and 2. The name ‘Kavik’ means wolverine! He was showing the kiddos how to make his name :) 

I also loved getting to include some more air nomad culture in my writing. The ‘holy day’ they are celebrating is completely made up, but loosely inspired by the Thai Buddhist festival of Songkran. As well, the nature of many of the conversations in this fic led me to basically do a deep dive into how i think the 4 nations view sex, desire, sexuality, etc. Which then led me to retroactively go in to throw in some demisexual Yangchen vibes, which is my personal headcanon of her sexuality.

I think the biggest challenges in writing this fic were, first of all, having little more than a vibe as my concept, and then also figuring out how to spin the ‘jealousy’ prompt into a way that I liked. I very much wanted to stay away from the usual interpretation of jealousy, as I simply don’t think it fits Yangchen and Kavik’s relationship with each other. So I did my best to show that Yangchen isn’t jealous of the other nuns because they’re ‘trying to steal her man’ or that she’s jealous and thinks Kavik will like another girl more than her or anything like that. She’s jealous because she already has to share so much of herself with the world, and doesn’t want to share what she has with Kavik as well. She isn’t at all threatened by other women appreciating his good looks, but she gets very bothered when the conversation starts veering towards more personal things about him. Hence why she stops the teenagers’ conversation when one of them mentions his ‘dreamy eyes’ when the other two had previously been saying far more suggestive things.   

Yet another challenging part of this write was when I decided I wanted to go down the love confession route. I wanted to make it clear that it WAS a love declaration, but without an ‘I love you’. Again, I feel very strongly that Yangchen and Kavik never fully define their relationship. It just… is. So it was a fun challenge to try and write something akin to a confession/declaration without going the typical route. I did consider having them say the Big L Word, but I couldn’t manage to fit it in where I mentioned it was the first time they said it, but at the same time didn’t make it this super huge deal. Of course they already know they love each other; they don’t need to be waxing poetic about it to make it clear, though. I’m pretty happy with what I managed instead!

There are so many standout lines in this one that i adore, but I think most of them come from the final part. I love a good ‘sleepy pillow talk in the morning after’ kind of vibe (in fact, I’ve been considering adding a part 2 to ‘the push' set the morning after) so it was lovely to get to include one here.

I’m very especially proud of the imagery right here: “Yangchen wakes up in shades, consciousness seeping into her bones with each exhale of breath. The pre-dawn light creeps through her window, casting the room in a soft, dreamlike haze.”

And again with this one: “He stretches, long and languid, yawning so widely that Yangchen can hear his jaw pop. His fingers tangle with those already on his cheek, bringing her hand to his mouth so he can begin to kiss his way up her arm, tracing the pattern of her tattoos.” (non-lip kisses my ABSOLUTE BELOVED).

“Rather than fall further into her trap, Kavik shuts her up by tackling her into the bed, making her shriek with laughter when his hands dig into her sides to tickle her mercilessly.” <- I really loved how I portrayed Yangchen in this whole part. She deserves to just let loose and be silly!!!!

“Avatar Yangchen belongs to the world before anything else. Yangchen will always be the Avatar; even in death her spirit will remain to continue the cycle. She holds the world’s biggest blessing and its heaviest burden. It will always have a claim over her.

But right here, her world is just this: the blue of Kavik’s eyes, the safety of his arms, and the love that she can feel pouring out of his very being.”

^ Made myself almost cry with the duality of it all. He’s literally her safe space. I’m never gonna feel normal about them.

This ended up getting… so long lol. If you stayed til the end, thank you very much! I hope you enjoyed getting some insight into my writing thoughts and parts I enjoyed about creating my fics! And again, thank you so much for the ask!!!

[bradshawsweetheart]

Hello Millie my beloved, I am live typing my thoughts as I read:

But Maggie is not here now.

God this cutaway from the “what if” hit me like a brick wall

“Hangman’s staring at you,” he mumbles against my lips, chuckling, sighing. … “Isn’t he always?”

I am a Bradley girlie but this broke my heart lowkey😭

Now I’m flanked by Hangman and Rooster and they’re both grinning below their mustaches, both offering to order me shots simultaneously then glancing at each other over my head. 

The way I squealed at this LMFAO please like is it tension? Is it banter? Is it both? AAAAAAA

“Let’s get drunk now, yeah?” Hangman says suddenly and severely, already tipping his champagne flute backwards and down, down, down his throat.

OH THE TENSION I WILL SIMPLY PASS AWAY

But still, he’d texted me a few times at random intervals, sometimes after midnight and sometimes in the middle of the day, asking me to talk him out of it. That was the phrase he used--ambiguous to any outsider in the conversation, something only we understood, our accidental secret language. I always sent something back, a few sentences. I don’t like red wine. I think zero-sugar soda tastes better. I could eat a tomato like an apple. I truly dislike every film adaptation of Wuthering Heights. And he would usually send the same response each time: Futile. One word, that’s all.

Millie I am going to fucking THROW UP OMG THIS TENSION IS MAKING ME BOTH GIDDY AND SICK

“Bob, your veil is crooked,” he laughs. … “How embarrassing,” he mutters. 

The way I just cackled.

Bob doesn’t correct Rooster--instead he takes the title with grace, smiling with his nose in the air, his chin tilted proudly. Bob likes nothing more than to be included.

No bc why are my eyes watering at this

“Bagman, you don’t know the first thing about womanhood,” he sighs, “you beautiful, stupid man.”

PLEAAAAAASE IM FUCKING CACKLING, this entire drunk shoe removing scene has me in complete stitches. The Bob/Jake banter is absolutely killing me

Now the kitchen chair sits in my living room, which is not the only room in my house with hardwood floors, but the room with all my records. He didn’t get to pick the record, but our friend did. My kitchen scissors are sharp this time, probably double the price of the ones I owned during undergrad.

I really love these excerpts that you do when you talk about Faye and Bob’s relationship and how they’ve grown, but I especially love when you include lines that talk about what they share. For this instance, “he didn’t get to pick the record, but our friend did.” It makes me melt a bit to see how Faye is almost saying “look at us, look where we came from and look what we’ve gained together.” Pulls at my heart strings big time.

“Try harder, Jake.”

God this just makes me want to cry

“Don’t look at me like that,” he begs softly, “you break my fuckin’ heart when you look at me like that.”

Yeah I am crying now

“You are a good man,” I tell him seriously. I know it is something that he does not hear often--I know that so much. 

I AM IN SO MUCH PAIN MILLIE

This chapter was absolutely beautiful and also slightly heartbreaking. I am a Bradley x Faye shipper but Jake is over here making me want to take him into my arms and kiss his stupid little forehead.

I’m trying to finally finish this series now that I have a couple of days off!!

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐈𝐈𝐈.𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞.𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟏𝟐𝐭𝐡 & 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

I wish my sister was here. That’s all I can think right now; a thought that first swept past me beneath the palm trees outside The Hard Deck’s front doors, drifting its fingers lazily across my eyelids before returning to consume me after my second glass of  champagne--pressing me against its wet tongue and swallowing me deep down into the crux of its hollow belly. I’m here now--suddenly sitting in a shallow pool of cold water, blinking at the dark, thinking about Maggie.   

If she was here now she would be wearing a vintage dress--one that I didn’t even know she owned, one that she somehow found at the bottom of a barrel for free somewhere in New Mexico, one that was well-fitting and tasteful--and her hair would be wild and her earrings would be big and she would smell like velvety amber and nondescript citrus. She would have her arm looped through mine all night and she would pay for all my shots and take every bathroom break with me, giggling as she stuffed a strip of spearmint gum between my teeth and dried her hands on her dress. She would ask me how I felt, slyly encasing my hands in hers under the guise of closeness--though really because it was her way of assessing my nerves by gauging the temperature, the flexibility, of my fingers. She wouldn’t let any uniform dance with me, forming a makeshift barrier around me with her own body as a velvet-clad shield. She would slip Bob a caffeine pill when his eyes would inevitably start to droop after eleven, coaxing him into chasing it with a shot of tequila.  

“And why do we drink tequila?” She would’ve purred, grinning, leaning into Bob.  

And Bob, ever-exhausted but ever-loyal to Maggie Palmer Ledger, would answer begrudgingly, “Because tequila is an upper.” 

She would pet Bob, pressing a lewd-sounding wet-lipped kiss to his cheek, praising him as he tilted the shot glass back and swallowed with a grimace. She would be sweet, though, pressing a lime to his lips.  

When he would open his twisted mouth to explain that tequila is actually a depressant, that the myth that it is a stimulant is just that--a myth--she would quickly usher another shot glass to his lips.  

“Quiet now,” she would say, “drink the kool aid, baby boy.” 

I think her and Phoenix would have been fast friends, too. They were similar in many capacities, so similar that sometimes Phoenix felt more familiar to me than she really should. The both of them always going toe-to-toe with cocksure pilots, except Maggie would wither them down and end the night with them pressed beneath the soft pad of her thumb. Phoenix is whip-smart and lethal when she flies--just like Maggie was. Even their drinks of choice and the order in which they desire them--which goes tequila shots, then bloody Mary’s, then margaritas--are identical. They would have been the kind of friends that indulge each other’s confrontational nature and enable each other’s short tempers. They would have been the kind of friends that sat together on one end of every spectrum, leaving no room for middleground, never meeting each other--or anyone else--halfway on anything.   

But Maggie is not here now.

 She is somewhere else, much farther away, just out of reach. 

Sometimes I dream that she is on the other side of the unopened door that connects our childhood rooms, just waiting for me to be brave enough to turn the handle--waiting for me to come home. 

But really, truly, I know that she is buried in Topeka Cemetery, flanked by the empty plots my parents will one day lie in. I know that it’s cold in Topeka now and probably cloudy as the nighttime draws nearer. I know that the minuscule weather-resistant American flag staked by her headstone is probably flapping in the icy wind, maybe even tilted from the sideways sleet or unflappable snow. 

She is there, parts of her at least, and I am here in this bar in Fightertown on the eve of my wedding that she did not get to plan and will not get to attend.

 It’s still early in the evening now, early enough so The Hard Deck’s usual Friday-night clientele is still trickling in, gaggles of uniforms sporadically standing around the dartboard and pool table with glasses of scotch and bottles of beer. It’s not very loud yet--the jukebox isn’t humming, the pool balls aren’t clacking thunderously under the forceful nudge of Hangman or Coyote, there is no strapping young man pounding at the piano keys, or peanut shells crunching under lug-sole boots. There are glasses clinking smally, the sound muted by the low voices of men.  

Outside, in the nippy air, the sun is sinking slowly into the teal ocean. It is painting the bar the color of a chrysanthemum, the kind I buy at the farmer’s market when they’re in season and set in the middle of the breakfast table, the kind Rooster has come home with on random Tuesday’s. Yes, it feels like a familiar color, one that has been in my home for a long time in repurposed measuring cups and brown paper tied with twine.  

I’m standing at the bar, the ledge digging into my belly as I rest my forearms on the damp wooden surface, finishing my glass at the insistence of Phoenix. She’s standing on my left side, her hair long and pushed behind her ears and down her back. Her eyes are crinkled, dusted the same baby blue hue of her dress, and she’s laughing as she nudges me. 

“We’re getting Faye drunk,” she sings, wrinkling her nose at Penny, who’s standing before me with her own cheeky grin.

The bubbles from the champagne are bursting in my nostrils, peppering the back of my throat. It makes my spine tingle as it settles in the middle of my chest, a bundle of vibrating, ticklish nerves. 

Warmth is blooming over my entire being; my tongue, my throat, my chest, my belly, between my thighs. It’s the way pink champagne always makes me feel, especially after three glasses. Fizzy --that’s how I feel, which is better than sad. It sits at the bottom of my belly, cascading down my thighs and calves and into my toes; but it also reaches up into my chest and stretches across my shoulders and blushes my throat. It holds me there in quivering hands, overtaking me, overwhelming me. 

“One down,” Penny exclaims gleefully, setting the empty champagne bottle beside us, biting her lip, “few more to go.”

“How’re you feeling? What’re you at?”

Bob, who’s glowing in the radiance of this February dusk with his scruffy cheeks and overgrown hair, leans against the bar to search my face with his baby blues slightly narrowed. 

He’s talking about the ranking system he insists we use tonight. We are to gauge our drunkenness on a scale from 1-10, reporting back to him as often as he sees fit. He had told us this on the drive over, gesturing and nodding as he spoke, San Diego flashing past the tinted windows of the Uber in frames of yellow and blue. And even though Phoenix and I had shared a private glance, a discreet pinch, we agreed to Bob’s terms on account of our unyielding affection for him. 

“Three,” I tell him, smiling, exhaling as I climb out of the belly of grief and back into my barstool, “y’all?”

I point at Bob and Phoenix alike.

“I think I hear a little Tahpekah in there,” Phoenix teases, nudging me.

Bob’s laughing, eyes crinkling.   

Phoenix shrugs then, considering for a moment, still smiling a teasing smile. 

“Two and a half,” she says. 

Bob nods. 

“Yeah, that’s where I’m at, too,” he agrees.

“You’ve got all night,” Penny interjects, already uncorking another bottle of identical champagne, dropping her eye in a sly wink, “we’ll get you all nice and hungover for the ceremony tomorrow.”

The ceremony tomorrow.  

It makes my tongue quiver in my mouth, between my teeth. Yes, I am getting married tomorrow--somewhere between four and five o’clock, somewhere between dusk and sunset. There’s a cream-colored silk dress zipped into a velvet garment bag in my closet, freshly steamed and wrinkle-free. There’s a gold band, a thin and round one, the width of Rooster’s fourth finger in the satin-lined jewelry box on our bathroom counter. My fingernails are long and painted the color of a pearl, my cuticles trimmed and unusually tear-free. There is a permanent ache at the base of my spine from the tireless months we’ve spent working on our backyard; laying bricks, power washing the patio, repainting the house, planting blue witch and Indian mallow flowers. 

It does feel like I am getting married tomorrow; it does feel like this is the night before it happens, the night before I become a wife. And that makes the warmth pulsing through my body feel infinite--like I am just radiating heat, inspiring perspiration on the hairlines of my bridal party.

“Oh, I’ve got hangovers covered,” Bob insists coolly, pushing his wire-framed glasses back up his nose, “an old Floyd-family secret.”

Phoenix snorts--leaning forward to grin at Bob, a teasing tint glimmering in her glassy eyes. 

“Tell Penny what the family recipe is,” she encourages, tickled, “g’head, tell her.”

Penny leans forward, refilling our champagne flutes. I’m smiling, too, watching the bubbles rise to the brim of my glass before I bring the flute to my lips and swallow. Fizzy.   

Bob’s blushing now, shoulders drooping a smidgen. 

“Well,” Bob starts, “it’s just a cup of black coffee with a shot of--well, a shot of whatever gave you the hangover. So, like, for us it’ll probably be tequila.”

Penny grimaces. I bite my lip.

“Oh, just wait. He’s not done yet,” Phoenix tells Penny, chuckling, “continue, Floyd.”

Bob is smiling now, shrugging in a small way, moving to let one of his hands rest in the middle of my back. His hand is warm, just like mine, but I know the bare skin of my back is warmer. He absently rolls his fingers over the soft edge of my dress, his touch gentle and non-presumptuous.

“Well, the real beauty of the recipe is the vitamins,” he explains, cheeks blooming the same ballet-slipper color of my dress, “it’s two crushed up zinc pills, three crushed up ibuprofen, and one vitamin B-12. And one allergy pill for me because the pollen count is supposed to be high tomorrow.”

Penny’s nose is wrinkled, her mouth slightly ajar and frowning, her eyebrows quirked. Phoenix is laughing, the sound melodious and soft. 

“And then?” I prompt.

“Yeah,” Phoenix agrees, “take us home, Floyd.” 

Bob is really grinning now. 

“Bagel and lox. Extra capers,” he says, eyes twinkling, “That’s the holy hangover cure! You’ve got caffeine, hair of the dog, vitamins, carbs, fatty acids, and electrolytes. The recipe’s been in the Floyd family for generations.”

Penny’s face is unchanging. 

“I hate to say this,” I interject softly, pulling my brows together as Penny finds my eyes, “but it works. It’s remarkable. Like, Bob could open up a store that only sells those two things and become a very, very rich man. He’d be like a medicine man.”

Phoenix sighs beside me when Penny’s gaze falls to her. 

“It’s true,” Phoenix confirms, “we’re talking Forbes 40 Under 40 material here.”

Bob laughs, palm still flat against my spine. 

I know he’s happy that we’re validating him, know that he’s happy that we have trusted him with our unsettled guts and pulsing skulls and been genuinely remedied by his formula. We are his best friends, his closest friends--I know he likes sharing these things with us, likes it very much when we take his outstretched palm or fall back into his awaiting arms. He likes it the best when the common ground between me and Phoenix broadens, when there’s more room for us to stretch out and towards each other. 

Penny tops our glasses off, shaking her head, blinking rapidly. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Penny finally says, winking at us again before she turns to wipe the counters on the other side of the bar, still shaking her head. 

Phoenix is grinning at me, still biting her lip as she tucks a piece of loose hair behind her ear. Her veil, the short tulle one that Bob doled out on the ride over, is secured evenly and carefully in her dark locks. It is pristine and white, a stark contrast from her dark hair and tanned skin, both of which have been kissed by the Florida sun. 

“Finish your drink,” she encourages again, nodding to my glass, “then we’ll hit the jukebox.”

“That’s an order, lieutenant,” Bob says coolly from behind me, reaching up to smooth his own veil that persists in sliding from its place in his fine, sun-streaked locks, “Phoenix, is my veil lopsided?”

Phoenix cranes her neck to look at Bob as I tilt my head back and finish my glass. The bubbles are racing up my nostrils and straight to the throbbing vein that crosses the bridge of my nose. Phoenix shakes her head, slinking out of her stool. 

“Let’s roll,” Phoenix grins, nodding in the direction of the jukebox.  

We all stand, muscles unfolding beneath our skin, perfumed with the sweet scent of cinnamon gum and Nivea and clean baby. Phoenix is grinning, looking out across the barren dance floor, holding one of my hands in hers. 

“Bride-to-be coming through,” Phoenix calls, despite precisely nobody being in our way, “make way!” 

Bob laughs from behind, moving his hands to rest on my shoulders. 

“Bridal train,” Bob calls, “and we have precious cargo!”

At their outbursts, a series of laughter and good-natured whistling elicites from the gathering crowd. A few people raise their drinks, grinning. Others give a few claps of recognition. Some give an ow-ow! or slight cheer, which makes the tips of my ears redden. I think I’m too tipsy to care all that much, though--can’t contain my grin, my pink cheeks.

But then suddenly, Phoenix stops dead in her tracks, her swinging hair stilling with a final thwack and her veil stuttering in its place, slightly askew. Her hands move to hold high on her hips, and even though I can’t see her face, I know her lips are pouting. 

“Looks like we’ve got company,” she says finally, glancing over her shoulder at me and Bob as we move to step beside her.

Maverick has just walked into The Hard Deck, the door still swinging behind him. He’s tan and his hair is gelled and he’s wearing his leather bomber, sunglasses still on. 

He sees us the exact moment we see him--grin stammering before dissipating entirely. And it’s when I squint, tilting my head, that I notice that he has a stick-on mustache above his top lip--the kind that kid’s buy for a quarter in Mexican restaurants.  

“Well, shit,” he mumbles, sucking a sharp breath in through his teeth, moving to place his hands on his hips too.

“Well, shit is right, Captain,” Phoenix says, though she’s crossing the wide-plank floors with a smile adorning her face, “you’re in enemy territory.”

Maverick smiles, sighing, opening his mouth to speak before the door swings wide open and reveals Hangman and Rooster. They saunter through the doors with identical grins, chuckles dying in their throats when they see all of us there seemingly waiting for them. 

Rooster and I find each other’s eyes instantaneously, like we are always looking for each other, like we knew this would happen, like we’ve planned this. And when we see each other, when his brown eyes find mine, it makes me want to lay down on the floor there and wait to be held. It makes me want to kneel before him and repent, his name falling off my lips hotly, uttering it like a little private prayer. 

It’s silly, really, because we only saw each other two hours ago when he loaded all of us in the Uber and waved us off at the end of the driveway. But now any amount of time without him beside me, fingers against the slope of my shoulder or foot laying sweetly beneath mine, feels gargantuan. 

His face is beautiful--that is something undeniable, indisputable. The scars across his cheek and chin, the sunkissed skin, the strong nose and pouted lips--these are all things that make my knees buckle. 

But more than that, when I see his face, it feels like walking into a place that is almost-forgotten, but treasured. It feels like I just walked into my kindergarten classroom as an adult woman and it still smells the way I remember it. It feels like I just walked into Maggie’s old apartment, the one that I cleaned out with Bob, and all her stuff is still there waiting for her to come back to. It’s a feeling that consumes me each time I look at him--when his joyous profile is backlit by the California sun on the patio, when I walk upstairs with brown paper bags against my chest and he’s sleeping on the couch with his mouth wet and wide, when we meet in the hallway of our shared offices at the end of a long Thursday--and I know that it is a feeling that I will always submit to. 

“If it ain’t our darlin’ Faye,” Hangman starts, grin molding around the faux-furry sticker beneath his nose, “and Phoenix and Bob.”

I glance at him--he winks in that way he does sometimes, when it’s lightning-fast, when I know I’m the only one that’s seen it. 

“Didn’t think to ask the ladies where we’re having the bachelorette party?” Phoenix asks Maverick, crossing her arms over her chest.  

“Yeah,” Bob agrees, voice thin, “should’ve asked us.”

Maverick sheepishly combs his fingers through his hair before letting his hands fall to his thighs, sighing.

“My wife owns this bar,” he defends defeatedly. 

Bob scoffs. 

“Get a new line, buddy,” Bob says with a chuckle. 

Phoenix nods sharply. 

Maverick sighs, glancing back at Hangman and Rooster, biting his lip before he meets my eyes. His gaze feels like a sorry, kid.   

“We could go--!” 

I shake my head, the vein over my nose throbbing. 

But I’m smiling, moving closer to Bradley as he moves closer to me with that loved-up glaze over his eyes. 

“No,” I say, “crash my bachelorette party, I don’t mind. Really!”

Hangman grins, moving closer to me so he can pat me on the shoulder. He lets his hand linger there so he can squeeze me, fingers expanding over my bare skin. His touch is different than Bob’s--it is tighter, closer, more broad. His index finger draws a few lazy circles on my skin. 

I look up at him and he’s looking down at me, green eyes shining. 

“There’s a joke in there somewhere about hen parties and roosters,” he says, coming forward to press a hasty kiss to my temple, which he does every time he sees me now, “good to see you, sugar plum.”

“You, too,” I say back pertly, smiling.

“You wanna impede on Faye’s last night as a free woman, Rooster?”

Maverick says this with a teasing lilt in his voice, cocking his head as Rooster presses Phoenix into a one-armed hug, a grin tugging at his lips. 

Hangman is still standing with his hands on my shoulders, his fingers dancing over my skin. I pretend not to notice it, pretend like this is something he’s doing absently because he considers me a very close friend. I’m pretending like I can’t feel the tightness of his chest or the perspiration cupping in his palms. 

“That’s a little regressive,” Bob says, moving in to hug Bradley, too--a short, quick hug.

A sound of agreement vibrates from Hangman’s chest.

“Yeah, he’s not holding her hostage,” he agrees, quirking a brow at Bradley, who’s smiling down at me, “unless you two aren’t telling us something.”

Bob turns, still standing beside Rooster, his veil somehow more lopsided now than it was only a moment ago. 

He tilts his head, eyebrows coming together, as he lets his eyes wash over Jake. 

“Hangman’s a purveyor of women’s rights,” I say softly, glancing at Hangman through my lashes, “at least he considers himself to be.”

Jake laughs--it’s a throaty, saran-wrapped laugh. 

His hands move from the tops of my shoulders to the sides of my arms as he falls in-step behind me. Each time he breathes, his chest grazes my bare back. It is not an unwelcome touch, not even an unfamiliar touch--but one that makes my throat tight. His hands are much softer than Bradley’s, but not softer than Bob’s. 

The vein over my nose pulses again.  

“Alright, kids,” Maverick chuckles, patting Bradley’s shoulder, “if you’d please excuse me, I’m gonna go get chewed out by my wife.”

“See you on the other side, Mav,” Bob calls, nodding.

That’s when I notice that Rooster isn’t playing along--he’s not jibing, quipping, retorting, laughing. No, he’s just standing there, a few steps farther from me than Jake and he’s watching me. His eyes are swimming as he gazes at me, the color of amber. He’s looking at the low cut of my dress, the way the material presses into my skin. He’s looking at my collarbones and the freckles on my throat. It’s when his eyes wash over my bare shoulders, at the valley of my breasts, that I think he registers that I’m not wearing a bra. 

He stiffens, grin broadening, but doesn’t say anything yet.

“Y’look gorgeous, sugar plum,” Jake says from above me, chest vibrating against the column of my spine, “pink’s your color.”

“It’s that whole blushing bride thing,” I say politely, but I don’t move my eyes from Rooster, “now, be a doll and get me another glass of champagne.”

Jake tuts, squeezing me again. 

“Yes, ma’am!”

I’m moving towards Bradley not a moment after Jake’s hands fall from my shoulders, feet pointing the direction of home as Rooster and I near each other. I can smell him from here--freshly showered and lathered in ginger soap, radiating that sweet sharp scent that is naturally occurring in his being--and it makes all the muscles in my shoulders slacken.

Our wedding party falls into each other around us as they argue good-naturedly about roles and regulations and communication, about what the fuck that is on your lip, Bagman and about wedding traditions. They melt into the floor, into the walls, into the sunset until their voices are indiscernible from the crowd surrounding us. 

“Hey, tramp,” I whisper, crossing one foot in front of the other, “couldn’t stay away, huh?”

He’s finally close enough to touch me. He licks his lips, reaching up suddenly to smooth his fingers over the tulle pinned in my hair. Then he’s beaming, eyes drifting over my nose and mouth and finally to the top of my head where the short, white veil is perched.

“This,” he comments quietly, only loud enough for me to hear, “will be the death of me.”

It makes heat bloom between my legs, makes me press my thighs together, makes my throat flush with want. 

“The veil?”

As if I really need to ask.  

He nods, pink tongue darting out to lick his lips again, fingers still delicately petting my veil and the hair it's nestled in. 

“Getting hot and bothered at bridal headwear,” I tease, “that’s so you.” 

And I’m smiling and he’s chuckling, but it’s true. 

He likes me to wear my ring--only my ring--when we make love. He dutifully unclasps my moon earrings and my necklace, flaking kisses over my blushed skin, then carefully strips me until I am entirely bare except for the fourth finger on my left hand. And when we are chest to chest and he’s rocking his hips into mine, our fingers tightly entwined, he’ll sometimes kiss my ring finger--his lips wet, a groan caught in his throat.

I press my thighs together so tightly that they start to ache.  

He sighs, tugging on the ends of my hair before his eyes finally fall to mine. He holds me there in his gaze before he presses himself against me. We’re so close that our chests are kissing, his thigh slotted between my own. He’s holding my hips and I’m carefully twirling the sandy curls at the nape of his neck, smiling up at him despite how hard it feels to breathe suddenly. 

“Y’look fuckin’ perfect,” he whispers, breath fanning over my the apples of my cheeks and the end of my nose, “what’re you wearing under that dress, baby?”

Heat is pooling again, pooling in a big, bad way. My throat is tight, getting tighter, as I press his thigh between mine. 

“Nothing,” I whisper back, pressing a soft kiss to his chin.

His lips are parted, the corners still turned up. His pupils grow as he brings a calloused hand up to my face, stroking gently over my cheek before grazing the veil again.

He kisses my cheek, lips familiar and sweet. He kisses a line all the way to my ear, which he very softly takes between his teeth before whispering, “The veil stays on tonight.”

Oh, fuck.  

And before I can respond, before I can even take a moment to compose myself and lengthen my breathing, he pulls back with a lopsided grin. Now he’s holding my shoulders like Jake was before, thumbs stroking identically on either arm. 

“Gimme some sugar,” he all but purrs, pressing his lips to mine, fingers curling into my flesh. 

The kiss is sweet, short. Just his solid skin beneath my hands is enough to make me feel like I’ve finished a few bottles of champagne entirely on my own, enough to make me feel like my steps are fluttering.

“Hangman’s staring at you,” he mumbles against my lips, chuckling, sighing.

It isn’t that he is jealous--because he is not, could never be, would never be. There is that string between us, attached to our bodies and skin, that tethers us together everywhere we go. We know, know without having an explicit discussion about it, that we are it for each other. That everything else around us will wither with time like the petals of a cut flower, wilting in muddled water.  

I pull back, clearing my throat, pretending like I suddenly don’t feel like I’m at a full-blown, sloppy 10 right now. 

“Isn’t he always?”

“C’mon,” Hangman calls across the bar, like he can hear us, “time for shots!”

“S’cuse us, bride and groom coming through,” Rooster announces as we navigate the bodies busying the bar, “pardon us, just trying to get back to our wedding party!”

People are clapping Rooster on the back now, shaking his hand, and he’s all grins from his spot behind me. He is squeezing my hips and nodding his head, voice raspy as he makes several more unnecessary announcements about our nuptials. 

Feel free to stop by, we’ll have an open bar! I know what you’re thinking--yes, I am a lucky guy! Knew I wanted to marry her the first time I saw her! You know, I actually proposed in my childhood h0me--! 

“Rooster,” I warn, biting a grin, “you’ve gotta stop inviting strangers to the wedding!” 

He looks as giddy as a child on Christmas morning, a big toothy grin spread across his face and pressing into his rosy cheeks. 

“Just can’t help myself, honey,” he whines, “I’ve gotta show you off!”

My heart is swelling. But I still raise my brow, biting down hard on my lip.

Fuck, that dopey, lovely, gooey grin on his lips is melting me. 

My lungs feel like dough, malleable and soft, full of fingerprints and dusted with flour. Someone could pull my lungs out of my chest and roll them out on a counter with ease. 

“Always knew I’d be some old man’s arm candy,” I tease, sighing. 

He pinches my hips and I have to stifle a squeak. 

“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble, little lady,” he grins, pressing a quick kiss to the back of my head, against my veil. 

There’s that heat again--pooling, pooling between my bare thighs.   

He loves to tell people that we are engaged, that we are getting married on the Saturday before Valentine’s Day--a date he picked, marking it on every paper calendar with a crudely-drawn heart. He bought two paper calendars to keep at home, just for the sake of a physical reminder: one hanging in our bathroom and one hanging on our fridge--each adorned with vintage-style portraits of cats. 

He’s told every person that runs our most frequented stands at the farmer’s market, holding cucumbers in one hand and mine in the other as he shows my ring to the elderly women, pointing out which pieces were his mother’s and which pieces he picked himself. Proudly, he tells the swooning women that he knew he was going to marry me from the start of it all--letting them pinch his cheeks and tell me how darn-right lucky I am to have him.  

 Every barista in the tri-state area knows the story of his proposal, Rooster telling the story with an admirable reverence each and every time--tireless, excitable. Sometimes, I will walk into a coffee shop and the barista will recognize me. It’s usually a show of furrowed eyebrows and chin-tapping before they ask me if my fiancee is t hat guy with a pornstache who orders his lattes breve with extra sweetener? And then I’ll blush and say yes and they’ll ask me if my name is Faye and we’ll have a good-hearted laugh as they tell me about my fiance’s most adorable exuberance.   

 Late last September, I was sitting in my office when he knocked, his face broken out in an all-consuming grin. There, trailing behind him like a row of misguided ducklings, was the Top Gun class he instructed. Rooster had simply held his hand out towards me and I gave in immediately, leaning against the doorframe, trying not to blush as he had every member individually come on over and take a gander at this ring, everybody. Say hello to the pretty lieutenant wearing it, too! 

I’m flushed under everyone’s delighted gaze when we fall into place at the bar. My face is impossibly warmer now, a blush creeping up through my chest and staining my cheeks. It still makes me flush to think about tomorrow--about walking down the aisle, kissing beneath the San Diego sun, slow-dancing on the brick patio, about toasting with all of our friends.  

Now I’m flanked by Hangman and Rooster and they’re both grinning below their mustaches, both offering to order me shots simultaneously then glancing at each other over my head. 

“Leave me out of this,” I quietly tell them, smiling sweetly.  

“So, how is the lady of the hour?”

It’s Maverick that asks from his spot by Bob, his mustache lopsided, his grin on the verge of shit-eating. He’s looking at me now, pushing his aviators up into his inky hair. 

“Cool as a cucumber,” Bob answers for me, distributing champagne flutes while Phoenix doles out shots of tequila, “have you ever seen a more relaxed bride?”

Rooster squeezes my hip, then leaves his hand there, his palm warm against the fabric of my dress. 

I wonder what I must feel like in this dress, under his touch--my skin plush and pressed against the thin satin. It’s thin enough that he must feel the warmth of my hip blooming against his palm, he must feel the nakedness of my skin. 

We are so very near touching skin-to-skin that I’m starting to ache--a deep ache that makes my legs hurt. 

“That’s a good sign, right?” Maverick asks. 

I nod.

Hangman makes a show of shrugging, twisting the stem of his champagne flute between his index finger and thumb, frowning.

“Yes,” Hangman says, “or she’s been trained to remain calm under pressure. Like for a career or somethin’ like that.”

I tut and Hangman grins. 

Another squeeze on my hip from Rooster, but his chest is rumbling with a chuckle as he brings the champagne to his lips. 

“Oh, she’s totally smitten,” Penny says, winking at me, “aren’t you?”

“How could I not be?”

“Let’s get drunk now, yeah?” Hangman says suddenly and severely, already tipping his champagne flute backwards and down, down, down his throat.

“Should we toast?” 

It’s Phoenix who asks, her sculpted brow perched, her lip curled. She’s already holding her flute in the air around us, glancing around at all of our flaxen faces, at our veils, at the faux staches. 

Rooster’s thumb is methodically stroking my hip, never stuttering or snagging on panties. That makes me flush, too. No panties to get snagged on. It’s just a smooth, fluid movement as he holds me against him, his chest solid against my shoulder and his arm tight around me. 

“To the bride and groom,” Penny offers, her smile soft and sweet. 

Maverick smoothes his fingers over his stache and then holds his own glass up. 

“To Rooster and his hen,” Maverick echoes, grinning.

“Oh, Pete,” Penny chastises, “I might ring the bell for that one.”

He shrugs, grinning. 

“I’ve had that in the chamber for months,” he admits.  

I wish I could roll my eyes, I do. But I can’t. I am just grinning, my cheeks round and pink, my wet lips curled around my teeth, my eyes crinkled. 

When Rooster laughs, it puffs my veil in a gust of hot breath. The skin on the back of my neck gooses. 

“To Faye and her fella,” Bob says with his eyebrows raised, his veil is lopsided again.

Penny nods, winking at Bob, holding her glass up towards him. 

“Now, that’s more like it,” she grins at Bob.

I am suddenly so giddy all over again. My heart is sitting in my throat, warm and safe, pulsing. 

Rooster squeezes my hip and I fall back into him, leaning my head back ever-so-lightly against his shoulder.

Being held by him feels like raking a pile of leaves in the front yard of my childhood home, laboring and scurrying with an oversized rake, then jumping into them in the frigid air--hands up, mouth wide open. It’s that split second when all I can smell is that damp rankness of decayed leaves, that sharp peppery smell of earth and death and everything in between. It’s like being held there, the sun shining high and bright in an endless autumn sky. It’s like staying there, the light breaking through the muddled leaves, my gloves handmade and my coat too big and my hair ratty. Being held by him feels like that--all abandonment, all hard work, all blind trust in the solid ground and flimsy barrier between me and the earth. 

“To true love,” Phoenix adds, smiling sweetly, batting her lashes mockingly.

If anyone is able to soften her, it is the people closest to her, the people she loves so severely and thoroughly. She is plush in certain places, the places that she keeps her friends. I know she keeps me and Rooster there, tucking us close, tucking us in.

“Aw, Phoenix,” Bob grins, elbowing her softly, “you’ve gone gooey!”   

I’m laughing, still leaning into Bradley, tickled. 

But then I see it. Hangman is still beside us, his eyes untrained and distant as he gazes past the bar, his mustache perched above his lip, his glass still resting on the bartop as he pinches the stem lazily.

Fuck.  

If the champagne isn’t already making my face hot--my face is fiery now. 

Being engaged hadn’t changed very much for Hangman--not really, no. We’d seen him--really, seen the whole squadron--only sparsely since getting engaged. The first time he saw us, he shook Rooster’s hand, whistled at my ring, congratulated us--did all the things that he was supposed to do. But still, he’d texted me a few times at random intervals, sometimes after midnight and sometimes in the middle of the day, asking me to talk him out of it. That was the phrase he used--ambiguous to any outsider in the conversation, something only we understood, our accidental secret language. I always sent something back, a few sentences. I don’t like red wine. I think zero-sugar soda tastes better. I could eat a tomato like an apple. I truly dislike every film adaptation of Wuthering Heights. And he would usually send the same response each time: Futile. One word, that’s all.

But we are friends--we are good friends. I am someone he calls when he has a question about flowers or baking. He calls me when he needs a rom-com recommendation for a date or when he can’t remember the name of the book with that guy who does that thing and that lady that can’t get there. He calls me when he’s had a very bad day, usually between his second and third bourbon. When he’s had these days, I know not to ask about it because he doesn’t want to talk about it--doesn’t care to. His tell, besides the bourbon-induced enhancement of his Southern drawl, is that he always asks all about my day during these calls on his very bad days.

“Tell me ‘bout your day, sugar plum,” he’ll say, slightly inebriated and severely Texan, “and tell it to me straight. I can handle it.”

Subsequently, I call him sometimes, too. I call him whenever the Longhorns win to congratulate him personally. I call him whenever Die Hard is playing on TV so I can tell him what channel it’s on. I call him whenever I have a question about Willie Nelson or Johnny Cash, which is more often than I ever thought possible. I call him when I want to buy Bradley a nice alcohol and don’t know where to start. Sometimes I will call him and ask for a Crimson and Clover story--and that is usually when I’m between my second and third tequila lavender limeade and Rooster is busy beating all his students in pool.

Now, we are all waiting for him to say something, to add something--anything at all. 

But it isn’t until Phoenix nudges him, her eyebrows pulled together slightly, that he sucks in a breath and comes back into his body.

When he angles his face towards me, all gold-tinted shadows and creases and unblemished skin, he smiles a very charming smile. But his eyes are swimming, the shade of a strawberry stem, and the skin beside his eyes is smooth and uncrinkled--joyless. 

There is just one moment when I’m watching him and he’s watching me, one moment where I see him and he knows that I see him. And then he’s bringing his glass up, letting his eyes fall to Rooster and his body against mine. 

“To the happy couple,” he says, his voice thick and deep. 

And then we all lift our champagne in the air and it is suspended for a long moment, all our pink bubbles racing to the top, all our hearts swollen and our faces smiling. Then we clink and it’s all so sweet-sounding, my love for Rooster being toasted so carefully by the people here that matter the most. 

Our jaws flex, our throats open, our bellies slosh as we empty our flutes. 

Hangman, wiping the back of his hand against his damp mustache, grins. Then he points at Bob, who is settling his empty glass down on the bartop beside Maverick’s. 

“Bob, your veil is crooked,” he laughs. 

Bob, cheeks suddenly rosy, sighs and blindly reaches up to grab at the mess of tulle haphazardly nestled in his hair. 

“How embarrassing,” he mutters. 

Phoenix cackles, hair fanning out over her thin straps, before she carefully reaches over to Bob. Bob submits instantaneously, hand falling onto the bartop uselessly as Phoenix tuts and reattaches the stubborn headpiece. 

“Beauty is pain,” Bob sighs again, glancing between Penny, Phoenix, and I, “right, ladies?”

It makes me laugh--the kind of laugh that vibrates my chest and makes my lips stretch. It springs from my throat and falls out of my mouth easily. It is a laugh that I didn’t laugh for a very long time after my sister died, a laugh that I had forgotten all about until it was coaxed from me between screaming jets and fistfuls of quarters.

Everyone else is laughing, too. Penny’s already pouring more champagne. Phoenix is rolling her eyes good-naturedly, her hand resting in the middle of Bob’s back. Hangman has his arms crossed now, shaking his head softly. And Rooster’s chest is rumbling against my shoulder, his grip on my hip lazy and sweet, but wholly intoxicating. 

It hurts very suddenly--my chest tightening, heart squeezed in a fist, palms aching. Maggie would have loved that joke-- she loved anything Bob did, loved it when he finally grew comfortable enough to quip and lip.

I can see her now, tucked between me and Hangman, her veil glowing against her dirty-blonde hair and her perpetually-tanned skin. She would have been corralling the crowd right alongside Rooster, announcing my marriage, happily and hastily indulging stranger’s offers of free drinks. But Maggie was better at planning things than sweet Bob--she would’ve laid out a plan for Maverick, telling him to stay far away from The Hard Deck. As much as she would have loved Rooster, she would make entirely sure that the night before my wedding was spent alone with her and our friends. We would’ve danced between games of pool and darts, between stepping out front to catch a breath, between tip-toed trips to the bar.   

It would be at the end of the night, when we would be all nice and liquored up, that she would get emotional. She would make sure that Bob and Phoenix were too drunk to notice, all of us crammed into the back of a noiseless Uber with the windows down, our veils billowing in the breeze as our sweat-slicked skin dried in the nighttime air. She would gaze at me with that sweet, sad look; the one that made her bottom lip quiver and her eyes widen, the one that made her cheeks pale and her throat flush. And then she would smile and it would be a wet smile, one that accompanied tears in the corners of her big eyes. She would tell me quietly, blinking rapidly and swallowing thickly, that there would not be a her without a me. And I would be drunk, maybe too drunk to lift my head, but I would lay against her shoulder and just stay there and pretend like she wasn’t wetting my veil with her tears. And she would let me lay there, pretending like she wasn’t crying.  

If Maggie were here, if she never died, then we would even sleep in the same bed tonight. We would snuggle in my bed, and she would complain that it smells like Rooster and I would grin. And then we would fall asleep at the same time, the way we used to when we were little enough to be carried to bed together in our father’s arms, curled into ourselves and facing each other. And maybe Rooster would stumble in very late, blinking through the dark, squinting at his side of the bed that would be occupied with my older sister. He would be good about it, would just pepper a sweet kiss to the side of my face before he would move to sleep on the couch.  

Rooster kisses the side of my head again, breath warm, pulling me closer to him. I think he wants to settle the wrinkle between my brows, understands that I am faraway, wants to bring me back to him.  

“Y’make me so happy,” Rooster suddenly whispers, kissing the side of my head, pulling me against him tighter, “can’t wait to marry you, baby.”

The bar is alive all around us. Our glasses are full and paid for three times over. Our friends are laughing, their teeth barring as they tilt their heads back and clap each other’s shoulders. The doors swing open every few minutes as more Navymen waltz in, eliciting good-natured chiding and grinning from the gathering crowd. Pool balls clack beneath the insistence of some subpar, tipsy uniforms. My sister is not here, her chipped teeth on display, the freckles dusting her nose glowing in the dim lighting. 

But it’s okay--it’s okay. I can do these things without her, can keep breathing this air that never touched her, love this man that she never met. I can laugh at jokes she would have liked and I can be friends with women that remind me of her. I can have a bachelorette party without her and drink this champagne, can dance without her taking polaroids of me. I can walk down the aisle tomorrow, a lone speck of flowing white dress and flowered hair, and get married. I can do these things, can keep pushing forward, because it is what she would fervently insist on. 

“Not much longer now,” I whisper back, craning my neck to look up at him. 

He’s already looking down at me, eyes soft and warm, smile wide but serene. His hand leaves my hip, comes to cup my cheek, rough thumb gingerly ghosting over my bottom lip. A tingle, one that curls my toes and flutters my lashes, tickles my spine.

The vein over my nose pulses. I love him I love him I love him I love him.  

“Cold feet?” 

I bite my lip, sighing softly, my chest expanding. 

I take a long look at his face painted the color between yellow and gold--just his soft gaze makes me feel drunk. Like bubbles are tickling my tongue, coating my throat, sinking down to my toes. I wiggle them inside my heels--just for good measure. No, not cold. Toasty warm.  

“Not even a little,” I return, kissing his thumb softly.

Hangman’s familiar gaze is burning my blushed cheek. He’s looking at Rooster when I face the bar again, mind still humming, reeling just from Bradley’s thumb on my lips, from just looking at him painted in the dying light.

“What about you, Rooster,” he asks softly, pressing down on his wayward mustache again, “nervous?”

Phoenix is eyeing Hangman, her lips pursed tightly. She finds my eyes and I shrug in a small way, rolling my eyes. It’s fine, I’m saying without really saying, Hangman will be Hangman. And she nods, mirroring my eyeroll, taking a long sip of champagne as Bob watches us with a small smile .  

Common ground. His girls.  

Bob can’t contain himself--he puts a friendly arm over Phoenix’s shoulders, throws a delighted grin in my direction. 

Bob still evokes a distinct maternal feeling from deep within my chest whenever we look at each other. It’s the same feeling I had on the carrier, saying goodbye to him before the Uranium detachment, when I told him to come back to me. He is the closest I have ever had to a brother, the closest friend I had during undergraduate and the Academy. And now, now even though he looks like a more full version of himself with wider shoulders and scruffier cheeks--he’s still my baby. He’s still my best friend.   

I can feel Rooster’s smile above me, can feel his blissful breaths, can feel the warmth spreading through his limbs. He locks an arm around my waist again, burying his nose in my hair as he kisses my head through my veil again. His lips are soft and wet, his breath hot. 

He shakes his head, squeezing my belly gently. 

“Look at her,” Rooster remarks, gesturing to me, “how could I be?”

Hangman is already looking at me, his smile one that is beginning to falter. He is looking at me much too softly, much too carefully, eyes falling from my own to my lips and nose and chin and throat and the flat part of my chest where my necklace is a dot of gold and opal against my bare skin. Maybe he’s thinking about how perfectly it rests there, thinking about how it’s a marker for the exact spot where his palm sat as he guided my rapid breaths. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m wondering about it.  

“You’d have to be an idiot,” Hangman says, shrugging, eyes lingering on my pendant, “and blind. Profoundly blind.” 

My belly aches. My spit feels thick as honey as I swallow, carefully moving to hold my pendant between my fingers. That’s when Jake looks up finally--when he gives me a small grin.

Friends, I’m telling him with my measured gaze, friends, only friends, just friends. 

But maybe we aren’t close enough to share that unspoken language between friends, that one I’ve adapted between quirked brows and bitten bottom lips.   

“You two flatter me,” I say primly, sighing.

Another squeeze from Rooster. 

That invisible string tightens, pulls me closer to him, to his solidness between my shoulderblades.  

Maverick holds his shot glass up and tips it towards Rooster and I again before downing it swiftly.

“Hold your horses, old man,” Rooster chuckles, scrambling to press a tequila shot into my palm.

Once we are all warm with champagne and tequila, when we are all catching our breaths and sucking lime pulp from our teeth, it is suddenly too quiet within our group. Rooster is holding me close to him, chin resting on my head. Hangman is fingering the rim of his beer bottle, eyes glazed.  

Bob breaks the silence. 

“What’s everyone at?”

“Six,” I say, blood rushing to my cheeks, “close to seven, maybe.” 

Bob’s smiling. 

“Five,” Phoenix answers decidedly, eyes narrowed. 

“I’m with Faye this time,” Bob says, sighing, taking another sip from his glass.

Hangman and Rooster seem to register what we’re doing. Rooster nudges Hangman very softly and from below, I can feel his grin. It’s very wide and warm--his breath smells like limes now.

“Gotta play catch-up,” he says, “can’t let the ladies have all the fun.”

Bob doesn’t correct Rooster--instead he takes the title with grace, smiling with his nose in the air, his chin tilted proudly. Bob likes nothing more than to be included.

Hangman grins again, the glaze dissipating across his eyes. 

“Sure thing, Bradshaw,” he agrees, signaling another round of shots for the groom's party, “let’s get to it.”

Phoenix finds my eyes, biting a grin, cheeks rosy. She’s good at doing this--reading the room, finding my face, good at pulling me away from the boys and into her. We’re friends now--good enough friends to text almost everyday, sending each other pictures of new ice cream flavors at the supermarket and songs that remind us of each other. Only last week, before she came to town, she sent me Heaven or Las Vegas by The Cocteau Twins after I sent her Sledgehammer by Peter Gabriel.

“Let’s dance,” she calls out to me, grinning. 

Rooster, as if on cue, pulls a palmful of quarters from his pocket and drops them into my palm. He presses another long kiss to the side of my head, gripping my hips. He pats my rear slyly, cupping me as I step forward. 

“Give ‘em Hell, baby,” he grins. 

“Yes, sir,” I wink, saluting, taking Bob’s hand in mine as we start towards the floor. 

Maverick, Hangman, Rooster, and Penny are watching us as we slink towards the jukebox again, smiles lingering on their lips, faces friendly and slacked. We leave them there to catch up and I catch Rooster’s eyes one more time, sending him a fleeting wink, as Bob guides my stuttering feet to Phoenix. 

We dance for a long, long while as our veils skew in our flailing hair. We are fielding congratulatory shoulder pats from overly-friendly locals, creatively shimmying past anybody that accompanies us on the dance floor. Bob’s pockets are housing the quarters and he escorts me to the jukebox between trips to the bar, catching his breath as I select songs. Once the men join us, the energy shifts from excited to downright giddy--the men singing crudely under their wet mustaches, hands large on our waists, hair mussed.

The champagne flows freely and beer and cherry wine slosh onto the pool table, empty glasses towering higher and higher with each hour that passes us. Perspiration gathers on our hairlines, especially when the dance floor clogs with passersby and patrons sharing in our glee. 

And all night, as I steadily climb from a six to an eight, I am just blindingly happy. It is the kind of happy that is indiscernible from that sweet spot between wasted and blackout drunk, when my limbs are numb but my chest is warm and my belly is full. It’s when my vision is blurry and my speech is slurring and I’m hiccupping, when I’m being twirled from one pair of aviator’s arms to the other, that I really truly realize how indisputably happy I am. 

We are all giddy--on the cusp of a great change. Come tomorrow, I will be a married woman. I will make Rooster a husband. He will make me a wife. My name will be lengthened in a most ceremonious way. I will be Faye Leona Ledger-Bradshaw. There will be another Bradshaw in the world tomorrow --or when my paperwork is finalized.  

“Faye Bradshaw,” Phoenix grins in my arms, chewing the name with her nose scrunched and her hair flailing around her in strains of dark ribbon, “sounds like you’re about to drop the hottest country album of the year!”

Boogie Wonderland by Earth, Wind, and Fire is pulsing through the bar.

Everybody is singing along, elongating notes, stomping offbeat and tumbling over each other, spilling their drinks and throwing their jackets to the side--it’s so loud that Phoenix has to shout, lips attached to the shell of my ear. 

“Ha-ha,” I grin back, “I’m stuck on the title. Any suggestions?”

Phoenix thinks so hard that one of her eyes drops in an involuntary wink, her mouth puckered, her cheeks flushed. All around us, we are being danced on and around--a sea of sweaty bodies holding us in place clutching each other. She’s warm pressed against me.

“Flea-bitten Faye’s Folk Songs,” she finally answers, laughing with her mouth wide open and pressed to my ear. 

“Hey, that’s good,” I call back, feeling drunker than before as giggles fall from my parted lips, “you came up with that just now?”

“Yeah!”

“Color me impressed, Nix!”

She grins and I take her warm hands in mine and spin her around a few times, her velvet reflecting the lights above us with a blue reverence, the crowd around us hardly parting as she throws her open arms around her.

When I pull her into me again, we accidentally fall into each other, chests colliding. And then we’re giggling all over again, sweaty hands still clasped as we try to half-heartedly fix each other’s veils. 

“You two are a mess,” Bob suddenly calls from beside us, his very own sloppy grin eating his face as he breaks through the crowd to stand beside us, “drunken skunks!”

Phoenix shakes her head at Bob, stumbling to her tip-toes to put a faux-indignant finger in the middle of his chest. 

“Oh , wizzo,” she starts with a chuckle, “if I was drunk--could I do this?” 

We wait for a moment--she doesn’t move, stays in her spot with her pointer finger buried in Bob’s chest, her lips puckered, her eyes glossy, her cheeks red, her hair messy.

“I think so?” Bob says, eyebrows furrowing, “You didn’t do anything.”

She shrugs, falling back on her heels with mild difficulty. 

“Exactly,” she grins, crossing her arms, “you’ve been Traced, bitch!” 

“Phoenix!” 

It falls out of my mouth before I can stop it--I sound like a bewildered mother who’s just heard her toddler curse for the first time, all breath and pitch and red cheeks.  

Bob glances at me with a knowing grin, putting a hand on Phoenix’s shoulder to steady her in her place before him. 

“She gets like this when she’s drunk,” he tells me, “this ain’t my first time being Traced.”

She pats his chest, cocking her head, smirking. 

“Or your last!” 

And all night, as I am passed from Bob to Hangman to Rooster and to Maverick, my feet never even so much as catch a breeze. I am most sure about Rooster, more sure about him than I’ve been about anything in my life. Even as I glance at him from Maverick’s arms during I Say A Little Prayer , even as I watch him dance with his shirt unbuttoned and his aviators low on his nose, even just watching the blush across his cheeks as he twirls Phoenix--I am very, very sure about him. 

“He’s a good man,” Maverick says, smiling softly as he follows my gaze, “wish I could take credit for some of that.” 

  He is holding me very softly, only secure enough to keep me from tripping over my own feet. He smells of leather and cigar smoke and gasoline, which I think is permanently his scent--diffusing from his body at all times.

I smile at him, too, dragging my eyes away from Rooster. 

Maverick’s mustache is crooked above his lip, his t-shirt clinging to his shoulder where Bob accidentally spilled beer on him. He’s holding my hands politely as we dance. He’s sober--his hands are my guide, the solid ground I’m standing on. 

“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” I tell him, teasing, “just most of it.”

Maverick’s chest rumbles as he chuckles--it feels deep and loud. He finds my eyes again and I know that I must look very drunk, very happy. 

Everything is bleary. Everything feels good. 

I’ve been Traced three times to Bob’s four. 

Maverick nods softly and my heart pulses. 

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to him in a long time,” he tells me, suddenly somber, “you two are good for each other. You make him happy.”

I hiccup--a bubble of emotion bursting in my chest suddenly. It makes me feel tipsier, the love that pulses through me--Maverick’s words ringing inside my buzzing skull with Aretha Franklin.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice thin, “I really love him.”

As if it wasn’t already apparent--wildly apparent--to every person in the room. 

“Oh, I know,” Maverick grins, swiftly swiping an accidental tear from my cheek, “everybody does.”

“People keep telling me that,” I whisper, smiling softly. 

Maverick laughs again, smile bright. 

“Goose and Carole would’ve been in love with you,” he tells me, keeping his tone light and airy as we spin together, “especially Carole. God, she wouldn’t be able to get enough of you.”

That makes my throat ache. I understand it, understand how utterly gutting it is to know something so intrinsically but be unable to prove it because of the thin veil between the living and the dead. I believe Maverick--I do. I know that he believes it as firmly as I believe that Maggie would have adored Bradley, very thoroughly and completely. 

And that makes my eyes water again. 

“Well, I can’t get enough of their son,” I say and my voice cracks because I want to weep, “he’s the best person I’ve ever met.”

Maverick quietly rids my cheeks of a few more tears, not making a fuss, not making light of it. He’s smiling, his own eyes watery, his cheeks flushed. He squeezes my hands softly. 

“Funny,” he says, glancing at Rooster again, “he says the same thing about you, sweetheart.”

It’s after midnight--after Rooster beckoned me to him in the middle of the crowded bar by playing The Bridal March loudly, head tilted as he laughed, fingers skillfully thrusting the keys despite his intoxication--when Bob, Phoenix, Rooster, Hangman, and I tumble through the front door of my home. We are all giggles and crooked mustaches and veils, wet lips and flushed chests. 

The house is quiet and dark, but we all sigh in unison as we step onto the entryway tiles. It still smells like the perfume I spritzed on my skin before I left, like pink pepper and raspberry. And I know we all smell like The Hard Deck now--our skin stained with beer and champagne and sweat. 

Rooster is the first to slip his shoes off, the first to turn and smile at everyone else in the mostly-dark entryway. 

Him and I are the only ones that can navigate in the dark--the only ones that will be able to venture up the steps to the living room. This is his way of saying I’ve got it, baby. I’ve got it.  

“Shoes off,” Rooster instructs, slurring lightly, “I’ll hit the lights.”

“These boots might never come off,” Phoenix warns, half-moaning, half-laughing, “I had to suck my calves in to get them on.”

“What,” Hangman sputters, laughing, “how did you do that?”

Bob groans. 

“Bagman, you don’t know the first thing about womanhood,” he sighs, “you beautiful, stupid man.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” Hangman asks sweetly. 

I’m pressed against the front door, grinning, holding myself steady when Rooster finds me in the dark. He presses a short kiss to the crown of my hair before smoothing my veil again, his touch less focused and lazier now that he’s at an 8.9--which he announced to us just as we climbed out of the Uber.

“Happy wedding day, sweet thing,” he whispers to me, kissing the shell of my ear, “my gorgeous girl.”

I lock my hands around his neck for a moment, thumbs carefully stroking the edge of his curls. His skin is warm beneath my fingers and when I start to hoist myself up on my tip-toes, he ducks down and meets me halfway, wrapping his arms around my waist. 

It’s a sweet, sweet kiss--lazy and hungry and happy. 

We are getting married today.  

“Happy wedding day,” I mumble softly against his lips, biting a grin as his mustache lightly scratches my Cupid’s bow, “I love you.”

Then he leaves all of us hiccupping and giggling as we struggle with laces and zippers. It isn’t until Rooster successfully stumbles upstairs and flickers the living room lamps on that I can finally survey the lot of us, holding my heels in my hands.  

Bob and Hangman are resting with their backs against the other’s, their leather shoes discarded haphazardly before them, their socked feet stuttering as they sway lightly. They are most definitely drunk--especially Hangman, who was just drunk enough to offer me his lap when we found there were not enough seats in the Uber.    

Phoenix is falling onto the stairs, butt-first, before she extends her legs with a frown. She grips the wooden steps for leverage and then finds my eyes, hers distant and glossy, her smile wet. 

“Help,” she laughs, kicking her boots lightly, “I’m stuck.” 

Distantly, there is the small scratching sound of a match striking and I know Rooster is lighting candles while Bob and I kneel before Phoenix, each tugging a leather boot as she throws her head back laughing, knuckles white as she holds on.

“I think I’ve had a dream like this,” Hangman said, “but there was less clothing.”

Bob grins at Hangman over his shoulder. 

“You dream about me?” Bob teases, smiling sweetly. 

Rooster guffaws upstairs.

The tile is cold against my knees but I press myself into the floor further, knuckles white as I grip Phoenix’s thick heel. I can feel how warm her skin is even through the leather--her cheeks are flushed.  

“Hangman, come pick a record,” Rooster says, leaning over the landing to watch as Bob and I try again to tug off Phoenix's merciless boot. 

My sides are starting to ache from all that laughter--all that throat-vibrating, chest-hollowing laughter. And my cheeks are sore from grinning, my lips still stained with lavender syrup and pink bubbly. 

Hangman steps over and around Phoenix, staggering slightly and nearly tripping over her extended ankle before I reach out hastily and steady him, gripping his elbow with one hand while I hold Phoenix’s boot in my other.

“Y��alright?” I ask, furrowing my brow, swallowing hard.  

He throws me a grin, winking, regaining his posture. 

“Right as rain, sugar plum,” he moans, slinking his arm away, grasping my hand, “you?”

Then he brings my hand to his lips and presses a sloppy kiss to my knuckles--his lips are too hot, too wet. Yes, he kisses my forehead in greeting when he sees me, but it is still a measured kind of kiss--polite enough. It is the kind of kiss that wouldn’t make me bat an eye if someone other than Hangman insisted upon doing it each time. But this kiss now, as he’s standing in the stairwell, looking down at me--it feels different. It feels like the barrier that is between us has suddenly been seized and he’s taking advantage of the empty air around us now.

I drop his hand, shaking my head softly, the vein across my nose beginning to throb.

“I’m good, Jake,” I laugh, “now, pick something jaunty so we can pop a bottle of prosecco.” 

Another fleeting glance thrown over his shoulder, one where his smile is bright and his eyes are shining, one where his cheeks are pink and his gaze is broad. Then he is climbing the steps, gripping the handrail. 

Bob is doubled over, giggling, his glasses falling down his nose as he attempts to pull the boot again. Phoenix is groaning, eyes clamped shut, limbs much looser than usual as she grasps for purchase.

The boot will not budge.

The sight makes my heart swell. I love them so much--have missed them entirely too much since they’ve been gone. Want so badly to keep them here in my house, close to me, close to Rooster.  

I sigh, grinning, hands on my hips.

“These just might be your feet now, honey,” I tell her, tapping her heel.

“No,” she moans, “my bridesmaid dress won’t match!”

Bob releases her heel and straightens his back, his hands finding his hips identically.

“We might have to amputate,” he sighs, wiping his brow.   

“Put your back into it, Floyd,” Phoenix groans, “and pull your weight, Ledger! Can’t just stand there!”

“Sounds like someone’s gettin’ Traced down there,” Rooster calls from upstairs. 

I can hear that dopey grin, that chuckle sitting smoothly in his throat. 

And it’s such a stupid thing to say, such a stupid joke to make, but we are all grinning--even Phoenix, who’s sputtering through her ground teeth. Yes, I want to marry Rooster--I want to marry the idiot who calls down the stairs like this. 

It is less than an hour later when Rooster drags one of our kitchen chairs away from the table and into the living room, its worn legs groaning under its own weight, the sound nearly drowned out by the laughter echoing off the picture frames clogging the walls. This room is alive with love--lamplit and painted pink and orange. There are candles lit; green and blue taper candles dripping down to their brass holders and iris-scented candles in expensive clay-molded vessels. It’s warm in here--warm enough that Phoenix finally cracked a window, sighing when the nighttime air slid into the living room. 

Got To Give It Up by Marvin Gaye is thumping through the speakers--Jake’s pick.  

“Who’s first?”

I ask this very softly, my cheeks flooded with warmth. I am holding a hair of kitchen scissors in one hand and an almost-empty glass of prosecco in the other. I don’t remember who first brought up the idea of me cutting everyone’s hair--but I know that it was born from Jake’s complaint about not having time to get a trim before leaving North Carolina. 

Phoenix is stretched out on the couch, her feet resting in Bob’s lap as he lounges against the cushions. Hangman is sprawled on the floor before the sofa, leaning his head on Phoenix’s hip. Rooster is standing beside me, eyes heavy and lips wet.

We’re all smiling, still drunk, limbs heavy.

“Me,” Bob decides, carefully slinking out from under Phoenix’s feet, settling them on the couch as he stands, “nothing we haven’t done before, right?”

“It’ll be just like old times,” I whisper, handing Rooster my glass as he presses his lips to the side of my face shortly. 

Bob’s smiling in that friendly way, his eyes nearly disappearing as his closed lips curl, his cheeks pink. He smooths a hand through his locks as he falls into the kitchen chair, leaning back.

“Just a trim,” I whisper to Bob, patting his shoulder. 

Bob nods, head heavy as he leans back. 

“You ‘member how I like it?”

I hum, carefully raking my fingers through his silky locks after I disengage his veil. It’s still the longest I’ve seen his hair, curling by his ears. He groans very quietly, skull even heavier as he leans into my touch. 

“‘Course,” I whisper, “you were my best customer at Temple.”

He sighs, lips twitching. 

“Only customer,” he adds.

“Don’t forget that I’m holding scissors right now,” I mumble to him, smiling softly, chomping the scissors a few measly times to get my point across. 

Rooster and Hangman laugh from their spots on the floor. 

This is what Bob and I used to do in Philly, when he was too poor to afford a haircut and I loved him too much to say no. We would drag a chair into my kitchen--the only room in my apartment with tile--and lay ratty beach towels on the floor. He would pick a record--Elton John or Etta James or Dion--and then he would sit very still as I carefully trimmed his hair with dull kitchen scissors. He would lean into my touch when I compared symmetry and I would laugh and he would throw in an extra few dollars if I played with his hair. 

And now I’m doing it again, very early in the morning of my wedding, the night sky still wrapped around us. We are both older now, settled into our careers, settled into our friendships, living in different states. He can definitely afford a haircut now--could even go to a nice salon if he wanted to. Now the kitchen chair sits in my living room, which is not the only room in my house with hardwood floors, but the room with all my records. He didn’t get to pick the record, but our friend did. My kitchen scissors are sharp this time, probably double the price of the ones I owned during undergrad.

Carefully, I begin to trim his hair, my chest very warm and heavy, my eyes still bleary and soft. The light in here is golden and low, but it’s enough for me to navigate his familiar locks. 

“Isn’t this a full-circle moment,” Bob muses, eyes falling shut beneath his glasses, “you, me, a kitchen chair, and a pair of scissors?”

A fist wraps around my heart. 

“That’s the name of your porno,” Hangman quips. 

I tut, shooting him an amused glance as Rooster shakes his head. Hangman grins at me, his mustache finally discarded. Phoenix, who is half-asleep now, thumps Hangman in the back of the head. 

“Now you’re my man-of-honor,” I smile, pulling his hair between my fingers before I cut very carefully. 

“And you’re marrying my best friend,” Phoenix mumbles from her spot, muffled by the velvet sofa.  

Rooster pats her back gently and she smiles sleepily, eyes half-shut. 

“I think we’re losing her,” Hangman grins, “she’s calling Rooster her best friend.”

“Hey,” Phoenix whines, “he is my best friend. Chicken guy.”

“Ah,” Rooster chuckles, “there she is.” 

I nod, scissors still gliding through Bob’s hair gently. 

He doesn’t move an inch, but I know he’s grinning, too.  

“You sober enough to cut my hair next?” Jake asks softly. 

I nod again without breaking my gaze from Bob’s locks. 

“Then me,” Phoenix adds, voice low, “can’t forget ‘bout me.”

“Couldn’t forget about you,” I grin, shaking my head, “you, too, Bradley? Taming the mane?”

He’s looking at me from his spot on the floor, Stevie curled into his lap as he carefully scratches her head. She’s purring beneath the spinning record, leaning into Rooster’s touch. Bitch. Rooster’s eyes are hot on my cheek, watching as my expression glides from gleeful to serious while I gently cut. 

“Thought that was implied,” Rooster teases, “you know, saving the best for last and all that.”

Blindly, Phoenix reaches out and thumps Rooster on the back of the head.

“Sap,” she insists, sighing deeply.

There’s a beat where no one talks. 

Rooster rubs the back of his head with a smile still gracing his lips, Phoenix’s hand falling onto his shoulder good-naturedly. Hangman is watching us, still--watching the fragments of Bob’s hair fall onto the shoulders of Bob’s shirt.

“So,” Hangman grins, turning to Phoenix, “tell me more about Flea-bitten Faye.” 

“Well,” Phoenix sighs, eyes half-shut, “she’s only the fastest gunslinger in all of the West.”

And then the three of them are laughing, humming, chuckling.  

Phoenix is half-asleep in her spot, all her sentences muffled by her mouthful of couch. Rooster is nodding and Hangman is smirking. 

Phoenix is so much like Maggie right now--the main source of entertainment, the life of the party even when she’s half asleep. Even after coming home from the bar, Maggie would still read people’s palms and tell them their fortunes, pulling a pack of tarot out of her purse. She was the kind of person people would look to when they needed a laugh--needed something, anything to be reminded of the good nature of humans. 

“She’s just like Maggie sometimes,” I whisper to Bob, pink dusting my cheeks, “it’s uncanny.” 

“Wish Maggie was here,” Bob whispers to me softly, suddenly.

I’m the only one that hears him.  

I know he does. I do, too. She would’ve liked to have been here right now. 

She used to sit on the kitchen counter and watch me cut his hair, sometimes ripping a gasp from her chest to scare poor Bob. She used to beg to cut his hair too and he would never let her, somehow evading her cowering bottom lip and big, wet eyes. 

“Faye’s the only hairdresser in my life,” he would say calmly, “end of discussion!” 

She would’ve done a terrible job if he ever let her cut his hair. The kind of terrible that is really, truly only remedied by a buzzcut and an apology.

If she was here right now, she would be next in line. Maybe she even would’ve been drunk enough to let me cut a lot of hair off--maybe she would let me cut it to her shoulders or her chin. And instead of regretting it when she woke up, like any normal person, she would’ve leaned into it entirely--snipping a few stray hairs in the bathroom mirror and smoothing it with oil. She would look beautiful, too--a reckless, stupid, apathetic kind of beautiful. 

I’m too drunk to cry right now, though. So I just keep trimming, smiling. I’m trying to hold these thoughts of her, this grief in my chest, with grace--not only for myself but for Bob, who loved her as much as I did, who lost her as much as I did.

“Me too,” I return quietly, “you know she would’ve been reading everyone’s tarot right now.”

Bob smiles--his face is slack, serene. 

“And antagonizing Bagman.”

Yes, she would have. She would have been making up her own meanings for the cards, quietly cursing under her breath when she revealed them, grimacing as Hangman watched her carefully. She would’ve really put on a show for him. 

“Well, I’m sure there’s another meaning here,” she would’ve mumbled to herself, biting a smirk, “the Death card doesn’t have to mean Death. I think...”  

When Bob is pleased with my work, his grin pink and wide in the bathroom mirror, he thumps Hangman softly on the back to replace him before he settles on the couch again. Rooster ambles to the record player at the same time, kissing my nose and squeezing the curve of my waist before he flicks through the records. 

Jake sinks deeply into the wooden chair, which groans under his weight. He’s still in his jeans and button-down, except now it’s almost entirely unbuttoned and leaves little to the imagination. He sits with his legs spread apart wide, hands resting on his denim-clad thighs. 

“Hey, cowboy,” I whisper, softly skimming against his scalp, vein across my nose throbbing, “what’re you in for?”

He has almost the exact same reaction to my touch as Bob--his head is very heavy beneath my fingers, his eyes slipped shut blissfully, his lips parted. A small groan falls from his lips, even. I think it is pride that I feel deep in my gut, a strange sense of pride that stems from my ability to dismantle brick-walled guards. 

“Trust you, sugar plum,” he whispers, “couldn’t steer me wrong if you tried.”

I want to scoff--really, I do. But I am too fond of him to scoff, even if he’s smirking lightly, even if he’s cracked an eye open and he’s peering at me through his lashes. 

“Right,” I whisper, shaking my head, “we’ll just clean you up, then.”

Rooster carefully lifts the record player’s needle and places it on his choice. Sound floods the room--at first that static that makes me think of my sister’s laugh, but then a familiar song.

Suzanne by Leonard Cohen is playing now. 

“Are you calling me a dirty boy?” Hangman asks, grinning. 

I sigh, shaking my head. 

“We’ve gotta start a jar or something,” Bob groans from the couch, “he can’t keep getting away with this.”

“Hangman’s Horny Jar,” Phoenix suggests. 

I don’t look, but I know that Rooster is nodding, know that Phoenix and Bob are pressing their knuckles together. 

Carefully, I begin to trim Hangman’s blonde hair, his head heavy, his face slack. His hair is smooth like Bob’s, but thinner and finer. It is different than Rooster’s, which is thick and coarse and much darker. It’s soft in my grip, beneath the pads of my fingers.  

He’s humming along to the song, lashes fluttering, Adam’s apple bobbing. He looks nice like this, head tipped back and jaw flexed. He looks relaxed--looks very kind, very soft. This is the Jake that I like, the one that sits in kitchen chairs and doesn’t micromanage haircuts. 

“We get married in about fifteen hours,” Rooster announces as I bite my lip hard. 

There’s that flush again, spreading from my chest to my belly, that tight grip around my pulsing heart. 

Bob and Phoenix cheer quietly, whistling, clapping. Not a moment later, they both stand at the insistence of Rooster and meander down the hallway to get ready for bed. And not a moment after that, Rooster comes around to kiss my cheek and tell me he’s going to take a quick shower before his haircut. 

Then it’s just me and Hangman, my hands in his hair and his throat hot. 

I know he’s going to say something before I even really know--I can feel it sitting thickly on his tongue, can feel it between his cheeks, crunched under his molars. I think about announcing another unsavory fact, but wonder if I’m jumping the gun--I am drunk after all, very drunk. 

“Fifteen hours,” he echoes quietly, eyes still shut. 

That’s all he says at first. I just hum in response, sighing. 

“That’s what they tell me,” I say. 

He nods, eyebrows slightly furrowed. A beat passes--just the sound of Leonard Cohen and scissors slicing hair surround us.

“This song is about someone else’s wife,” I whisper and I don’t know why I say it, but I do because it’s true and the song is too soft and it is too quiet here. 

Hangman’s eyebrows pinch.   

Fuck.  

“Always thought this was a love song,” he muses quietly, his voice tinging on ragged. 

I swallow, eyes heavy. 

“It is,” I respond. 

The silence almost swallows us whole--we are almost in the belly of the beast.

And you want to travel with her, and you want to travel blind 

“Rooster’s like a brother to me, you know,” he starts, voice soft. 

His breath is bated. I know he wants to say more, needs to say more. 

Please don’t say anything else. Please let that be the end of it. I am begging him silently, desperately. Please be quiet. 

But he still hasn’t learned this secret, silent language. He is not like Bob and Phoenix, doesn’t absorb the fire in my eyes, the twist in my lips. He can’t look at my face and know exactly what I’m going to say the way they can.    

He inhales sharply and my belly flips. My fingers are steady, though. 

“But I would do anything to have met you before him,” he whispers, “terrible, demented things.”

He cracks an eye open when my fingers fall from his hair. He wants me to laugh--I know this. But I can’t laugh right now. My throat is too dry. I can’t laugh because I know that he is mostly serious--I know that he wants to be with me. And I do not want to be with him.

This sobers him in a small way. 

He clears his throat, eyes slipping shut again.

“In another life, I guess,” he mumbles quietly. 

I nod, finding his hair again. 

“Maybe,” I whisper to him and it feels like the only thing I can say. 

Another beat. 

“If I had met you before,” he starts, licking his lips, “do you think you could’ve loved me like you love him?”

My fingers are suddenly cold. Fuck.  

I sigh deeply, a sigh that touches the innermost parts of my belly and chest. 

“God, Jake,” I say softly, “can’t you just be quiet and let me cut your hair?”

He shakes his head. No, he can’t just be quiet and let me cut his hair.  

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I tell him, snipping here and there gently, “really, I don’t.”

He inhales deeply, chest expanding below me. He leans back, too, in a measured way so the top of his head is nestled against my ribs. It is a touch light enough to be innocent, an accident; except that I know it is not. I know he’s drunk. I know he’s drunk enough to stumble and maybe drunk enough to throw up, even. But he is not drunk enough to touch me in these small ways accidentally, not drunk enough to forget about this thing that lies between us and swallows him, only him.  

He swallows thickly, eyes still closed.  

“Maybe I should get it out of my system before you’re someone else’s wife,” he muses, “you don’t even have to say anything. I’ll just talk.”

Someone else’s wife.  

I want to yank him back by his hair and tell him that he needs to get his shit together. I know it’s what my sister would have done for me. But it is not in my nature--I cannot do that. So I just sigh. I don’t say yes and I don’t say no, the same response I had for the ten months after my sister died, the same response that got me into trouble. 

“I think ‘bout you all the time,” he admits softly, “when I’m tired, when I’m happy, when I’m sad, when I’m drunk--’specially when I’m drunk.”

It’s my turn to take a bated breath. My fingers are frigid, but I’m still able to keep my grip on the scissors and trim gently. His eyes are still closed.

“Wish I would’ve met you a long time ago,” he continues, “like, way before the mission. When you were still flying. Think I could’ve charmed you, sugar plum. Think I could’ve loved you right.”

This is when he finally opens his eyes--they are very deep, his pupils blown. He’s just looking up at me and I’m looking down at him, scissors still moving through his hair. He’s searching my face, eyebrows knit. 

My belly is aching, my spine prickling.

“I have to say it,” he tells me, his voice strained.

I know what he is going to say--wish fervently that I didn’t.  

“You don’t,” I return just as quietly. 

He blinks, cringes like he’s in pain. He sucks in a breath, lips parting. 

“I do love you,” he tells me. 

A lightning bolt strikes my chest and sizzles my skin, burns my hair. 

It is what we’ve been dancing around since we first met--what I’ve been able to dismantle and dodge. But I am too drunk to dismantle it, to dodge it. Now it is sitting in the air around us and we are alone in here. An admission, a big one, one bigger than both of us.

“Stop it,” I whisper, hands falling from his hair as my brows come together. 

He continues, though, licking his lips. 

“I would never try anything with you ‘cause I respect you too much, Faye. I respect you more than anyone, kid,” he tells me, coming up to grasp my wrist, “I think you’re my favorite person. I do love you. I do.”

Swallowing thickly, I just shake my head. I don’t know what to say to him and my throat is tight and my chest is tighter. So I just look down at him, at his gaze, and shake my head.

“You’re drunk,” I try. 

He nods. Fuck.  

“So are you,” he says, “and I mean what I said.” 

I do not love him like he loves me. Not even a fraction of myself does--not a particle of skin or a follicle of hair or a fallen eyelash or the toenail on my pinky toe. Top to bottom, side to side, head to toe; I love Rooster. Only Rooster. 

“Why can’t you just be my friend?” I whisper. 

He swallows, shaking his head softly. His grip on my wrist tightens slightly, not enough to hurt me, but enough to keep me close to him.  

“I am your friend,” he says, “of course I’m your friend.”

A long beat passes. Somewhere else in the house, the shower turns off, the constant hum abruptly pausing. Rooster will be back soon. 

“But it’s not enough for you?”

He stares up at me--his gaze is earnest, frightened. It makes me want to go outside and drink up all the air out there. It makes me want to stand beneath the star-sprinkled sky, skin goosing in the nippy winter air. 

“It can be,” he insists softly. 

I sigh. 

Another beat passes.

“It’s enough for me,” I nod, “you know that I think you’re a good man. Be a good friend.”

This makes him close his eyes in that unintentional way, when he just can’t look at me anymore, when they seem to flutter shut in a sharp, pained way. He turns his cheek, chin tilted towards the floor. 

“I’m trying,” he says. 

I swallow thickly. 

“Try harder, Jake.”

And I’m pushing him right now, I can feel it. I’m pushing him because I love him so much, love that he calls me on his bad days, love that he watches whatever Meg Ryan movie I tell him about and never brings his dates carnations. 

He nods one time, a slow and sad kind of nod.

“You say it like it’s easy,” he whispers and then he sucks in a big breath, “and you know what? Maybe being your friend isn’t enough for me, Faye. Maybe it’s just not.” 

And my chest feels like it’s been blown wide open suddenly. Because as much as I know that there are feelings in his chest reserved specifically for me, that there is a place between his ribs where pieces of me reside perpetually, as much as everyone can chide about it, as much as we all  laugh about it--I did not think he would ever say it. We have done this dance since we’ve met; he spins me out and I let go of his hand, he pulls me close and I turn my cheek, he dips me and I slip from his grip. He has never said it--never explicitly said the words, even if they were implied. But now my chest is open and wide because he is my friend--a good friend, a close one. One that I need, one that I want. It feels like that’s slipping away suddenly--like I am losing him.

“Don’t do this to me the night before my wedding,” I beg, “please, Jake.”

He sighs and brings one of his hands to his face, rubbing his eyes. 

“I’m not tryin’ to do anything, kid,” he says softly, “I had to say it.”

There’s that insistence again; he had to. He had to.

“So, what now?” I ask softly, “you say that and I don’t say it back and now we’re supposed to move forward, keep going?”

He groans softly and it’s muffled by his palm.

“Dunno,” he mumbles, “didn’t think that far.” 

He’s still rubbing his face. He still sounds drunk. 

“You’re one of my best friends--!”

“--Yeah, I get it, Faye. Friends,” he says curtly, staring at the floor, leaning forward in the chair, “you don’t have to twist the knife, darlin’.”

For a moment, I’m speechless. I wonder, just for a second, if I have stepped into some alternate timeline. One where he has admitted his feelings and we are both too drunk to do anything about it and he will not be my friend anymore after this. 

“Well, that’s not fair,” I whisper finally. 

He groans quietly into his palms, still not meeting my gaze. 

“Do you think this is fair to me,” he whispers, “because it’s not. This has never been fair to me.”

The house feels very still, very quiet. I feel like we are the only ones here--like everyone else left and we are entirely alone. 

“I don’t want to lose you,” I tell him, my voice thin, “what can I do?”

And I’m being entirely truthful now--of course I don’t want to lose him. We are friends now, have been friends since the beginning of it all, even if we really weren’t friends. I am soft with him and he’s even softer with me. His oozing ego staunches when he is alone with me--a facade dissipates, a mask unties and falls. I know that he is himself in front of me, know that he trusts me to see these parts of himself that other people don’t. 

He groans louder now, shaking his head. His voice is dripping with exhaustion, frustration. 

“Nothing,” he tells me, “not a damn thing, Faye.”

That makes me feel like I’ve just dove into a pool of rusty nails. Like I need to be stitched and bandaged, like I need a tetanus injection. I feel like I should be in a hospital bed, blinking up at a white ceiling. 

I’m still standing here in my dress from earlier, the one that is a thin sheath between my bare body and the rest of the world. It is the ballet-slipper pink dress that Jake likes so much, the dress Bradley will take off me soon. I still have my veil on, a genuine marker that I am a bride--the only bride now that Bob and Phoenix are out of the room. My makeup is surely messy, melted by sweat and laughter and small tears. He’s the only one in his clothes from earlier, too--his jeans tight on his legs and his shirt loose around his chest. Here we are, alone, dressed with nowhere to go right now. 

All I can see from here, with my soft-edged vision in this lamplit room, is the back of his head and his neck, his back. He’s breathing evenly, trying to compose himself I think. 

I wonder, fleetingly, if he’s as good at soothing himself as he is at soothing me. 

“Don’t leave me, Jake,” I say. 

It makes me feel cruel almost--saying this to him after what he’s said to me. But I mean that I need him, I really do--just in a different way that he needs me. He was the one that held me together when we thought Rooster was gone, collecting my limbs when they were clicking out of place and flailing with grief. He was the one that promised to come and get me after it all, after everything, after nothing. He was the one that told me his favorite stories of my sister and I that flirted around whatever base he was stationed at in the time before he knew me. He was the one that humiliated me so thoroughly that night on the beach, the one that truly repented, the one that crawled back into my good graces with bloody knees and broken fingernails. He was the one that wanted to be my friend. He was the one that made me care about him, leaning into my fleeting touch and telling me we would do right by my sister when I danced for the first time in The Hard Deck since she died.

Why should I be punished for being loved by him? 

I’m drunk. I know I’m drunk. But when he turns in the seat, turns so his legs are facing me, I don’t move away. I should move away. And when he carefully reaches out and settles his hand in mine, I should retreat--but I can’t. It isn’t even that I want him to hold me, but that I know that he needs me to hold him, the way I knew he needed me on the carrier when he was not chosen as Maverick’s wingman. But I can’t get my fingers to curl around his. 

When he looks up at me, his eyes are glimmering sadly, his lips frowning. His eyebrows are knit and his cheeks are flaxen. When he swallows, it’s with great effort. He looks anguished, entirely consumed by grief--the same way he looked when he found me in the hallway outside the control room. 

I know I must not look much different--anguished, heart-wrenched, formerly beautiful. I know my eyes are watery and my brows are pulled together and the flat part of my chest is naked, my pulse throbbing. I know my hair is messy now, longer than it was last May, streaked by the winter sun. I know I must look wrecked right now--glossy and bleary. Drunk and woeful. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he begs softly, “you break my fuckin’ heart when you look at me like that.”

His hand is soft, the skin lotioned. But his grip is hard--harder than it was earlier when he was holding me in place by my wrist. This grip is tighter, more desperate. I still can’t get my fingers to move. I can’t get any part of myself to move.

“What can I do?” I ask again, quieter. 

My heart is throbbing in my throat, threatening to burst out of my neck and lay on the floor in a bloody heap. He is watching me, watching my eyes. His grip is tightening--my fingertips are red and his knuckles are white.

“Love me,” he says, laughing dryly and without a smile. 

I shake my head. 

“I do love you, Jake.”

“Not the way I want you to,” he returns. 

It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all.  

Tequila pulses through my temple. 

“C’mon,” I say, “please.” 

I’m waiting for us to step outside of this alternate dimension again. I’m waiting for both of us to wake up, snap out of it. I’m waiting to not feel drunk anymore, but I still really do feel drunk. I’m waiting for someone to walk into the room and take us away from each other. I’m waiting for him to admit that he’s just drunk--that he won’t even remember this in the morning. I’m waiting for something, anything. 

“Can’t keep pretending like I’m not in love with you,” he says decidedly. 

My knees almost buckle, but I lock my hip, transferring my weight to my right side. My mouth is dry, full of sand. 

I want so badly to wake the fuck up now.   

“Why not?” 

My cheeks are red. He laughs another humorless laugh. 

“‘Cause it ain’t fair to me, you, or him.”

He’s right. I know that he’s right. 

He blinks up at me, stubble suddenly wildly apparent as he lets his free hand fall down his face again, pulling his skin towards the earth.

It makes me angry, how pained he seems, how utterly dejected he is. Because he is telling me this on the eve of my wedding, looking up at me with his stubble and his green eyes, and punishing me for not being in love with him. He is telling me these things he knows that I will not say back and making my heart sink in my chest and pretending like it’s hurting him the most.

“So, that’s what you’ve been doing this whole time? Just pretending to be my friend, pretending that you’re interested in anything other than fucking me?”

Fuck. There it is--that bitterness, the unintentional cruelty--leaking out of me.

 He shakes his head rapidly, scoffing. 

“That’s what you got from everything I just said? Jesus Christ, Faye,” he seethes, narrowing his eyes, “I’m not a fuckin’ villain. You are one of my best friends in the world, alright? I am delighted to be your fuckin’ friend, honey. Of course I wanna fuck you--but don’t think for a minute that means I don’t care about you, about being your friend.”

I’m stuck still, my breath a pathetic gust of hot air in my throat--clinging to my trachea. Of course I wanna fuck you. I think I might be sick, I think I might just turn around and walk away and pretend like none of this is happening at all. 

But I don’t think I could wrench my hand from his grip without my skin degloving. 

His eyes hold me in place--narrow, green eyes that watch me like I am the only flimsy flame in a very dark room. My whole body is flushed again--I’m suddenly embarrassed and keenly aware that I am wearing a thin dress with not even the hint of a stitch on underneath it.

His face is red now--his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“You can’t say that,” I am able to whisper, my voice thin and broken, “can’t say that to me.”

He doesn’t look away from my eyes--doesn’t let go of me. But he nods. He nods just one time, a solid and short thing. He agrees. Okay. I won’t say that.   

“Just stop,” I suggest defeatedly, “just stop being in love with me.”

He scoffs again, quieter now. His eyes fall to my chest and I know that he’s thinking about being on the carrier with me, holding me together, putting me on the floor, touching my skin, slowing my breathing, blowing onto my fingers. Maybe he’s thinking about it because it was the closest he has ever been to me--probably the closest he will ever be to me. 

“Okay,” he says, equally as defeated, “I’ll get right on that.”

Now it’s very quiet between us. He’s still holding my hand and I’m still just looking down at his face. The clock is ticking on and on, closer to my wedding, closer to me tethering myself to Bradley officially.

He is the one that speaks next. His voice is gravely pensive. His eyebrows are unfurrowed, his eyes wide and swimming as he gazes up at me. He looks sober, painfully sober. He lets go of my hand suddenly, lips parting as his jaw flexes.   

“I don’t know if I can watch you love him forever, Faye.”

It feels like a blow--an upper-cut to the chin, a gunshot to the chest, a firework pelted at my belly. 

When did we get here? When did Jake and I slip into this place, this place he can’t get back from but I can? Why is this so hard? Why is he telling me this fifteen hours before I get married? 

“You’re being cruel,” I say, my voice cracking, breaking.

“I’m being cruel?” 

He asks this brokenly, his tone not bitter and accusatory. He asks this like he really needs me to answer him--like I really need to tell him the truth because he doesn’t know. 

I have to swallow very hard before I can speak again. My hands are shaking.

“What did you expect to happen?”

He knows what I mean. He knows what I’m asking.

Did he think I was going to take his hand and walk out the front door and never look back? Did he think I would pity him enough and just give him a little bit of myself--just a quick and quiet kiss on the mouth, enough to keep him going, enough to keep quiet between the two of us? Did he think that I would suddenly open my chest to him, let him inside, hold him close to my heart? Did he think I would realize that it was him all along--that he is the one I am supposed to be with? 

Or did he just want to punish me? 

There’s that anguished expression on his face again--now I’m the one that closes my eyes, turns my cheek, because I cannot look at him when he looks like that. I don’t like it when he looks at me like that, so sad and broken, so eager for me to put him together again even though I cannot.

But I know then--I know what he wanted to happen. He wanted me to choose him, wanted me to sit shotgun in his truck all the way back to North Carolina, wanted to take this dress off me somewhere dark and quiet, wanted me to just forget about the wedding ticking closer and closer. 

Fuck. Oh, fuck.  

My heart is hammering in my chest.  

“Faye…”

“You’re drunk,” I say again and he is just blinking up at me.

Really, it’s an olive branch that I’m extending to him. Really I am giving him an out so that when I wake up tomorrow, when I slip into my wedding dress and my veil, we can pretend like this only happened because of pink champagne and tequila. 

I’m begging him wordlessly. My face looks like the word please. 

It dawns on him very slowly, deflating every feature of his face. His chest sinks. 

“Yes,” he whispers, “I’m drunk.”

I bring the scissors up and cut one final tuft of uneven hair. 

He stays still, lets me, keeps quiet. 

“There,” I whisper, “all done.”

He turns again, blinking up at me. His cheeks are red. 

My voice is very soft, very quiet when I speak again. It is not an unkind tone that I take with him; I cannot find it in my heart to be bitter and unkind to him. Not after everything we’ve been through--not after everything we’ve done for each other, to each other. 

“Get out of my chair,” I whisper gently, “and wash your face with cold water. Take an ibuprofen. Go to sleep.”  

When he nods, he looks very much like a child being told what to do. He is submitting to me, to my words, letting them guide him. He’s doing as he’s told, carefully moving his eyes from mine and sitting up again, hands still on his thighs.

“So when you wake up tomorrow, you’re going to pretend like none of this happened?”

He doesn’t look at me when he says this. He just whispers it with his back turned to me, his eyes trained on the empty stairs before him. He sounds dejected--broken. He sounds like this is the one thing that he cannot handle--if I pretend like this conversation never happened, if I try to dance around all of his words and keep being friends like nothing happened.

“I never said that.”

He nods, but still doesn’t look at me. 

Phoenix moves into the room as he stands up, smiling tiredly before she yawns.

But Phoenix is good at reading the room--good at reading my face, Jake’s face even when she’s drunk. I know the blush has dripped from my cheeks down to my chest, know that my eyebrows are still knit and my mouth is flat. I’m not smiling anymore--neither is Jake. 

Jake is slinking towards the hallway with his cheeks hollowed, his hand raking through his trimmed hair.  

“You okay?”

She asks this when it’s just her and I in the room. 

Her face is clean and free of makeup now, her hair brushed and her veil disappeared. Her dress has been replaced with a Navy sweatshirt and plaid pajama pants--it makes her look soft and small.

I could lie to her--could just smile and say oh, yes, I’m fine. Just tired. Big day tomorrow! But she reminds me too much of my sister, who is the one person I wish was here, the one person who would listen to my qualms and work through them vivaciously. 

When I open my mouth, though--I still feel too empty to say anything. And I suddenly feel that saying what Jake said to me is betraying his trust in me, his vulnerability. He is still my friend. I still love him--just not the way he wants me to. 

My hands quiver as I set the scissors on the coffee table.   

“He’s relentless sometimes,” I tell her, my voice thin, “and I’m too soft. And I’m pretty drunk.”

That’s all I have to say--she nods, registering what must have happened, perhaps thinking that one of his flirtations struck the wrong cord finally. 

Carefully, she shuffles across the floor and around the tufts of hair to sit in the wooden chair. It is probably still warm from his body.  

“I’ll talk to him,” she whispers, “don’t worry about it.”

I just braid Phoenix’s hair--combing my fingers through it and very carefully layering the French braid down her back as the boys file back in the room. Everyone is fresh-faced and in their pajamas, still bleary-eyed and hiccupping lightly. But now it’s mostly quiet as I band Phoenix’s hair, smoothing it with my slick palms a final time before I sigh. 

When I look out to the boys, my head is throbbing smally; I don’t know if it’s because of the champagne or because of Jake or because of the hour or because of the exhaustion flooding my gut. Bob is on the couch, eyes slipping shut slowly as he watches Phoenix climb out of the chair. Hangman is sitting on the floor again, legs stretched out before him once more. But he isn’t looking at my face now--he’s watching my legs, my bare feet. Rooster is standing from his spot on the ottoman, grinning at me, oblivious to the pulsing vein in my head and the strange air between Hangman and I. 

“Ready for me, honey?”

He cups my cheeks, tilting my head towards him, and kisses me a few times. His lips taste minty, his breathing very soft as it fans across my lips. And it’s not that I have to be reminded of this, but he does remind me of it when he does this: he is a good man. He is the kind of person I am ready to spend the rest of my life with. These are the lips I should be kissing, this is the body I should be pressed against. 

“‘M gonna get some air,” Jake says suddenly, standing from his spot and crossing to the back door before I can even detach myself from Bradley. 

The backdoor slams shut behind him, vibrates the kitchen door. 

“Wedding jitters?” Bob guesses quietly from the sofa, shrugging. 

“Probably,” I whisper. 

And it’s when Rooster sits in the chair, when Bob and Phoenix fall asleep in tandem on the couch covered by a wool blanket, when I hear the patio chair scrape against the bricks and know that Hangman is sitting beneath the night sky by himself, that the knot in my chest comes undone. Finally, it is just Rooster and I here, everyone else just figures, just fragments. 

Rooster is so tall that his head rests against my chest when I rake my fingers through his damp hair. He groans lowly, head falling into my palms, lips parting prettily. I just do that for a few moments, let my fingers brush against his scalp and through his sandy curls, carefully detangling them. 

“Not long now,” he hums, peeking at me through a nearly-shut eye, “cold feet?”

I am reeling still from my conversation with Jake minutes ago, reeling from his gaze burning my ankles and feet, reeling from this sudden confession. But I am also very happy--very happy to be marrying Bradley tomorrow, very happy to be having my wedding here with all of my friends. 

I am ready to be Bradley’s wife. I know that we are tied together and have been since before either of us even knew. 

The wedding will be good--perfect, even.   

I’m just drunk. I’m just drunk and one of my best friends broke our unspoken rule and told me that he is in love with me and I told him to wash his face and go to bed.  

I swallow thickly, bringing the scissors up to his hair, grinning widely despite myself, despite my pulsing and aching.

“No,” I whisper, snipping the first curl carefully, “you?”

He chuckles, eyes slipped shut again. He is so beautiful bathed in lamplight, so beautiful when he gives me his weight and lets me hold it close to my body. 

“Should’ve married you a long time ago,” he whispers.  

My eyes water.   

Yes, this is what I want. This is who I want.  

“Rookie mistake,” I whisper to him. 

He grins--it is the grin that I love so much, the one that is molded around a mustache and scars and teeth and tanned skin. It’s a grin that is on the face that I love so much. It makes me set the scissors down, makes me hold his cheeks as I tip his head back, makes me bend at the waist to give him an upside-down kiss. 

“I would’ve married you the first day I saw you, baby,” I whisper into his mouth, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, “all you had to do was ask.”

☾☽

I am awake before anyone else is in the house--it feels like I’m up before anyone else in California for a fleeting few minutes as I blink at the ceiling, orienting myself. It feels like I’m awake before anyone else in this great, wide world--like my eyes are open before anyone else’s. 

 It’s still dark outside, the calling birds distant and hollow-sounding as they cry for the light. The house is quiet--an easy kind of quiet, a plentiful sort of quiet that accompanies sleeping bodies. The house is the kind of clean that amplifies silence, too--spotless except for the tufts of hair peppering the living room floor, the tufts that must be swept and thrown away.

The dim morning light is starting to obscure the darkness of the bedroom, the maple-scented candle having never been lit in mine and Rooster’s rump to the bedroom late last night after his haircut. The bed is warm from our unwashed skin--the skin that’s pressed deeply into the wrinkles and folds of this linen, this cotton. These sheets are tangled around us, the way they have been since July of 2019. They smell like us now--somewhere between pepper and honey--a scent that was born when we tethered ourselves to each other. 

I am sure that no one in the living room is awake yet--can hear the soft sound of the air conditioner below the puffs of breath and bending limbs. It sounds like they’re dreaming in there. For just a split second, I wonder if Hangman is dreaming about me. The thought makes me pulse all over, makes my throat ache. Thinking about our conversation at all suddenly has bile rising in my throat, threatening to spew if I move too suddenly. I cannot deny the reality of it now that I am awake, blinking at my bedroom ceiling, acutely hungover, achingly sober: Jake is in love with me.

Fuck.  

Filling my lungs, I hold my breath there. I measure the seconds with Rooster’s breathing. Everything’s okay. Everything’s good. I am able to hold myself there, hold myself still, for twenty-seven seconds before my lungs start to burn. 

When I exhale, it’s slow and steady, my fingers colder than they were last night.   

Stevie is stretched out across Rooster’s feet, more fluff than feline, far away in her dreams. Her whiskers twitch when she stretches her paws out before her, but still she doesn’t awaken. This is where she sleeps each night--careful not to drape her tail over my legs or toes. Bitch.   

Rooster is sleeping beside me, stripped down to a pair of briefs, sprawled across the middle of the bed with his mouth buried in my hair in a sweet attempt to reach my throat. He’s holding me close, holding me tight, a thick hand splayed across my belly and an even thicker thigh pinning my legs to the bed. His mustache is tickling the exposed lobe of my ear and I would move if I didn’t treasure those bristly hairs pressed against my skin, if I didn’t love the chill up my spine. His eyelashes are fluttering--they’re gingerly twitching there against the side of my face in accidental butterfly kisses. He’s breathing those loud, hard breaths into my tangled locks--his breath smells like the draft beer he likes at The Hard Deck.

This is how I am going to wake up every morning after this point. Yes, just like this--us entwined on these sheets, him holding me against the bed, me waking up before him. We will not be in this house anymore come September, probably. Come May, we will be packing boxes, staking a For Sale sign in the front yard. 

But not today--no, today we are getting married. 

I am good at getting out of bed without waking Rooster up. I’m good at navigating our room in the mostly-dark morning, good at slipping my robe on silently. I’m even good at navigating the rest of the house in the dark, stepping over piles of hair and sleeping bodies, closing the doors soundlessly until I am on the back patio with just my phone. 

It’s still cold now--colder than it was last night when I ached to be under the sky. The birds are louder now, too--swooping gracefully from one branch to the other, calling gleefully. I can still see the buttery moon hanging in the cobalt sky above; a waning crescent.  

But it is beautiful out here, very beautiful. The brick patio, which used to be a humble square, has been extended beyond its original placement and covers half the backyard now. It gives way to trimmed, green grass perimetered by the tall wooden fence Bradley painted white last month. There are trees, too, dotting the corners of the yard; big, sturdy eucalyptus trees with sage-colored leaves and smoky bark. 

Perhaps the most identifiable change, though, are the flowers that flood the lawn. All over, sprawling and crawling, are flowers. They’re in rows and not in rows, planted wherever we saw fit, growing in an array of colors ranging from indigo to canary to azure. There are all kinds of flowers, too; daffodils, early tulips, breath of heavens, tuscan blues, lilac vines, California poppies. 

Out here, in the nippy air, the flowers emit a most consuming scent. It smells like a picnic on a Sunday morning in the park, like laying on a gingham blanket and sitting beside a wicker basket. Like flicking thick-bodies ants into the freshly cut grass and tearing pieces off a baguette with unwashed hands. Like hard ground against soft skin, like rusty swingsets and idle clouds. It smells like my grandmother’s farm--like running around the haybales with Maggie, like scaring the cows, like eating apple butter on buttermilk biscuits. It smells like hiding behind a big red barn and pulling splinters out of my sister’s palms. 

It just smells like Maggie out here, I think. Like something that is inside the earth. 

I know this is the place I should do it if I’m going to do it--in the backyard that we used to polish wine bottles off in, surrounded by native wildflowers, a chill in the air to offset the heat in my face. I know that this is the time to do it if I’m going to do it--everybody in the world is asleep, everybody in the world is dreaming. I know this is the day to do it--my wedding day, the day we naively spoke about under the false pretense of togetherness, brazenly unaware that we would not be together at all, naive to the delicate pendulum of death that would suddenly strike her. 

So I do it. 

My fingers are cold, very cold. It is hard to bend them, hard to dial the number that I still remember so very well. 619-295-9472. When I press call, her face fills my screen--all chipped-tooth smiles, rosy cheeks, wet lips, tired eyes--just below her contact name: Maggie Moo.  

This grief that sits in my chest has not grown lighter since she died, but my muscles have grown around it--I have pushed forward, bearing the weight, bearing the brunt of it all. And I have not heard her voice in a very long time, not since the last time I called her, which was on the day I came home from the rehabilitation center. I will allow myself this--I will allow myself to hear my sister’s voicemail right now, in this beautiful backyard that will no longer be mine in a few months, on the day that I am going to marry the love of my life. 

The line trills one time and hitches as her voicemail starts. 

“Lieutenant Maggie ‘Crimson’ Ledger is busy right now, sorry! Try calling Lieutenant Faye ‘Clover’ Ledger if it’s really an emergency--or if it’s Bob. Hey, Bob! I guess Cyclone, too. Sir! Okay, so Bob and Cyclone can call Faye if it’s really an emergency--or if you just want to chat, I’m sure she’d answer right away. But if this is, like, a telemarketer or something then you can hang the fuc--”

It cuts off there. 

I used to beg her to change her voicemail, endlessly worrying that she was going to miss an important professional call and find herself in an awkward situation. But now, now that I have my phone pressed against my face and her voice is so close to my ear, I’m so glad she didn’t listen to me. 

She sounds so happy, so alive. She definitely recorded it in the car--I can hear the highway around her, the radio humming distantly. Maybe she was on her way to work. Maybe she was on her way home from the grocery store, ice cream melting inside a paper bag in the backseat. Maybe she was coming here to my house and we were going to watch You’ve Got Mail. I wish I knew when she recorded it, wish I knew where she was and what she was doing. 

I play it again, eyes slipping shut. 

It’s been a very long time since I’ve heard my name fall out of her mouth like that, so very easily, so very casually. It’s the name she said first, before her own name, before mama or dada. It was Faye that she uttered gleefully, grabbing a fistful of my hair as we toddled around blocks on the living room floor. And now it’s recorded for eternity in this voicemail, her voice the same scratchy-sweet tone I remember. 

One day, I worry that she will start to slip away. God, it’s a thought that has crept into my skull in moments between asleep and awake--a thought that’s made a nest at the edge of my brain, nestled between pink folds, burrowing deeply in my mind. I am afraid that one day she will have been gone for so long that I will forget what her laugh sounded like, forget about what her left kneecap looked like, forget what her favorite song was, forget what her face looked like when she was annoyed. It makes tears cloud my eyes each time, makes an impossible knot tangle my gut tightly. Because I don’t want to forget any piece of her at all--even the pieces that don’t matter very much. 

I play it a third time and let it finish, let the automated voice prompt me to leave a voicemail. And for some reason, when the beep sounds, my lips part. 

“Hi, Maggie,” I whisper, my voice thick with sleep and tears, “God, I feel stupid doing this. But this is the closest I can get to you right now, Mags. This is all I’ve got left.”

The crackly silence rings through on the other end. 

I sniffle. 

“Can you believe I’m getting married today? Fuck, that’s weird. Bob’s going to wear a flower crown,” I laugh softly, palming the tears from my cheeks, “and he’s been real good to me, real sweet. Came with me to pick out my dress, helped plan the reception. He offered to walk me down the aisle, too, but I told him I need him to just be the man of honor. I can walk myself down.”

Another beat of silence. The birds call hoarsely above me. 

“The backyard’s lovely,” I start again, sighing, “we fixed it up nice and pretty, planted flowers, painted the house. All that boring shit you would’ve hated. But it’s pretty. And it smells good--smells like you. And I think it’s going to be sunny today, which makes me happy. Guess rain on your wedding day isn’t necessarily common in Southern California, though, huh?” 

I wish she was here, on the other end of the phone, humming along with me.  

“Wish you were here now. I wish you were here right now more than I ever have before,” I whisper and my vision is blurring, my throat tightening, “because I just feel like today isn’t real without you here. I wish you were here to tell me that flower crowns aren’t going to be in style in a few years and that I should have my hair up instead. I wish you were here to drink too much champagne and make an inappropriate speech. I wish you were here to hand Bob a handkerchief--he’s gonna be a wreck. I wish you were here to just tell me what to do. Just want you to boss me around.”

I let the silence on the other end wash over me, let it carve my chest out, let it wring me dry. For a moment, I pretend like that’s her voice. That deep, staticy, hollowing silence.  

“I love you,” I say quietly, “How could you leave me hanging like this, Mags? You bitch. I miss you. So much. So, so much.” 

The tone cuts me off before I can continue, not that there is anything left for me to say to my dead sister’s voicemail. 

I won’t listen to her voicemail again for a long time, won’t be able to hear her say my name, won’t be able to hear her tease me from beyond the grave. I won’t listen to it again until my grip starts to loosen--until I cannot remember which teeth her chipped, which ankle had that tiny butterfly tattoo, which eye she claimed was smaller than the other. Then I will let myself have it again. I’ll let her say my name. I’ll let myself pretend like the silence is her voice.  

It is enough for now, though. Enough for me to stand up and tilt my head towards the rising sun, enough for me to flex against the heavy grief on my chest. I can carry it today--I can hold it in my palms, walk it down the aisle, feed it the cake in the fridge, shower it in prosecco. 

The day begins as soon as I cross the threshold of the kitchen, as soon as my bare foot is flat on the tile. Everyone is suddenly awake, crowding the kitchen, their eyes bleary. 

It smells like bacon and coffee, the way Saturday mornings should smell--the scent is thick and fat, wafting through the air in a cloud almost.

Rooster is standing at the stove, a tea towel slung over his shoulder as he twirls the tongs in his right hand. Phoenix and Bob are sitting at the kitchen table, running over the schedule Bob has so graciously worked out (and typed, printed, color-coded, stapled) with two glasses of orange juice perched before them. Hangman is fiddling around with the coffeemaker, five empty mugs sitting before him on the copper countertop. 

Everyone has bleary eyes and stiff limbs. And everyone’s hair is shorter now--I squint against the light, making sure everyone’s ends are even. 

They don’t seem to notice me for a moment, standing in the doorway with tear-streaked cheeks and my phone clutched in my cold hand. But I’m glad to rest here in the doorway, the glass-paned door cool against my skin, watching these people I love mill around this kitchen I love this early in the morning. 

“Morning,” I greet after a moment. 

Everybody looks up at the same time, snapping to attention like an Admiral is on deck. Their faces are all happy ones--clean, shining, smiling. 

“Good morning,” Phoenix grins, “it’s wedding day!”

I’m smiling now, too--my face feels tight from saltwater, like I’ve been swimming in the ocean instead of just sitting in my backyard and crying on an empty voicemail. 

“Don’t worry,” Bob echoes closely, “we’re gonna make it real easy for you, Faye. Right, Phoenix? Smooth sailing here.”

Phoenix nods rapidly, her hair still somehow braided. 

“Thank you guys,” I smile softly, passing them as I walk further into the kitchen, fingers gently grazing the kitchen table. 

Hangman is smiling softly at me, eyes cloudy and crusted with sleep. His hands are resting on the countertop, knuckles inching towards white as his fingers wrap themselves around his palms. It’s like he’s holding himself there, holding himself back. 

“Morning,” I whisper to him, “how’re you feeling?”

I’m asking him this softly and without secrecy. When he looks into my eyes, he knows that my question extends beyond Bob’s Miracle Hangover Cure. He knows I’m testing the water. He doesn’t know, though, that seeing him makes my heart plummet to my belly like the ground has dropped out from under it. 

“I’ll be okay,” he says. 

And I know that he means that he will make it through today. I know that he remembers last night. I know that he remembers everything he said to me. I know the hurt must still be there, sitting between his shoulder blades in shapes that resemble the curve of my palms. 

“Good. We’re gonna need you today.”

His eyes fall from mine, down to the floor. 

Am I being cruel?  

“Well, I’m not going anywhere.”

And then Rooster is grinning at me over his shoulder, hair soft and shorter and curly, mustache unkempt, eyes dazzling and crinkled. He hums the wedding march quietly and I pretend that I’m not elated, playfully rolling my eyes before wrapping my arms around his waist.

“Happy wedding day,” he whispers gleefully, kissing the top of my head. 

“And yourself,” I mumble back, closing my eyes against his solid warmth, letting the scent of bacon consume me. 

He hums, still looking down at me. I know without opening my eyes that his brows are furrowed and his eyes are soft, the way they always are when he’s concerned. Big, brown puppy-dog eyes.  

“You alright?” he whispers to me softly, “saw you on the phone earlier.”

My chest tightens like someone is turning a key attached to my back, winding me up.

I can tell Rooster anything--I can tell him everything. I have given him the deepest of my secrets, the ugliest of my stories, and he has accepted them with ample grace and gratitude. He has eaten small pieces of me, devoured them, and I have sat comfortably inside his belly for over a year now. 

Some things, though--they just belong to me. Some things are just mine and Maggie’s. Twin things, sister things, aviator things. And this phone call, placed very early this morning, is just mine and hers. It will be kept between us, just like the gritty details of her death. 

“I was leaving a voicemail,” I whisper, “I’m alright.”

He nods. 

I know that he wants more, but he doesn’t pry. He’s good like that. He doesn’t push or pull me. He lets me lean into him, lets me come to him in my own time. I love that about him, love so much that he waits for me to walk to him without beckoning me--yet wants me so voraciously that I always know. I always know that he wants me, even when he doesn’t say it. It just emanates from him like body heat.  

“Good,” he sighs, “now, will you start toasting the bagels? Looks like Bagman’s gonna need two.”

“You’re a good man, Rooster,” Hangman sighs from his spot, raking his hand through his hair tiredly, “a smart one, too. Perceptive, even.”

And the day pushes forward like that--very easily.

We all eat breakfast together, just the five of us. We eat on my grandmother’s china, pristine eggshell-colored plates adorned with dainty crimson paisley, and good silverware that used to be Maggie’s. There are linen napkins strewn about, serving platters of all shapes and patterns splattered with capers and egg yolk. Everyone is drinking orange juice from mismatched glasses, cream for the steaming mugs of coffee sitting in a glass jar beside the bouquet of fresh flowers that were delivered just after eight. It smells of grease and citrus and gardenia and friends here --smells like home. The sunlight pours in through the windows now, flooding the room, painting everything bright and merry.   

The house starts to fill up just after we finish washing the dishes, just as we are all breaking to wash our faces and brush our teeth. First it’s Coyote, holding a duffel over his shoulder and a cardboard box. 

“Cameras?” Bob asks from the landing as Coyote steps into the house, grinning. 

Coyote nods eagerly. 

“All thirty of ‘em.”

Then it’s Maverick, Penny, and Amelia that show next. They’re grinning, too, each of them fresh-faced and holding their own bags. Just after them, it is Fanboy and Payback, bringing our total up to a whopping eleven guests in my cluttered house. 

It’s all hugging and kissing and smiling as everyone comes up the stairs and reports to Bob for their assignments--which he doles out with a remarkable amount of gumption for a man with slick under eye masks pressed against his skin. Phoenix acts as his second in command, his muscle--she stands beside him with identical eye masks, nodding along with him, clutching her stapled schedule to her chest. 

By ten in the morning, everyone is busying themselves with their assignment. 

Coyote and Hangman are setting up my extensive collection of lawn chairs, dutifully unfolding them and dusting them off as they form rows on either side of the brick patio. Fanboy and Payback are moving the thrifted wooden tables outside, arranging them prettily among the wildflowers and nestled in the green grass. Maverick is dropping a disposable film camera in each seat and helping to set the tables with the china I’ve been collecting, placing silverware beneath dainty linens and colored glass goblets atop the thick wooden tables. Amelia is collecting the flowers, arranging the centerpieces carefully and neatly at the kitchen table in the abundance of makeshift vases I’ve been collecting. Penny is beside Amelia, plucking flower petals off their stems and collecting them in a wicker basket for the ceremony. Phoenix is constructing the flower crowns for the bridal party, looping chrysanthemums, carnations, baby’s breath, honeysuckles, and marigolds. Bob is overseeing it all, stepping in place whenever another pair of hands becomes necessary, and keeping the records turning. 

   Right now, above all the laughter and the glasses clinking and the orders and the conversations, Baby, I’m Yours by Barbara Lewis is playing the way I like it--just a little bit too loud.

The bathroom counter is cold beneath my bottom and thighs, a hardness I am braced against. I am just in a pair of white cotton underwear, my legs smooth and lotioned as they open for Rooster to step between them. He is only wearing a pair of briefs, too--his body is lean and tan, wide between my knees as they press into his hips. His hands, his rough and big hands, fall onto the tops of my thighs where he grips me.

He is close enough to me to drown me in his sweet, familiar scent, close enough for his nose to press into mine when he ghosts his lips over mine. He’s radiating warmth like a personal heater, goosing my skin. He’s smiling down at me, his eyes soft when they land on my own identical smile.  

“Hold still,” I whisper. 

He stills between my legs, kneading the meat of my thighs mutely. 

I bring the scissors under his mustache, very carefully trimming it, narrowing my eyes and leaning forward. His breaths hit my face in short, hot bursts as he rounds his top lip over his teeth to give me more leverage. 

“Doing great, baby,” I add softly.

He chuckles, squeezes my thighs. Little pieces of his sandy mustache flake onto my naked lap, over his splayed hands.  

“Y’take such good care of me,” he whispers, eyes watching mine. 

It makes my throat swell, swell with that love that chokes me. 

I pause my trimming, carefully angling the small scissors away from his cheeks as I hold his jaw in my hands. He is so beautiful, standing here between my thighs, grinning down at me in the golden morning light. His eyes are shining, his grin spreading.

I brush a thumb over his bottom lip, press it there gently. 

“You make it easy,” I tell him, a lump in my throat. 

He presses his lips to mine and we kiss, his hands moving to my hips, pressing me into him. And when his tongue licks a warm line across my bottom lip, I know that I have to be the one to pull away. I do so laughing, quickly bringing the scissors back to his mustache.

“Baby, we can’t,” I whisper, “sex isn’t on Bob’s schedule.” 

“S’cruel to me,” he mumbles, shaking his head. 

I quirk my brow, flit my eyes to his through my lashes as he stills. 

“Well, which is it?”

He pinches my hips again and I bite my lip. 

“So, your heels are blue. The dress is new,” he starts, chuckling when I roll my eyes up to meet him again, lip curving around his uneven mustache, “what about something borrowed? Something old?”

He’s right--I don’t have a plan set in place for either of the customs, something that had fallen off my radar in between thrifting tables and planting flowers.

“I guess I don’t have either,” I say softly, “but I can ask someone for a quarter or something. I’m sure that works, right?”

He’s just gazing down at me now. His eyes, a deep amber hue washing over them, study my fluttering eyelashes. He’s smiling softly, mouth closed. Carefully, he inhales then moves to pepper a soft kiss to my nose. Then his hands move up from my hips to my belly, which is nearly pressed against his. His touch leaves behind a trail of rose petals, the color of an open flame, tickling my skin and swelling my throat. 

He stills there, on my belly. His palm is flat against me, against my emptiness. His thumbs reach up and swipe to follow the curve of my breasts, lazily dancing under their heaviness. His touch feels good--very good, too good. Sometimes it overwhelms me to think about having this touch on tap for the rest of my life. It makes me woozy, dizzy.  

“Noted,” he whispers, “trim me up nice and good, baby. Gotta look my best today.”

It’s almost four o’clock when I step outside of my bathroom again, my heels clumping softly against the emerald tiles then sinking into the carpet. The room is washed golden, the ceiling fan churning the maple-scented air around the room with an empty reverence.   

I’m wearing my dress now, which Phoenix and Penny dutifully helped me slip into, my body almost entirely bare before them. They zipped and tied me, adjusting me, preening, carefully breathing so as not to disturb the delicate silk slinking down my body.

“Here comes the bride,” Penny gleefully says from before me, gesturing to me from her spot outside the bathroom, beckoning me into the bedroom and closer to her.

I have to bunch the fabric in my hands softly, pulling it up just so that it doesn’t graze against the carpet and under my heels when I walk. 

Bob stands to attention suddenly from his palace at the window, his burnt umber slacks pressed and cuffed immaculately. His hair is gelled and his glasses are resting on his nose politely, not a speck on their lenses.

“Oh, Bob,” I grin, “you look so handsome!”

Something happens when Bob sees me--his breath catches in his throat, his smile fades, his eyes flutter before they narrow. And he just looks at me with his mouth ajar, watching me walk towards him, the soft dress like feathers against my skin. 

“Isn’t she a beauty?” Phoenix asks from beside Penny, biting her lip.

My heart is throbbing in my chest as Bob’s eyes find mine. His are watery suddenly, searching my rouged cheeks and painted lips as I stand there before him: a bride. 

And it feels like the day has blinked suddenly by us. 

Bob has made everything so very easy, stepping into the room and guiding me from hair to makeup, bringing my garter to me on a small tufted pillow, showing me the rings in his pocket every half hour for the sake of his peace of mind and mine. He’s been the one to bring me granola bars every two hours, asking me an infinite amount of time if I want a smoothie or a margarita or a xanax.

My Robert from Major Authors--the one who feels like a child to me sometimes, the one whose hair I cut in college in my ugly galley kitchen, the one who has punched precisely one face in his life to defend my feelings, the one who has always loved me without taking more than I give him.  

“Bob,” I whisper, “if you cry, I’ll cry.”

Bob blinks rapidly, sputtering a dry laugh, turning his cheek.

“I’m afraid to know what happens when Bob cries,” Penny says softly, nudging him teasingly.

“I think a puppy would die or something,” Phoenix adds. 

I know this is Phoenix’s attempt at drying our eyes, confiscating our wet cheeks. I know that she would cry, too, if Bob cried--that is how much she loves him. That is how good of friends they are. We are connected in that way again--the common ground spreads and we step closer to each other. 

“I know, I know --no crying in the Navy,” he insists, stepping towards me, running his fingers along the shoulder of my dress, “but my best friend is getting married. S’enough to make a grown man cry!”

Everyone in here is grinning, laughing. The room is still bright in the afternoon light, sunlight painting the wallpaper and duvet. It smells like expensive perfume and hairspray, like sticks of gum and watered down lattes. 

“Why don’t you crown her,” Penny suggests, her voice very soft as she nods towards the flower crowns perched on my bureau, “and we’ll veil her?”

Bob nods, pulling his fingers away softly, his blue eyes big and round as he finds mine again. We just look at each other for a moment, inhaling this bedroom on this day, raising our eyebrows at the same time. You okay? Yes, I’m okay. Are you? I’m good. It’s that language of ours, the one that is all eyebrow and lip and cheek but never sound. 

“Right,” Bob says, clearing his throat, “I’ve got you, Faye.”

It is all very sweet, very ceremonious. Bob places the plush crown against my clean hair, carefully pressing stray strands from my lashes and cheeks, his touch the most gentle its ever been. He is close enough for me to smell the gum between his teeth, close enough for me to press my lips against his cheek, leaving behind a print of my pink lips.

“Thank you,” I whisper to him. 

And then Phoenix and Penny settle the cream-colored veil at the base of the flower crown, letting it flutter down my bare back and settle at the base of my spine in a sprawling cream-colored blanket of silk. 

Then they’re all three standing before me, eyes wet, smiles wide. It makes me flush, all of them looking at me like that, like their hearts are in their throats. So I grin, just grin, because there is an overwhelming sense of pride rushing over my entire being as I look at my bridal party. 

Bob and Phoenix in their corresponding colors, his dress shirt pristine and white, her dress olive-green and flowering around her calves in sheaths of velvet. Even Penny in her floral gown, her hair pinned up, her cheeks glowing. They make me a proud person to love and to be loved by them. 

“Knock, knock,” Jake’s voice suddenly echoes in the bedroom as he turns the handle and raps his knuckles against the door, “y’all decent?”

My heart stutters in its place. We haven’t spoken more than a few words since breakfast. But he was happy then, laughing between bites of bagel, eyes bleary and teeth especially white for the occasion. Other than that, other than his apparent joy, we have only slid past each other in the hallway, waved through windows. He’s been busy getting Rooster ready and I’ve been busy getting myself ready, separated by a few walls and a few members of our squadron.

Jake doesn’t wait for an answer--he comes into the room with a grin, whistling lowly at the bridal party before me, smoothly waltzing towards us with a small velvet box in his hand. 

“Y’all clean up nicely,” he compliments, his trimmed hair coiffed and his stubble trimmed, “where’s your veil, Bob?”

Bob rolls his eyes, not looking away from me, biting a grin. He looks very proud, very pleased.

“Gave it to the bride,” Bob teases back, breaking so Hangman can step between himself and Phoenix, “look for yourself.” 

And that’s precisely when Jake sees me. He stutters in his place, expression dropping completely in a single instant. Fuck. The grin thins and dissipates as his eyebrows slope, his mouth slack. I think I even see the breath in his throat catch, even see his Adam’s apple bob like a buoy in unforgiving, stormy waters.

His eyes wash over me slowly, starting at the flower crown and ending at the velvet toes of my heels. He’s looking at me like this is what he’s been waiting for all day, like he can’t believe that this is happening, like he has to see it to believe it. 

Fuck.  

And when his gaze finally meets mine, his mouth is still ajar and his cheeks are pale.

I think we are close enough friends for him to understand the crinkle between my brow. Please, don’t. Just be my friend. Please be my friend. It’s practically pulsing. 

He swallows thickly. 

“You’re a vision,” he says, his voice ragged. 

“Thank you,” I whisper, stepping towards him carefully, “everybody here?”

Phoenix is watching my face, Bob is watching Jake’s. I know they’re wondering--I know they’re trying to decipher, dismantle. I know they want to know what happened last night. But even if I did want to tell them, it makes a lump grow in my throat each time, makes me want to weep. And I am too happy to weep now--too dizzyingly excited, anxious to marry Rooster. 

“Yes,” he says dryly, eyes resting on my throat, “just came ‘round to tell you guys to take your places.”

He turns his cheek carefully, glancing at Penny, Phoenix, and Bob.

“I’ll walk Faye to the door,” he adds quietly. 

What he means is: leave, please.   

They nod, grinning, taking sharp breaths before squeezing my arms and carefully sweeping their eyes over me to make sure nothing is out of place. It’s Bob who catches my gaze again, asking in his silent way if everything is okay, reading the crease in between my brows and the pout in my lips.

Everything’s okay. Everything’s good.    

“See you out there, honey,” Bob says from the door, Phoenix and Penny already walking down the hallway, “you got this.”

Then it’s just Jake and I again. 

Except now I am in a wedding dress. 

The dress is, by far, the most perfect thing I’ve ever owned. It is made entirely of silk, the color of a freshwater pearl, and falls down my body in one heave of heavenly fabric. The neckline dips tastefully, a small portion of the place where my ribs meet peering through the fabric. The sleeves are billow and rouche just past my elbows. It is an elegant dress, a sweet one--one Bob helped me pick out in September, him and I sorting through yards of fabric and bustiers and bejeweled skirts until we found this dress.

“Faye, that’s the one,” Bob had said immediately when I stepped out from behind the velvet curtain, my hair pulled back with a scrunchie and my socks bunched at my ankles, “oh my, God! You look perfect.”  

I know that I look beautiful right now. I know without even studying myself in the mirror that I look beautiful right now. My dress is perfect, my crown made of flowers is handmade, my veil lovely and ethereal. My cheeks are rosy and my lips are pink, my eyes dusted lightly, my jewelry dainty and golden. I am spritzed in my favorite perfume and my hair falls down my body in precious, cascading waves. 

It’s the most beautiful I have ever been--I know this. And I know that if I were alone and to study myself in the mirror, at my face that is mine but also my sister’s, at my body that is twenty-eight now, then I would see her there with me. Perhaps I wouldn’t even be able to imagine her beside me if I saw how truly decadent I really look--I would just see her face staring back at me. That’s when I see her in me; when I am beautiful, very beautiful. 

And Jake’s wearing a pair of brown pants with smart creases, his leather shoes worn but polished, his scent that same papery-cologne from before. He looks handsome, too--like a cowboy. He looks like last night never even happened.

His cheeks are beginning to redden, his lips beginning to part. 

“You look,” he sighs, dragging his eyes up from my throat, “like a fuckin’ angel.”  

There’s only a few paces separating us. He’s gripping the velvet box so hard that his knuckles are whitening. 

My heart is jumping in my belly, pounding, prancing.

When he’s this close to me, all I can think about is his quiet insistence last night. All I can think about is the tequila that pulsed through my temple when he uttered his confession, when he said he wanted to fuck me, when he told me he couldn’t watch me love Bradley forever. All I can think about is him walking away and never looking back and me calling an empty voicemail every time the Cowboys win. 

And I shouldn’t be thinking about these things, not right now, not when I am about to get married. But he is my friend--I do love him. I will mourn him if I lose him.  

“Thank you,” I whisper. 

I wish that last night never happened. I truly wish that we could just stand in here as two friends and just be in the same room without that big, nasty thing looming over us, between us. I wish that he never said anything at all. I wish that he could just flirt the way he usually does, the kind that is easy to roll off the shoulders--but it feels different now. He hasn’t even come forward to kiss my head today like he usually does when he sees me.

 The air is thick with tension, with words left unuttered. 

I’m not sure if I want him to say everything or nothing. I’m not sure I want him to say anything at all, really.  

“S’beautiful out there,” he says, “you did a good job.”

I nod again because my throat is aching too badly to speak. 

He clears his throat again, then gestures to the velvet box in his hand. 

“From the groom,” he whispers, crossing the floor to press it into my palm. 

I wish that things were different now. I wish that we were still the kind of friends that could sit close together when I open this, wish that I could lean on his shoulder, wish that he could wrap his arm around me without feeling like we are hurting each other. 

It’s quiet. He presses the box into my hand and then doesn’t move. 

So I carefully open the box--breath catching in my throat when I see the simple, gold pin resting in the box, a white pearl adorning its head. It’s cold when I press it against my fingers, shining in the dying sunlight, gleaming up at me. 

“He said it was his mama’s,” Jake sighs, crossing his arms as he comes even closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine, “guess she wore it on her wedding day, too.”

I feel like I knew that as soon as I saw it--could imagine her wearing it, pinned to the frilly sleeve of a puffy dress, all grins and big hair and exuberance. And now it is mine, my something borrowed, my something old. From the mother that would’ve adored me, given to me by the son that I am completely devoted to.

It’s love that pulses through me then, love for Rooster, for what we have. It is a certainty, one that puddles in my gut, even when Jake carefully takes the pin from me and steps before me. The toes of his shoes are against mine now as he looms over me, eyebrows creased. 

“Here?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer again. His eyes flicker to mine and he looks genuinely pained, being this close to me without touching me, seeing me in a wedding dress. But that doesn’t stop him--he very gingerly pinches the thin seam that connects the brassiere of my dress, careful not to pull it away from my body as he pins the brooch to me. And then his eyes rest there, just between my breasts, just above the bit of bare skin of my ribs. 

“Jake,” I whisper, stepping back. 

He nods, turning his cheek, biting his lip. 

He inhales deeply there, just before me. And I think if his hair wasn’t gelled, he would rake his fingers there. But it is so he just wipes his palms against his pants. 

The vein across my nose throbs again. 

“I need you to be my friend, please,” I say softly, really meaning it, the absence of my sister growing wildly apparent with each moment that passes, “even if it’s just for today.”

He nods without looking at me again. 

“You know, ‘m always gonna love you,” he says, voice flat and quiet as he slowly shakes his head, “and ‘m always gonna be your friend.”

That makes me feel rotten.  

Now I am the one that sighs, that wants to run my fingers through my hair. 

“Shouldn’t have said what I did last night,” he adds, letting his hands grab his hips as his eyes burn a hole in the carpet at my feet, “shouldn’t have done that to you, Faye. Wasn’t fair.”

My spit feels thick as honey. 

“You’ve never been very good at saying you’re sorry,” I whisper lowly, carefully nudging him, “cowboy.”  

I am testing the water. He knows this, lets himself smile in that small way, lets himself exhale and deflate. It feels easier now--the air a tad thinner.  

“You know that I am,” he says softly.

“And you know that I forgive you,” I whisper, “I always do.”

And before I can really even process what is happening, before I can lean forward and press my hand against his shoulder, he has closed the space between us. He has his arms wrapped around me, his grip constraining and tight, hands securely pressed against my ribs on either side. His head is very carefully hovering above mine, mindful of my hair and my makeup. And he’s very solid, just like he always has been for me, just like he always will be for me. 

After a moment, I hold him, too--I wrap my arms around his shoulders, let my eyelashes flutter against his dress shirt. He’s inhaling me, breathing in my scent, stroking the fabric of my dress, hugging me to him as tight as he can. 

I almost cannot breathe, but I don’t say anything. I just hug him back.

Almost, I whisper that I’m sorry that I don’t love him the way he wants me to. Almost, I whisper that we have just missed each other in this lifetime. We passed each other in separate taxis, his south-bound and mine north-bound. We are not meant to be together. 

We say nothing. I am the one that pulls away finally, carefully dragging my fingers across his shoulder as I detangle myself from his grip, careful to keep the tears in the corner of my eyes right where they are. 

And then he’s giving me this pitiful grin and his eyes are wet and wide and his face is flushed. He carefully wipes his thumb beneath my lip, correcting a nonexistent smear of lipstick. Then he smooths his hands over my hair, my veil. 

I wipe a single, stray tear from his left cheek when it spills over his lash line. His face is warm beneath my hand, his cheek heavy when he leans into my touch. 

“You are a good man,” I tell him seriously. 

I know it is something that he does not hear often--I know that so much. 

He sniffles, bites his lip hard, nods mutely. 

“You’re an angel,” he whispers back.  

Then I let my hand fall and it’s quiet in here again, just the two of us with open wounds on our chests.  

I can hear everything happening outside the window suddenly. I can hear the record player from its perch on a kitchen chair just outside the backdoor, an old Frank Sinatra song floating through the winter breeze. I can hear Hondo’s kids playing with Warlock’s kids, all giggles and shouts and clamoring feet. I can hear everyone chattering in their seats, probably turned around to talk to whoever is behind them, familiar faces against familiar faces. I can hear everybody holding their disposable cameras in their laps, showing their kids how to crank the camera before capturing images, explaining the process of dropping the cameras off at the pharmacy and picking them up a few weeks later. I think I can even hear Bradley’s voice above everyone else’s, can hear him talking to the officiant, can hear him laughing lowly.

There are birds calling, California natives. They’re in my eucalyptus trees and fluttering past all the flowers we have been growing. Certainly they must be basking in the warmth of this winter sun, too--preening their feathers before perching on a branch. Maybe that is what Maggie is today; a calling bird, her song mournful and sweet, perched high above us to witness what she could not be a part of. 

Yes, that is what she is today. I’ve thought about it and so it must be.  

That’s when I know that we need to go. That’s when my palms start to itch because Bradley is waiting for me--he is standing in our backyard, at the end of the brick aisle, wearing a most handsome button down and pair of well-fitting slacks. I know that his heart must be jumping inside his chest, his throat aching as he waits for me there.

“I’ll lead the way,” Hangman says.

He moves his arm--offers me his bicep. He’s smiling again.

So I loop my arm through Hangman’s, squeeze him. He inhales, chest expanding, bites his tongue. I wrap my fingers around his bicep, praying that my touch doesn’t provoke pain. 

“Knew you’d come get me,” I whisper to him. 

My heart is steadily beginning to race. 

He looks at me, looks at me right in my eyes, and nods despite himself. He’s smiling a sad kind of smile, a smile that is almost wet, almost a frown.

That’s when he does it. Very slowly, he leans forward and presses his lips to my forehead. It’s a long moment that he lingers there, his lips puckered, his eyes closed. That familiar kiss--it makes me feel like everything is going to be okay.  

“My pleasure,” he whispers against my forehead, “now let’s get you married.” 

So he walks me down the hallway of my home, this home that I love so much. He walks slow, matches his pace to mine, flexes his bicep beneath my fingers. He walks with his spine straight, his jaw squared. I try to walk the same way, measuring my breaths as we emerge from the living room into the kitchen, when everyone is suddenly looking at us.

He squeezes my fingers as everyone’s eyes fall to mine, like he knows how tight my throat suddenly is.

“Right on time,” Bob grins.  

It’s much brighter here than the bedroom, the room made almost entirely of light and warmth. 

I have always loved this kitchen very much--have worked hard to love it very much. It is copper and green and lovely, a place that I find solace in. It is a place that my sister used to frequent, perched on the counter as I made us sandwiches after swimming all day, mindlessly thumbing through cookbooks on her lap. She used to bump her hip against the island every time she rounded the corner, every time groaning and moaning. It used to be one of the only rooms in my house with working air conditioning, used to be where I spent much of my time before I met Bradley, before he fixed all the broken things in my home. It is where I find Bradley in the middle of the night sometimes, leaning against the kitchen counter with a makeshift charcuterie board spread lazily across a paper towel, his eyes half closed as he chews pepperoni. It’s where we have danced together, holding hands, spinning each other out and in, my hair whipping against the cabinets and his socked feet sliding against the cold floors. This is where we ate breakfast this morning, all together, each of us grinning as salmon oil coated our tongues. This is a very happy room, yes. But seeing everyone here now, everyone with their top button done up and their dresses steamed and their hair pinned and their grins wide--it is the happiest I have ever seen this room. 

Bob and Phoenix are standing beside Maverick and Cyclone, each of them dressed very nicely, not a hair out of place. They’re all grinning at us, letting their eyes wash over me. 

It is a strange thing to know that I look beautiful right now. I know that I should be gazed upon right now. Every piece of my look has been carefully curated, crafted. The moon earrings, the opal necklace, the opal and diamond engagement ring, the pearl pin; they are all things that have been specially given to me in celebration of this day. 

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” Maverick grins, coming forward to press a kiss to my cheek. 

I let go of Jake’s arm.

“Bradley’s a lucky man,” Phoenix follows closely, smoothing her hand across my veil, “and I’m sure he won’t ever forget that.”

“Certainly never lets us forget it,” Bob adds, pretending to roll his eyes.

Bob watches on like a proud parent, arms crossed over his chest, smile prideful and boastful.  

“Thank you,” I smile, “everything ready to go?”

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: yeeeeeehaaaawwwww the wedding chapter is finally here!! I split it up into two parts but this part is 25k..........so sorry about that. mental illness really popped off w this one!!!

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

tagged by @theawkwardterrier - thank you friend! 💕

Post the last line you wrote and tag the same number of people as words.

It’s only been a few — well, several — months.

tagging (no pressure): @walkinginland @lord-jen-grey @philtstone @isthisclever @aussieoutlanderao3 

[yoonpobs]

together | myg

pairing: min yoongi x singlemother!reader

genre: fluff, very soft fluff, domesticity

words: 5, 007

summary: min yoongi is a good man but even a better father ... figure

“Baby … what did we say about boundaries?” You crouch down to reach Jihoon’s eye level and the mini you—as said by your friends—simply ignores your oncoming lecture by staring at his feet.

“Limits …” He mumbles softly and all you want to do is hug him and tell him he can do no wrong but motherhood is tough despite all the online blogs telling you that they’re with you. You loved your baby, you really did—but God decided to fuck with you by making him the reflection of yourself when you were younger and you heard nightmarish stories from your parents from when you were growing up.

You run your hand over his hair soothingly because as much as he was like you, he was still only two years old and his own person, fluff and bread arms. You knew not to restrain him with furrowed brows or raised voices but instead with the patience your parents always taught you to have and the compassion that you wished you were naturally blessed with. But life had a funny way of taking away things from you.

Well—your ex-husband was never really taken from you—he left you, and instead of feeling shambled and distraught you were made of such resolve that you merely blinked when he packed his bags after he said he was cheating on you. The only sweat you broke was realising that Jihoon was only three months old when his dad left without sparing him another glance.

But your baby grew up and so did you. Your job at office paid well enough for you to live comfortably with Jihoon and hire nannies to look after him whenever you couldn’t; even though you tried your best to always be with him so he wouldn’t grow up resenting an absent mother. But you worried like anyone else would because while your friends and family would say you were doing an impeccable job, your self-sabotaging tendencies nagged at yourself by saying that he needed a male figure in his life.

He mumbles a soft apology, so respectful with his big eyes and you smile at him. You knew he meant no harm when storming into your office and scrambling off with important documents because he was still impressionable and curious about nearly everything. Your heart dropped when you realised your reports were pretty much incoherent with the way he doodled over them but you knew not to blame him.

“Forgiven Hoon.” You kiss his forehead.

His eyes turn into tiny slits with his toothless smile and your heart clenches at the little human you created and love dearly.

“Love you mama.” He plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek before waddling off to his playpen where his toys are laid neatly. If there was anything he inherited from you; it’d be your meticulous tendencies.

You sigh, leaning into the wall of your kitchen as you watch Jihoon with fond eyes as he plays with his dolls and figurines, dressing them in dresses and pants just like how you taught him that gender had no look and that everyone was different. Obviously, explaining the concept of social constructs to a two-year-old is not a conversation any parent would have with their child but you believed that these fundamental core values of humanity were important to his growth into his toddler stages and eventually adulthood.

“I can’t believe you squeezed that cutie out of your vagina.” Taehyung snorts, sneaking up behind you and you don’t flinch because you’re way too used to his unwanted comments and sudden appearances.

“I am 90% cute so it’s only right that my child inherits that from me.” You retort, eyes still trained on your baby boy.

Taehyung looks over at Jihoon who directs a mini-play of a loving family, and your heart is still sad at the prospect of his adolescent years only being with you.

“You know … hyung is asking about you,” Taehyung says and you immediately still in your position, hands freezing in your pockets because you know exactly who he’s referring too and you weren’t exactly ready for that conversation, especially with your older brother.

“He says he misses Hoonie.”

You sigh, turning your head to face your older brother and you can only muster enough emotion to look fine with his statement but you simply looked constipated with the way your face scrunches up.

“We’ve been busy …” You mutter.

“Jihoon is two-years-old and the only thing he’s busy with is trying not to give you a heart attack every time he nearly runs into the wall and you literally work from home now that your boss is some progressive liberal that tries a new system every two days,” Taehyung says dryly, pinning you with a deadpan.

“Stop offending me by insulting my son!” You whine.

“That’s my nephew too.” He rolls his eyes as you punch him in the shoulder.

“That has a name and it’s Jihoon you bitch.”

“Mama said beech?” Jihoon tilts his head in a curious manner and your expression morphs into one of mortification as Taehyung cackles in response.

“Stop. Laughing.” You hiss but it’s no use because your brother has never once listened to anything you had to say throughout the last twenty-nine years of your life.

“You—” Your snide is cut short by rapt knocks on your door, and you see Taehyung’s grin widen. You know that look intimately because it’s the expression he wears before he pisses you off or embarrasses you.

“He’s here!” He sounds delighted as he skips towards the door. You want to pull his back by his collar to ask him what the fuck he was talking about but he’s quick with his hands and the door is open. Your mouth falls and you nearly get whiplash with the way that you stare at your guest.

“Y-Yoongi.” He was possibly the last person you wanted to see and you had no idea what he was doing at your apartment at night on a weekday.

Then you see Taehyung’s pleased expression and put two-and-two together.

“___, hey. Taehyung said you needed help with Hoon tonight?” He offers a tilt of his lips because Yoongi was not an expressive man by any means. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have a good heart; that was far from the truth of the enigma that was Min Yoongi.

He was a good person and an even better friend. Although the two of you had tip-toed on the line between friends to something more than that, he never explicitly said anything about his interests to you. And you didn’t want to pressure him by saying anything because even though he was in his thirties and still very much single with a stable job as a surgeon at the top hospital, a two-year-old son is rarely what a man that appealing ever wants when looking for a relationship.

That was why you stopped replying to his texts or inviting him over to hang out with Jihoon anymore because Jihoon adored him so much and your poor heart couldn’t bear to see the two boys interact without an ugly flower called hope bloom in your chest. He only ever knew who you were because he and Taehyung were co-workers and probably only tolerated you by association.

You loved Jihoon and wanted the best for him. Even if that was Min Yoongi—you needed to protect your heart too.

“I did?” You tilt your head and Yoongi automatically notices the habit that you and Jihoon share. Taehyung is somehow next to you already and you know that because he stomps on your foot and shoots you a glare when you hiss.

“I did.” You cough.

“Mama?” Jihoon peeks his head through the divider between the kitchen and the common area, and his eyes immediately light up when he sees Yoongi hovering by the entrance.

“Yoongi!” He squeals as he speeds as fast as he can with his little feet towards the man in his scrubs who shoots your son with his gummy smile.

“Hey, buddy.” He picks your son up effortlessly and you know you’re staring but you rarely ever see men who are this patient let alone this good with children.

“Close your lips,” Taehyung whispers into your ear.

“I’m—that’s not what was happening …” You mumble, a blush appearing on your cheeks as you look away from the hugs and kisses that Yoongi gives Jihoon.

“I meant your other ones.” Your brother says dryly.

“Kim Taehyung—!” Your arms are already reaching for his neck to strangle him but Yoongi calling your name snaps you out of your anger.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?”

Your head snaps to Yoongi who now has Jihoon on his hip while he plays with the material of his scrubs. You hate how your heart flutters at the domesticity of the question and how Yoongi looks so much like a father to your son and a husband in your home.

You realise the dangerous daydream you’re falling into and shake your head to snap out of it before you hurt yourself even more.

“Us? No, we haven’t. Tae and I were planning to order in at our favourite place.” You tell Yoongi with a small smile.

You see the hint of a frown marring on his face but it goes as quick as it comes as he stalks towards you.

“Actually—” Taehyung cuts in before Yoongi can say anything, “—I have a … thing.”

He points his thumb towards the door and you curse him in your head so much that you hoped sibling telepathy was a thing so he could hear what you felt about him right now.

“You … do?” Yoongi asks.

Taehyung shrugs, as ambiguous as ever before ruffling Jihoon’s hair and offering a fist bump and a kiss before he approaches your door.

“Taehyung—” You grit.

“Bye, buddy! Yoongi.” He acknowledges the two other boys but not you and you know it’s because while Taehyung loved to annoy you, he knew you were a handful and quite literally the spawn of satan when you were angry and you weren’t just angry but livid.

“Get back here—!” And he’s gone before you know it, and even Jihoon mumbles a soft bye Tae samchon after he’s gone.

You sigh, resting your head against the frame of the door that was now shut in your face, stuck in your own house with the man that you’ve been helplessly pining over that looks way too at home with the way Jihoon plays with the softness of his black hair.

You turn around, closing your eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

When you open them, Yoongi has an eyebrow raised, placing Jihoon on his high-chair. And you don’t know why you found that act so hot but you couldn’t even set your own son down into that chair without him making a fuss but he only giggled cheekily when Yoongi did so.

“What for?”

He doesn’t sound angry, just genuinely confused. You purse your lips and walk towards Jihoon who was simply babbling to himself and grab a cloth to wipe at the appearance of a new stain on his shirt which you suspect he got from his playtime earlier, and you internally groaned at the fact that he probably found some food and decided that it would be a good addition to his play family.

“I know it’s really busy at the hospital this time around and Taehyung basically scammed you here … with us.” You fiddle with your fingers after you pick up a toy on the floor and pass it to Jihoon to keep him occupied as you have a much more … adult-esque conversation with Yoongi. While you made it clear to Jihoon that he didn’t necessarily have a father in his life because you owed him that much, you tried to steer far from conflict and turmoil so he wouldn’t have to grow up knowing only the lows of life.

Yoongi just … stares. And it’s unnerving because you could barely read the man in general and he was looking at you with a blank expression that only causes your anxiety to settle further into your bones. You’re thinking of about a million different ways to apologise or to spontaneously combust so you could save yourself from the scrutiny of Yoongi’s eyes. But before you can say anything and embarrass yourself, even more, he speaks.

“Do you think I don’t enjoy spending time with the two of you?” He frowns, and that’s the most expressive you’ve seen him throughout your entire friendship with the man. The fact that the first time he’s ever shown any explicit emotion around you is one of … disappointment … only makes you realise how far out of his league you were.

“N-No!” You shake your head, flustered at his tone. When you look at him, his face is much softer; a type of expression that shows longing but you aren’t quite sure why it’s there.

“It’s just … you’re busy, Yoongi. You’re a hotshot doctor at the best private healthcare facility in the city and you’re here spending the last night before the weekend with some pathetic single mom who still—by the way—can’t decide on how to brush my teeth just because it doesn’t feel right.”

Yoongi blinks at you, then he looks over at Jihoon and you’re confused for a second because it seems like he’s dismissing your mini ramble, but instead, he reaches out to Jihoon’s hand and bends down so he can look Jihoon straight in the eye.

“Hey, bud?” He calls out to Jihoon and your son looks at Yoongi with all the stars in his eyes.

Your heart softens at the interaction and notices how the way Jihoon doesn’t pull away when Yoongi reaches out to carry him in his arms again.

“Yoongi!” He squeals, squeezing the man’s cheeks between his chubby fingers and you can’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm and the way that Yoongi resembles a cat.

“I need to ask you something.” He whispers as if it were only the two of the room and you stand on the opposite of them with your arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

Your son bobs his head up and down in agreement as he waits for Yoongi to ask him his question.

“Yoongi …” You trail off but he pays you no mind.

“Do you love your mama?” The question surprises you and your mouth opens and closes, and your emotions are all over the place because the question makes you feel nearly inadequate. The way that he asks the question prompts you to wonder if it seemed like what you were doing for Jihoon just wasn’t enough.

“What is this even about?” You snap, eyes narrowed at Yoongi but he still ignores you.

Jihoon nods his cute little head eagerly without a moment of hesitation after Yoongi asks his … what you would say—preposterous question.

“I love mama with all my heart. She’s the best!” Jihoon giggles into Yoongi’s shirt as he leans his head against his chest. You don’t know why his words make you choke up when he tells you he loves you every day but the reassurance that your son does indeed love you makes you feel like you can do anything. It was also probably the fact that you noticed Yoongi smiling fondly between the two of you.

“Do you think she’s pathetic, Hoonie?” He throws your words to your son and you scowl at Yoongi who is still keeping his act of ignoring you very much alive.

“Pathedic?” Jihoon tilts his head again and you almost coo at the slight lisp he has when he asks.

Yoongi chuckles warmly and offers you a small smile as if to tell you that you’d see soon enough before repeating himself to your son.

“Bad.” Yoongi settles.

Jihoon gasps in his tiny little way and frowns, looking over at you with a cute crumpled expression that makes your heart swell even more. The urge to hold your son increases tremendously but you were still confused and curious as to what Yoongi was getting at.

“No no no! Mama is the best, didn’t you hear?” Jihoon squabbles.

You bite your lip to refrain from smiling so wide and choke back the tears that well up.

“Mama always cooks yummy food and never yells at me! I always see other mama’s yelling at their babies but mama … mama loves me too, right?” He rambles off and you sniffle.

“Love you a lot, Hoon.” You say from a distance and Jihoon is satisfied with your answer.

You turn to look at Yoongi and sigh.

“What is this about, Yoongi?” You sound stern and he acknowledges that. He knows the situation is much more serious than what he perceives but he can’t help but observe how the furrow of your brows resembles a squirrel. The comparison makes him want to laugh because you were so cute even when you were angry.

“I have one more question.” He tells you.

You don’t say anything but watch the way he leans in closer to Jihoon with eyes more serious than you’ve seen before.

“You want to see mama happy?” Yoongi whispers so softly that you almost miss it.

Jihoon nods.

“Of course. Mama always makes me happy. But she looks … lonely.” Jihoon frowns a little and you can’t help but have a tear fall. Your baby boy was young but observant and had a heart of pure gold. You didn’t need anyone but Jihoon but—

“What do you think if she gave you a papa?” Yoongi asks and the question stills your entire body. You don’t even see the way Jihoon lights up at the proposition and you also miss the way Yoongi looks over at you once to gauge your reaction.

“Will you be my papa Yoongi?” The question is what snaps you out of your reverie to realise the situation you were in and the allusion of Jihoon’s question.

“Jihoon! You can’t just—say sorry.” You squeak but Jihoon doesn’t pay you any mind because his attention is all on Yoongi who is smiling as wide as he possibly can.

“Only if your mom says yes, Hoonie. If only she knew how much I liked her.” He tells Jihoon but he’s looking at you. Your eyes are wide at the confession and your hands fall limp by your side; not knowing how to respond to Yoongi’s sudden confession.

It wasn’t anything spectacular, and it didn’t cause butterflies to erupt like it was in the movies but the confession was so wholeheartedly Yoongi that you felt so … comfortable. A surprising yet welcoming emotion.

Jihoon looks over to you but you’re looking at Yoongi who looks at you with soft eyes.

“Say yes mama!”

Yoongi stands up from his position to walk over to your frozen state until your hands rest on his chest unconsciously. He looks down at you as his arms wrap around your waist to pull you flush against his body. You blush and avoid his stare when he tries to catch your eyes. You know Jihoon is watching and that makes you feel all the more flustered. It was like you were back in high school and you were ‘canoodling’ behind your parents’ backs.

“Y-Yoongi …” You try to push him away but he reaches his hands to wrap them around your own.

“I’m sorry but you can’t run away from me this time ___.” He teases.

You flush and look away.

“I wasn’t … running …” You mutter.

He chuckles and shakes his head that you feel strands of his hair against your forehead when he leans in closer to connect your forehead with his own.

“Okay.” He agrees. He doesn’t put up a fight and you hate how even when you’re the one that’s flustered he can make you feel … safe. Calm.

“I like you, dumbass. I would go as far to say that I’m in love with you but I know how scared you get so let’s settle for the baby steps first, yeah?” He says so casually that your eyes bulge out of your eye sockets comically.

“You c-can’t just …” You blubber, “Say that!”

Yoongi scoffs.

“I like you Kim ___.”

You punch him in the chest but he doesn’t even flinch.

“No you don’t …” You whisper.

You don’t look at him but you can feel his frown.

“And who are you to tell me how I feel?”

You sigh.

“Yoongi … I don’t know if you heard what I said earlier but you’re … you … and I’m just some other girl that you know because of Taehyung and I’m a mother of a two-year-old. You could literally be with anyone you wanted and I just … you don’t like me. You just—can’t.” You exasperate.

He frowns at you, forcing your chin up to look at him with his index finger. You burn even redder at how close you were.

“I love you. I love Jihoon. And you need to get out of your pretty little head because I don’t want to be with anyone but you. I don’t know where you’re getting this weird picture of me being with anyone I want because I don’t want anyone. I want this—I want in, in this little family.”

You feel yourself choke up, and Yoongi notices so he holds you closer until your head is against his chest.

“I’m emotionally constipated half the time I interact with anyone but you just … you make me feel alive and things that I generally don’t feel on a daily basis. You and Hoon are the only things that keep me going with all the surgeries and stuff. I’m in love with you and it’s all your fault and Hoonie wants you to be happy as much as I do—so please: stop running.”

“Why are you running mama?” Jihoon asks and you remember your son is watching it all.

You flush but don’t move from Yoongi’s grasp. He thinks of this as a step forward because all you do is turn your head to look at Jihoon and offer him a smile through your tears.

You and Yoongi hear Jihoon’s whine and you see him reach his arms towards you as a gesture for you to carry him.

“Mama why are you crying!” He cries.

You feel Yoongi release you and you immediately reach out to Jihoon like it was second nature because it was. Jihoon was the only thing that kept you going when people would give you odd stares as a single mother especially when you were starting to look into preschools for your son. All the superiors would question your legitimacy and income when you were earning more than the average working man. You were always very particular about who you allowed into Jihoon’s life because he was young and got attached easily. But Yoongi made it so … easy. Just like he was that missing piece in both your and Jihoon’s lives.

“I’m okay bubs.” You kiss Jihoon on his cheeks as you hold back your tears.

“Don’t cry, mama.” Jihoon frowns and puts his thumbs between your furrowed brows just like you would always do when he was starting to sulk. You chuckle and hold your son closer to your chest, feeling all the more comforted.

“I’m serious about this ___ …” Yoongi steps closer to you and wraps an arm around you and Jihoon and the action feels so utterly domestic. You feel safe and content within his grasp.

“Yoongi …” You look up at him through your eyelashes and Yoongi has always been entranced with your beauty. It was never just about how beautiful you looked when you were a mother to Jihoon but the energy you carried around you was contagious and he’s immediately lightened up in your presence. He was patient with you because he knew you were serious about Jihoon and that he was your number one priority.

“No, please … listen to me ___.” He cups your cheeks while Jihoon is looking between the two of you with keen interest.

“I know you’re scared because of Jihoon and that’s valid. But I don’t want you to think that you’re not enough for me for superficial reasons because the truth is I probably won’t ever be enough for you and you’re here being the woman of my dreams. I respect your decision if you aren’t ready for a relationship and I won’t push you but I want you to know that I’m not going anywhere just because we aren’t together because I rather have you next to me as a friend than lose out on you forever.”

You had always been a crybaby and Taehyung was probably the reason why you cried all the time as children since he always had been the more rambunctious one between the two of you while you were far timider. But Yoongi knew that under all the times you shed tears because you were touched is a strong-willed woman that could withstand nearly anything in this world if it were for her son.

“And I know that I’m not over my head thinking this but … you want me too and it’s okay if you do but you don’t want a relationship. I respect you as a person, a woman and the mother of Jihoon. I just don’t want you to push me away.” He whispers so softly when he looks into your eyes.

“Mama …” Jihoon whines and you look down at him for a moment when he gives you a glare that doesn’t look so intimidating because of his bread cheeks.

“Yoongi is fun! Can he be our daddy?” You know his choice of words didn’t necessarily entail that context for you in particular but you blush anyway because he was just two. Yoongi senses your flustered state but squeezes your cheeks in between his hands and you feel coddled. It was a new feeling, one that was almost unfamiliar with how long you’ve been deprived of a significant other’s touch.

“I—Yoongi … I really don’t know what to say …” You mumble.

Yoongi smiles at you, comforting and homey all at once because Yoongi was a lot of things but never pushy.

“You don’t have to say anything. I don’t know if you realised this but I’m basically Hoon’s dad whether you like it or not because he and I spend more time together than I do with my colleagues at work and I work overtime all the time.” He teases.

“Jihoon really adores you.” You agree, biting on your lip as your mind races for the hundredth time this hour.

You liked Yoongi. You really did—and somewhere along the way, like turned into something more … dangerous. A territory that you usually reserved for Jihoon because you only had the capacity to care for one boy in your life but Yoongi smuggled his way into your heart and here he was causing a hurricane in your stomach.

The words he spoke were so truthful and genuine that you can’t help but believe that against all odds in the universe, Yoongi has somehow chosen you. You were the one that was afraid. He has always chosen you. That enough is shown when he makes his way after tiring shifts just to lay on your couch and play with Jihoon in times where all he could do was babble incoherent words. He chose you when he made surprise visits with the homemade stew that you knew he knew your son and you loved. He chose you when he invited you and Jihoon to spend Chuseok together because you mentioned just spending it with your son than with your family. His parents adored you and were even more taken with Jihoon.

He has always chosen you but now it was your turn.

“I love you.”

You say those words without much further thought because you’ve always felt it. Three words have never felt so safe on your tongue to utter into the atmosphere and you feel the same after the truth is out there. You always knew how you felt and you knew that Yoongi was smart to observe your feelings too, which was why when you finally said it he just looked … content. Happy—like he was in a place that was so familiar and comforting that he didn’t need to react any differently.

“I want—I want to be with you.” You clear your throat, “If you’ll have me.”

You look so shy and young—because you were. But you had that childlike innocence that he’s only ever had the pleasure to see when you would play fight with Jihoon. He feels his chest swell with pride knowing that he was the reason you looked like that and felt the way you did.

“Hmm … should I?” He leaned in closer until his breath was on your cheek.

You knew he was teasing you but you still can’t meet his eyes, and Jihoon simply giggles at the way Yoongi squeezes him between your chests in a way so comforting that Jihoon feels like it’s a warm hug from a blanket.

“Don’t tease …” You grumble.

Yoongi runs his hand through your hair and pulls your head closer to his to give you a gentle kiss on the lips. It was nothing seductive or implicative but so Yoongi. A kiss to show you he wanted this and that he felt whatever flurry of emotions you felt. A kiss like he was coming home.

He pulls away and you see Jihoon frowning between the two of your through your redness and shock.

“I wanna’ kiss too!” He whines, and you and Yoongi both look at your son with the stars in your eyes, then lock eyes with each other; and you do what comes naturally next.

You both kiss your son on the cheeks.

[doomstypewriter]

Excuse me while I panic

Final chapter, let's GOOO.

This has been a really nice thing to write, so I wanted to say thank you. There has been a lot of support and nice comments to this fic and I can't be appreciative enough about it.

I'd like to specially thank @extraintrovertedalien , @winterwynd and @simplestoryteller for all of their lovely comments!! You guys gave me so much motivation to keep writing this!

Word count: 1402 | AO3 | <<Previous

Chapter Masterlist

Summary: The moment we've all been waiting for, Virgil more than anybody, Roman admits he isn't perfect. Well, no, it's actually them kissing. I will not apologize for all of the flirting that happens in this chapter.

CW: Insecurities, very mild angst.

Getting together, but make it messy and silly

Roman laughed awkwardly.

“What do you mean you already know?”

After a pause where the other just blinked and stared at him, Virgil pulled out a chair and sat straddling it. He leant his elbow on the backrest, committing to a facepalm of sorts and a sigh.

“Princey, I’ve known for ages now. I mean, you’ve been super obvious for, what? A year maybe?”

“But--”

“It’s fine” he cut him. “I get it, so you don’t need to explain yourself. At least I’m glad you told me, even if it’s now”.

Roman frowned and stared at the floor.

“Oh”.

The chair creaked as Virgil leant his chest further against the backrest, following some kind of sunflower logic that required him to get closer to Roman in the least efficient way possible.

“Hey, why are you sulking like that? Isn’t this, like, better for you?”

“Well, that depends, if you’re rejecting me right now, then, no. I’ve only known that I’m in love with you for a few weeks, but, if what you say is true, I guess I’ve been feeling this way for even longer”, Roman paused, rethinking his words. He quickly glanced up at Virgil, gesturing with his open palms. “I mean, I will honour your choice, I don’t want to make you feel like I’m pressuring you into anything”.

Now it was Virgil’s turn to frown.

“But… aren’t you... I thought you just felt ashamed of me…”

Roman observed Virgil’s tense body language, getting the sense the other was feeling quite self-conscious, if anything because he recognised it from seeing it quite often in the mirror.

“What? Why would I ever--”

“Oh, well I don’t know Princey!” he exclaimed, sounding more upset than he intended. “We didn’t exactly start with the right foot, and then you were so unwilling to be nice to me, but then we became friends, and you’ve been getting closer and closer. You look at me with that stupid Hans from Frozen expression all of the goddamned time, but you never make a move, despite being all about romancing people. So, what else could I think? If you weren’t going for it, there had to be a reason”.

“And you thought I was ashamed of you of all things?”

“Well, yeah”.

“But I still hanged out with you anyway”.

“Princey, in my defence I have to say you’re pretty stupid, so it makes sense for you to do something like that instead of just ghosting me”.

Roman smirked.

“I can’t exactly ghost you if you’re haunting me”.

The pair of chapped lips pursed into a line. Virgil’s eyes looked at the top of the armrest with a worrying amount of interest for a plain piece of plastic.

“Virge, are you blushing?”

“Wouldn’t you like that, weather boy”.

“Well… yes I would like that very much, because if you are”, Roman walked up to him and held one of his hands in his, “maybe you like me too” he finished, hopeful.

“Jesus Christ, Roman, how are your hands so soft?” Virgil murmured.

Roman leant even closer to Virgil, bending almost to his eye level. He could feel his breath tickling against his neck. His body quivered at the sensation. When the warm air began to come in faltering intervals, Roman felt worried.

Was Virgil crying?

His hand moved towards the other’s face on autopilot. Before he could cup his cheek, though, Virgil looked up at him.

The smile he received had something so attractive to it, an air in between smugness and tenderness.

“Are your lips just as soft?” Virgil whispered and got closer.

Roman felt like he was made of jelly. His silly feelings had decided to leave Virgil in charge of all of his body strength, not that the Prince complained. How could he under that gaze?

Virgil finally surged forward.

Roman’s heart skipped a beat.

And… he yelped as Virgil bit on his collarbone like a wild animal.

“Ow!” he jumped backwards.

Virgil stood up from his chair holding onto his sides. His torso bent forward erratically, heaving.

When Roman finally saw his expression, his heart felt even weaker.

He bit his lower lip hard, the corners of his mouth were stretched forming a tiny dimple on the right cheek. His eyes arched and crinkled, giddy. Underneath, his eyebags shimmered with a bright shade of purple.

At that very moment, Roman couldn’t help but think Virgil was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he was on that list.

“You are unbelievable” Roman complained not sounding bothered at all.

“And you are ridiculous”.

“You make me ridiculous”, he said without thinking.

Virgil’s laughter slowly died down, settling into something soft.

“I do?” he asked.

Okay. Roman could do this.

Ignoring how shaky he felt, he once again approached him. A smile took over his entire expression all on its own. Roman nodded.

“You’re making the Hans face again, just so you know”, Virgil said while biting some dry skin on the left side of his lower lip.

The prince’s eyes went straight to Virgil’s mouth. If this went on his brain would melt before he’d managed to say anything.

“I am not ashamed of you, Virgil, I--”

“I’m sorry… I just thought that, since you weren’t addressing it, you might not like feeling like that about me. I’m…” he gripped the back of his neck, recoiling from Roman’s gaze. “We’re just so different. It kind of made sense, thinking you wouldn’t want to be with someone who dresses like me and is just so…”

“Come on, Taylor Swift, you’ve always belonged, well… once we were friends. I was just very stubborn, but you were too”.

“Princey, are you admitting you’re not perfect?”

“Hey! I’m trying to make you feel better and you’re attacking me!”

“Well, since you’re putting me at your level… just how badly do you think of me?” Virgil teased.

“I am actually wonderful, so, unlike you, I’m not trying to get sassy, because if I’m perfect then so are you!” the words came out of his mouth with no forethought.

“Oh”.

“I mean…”

“Are you blushing, Princey?”

“What if I am? Red is my colour after all”.

Virgil grinned.

“Not gonna argue with that”.

“You must be in a good mood… is it because of me?”

“I…” Virgil paused. He took one steady breath and rushed to get a hold of Roman’s hands. “Are you sure you want this? We… I am not riding off into the sunset material, and I know you care about that, and… I care about you too… what I mean to say is I like you, but I don’t want it to cost you the fairytale you’ve always wished for”.

Roman took a deep breath. This was going to be something.

“But Virge, I can’t have that without you. Anything we do together already feels like that”.

Virgil blinked a few times, trying to stop himself from tearing up completely.

“Pff… you’re such a sap”.

“You like it”, Roman said, raising his tone a bit at the end to make it ambiguous whether it was a question or not.

“Yeah… don’t let anyone else know, thought”.

A rush of adrenaline took over him. Roman swept Virgil into his arms and pulled him into a dip, leaning about an inch away from his face.

They stared at each other awkwardly, almost going cross-eyed from the proximity. Despite that, it felt kind of magical.

“May I kiss you?” Roman asked.

“You better” Virgil smiled, his eyes still watery.

Both ended up laughing at that. Roman shook nervously whilst cackling. Suddenly, his grip went loose and Virgil fell ass first on the floor, ending splayed face-up. His mouth opened in an ‘o’ shape.

“You dropped me!”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry--” Roman began to apologize.

Virgil got onto his belly in the blink of an eye and crawled. He grabbed Roman’s leg and pulled hard. Roman’s pretty face met the floor in less than a second.

“You childish prick!” Roman said as he got on top of Virgil.

“Takes one to know one” Virgil replied, pushing him to the side.

They rolled around the floor of the room like idiots until they hit Virgil’s chair. Roman felt the wheels sticking into his ribs, as he laid below Virgil, who smirked victoriously.

Finally, Virgil grabbed his hair forcefully and met him halfway in a less than perfect kiss.

<<Previous

Taglist: @itsjust-la-me , @bard-in-blue , @simplestoryteller , @winterwynd , @some-fander , @extraintrovertedalien , @the-sad-strawberry

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Yeeaaah… so this ended up turning out longer than I intended… but it’s a theory I felt like sharing nonetheless. Hopefully tumblr doesn’t eat this & if this is too long or odd to answer… don’t worry, I understand. I just wanted to share while it was in my head, ya know? So: Long Post Warning!

I am not 100% caught up on every chapter yet, but I do have a brief understanding of all the events up til now. So please forgive me if this has been revealed and I just don’t know about it yet.

Bell 🧚🏻 = wind spirit🌬🌪

Salamander (who honestly looks more like a dragon than a salamander so he’s gettin’ the dragon emoji) 🐲 = fire spirit 🔥

Undine 🌊 = water spirit💧

As far as I know, we don’t yet have an inkling of who the earth spirit will be or to whom he will “choose” to contract with.

Tbh, I have a some of feelings about possibilities surrounding the earth spirit…

Bell and Undine are both obviously women and I’m 96.8% sure that Salamander is a boy… but who knows, I also wouldn’t be the least bit freaking surprised if Tabata threw that back in our face and Salamander ends up being a girl like in Shrek (and on that note, I just need to ask, in Shrek 2 when Shrek and Donkey drank the Happily Ever After Potion, it’s described as “"Happily Ever After Potion maximum strength. For you and your true love. Drink of this potion and bliss will be thine, happiness, comfort, and beauty divine.” This stuff turned both Shrek and Fiona human while it turned Donkey into a pure white stallion… am I the only one that still gets peeved we never got an answer on wtf that stuff did to Dragon??? Or how it would’ve affected their dragon donkey hybrid babies??? That’s the only thing that irks me about Shrek 2… okay, whew, now that I’ve gotten that out, back to Black Clover theorizing)

Going by the assumption that Salamander is most likely a boy, it would stand to reason that the earth spirit has a good chance at being male as well like 2 female spirits, 2 male.

Salamander’s inspiration obviously comes from dragon lore, I can’t find one singularly specific mythology reference Tabata would have based Salamader on so I’m guessing Salamander is based on dragon lore.

Bell has, for the most part, 2 inspirations Tabata based her on. The main one being Sylphs have power over the skies and air. They've been delineated to have control over the wind and the clouds, and even have the ability to purify the air and control the weather itself. Sylphs are not officially from a specific type of mythology, but if they were to be categorized they’d qualify as European folklore, same as Undine and Gnome which will be explained a few bullet points later. The second and most obvious (my fav of the 2) inspiration Tabata drew from for her character is Tinkerbell; from the blond hair, green dress, gets pissed when male partner pays attention to any female that isn’t her, yeah no denying she’s based on tinkerbell; my guess is Tabata combined her with Sylphs wind magic because it was Tinkerbell’s pixie dust that Peter, the lost boys, and the Darling children used to be able to fly. “Faith, trust, & a little bit of pixie dust” (Which is even more perfect because, even if he doesn’t show it, there is no one else in the series that has more faith & trust in Asta than Yuno does… Yuno’s infinite faith/trust in Asta both drives their rivalry forward and, by this logic, is one of the very reasons Yuno can sore so high🥰).

Undine is the only spirit character, for now, that is directly based off of a real water spirit in European folklore (again, even though Sylphs technically qualify to be categorized under European mythology, as far as I know, they are not officially categorized as such which is why I say Undine is the only one) - “Undine, also spelled Ondine, is a mythological figure of European tradition, a water nymph who becomes human when she falls in love with a man but is doomed to die if he is unfaithful to her.” Being that Undine is described as being able to take human form when she falls in love with a man *cough cough* Ariel *cough cough* Black Clover’s Undine’s background states that she made a contract with the first queen of the newly formed Heart Kingdom and has thus stayed loyal and made a contract with every Heart Queen since. Maybe she fell in love with the father/brother/husband/male-figure associated with the first queen and since the queen is the predominant ruler of the heart kingdom - Undine made a contract with her to be close to this man while knowing he could/would never be hers… she wouldn’t die if her love is one sided… if her love is unsaid and unrequited then anything this man does with another woman isn’t considered being unfaithful.. and maybe she’s maintained contracts with every Heart Queen since out of sheer devotion, loyalty, and love to that original man whom she took human form for. Or she was in love with the first queen and has made a contract with every queen since out of sheer devotion, loyalty, and love not on just for that first queen but every one of her descendants. Who knows?

Tabata’s mythological references (demonology excluded because that a whole other thing) for the most part mainly circulate around Greek mythology, Norse mythology, and European folklore.

Going based off of Undine (and Sylphs) , there’s a strong possibility that this yet to be named earth spirit will possibly directly based on, even if only slightly, someone of those three categories above.

Greek mythology, I find somewhat unlikely seeing as there’s no official male god of earth in Greek mythology. There are deities that have roles related to the earth yeah… but no god surround the earth itself or the element itself. The closest thing to a god of earth in Greek mythology is Gaea - goddess of earth. Simplify it to god of dirt and still the only result is Demeter goddess of agriculture (which seems similar to Mimosa in some ways but I don’t think she will obtain an earth spirit because I think the earth spirit will have more to do with mineral earth than plants and agriculture). If there is to be any inspiration drawn from Greek mythology in terms of an earth spirit, but even this seems a little unlikely, my guess would be possibly some characteristics from Satyrs seeing as they are the male equivalent of nymphs - what Undine is technically classified as.

Norse mythology seems a bit more, but not by much at first, plausible in terms of gathering reference for an earth spirit. It probably wouldn’t be the Norse God of Earth Jörd because she is still technically a goddess and mother of earth like Gaea. However, Norse mythology does have a deity of rocks - Hrungnir is a jötunn (a type of entity contrasted with gods and other non-human figures, such as dwarfs and elves. The entities are themselves ambiguously defined, variously referred to by several other terms, including risi, thurs and troll). There is also one more Norse aspect that goes along these lines - Dvergar or Norse dwarves are entities in Norse mythology associated with rocks, the earth, deathliness, luck, technology, craft, metal work, wisdom, and greed.

Norse mythologies depictions of both jötunn and dvergar tie into the third category of European folklore’s depiction of earth deities/spirits. In European folklore, Gnome, is a dwarfish, subterranean goblin or earth spirit who guards mines of precious treasures hidden in the earth. He is represented in medieval mythologies as a small, physically deformed (usually hunchbacked) creature resembling a dry, gnarled old man. - this description is similar to that of jötunn/dvergar and also ties into Charmy being revealed as part dwarf which will most likely be explored in a later arc.

Tbh, I picture this guy’s personality being somewhere between Grumpy from Snow White, the grumpy but well-meaning and wisecrack Lorax, and Phil from Disney’s rendition of Hercules… (not only does imagining this type of personality have me laughing… imagining the 2 most whom I find most likely to be chosen by this earth spirit… imagining them being partnered up with this personality has me near cackling😂)

As for the 2 whom most likely might be the “chosen one” of this earth spirit?

Even though he is technically described as being Arcane in terms of his magical attribute, Mercury is by definition “a naturally-occurring chemical element found in rock in the earth's crust, including in deposits of coal.” So mercury is naturally occurring, derived from earth, and the fact that it can come from deposits of coal ties in perfectly to the hypothesis of this earth spirit/deity being along the lines of dwarves which (not JUST in Snow White) are heavily associated with miners in various mythologies and folklores. So even though technically classified as being arcane, I do think Nozel has a strong possibility of being chosen by the spirit of earth (+ it would make for an EVEN MORE epic rivalry between Nozel and Fuegoleon if they both have an elemental spirit) (++ based off of how dwarves are depicted in mythology and based on how I decribed how I think this guy’s personality will be, I can see this guy as wise/rational but also getting grumpy/irritated easily with a short fuse and just imagine him getting irritated and kicking Nozel in the shins when when he doesn’t communicate his feelings properly & almost always kicks Solid/Nebra/Augustus in the shins when he says something he shouldn’t have - omg this guy’ll be a hoot!!🤣)

The second possible “chosen one” of this earth spirit could be Sol. Not only is she 100% raw earth magic but I also feel like it would balance her out a bit having a male spirit attached to her and that’s where the wisdom side of the Lorax/Phil could kick in and help her not only improve as a mage but also as a person helping her not see things so one sided. You notice, even though the Blue Rose Knights are an all girl squad… Sol is the only one that goes to that much of a degree in despising men; everyone else on the squad detests men on the surface but for the most part not truly. Charlotte keeps up the façade of detesting men to both appear strong for her squad ladies but also to mask her own insecurities. Sol, while she has gotten a little better since her initial introduction, is the only one who barely tolerates men… the only one who’s depicted as not having a façade and genuinely detests all men with a few exceptions. Having a male spirit like character who does not take her BS (*shin kick💥*) but also offers her wisdom and guidance that helps her grow as a person would be phenomenal for her character overall.

I find Nozel to be the more interesting outcome (NO! not just because I’m a Nozel simp… who told you that? They lie) but either of these characters would be interesting and could improve drastically in character development and as a mage having someone like this joined at the hip.

What are your thoughts?

– Grimoire_Girl📚

OKay, okay *takes a moment* (Also: did I just stop what I was doing, just to read and reply to this? .... Maybe)

I'd like to platonically kiss you on the mouth (with your consent ofc, because consent is a big thing on this blog), because I love this. Okay the Fue simp in me was hoping to have more of him, but in the end I didn't even mind. And can I just say that I love, lovelovelove the idea of Nozel getting the Elemental Spirit of Earth.

The theory is made *so* *much* *better* by the mental image of him (supposedly 'him') being a Lorax/Phil (from now on, let's call him Phorax). Because can you just imagine this duo?! Nozel, our lovely tsun-tsun who is in need of a big, warm hug and therapy. (Like Nozel, sweetie, I know that there aren't many therapists around, but you need to talk to someone.)

I'm also thinking that since it's probable that there'll be the 2-2 divide between boy/girl spirits, because I kinda agree with you on Sal being a boy (I'm aware of Shrek 2, but unfortunately I have no answers, but I laughed *so hard* while reading that), if there'll be a divide between the Spirit forms that have wings. Because I can't see the Earth Spirit giving a flying Spirit Dive form.

I mean, what, everyone else, aka the rest 3 spirit owners can rise to the skies and then Nozel is left behind like a plucked chicken? (I'm so, so sorry for that comparison, but ain't no one leaving him behind! Nozel. Needs. To. Be. Included.) I don't think that's fair. So, it could very well be that the two else give a "grounded" Spirit form, and Bell and Undine give a flying form.

Aaaanyways... I do like your theory/thoughts on how Undine came to be. And I could very well see that to be canon.

I, honestly, have nothing further to add at this point. Because this is brilliant. I love this.

But Tabata please, give us a tiny bit more lore. Please? A pretty please

[damienthepious]

[a small gentle shout] happee lizz kis tues

could stay right here

[ao3]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Rilla, Sir Damien (but only asleep)

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Established Relationship, Early Relationship, Sleep, Literal Sleeping Together, Sleepy Cuddles, (yes two in a row. SUE ME.), Kissing, Singing, Banter

Summary: He isn't used to sharing a bed, just yet.

Notes: this was. supposed to be like... six hundred words, maybe? (sigh). enjoyy????? I hope? I don't know why i'm suddenly obsessed with Early Relationship One-Shots, but!!! apparently I am??? Heck. Title from the song Cement and Sunshine by Morningsiders!

~

Arum jerks awake as the bed shifts, a flash of panic gripping his lungs and squeezing-

Attack, he thinks, and then, won't let anyone hurt them. How- who-

Amaryllis.

She makes some small noise, presses her hands against his collarbone on either side, firm and sturdy, and he manages to suck in a breath that does not feel so strangled.

"Sorry," she says, her voice a breathy whisper by his ear as her hands keep him anchored, her thumbs rubbing soothing arcs against his scales. "Sorry, sorry- didn't mean to-"

Arum remembers. Remembers Damien curled against his left arms. He remains an unbothered, unconscious weight as Arum becomes aware of him again, and he remembers Amaryllis waving them off to bed before returning to her pile of five or six books and her recorder, an unmoveable fountain of determination, remembers awkwardly managing to ask- to ask that she join them, when she at last reached a stopping point, remembers her small, fond, knowing smile-

"It- it's- it's alright," he manages in a hiss, lifting one of his hands to curl around her wrist. "I'm alright. I-"

She leans back in the dark, beginning to draw away, and the panic moves, squeezing his heart instead. He grips her wrist more tightly, still careful of his claws despite his muddled awareness.

"Wait," he whispers, and the only reason he does not lean up to follow her is because he refuses to risk waking Damien beside him. "Don't- don't leave, I-"

She stills, and though he knows it is too dark for her vision she looks towards his voice, blinking against the black. She rests her weight on him again, her palms warm on his chest.

"I'm not leaving," she says, very gently. "It's alright, I promise. Let me just grab the blanket, that's all."

Arum has the sense that he should bristle at that, at her gentleness, her comforting tone, but his heart hasn't slowed yet, and his relief is too large to deny. He makes a noise, hopefully enough of an affirmative for her to interpret, and then he releases her wrist so she can lean back and gather the sheets from where he and Damien must have kicked them in their sleep.

She tugs them up over her shoulder and settles against his side with a small sigh, arranging the cloth to cover him as well, and then she leaves one hand over his heart, brushing slowly up and down.

He tries to slow himself down, to settle, to match his breaths to the motion of her hand, and after a few heartbeats it starts to come more easily.

"I'm sorry," Amaryllis says again, her voice a careful whisper. "I didn't mean to surprise you."

His chest rumbles quietly, a helpless almost-growl, and then he cautiously curls his arm around her, pulling her just the littlest bit closer. "I didn't mean to surprise you," he echoes, low and uncertain. "Jolting awake like that."

"You aren't used to this," she says. "It's okay."

"Used to-" he cuts off, frowning, trying to focus on not letting his rattling growl grow loud enough to wake Damien as well.

"This," she says, her palm pressing down on his scales. "This," she repeats, and then she presses her lips so, so gently to the scales at the crook of his neck.

Arum freezes for half a second, and then his body relaxes all at once, as if she has cast a spell over him with her kiss alone.

She isn't wrong, of course. It had been difficult enough for him to slip into slumber in the first place. Damien had positioned himself draped along Arum's side with a sigh and a kiss and Arum had laid utterly, exquisitely still until the poet drifted to unconsciousness, and then for what felt like rather a long time afterward. When sleep did find him, it must have been a rather fragile thing, considering how easily and violently it broke at Amaryllis' entrance.

"I... I suppose..."

"I mean, I get it. It took me a long time to get used to sharing a bed with Damien, actually," she says, her tone mild, and Arum blinks, glancing down at her musing expression.

"Why?" He frowns, unable to imagine a time- unable to imagine the pair of them at all separate, at all misaligned. They fit together so easily, without any apparent effort, enough so that at times he can hardly believe there was a time he did not know how intertwined they are.

"Because I was too used to sleeping on my own?" Her mouth curls, almost wry, as she traces nonsense shapes on his scales with the tip of her pointer finger. "I spent a long time alone in my hut, and even when I found people to fool around with I didn't usually spend the night. And I'm a really light sleeper in the first place, so it was a big change for me." She shifts slightly, readjusting the arc of his arms curled around her. "He rolled over onto me once, like, the third night we spent together, and I woke both of us up socking him in the nose."

Arum snorts, then holds his breath to keep from cackling a proper laugh. He gulps in a breath after a moment, feeling Amaryllis smiling against his shoulder, and he controls his voice carefully low as he responds. "A rather rude awakening for the poor knight, Amaryllis."

"I know," she rolls her eyes. "I felt awful about it, but- you know Damien. He apologized almost as many times as I did. Dummy."

Arum's heart does something unhelpful and twisting beneath the warmth of Amaryllis' palm, and he buries some rather embarrassing thoughts about the spun-sugar sweetness of their poet before he shakes his head.

"Completely absurd," he mumbles, and then, because he knows Amaryllis cannot see him do so, he tilts his head enough to press his snout gently to Damien's curls. Not quite a kiss by their human measures, but... he feels warmer, regardless, when Damien shifts almost imperceptibly closer at the contact.

"What I mean is..." she tilts her head, kissing his jaw this time. "It's alright. It's alright if it takes a while for you to adjust to things, or- or if you decide eventually that you'd rather not share a bed at all, for actually sleeping. That's fine too, that's an answer that's on the table."

"Don't be foolish," Arum grumbles, resisting the urge to tighten his grip. She's as close as she could possibly be, he reasons. The instinct to pull her closer regardless is nonsense. "I want- I would much rather-"

"I just want you to know that you don't have to do anything just because you feel like you should, that's all."

Arum presses his lips together, torn between gratefulness and indignation, and then he sighs. "I appreciate the... the effort towards clarity. It is not that I don't want the both of you here, beside me, though. I only... I cannot seem to... I am rather vividly aware of you. It is difficult to find rest, while my mind... lingers upon you."

"Ah," she breathes something like a laugh. "Yeah, that makes sense."

"I want you here," he says, trying to round off any ambiguity on that subject, and her breath flutters with another subtle laugh. "Clearly I managed sleep eventually. I'll do so again, I'm certain."

"Well," she says, her voice tilting breathier, richer, more warm with sleep, "if you're certain. Saints know I'm too tired to get antsy about it anyway."

With each moment, her weight settles more heavily against him, a more-than-welcome echo of the pressure of Damien's body on his other side, and he feels heavier as well as her breathing begins to slow. She'll drag him down into slumber with her, he thinks muzzily, and he can't suppress a subtle purr as her fingers continue to trace light, tingling lines on the scales above his heart.

"Just want you to be comfortable," she murmurs, and then she closes her eyes, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. "You don't get enough sleep. And yeah, yeah, I'm a hypocrite, before you even say anything."

He cuts off his retort before it begins, chuckling low, and he must truly be half asleep again already, because his next words come before he can think better of them, and he is halfway through his next murmuring sentence before he realizes that he is speaking.

"I can't understand how much you both... how..."

Amaryllis waits, drawing her fingers over his scales slowly, slowly, her eyes closed, but eventually when he fails to continue she makes a humming, questioning noise against his shoulder.

Arum swallows, shoring up his nerve since he has already begun to speak- he may as well say this now, while Damien sleeps soundly in his arms and Amaryllis cannot see whatever look is on his face.

"I cannot understand... how much trust you place in me. To... to sleep like this. It feels so... you are so vulnerable, Damien out of his armor, and you- it is so hard to- to understand- to reconcile that- that vulnerability and- to settle my own mind, while you both lie helpless and sleeping beside me. I want to pr- I can't- I cannot shake my awareness of your breathing, your heartbeats, and-"

Her hand stills above his heart; he wonders dizzily if she can feel the way it beats, faster with each passing word. He feels ridiculous- of course he does, he can hardly unravel his own thoughts while they still tangle, only half drawn into his waking mind, and he cannot even say if any of this coalesces into something that makes sense.

She turns in the darkness, unseeing, aiming her face towards his own, and then she trails her hand up from his chest, up his throat until she finds his jaw, the curve of his cheek, and then she turns his face towards her own. Ridiculous, he thinks fondly, since she still, obviously, cannot see him, but then she- she angles his head, presses a kiss against his mouth, and then she tilts both of their heads until their foreheads press together.

"You... you're saying you can't fall asleep because you're worried- you're worried about us? About- making sure we're safe."

"I don't-" Arum swallows roughly, nervously, his breath clicking at the base of his throat. "I don't know. I don't know what- what worries me, truly. I know- here in the Keep I know- obviously we are safe, but-"

Amaryllis kisses him again, gentle and warm in the dark, a tender press of lips against scales until his heart slows. She tips their foreheads together again, bites her lip, exhales a long sigh, and then she smiles so, so terribly softly with her palm caressing his cheek.

"And here I was worrying that you couldn't sleep because you weren't used to being so vulnerable," she whispers, and Arum resists the urge to flare his frill in embarrassment. "You- Saints. I- fuck, I could say so many different things right now, but I feel like every single one would embarrass you. I-"

Arum clamps his mouth shut, shrugs very gently with the shoulder beneath Amaryllis, and then he risks nuzzling forward again, gratified when she graces him with another kiss. "Save it for the morning, then," he murmurs. "You can embarrass me plenty when Damien is awake to make that precious wide-eyed expression about it."

Amaryllis shakes with silent laughter against him for a moment, kisses him one more time, and then resettles at his side with a warm, contented sigh.

"Do you think you'll be able to sleep again?" she whispers, her breath tickling at the crook of his neck. "I'd hate to think that I..."

"I'm certain that I'll manage, Amaryllis."

"I can... I could sing for you. If you want me to."

Arum glances towards her, a little surprised by the hesitant note in her voice, the hint of something like shyness. "You..." he pauses, swallows, thinks better of simply announcing how utterly enthralling he is by her voice in song. "That would not wake our little knight, you don't think?" he hedges instead.

"I can sing quietly," she complains, her lips drawing together into something like a pout, her nose wrinkling almost too adorably to stand. "And besides, our little knight sleeps like a fucking rock, anyway." She curls closer towards him, nuzzling her nose into his neck, beside his frill with a sleepy growl. "Do you want a lullaby or not?

"Well..." Arum trails off, taking a moment to force the breathlessness out of his own voice. "Well. If my choices while in bed with you are a song or a punch in the nose, I certainly won't complain about the former-"

She gasps, scowls in mock offense and swats at his side as he bites back the urge to chuckle, and then she settles her hand over his heart again, pressing down.

"Oh you just wait, you complete brat-"

"Are you going to sing or not, little doctor?"

"Hush," she growls, pressing her face into his neck. "Hush up and I will. Absolute brat."

Arum breathes another laugh, helpless against it, and then he settles, and after a moment her fingers start drumming a little pattern against his scales. With the rhythm of his heart, he realizes, and then a moment later she begins to sing, soft and husky and mostly breath, close against his neck.

He doesn't expect it to work, truly. She is so present, they both are, his awareness of their heat and their proximity such a vivid tether in his mind, impossible to ignore. Her song, her voice- everything about her is ethereal, stunning, gorgeous, of course, but he does not expect that even that could draw him down, pinned between their fragile resting bodies.

In the morning, though, he will not even remember the second verse.

[jostepherjoestar]

🦋 Jolyne vs. You 🦋

scenario // sfw // gn reader

Am trying to fill in the startling lack of Jolyne content, so here you go 🤲

Jolyne trampled her mom’s flowers, ruining the front garden with her big ol’ stompin’. She asked you, her best friend (the relationship being more ambiguous according to other friends) to help her plant new flowers so her mom won’t disown her. It turns into a bit of messy teasing, seeing how far you’d both take it. (hint: they belong together and only start to notice now) 💖✨

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this?” Jolyne huffed out while wiping her forehead, covering it in dirt. You chuckle at the sight of the brown swipe and her annoyance. “Hey, I don’t know about you but when someone tells me they “like looking at flowers” I don’t interpret that as being good at gardening.” A mischievous grin growing on your lips, knowing just what buttons to push to tease your best friend. The brightly coloured strokes of her hair had also gotten attacked by dirt. How did she keep getting so dirty? “Ugh well at least try to plant them in a straight line, my mom already wants to kill me for stepping on them.” She gestures at the previous row of violets you’d planted together, they looked like they were about on the same line… if that lines was bent five ways over. “Why don’t you use your strings, miss Stone Free?” You teased back, mimicking her way of talking, tongue sticking out like a petulant child. That comment earned you a throw of dirt right in the face. Sputtering and coughing at the inhalation of the earthy crumbles in your mouth. “Fuck Jolyne! Don’t do that!” You yelled in a serious tone. But you weren’t, not in the slightest. As she looked at you in surprise, not being used to this kind of behaviour from her best friend and not really liking it, already starting to pout and regretting her actions. “Don’t do that...without expecting retaliation!” You quickly added, not wanting to torture her any longer. You never liked seeing her pout, her laugh was just so infectious, sounding like a heavenly melody you wouldn’t mind listening to forever. Not much longer after your comment you grinned wide and threw a handful in her direction, splattering dirt all over her shirt that somehow wasn’t the messiest part of her outfit yet. Well… not anymore. She cackled in return, rising from her knees to tower over you. “You’ve fought well my friend. But now,” faking a villainous British accent as she spoke, “You must die!” Before you could even react you felt strings restrain your arms to your torso and wrap around. Oh now you’re in trouble. Jolyne only used her stand if she really wanted to pester you. As you tried to shuffle up on your knees, struggling quite a lot, she hovered over you with an evil grin. “Hah! Look how you squirm! You have just been struck by the mighty Jolyne!” Her act of grandeur was very convincing, you actually felt quite trapped by her. “I guess you really got me now, huh. Time to give up then.” You feigned defeat, staring down at the dirt before you, a squished potted violet under Jolyne’s foot sadly lying there. Still wrapped up in cackling like the villain she was, typically distracted almost like a cartoon, you took your chance to strike. You dropped down on your side, slamming your legs into hers with all your might. It was like Bugs Bunny dropping the final bomb on Coyote. Her body fell down as she stared in surprise, your quick thinking only impressing her. 

Laying side by side on the dirt she released her strands that bound your upper body. “I’ll get you next time!” Faking an echo with her hands around her mouth as she comically dropped one on her forehead while her body relaxed. Your laughter filled the space between you while waiting for your friend to get back up. But she didn’t. Not for a while and you got a little worried, normally she’d break and laugh along but this time she stayed suspiciously still. “Hey Jo get up! We still have to plant the rest of the flowers.” You nudged her arm as you sat up next to her. The hand slowly fell from her face onto her chest, the natural movement only making your mind race with concern. Did she really faint? You knew she liked to joke but what if she actually got hurt? You quickly shook her shoulders while hovering over her, trying to snap her out of it. “Shit, maybe I should call miss Cujoh?” You sighed in a whisper, not really wanting to go bother her. But as you spoke you saw the faintest smile appear on the previously “unconscious” form underneath you. It disappeared with the speed of light, making you question if it was real. You pinched her cheek teasingly, seeing her try and keep composure, the act was finally falling apart. “Mhh well, seems like she isn’t waking up anytime soon. I saw this one show where they kissed awake someone out of a coma… Maybe I’ll try that?” You tentatively tapped your chin thinking Jolyne would majorly protest, but for some reason she stayed quiet. The only thing revealing her reaction was the fact her face was starting to turn bright red. Oh? Did she get flushed from you just suggesting that, only half joking in your statement. “Well no hurt in trying, right?” Sighing deeply as you bent down near the blushed face of your friend, hovering over her lips. You could feel her breathing getting heavier and growing more nervous. Deciding you should really stop teasing her like this again, you placed a quick kiss on her cheek and moved away. “Bleh, you taste like dirt Jolyne!” You swiped at your lips to try and get some of it off as your friend finally arose from their act. “Be nice, I just got killed by the hero.” She pouted trying to gain a little pity, still flushed from the chaste kiss or mostly the moments leading up to it. “Awww, c’mere!” Taking her into a hug while you patted her back, enjoying the close contact, being a bit proud at yourself for taking steps into flirting territory. You felt her cling to you, perhaps holding you a bit tighter than needed but you weren’t complaining at her touch. “Come on let’s get back to work before my mom starts yelling at us.” She quickly composed herself while helping you up, relishing in holding your hand before dropping it again. The soft smile on her face made you think she quite enjoyed what happened just now too.  

[magnoliapip]

The Storm Inside

Title : The Storm Inside

Book : Open Heart series (Choices - Pixelberry)

Description : Casey has been pushing everyone away and spiraling since the attack on the hospital and her loved ones are concerned.

Pairing : none established  / ambiguous

Characters : Open Heart FMC (Casey Valentine), Sienna Trinh, Bryce Lahela, Jackie Varma, Rafael Aviero, Elijah Greene, Aurora Emery, Kyra Santana, Danny (mentioned), Bobby (mentioned)

Warnings : mention of death, mental health

Prompt : “What’s the weather outside your window doing right now?...”

Casey stared vacantly out the floor length windows into the night sky above Boston from her seat against them on the living room floor. The sky was as clear as could be, a rarity for the area, but in a city as populous as Boston seeing the stars was a gift they were never granted. She stretched out her cramping legs to a different position as she leaned her head and left shoulder against the cool glass.

She looked out of windows with alarming frequency now. She had never really done so before, preferring to always be doing other things. She’d always thought of herself as a social person who enjoyed others company, though she could be either out dancing in a packed club or relaxing away a quiet night in with the same level of enjoyment. Friends and loved ones was all she really needed.

The attack on Edenbrook had changed everything, down to her very bones.

Some days her mood was somber but calm, like a cloudy day. Those were her best days and the ones she liked best. The cloudy days could be darker with threat of rain or lighter with the sun just missing the opportunity to come out. It was the closest to her old self she could feel. Unfortunately for her, those days were not only fleeting and the least common, they were becoming a rarity.

More often, her moods were a range of levels of sadness. All the way from a misting drizzle, enough to coat everything in water and make the air humid, to a torrentially pouring rain. Buckets from heavens and flash floods. The only thing those floods never seemed to leave clean was herself.

Other times she was cold. So, so cold. The best of those days were accompanied with a blizzard. Cold, but manageable with a shovel. On the days  where she left her heart covered in an inch thick layer of ice and brandished her words like weaponized icicles, frigid and sharp, the people around her knew to steer clear. She was getting a little too good and stabbing them where it hurt.

Her worst moods felt like she should alert the National Weather Service. Tornado warnings and hurricane evacuations were a courtesy she never felt up to extending, adding to her already astronomical guilt. Like a twister, she could feel so angry and out of control she would tear through everyone in her path with no regard for who or what was in it. She had hurt people, especially the ones she loved, deeply but couldn’t bring herself to stop. It was like watching her body act with someone else at the controls.

It was just one more thing about herself to hate lately, and it had a long line to stand in.

The weather in reality never matched what she felt inside. It fascinated and disgusted her in equal measure. It had been sunny (mostly) since the funeral. It was repulsive.

Bobby was dead. Danny was dead. Raf had almost died and would have god knew how many long term problems ahead because of the illness. She had nearly died. And the world just kept spinning.

Couldn’t they see? Couldn’t any of them see that she was stuck there in that room. That she had never recovered. That she couldn’t recover.

At first, when her friends had noticed her strange new affinity for gazing outside for hours every night, they tried to pull her away. Distract her with things like herbal teas, chocolate ice cream and support. They tried to shower her with her favorite pastimes from before. They tried dancing around the apartment to silly pop songs and playing video games with her. But they didn’t understand. And they didn’t stop.

So she bit them. Hard.

Now they left her alone.

She was an awful person. She shouldn’t have been allowed to live. Someone should have realized it at the hospital and just let her die.

She could feel the tears well up again, stinging her eyes as her inner clouds started to rain again. The night sky outside stayed perfectly cloudy.

It was going to be a long night.

Sienna stood around the corner, watching her best friend shatter silently, as she had done every night for over a month. She whispered to those behind her, “Don’t you all see? Nothing is helping and she’s getting worse. After the last time she panicked when I reached out, I thought I’d give her space. We all did. But it’s not working. Does anyone have any suggestions?”

The gathered assembly of those in the cramped penthouse hallway who loved a young doctor named Casey watched her crumble, weeping without making a sound...and no one said anything. Some of the smartest doctors in the nation, and no one had an answer.

Not Bryce, who stood off to the side watching the pain on the face of the first true friend he’d made while at Edenbrook. Someone who had looked past the brash, self-confidence he used as a shield. The first person he hadn’t been afraid of discovering his past.

Not Rafael, who stood at the back of the crowd, down the hall, not able to stand to look at the person who made him believe he was worth as much to her as these intelligent, talented and more well off friends of hers. Not as she could no longer see how much she was worth.

Not Jackie, who was used to facing her problems by cackling at them until they scurried off with tails between legs or tearing them out with her teeth. But this was a problem that required delicacy, the type she had been shown by the very woman who now needed it.

Not Ethan, who leaned against the wall as he saw his protégé, the first person he’d ever believed in this much, destroy herself. She had forced herself, her goodness, into his life and helped fix his hurt self. Now it was his turn and he, for the first time, found himself at a loss.

Not Aurora, her rival turned friend who showed her at her loneliest that having friend was worth something after all. Not Elijah, a beacon of positivity who felt entirely inadequate with this situation that left her emotionally impaired. Not Kyra, desperate to find some way to give Casey the support she had given. Not Sienna, whose heart broke as she watched her very best friend, her dolphin, her rock in many ways fall further and further into herself.

Each one of them loved her. Each one of them cared for her. Each of them had a purpose and a reason to be at Edenbrook, but Casey was the glue that had held them all together. That glue, their foundation, was compromised. This time, they needed to find a way to save her. This time, she couldn’t waltz her way into a miracle seemingly handed down by the divines themselves to fix the situation.

Giving voice to their silent thoughts, Bryce whispered softer than before, “She needs us. She has to know it. She has to know we’re here somewhere inside, but can’t ask. Won’t ask.”

“We’ve already lost so much because of the attack,” Sienna said quietly. “We can’t lose her now. I can’t.”

“None of us can,” Rafael replied softly.

There was practically a flashing beacon over Casey’s head, screaming help me please. It was long overdue for them to stop ignoring it. For a few pregnant minutes, they all looked around at each other and back to her. This mismatched band of misfits and nerds, bound this night by their affection for one single woman. They stared at each other, desperate for answers…

Until the one who loved her most went rigid. Then stepped toward the rest, speaking slowly.

“I...may have an idea.”

[BREAK]

Notes : I left the ending open for interpretation on purpose. This story is not intended to be expanded on or have a second part. Y’all can decide who the person who loves her most is (and if that person isn’t presently named in my story, you can put them there yourself :D)

Also, I want to extend a heartfelt thank you to the amazing writers I’ve talking to lately. Due to some truly awful comments and the way they were affecting me mentally, I recently purged all of my works but a few from fanfiction.net, AO3, and here on tumblr. Talking to, interacting with, and just seeing you lovelies in action has led me to believe I should start to do this again. 

Huge shout out to @jerzwriter​ and @lovealexhunt​ for being the lovely souls they are. You may have no idea who I am, especially on this blog rather than my main, but I will never stop being grateful for the positivity you put into the world. Thank you.

[thealphabetmurders]

The Guys Who Didn’t Like (Modern Day) Musicals

3.3k words | AO3 Link | warnings: swearing, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Remus angst, Remus-typical language and themes

Janus knows that one day his soulmate and himself will be happy, and their love story would be a great and wonderful one... And yet if he has to hear "Freeze Your Brain" playing one more time, his soulmate may not live to see their wedding night.

(Or when your soulmate listens to music or is singing, you hear it in your own head as well.)

***

Janus was on his very last nerve. Sure, wanting to strangle your soulmate was a bit morally frowned upon, however when the song of his nightmares plays for the 4th time that day, he believes anyone would agree that those lines blur to the morally ambiguous side of things. 

Attempting to hold his composure, he waited until they were out of the lecture hall and in Virgil’s car to punch the dashboard with all his might, throwing his beanie off into the backseat, collapsing into his knees, wanting to scream. 

“Jesus Christ, Jay, what the fuck was that?” Virgil stared at his friend with wide eyes, wanting to place his hand down on Janus’ back, comfortingly, but decided against it once he analyzed the outburst, instead keeping his eyes on the road as he pulled out of the parking lot toward their shared dorm.

Janus didn’t respond, just gripped his ears as if that would make the music stop or deafen it. It didn’t, of course, seeing as it was literally in his head. 

“Just play something,” 

“J-” 

“Do it Virgil!” Janus snapped, and Virgil hit the volume button on his car, loud music from a pop punk band he did not recognize played loudly through the car speakers. The noise deafened in his head, and Janus leaned back in his seat sighing, he turned his head towards the driver, “Thank you, Virgil,” He turned his attention towards the road, sighing, before looking up at the ceiling, smirking, “Yeah, you like that, fucker? You make me listen to your shitty pop songs, now you got trash emo in your head,” 

Virgil scoffed, “Trash emo? I promise you Yellowcard is good, they have a violin, I am sure you like that with your jazz weirdness,” 

Rubbing his knuckles, Janus rolled his eyes, “Oh yes, I am sure it is used practically and it is not just a gimmick,” Virgil fell silent and Janus smirked, knowing he had won, “Apologies for my earlier, er, outburst. It is just simply so frustrating that this stupid song has been playing so much for so long,” 

“The smoothie one?” 

“Pretty sure 7-Eleven doesn’t sell smoothies, I think it is a slushie.” Janus stared out the window as Virgil’s playlist rolled to a different song, the lyrics still biting his brain with a dull ache, “Lyrics are so meaningless.” He muttered, “Freeze your brain, suck on that straw, get lost in the pain,” Janus mocked the singer bitterly, a short laugh following, “What kind of lyrics even are though. So shallow and meaningless…” 

“Wait, Freeze Your Brain, that’s from Heathers!” 

Both Virgil and Janus let out a scream that was a much higher pitch than either of them would care to admit. The car swerved over into the next lane, but Virgil corrected it once he regained his composure. 

“By the way, here is your hat back, Jannie,” Remus smiled with his pearly whites on display, acting as though he was doing the pair a service and didn’t almost kill all 3 of them by startling the driver with his unknown presence. 

“Remus! What the fuck- where did you come from,” Virgil yelled, gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white and face red with anger. 

“Well I had abnormal psych earlier in the East-” 

“It’s a figure of speech, dumbass!” Janus said sternly. 

Remus nodded, smiling, “Well, I am in your backseat of course. I got done with my classes about 15 minutes before you and didn’t feel like waiting for a bus in the cold and then walking and then my roommate getting mad at me about the snow on the floor and then us having a fight and then I have to sleep on the sidewalk again which is actually more comfortable than my acu-” 

“How did you even get in here?” Virgil growled, still obviously not over the shock of someone being in his backseat unexpectedly. 

“Door was unlocked,” 

“Sure as fuck wasn’t!” Virgil shook his head, laughing in a way that was scary to watch. The kind of laugh that a serial killer does right before ending the life of their prey. 

“Virgil, shush, Remus what were you sa-” 

Virgil scoffed, “No, Janus you shut up before I shut you up. Remus,” Virgil turned around to face his friend, anger in his eyes, and this was the first time Remus’ expression had faltered, “You don’t get to break into my car, you do not get to break into my dorm, and you don’t get to break into the breakroom at my job, or so help me God I will rearrange all of the uses of your orifices, ‘kay?” 

Remus sighed, resting his hand in his chin, “Are you sure we’re not soulmates?” His voice steeped in adoration.

Virgil opened his mouth to respond, bit his lip and shook his head, opting not to answer. Exasperated, but a little more calm. 

Janus waited a few more moments, making sure the coast was clear from any further outbursts before turning to Remus, “Anyway… My soulmate is listening to what?” 

“Oh,” Remus clapped his hands together, “Freeze Your Brain from Heathers the Musical.” 

Janus rolled his eyes, looking at Virgil, “Oh, wonderful, my soulmate like modern day musicals, just what I needed,” 

“You listen to Hamilton,” Virgil grunted.

“Hamilton is the most popular musical in the world, most likely what revived the entire modern day musical scene, it would be more shocking if Janny hadn’t listened to it,” Remus pointed out, helpfully, resting his chin on the back of Janus’ seat. 

Virgil frowned, lazily flipping his turn signal,  “Why do you know so much about theater, Reme, that isn’t exactly your scene,” 

“Yea, isn’t your favorite band-” 

“Ninja Sex Party,” Virgil finished. 

This caught Remus’ attention, he perked up in his seat and clapped his hands together, wiggling with excitement in the back seat, “Ooh yes! Danny Sexbang is fucking delicious. He makes me want to strangle an ox with my bare hands!” Remus made a gripping motion before quickly putting a finger up to his ear and closed his eyes, “Nobody showed but I'm gonna have some fun, let's get this party started it's an orgy for one, it’s me and my h-”

“Remus!” Janus cut off Remus’ singing with a clap, “I need you to focus. Whilst we all love your singing,” He side-eyed Virgil with this comment, who looked at him but said nothing, “I would like to know about your aptitude for theater knowledge,” 

“Because of the soulmate thing, right you don’t actually care about why I know so much?” Remus said, uncharacteristically seriously. 

Both Virgil and Janus felt the guilt and discomfort settle over the car. Janus laughed awkwardly to save face, “O-of course not, Remus, we like to know your thoughts and interests and-” 

Remus started cackling, “I know Janny, I’m just messing with you. If you guys didn’t like me, Black Parade over there wouldn’t have let me talk to him for 3 hours about John Wayne Gacey on Sunday,” Janus quirked an eyebrow up at Virgil who had a slight blush on his cheeks, keeping himself very focused on the road, “Anyway, my twin’s nuts for musical theater, it is all he would talk about growing up, and now he is in a production of Heathers and he will not shut up about it,” 

“Not shutting up must run in the family,” Virgil muttered, shaking his head. 

A devious smirk was plastered on Remus’ lips. “I am sure you can think of a couple ways to get me to shut up, princess,” 

Virgil gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, and Janus didn’t even want to know what was running through his friend’s head, “So, this play-” 

“Musical,” 

“Whatever. My soulmate is listening to it?” Janus frowned. He was concerned, but a little relieved. There have been countless stories of people having to learn a different language because the native tongue doesn’t match what music is in their soulmate’s head. Happened enough that he gets shitty Facebook adverts for language classes, specifically for soulmate related reasons. 

“Seems that way. Actually, our uni’s theater is putting it on, that’s where my brother is performing it. Do you think maybe…” Remus trailed off, quirking up an eyebrow. 

Janus frowned, thinking, “It is possible, yes. Do you think your brother would mind if we sat in on his rehearsals?”

Remus smiled, “Not at all, he loves the attention, I am sure if we go now we’ll be able to catch the end,” 

Virgil groaned, parking the car at their dorm, “So, you’re telling me we just got back to our dorm and now you want me to leave and drive all the way back?” 

“Better punch it Emo Alfred, love is on the line!” Remus ruffled the back of Virgil’s hair who smacked him away, pulling out of the parking lot and driving back towards campus. 

Virgil and Remus began bickering with one another like children , but Janus was not paying much attention to them, he was trapped in his own thoughts. His calm demeanor as he stared out the window of the passenger sat did not match the nervous energy coursing through his body. The music played loudly through Virgil’s car speakers but there was still a dull rhythm in his head where his soulmate's music was still playing. 

 Maybe Janus’ soulmate would hate him. He was not exactly a fan of musicals (plays being more his speed, though he has never been one to be confined to the stage to have a flair for the dramatics), which is a red flag, seeing as that is mainly what his soulmate listens to. What if they are destined to hate one other? What if throughout the great expanses of time and space, the strings of fate connected their two selves just because it would be on sight any time they make eye contact (the homoeroticism of that is not lost on Janus, though he would be an even bigger liar if made himself believe that he did not want a romantic relationship). 

“Jan, we are here,” Virgil put a tentative hand on Janus’ shoulder after he turned the car off. Someone less timid than himself may have jumped, but he was better trained than that, so he simply looked at Virgil, nodding, before exiting the car. 

Shoving his beanie on over his ears and shoving his hands in his coat pocket, he walked with purpose towards the theater, head down and feet hitting hard against the ground, lightly dusted with snow. 

“Remus why- fuck- why do you never talk about your brother?” Virgil pulled his hoodie closer around his middle, the light material not made for weather in the negatives. 

Remus wordlessly pulled off his coat, throwing it over Virgil shoulders, “Same reason you don’t hear me constantly talking about Kanye West: insufferable egomaniacs do not really need any more attention,” He spat out like venom. “Besides, don’t want you to abandon me once you meet Roman because he is just perfect,” He laughed like normal but no one could ignore the intent behind his words. Virgil and Janus side eye’d one other, never hearing Remus speak so seriously. 

Janus swallowed thickly, “Y’know, Remus, we do not even know if Roman is my soulmate. We do not have to go meet him, it is honestly not that important to me,” 

Skipping up the steps, Remus grabbed the doors to the theater, holding it open to his two friends. He snorted at Janus' comment, pulling off his hat and messing up his hair, “Liar,” Essentially ending the debate in a very short, very Remus way. 

The entrance to the auditorium was modest and did not have many decorations. The area is mainly filled with old posters advertising previous shows, as well as accolades for the directors and actors, the newer ones stating a couple familiar names. Virgil and Janus looked at the posters for a little bit before they were summoned by the twin. 

He followed the two towards a side door that opened up backstage. It was dark, but Janus could just make out Virgil pushing his sleeves over his hands, biting his thumbnail. Janus shrugged off his coat, setting it down on a nearby table and fiddled with his winter gloves, beginning to get an uneasy feeling as well. 

“Not to be that guy,” Virgil said in a low voice, grabbing onto Janus’ bicep, “But do you seem to get the feeling we are not supposed to be here?” 

Janus hummed, “I think we are incredibly welcome. Why else would we have to sneak through the back and creep around in the dark?” 

“Remus, why ex- Wait, where is Remus,” Virgil asked in a hushed whisper. 

“Brother!!” Was yelled, followed by a crashing sound. Janus and Virgil looked at each other before rushing towards the noise, finding themselves on a set that looked like a convenience store. Janus saw a girl with short black hair standing near them, looking at the pair confused and Remus on the ground on top of another body. 

“Remus!” The figure pushed Remus off of him before scrambling to stand up. Janus' heart stopped. 

“Oh,” He thought to himself, before praying to any Gods above that might exist, “Please don’t make Remus get us kicked out,” 

The man who Janus cleverly deduced was Roman brushed off his black pants (now covered with sawdust) and ran a hand through his hair, which matched Remus black curls but seemed to be actually styled. Roman held out a hand to Remus who took it, but instead of standing up, pulled Roman back down onto the ground with him. 

Someone towards the front of the stage cleared their throat and sighed, “Salutations once again, Remus. Why do we… Let’s take a 10,” The man sighed, adjusting his glasses before making a sharp exit leaving just the 4 of them on stage. 

“By the grace of Poseidon above, Remus, what exactly did I say about coming to my rehearsals unannounced,” 

Remus tapped his chin, playing with the stubble, thinking, “That I can come anytime and do whatever I want?” 

“No. To not to. Very simple. Just don’t,” Roman sighed standing up, tentatively offering his hand out to Remus again, with a pained expression. Remus’ expression softened as he took Roman’s hand, standing up slightly…. Before falling onto his backside again, taking Roman with him again.

Roman groaned as Remus cackled wildly, “Jeez, are you sure you are the one who got a scholarship, or did they confuse us again?” 

Running a hand through his hair, Roman stood up before backing away like a frightened animal, “It was a theater scholarship, thank you, not a scholarship to avoid being tricked by my tormented, tirisome twin. How did you even get in here... again?” 

“Door was unlocked,” 

“Sure as fuck wasn’t!” Roman ran a hand through his hair, looking down at his brother and finally making eye contact with Janus and Remus across the stage. His cheeks subtlety colored before smiling, walking towards the pair. 

“Oh, I was not aware that Remus had brought an audience this time. I am Roman Prince. I would apologize for his behavior but seeing as your expressions are as externally exasperated as mine, I assume you are used to his… Shenanigans,” Roman’s tone seemed tired but his expression still seemed quite fond.

“Used to it a kind way of putting it,” Virgil grumbled, as Remus ran over, throwing an arm around his shoulder, which made Virgil wear that same fond expression. 

Remus smiled, “This cutie is Virgil, hands off, but this intimidating looking dude right here is Janus. He likes debating, philosophy, vintage style music, and he hates society and styling his hair,” 

Janus bowed his head, instinctively adjusting his beanie, “Thank you Remus for that kind introduction, I am sure Roman wanted that,” 

Roman laughed, “I don’t mind. I hate society and also listen to my fair share of vintage music,” 

“Oh, yea?” 

“Yea, well,” Roman rolled his eyes fondly, “Not exactly by choice. My soulmate listens to that style of music and holy Hephaestus' hammer there is a lot of swing. I mean it is good, but I almost feel bad because ballads before Britney Spears I am not particularly interested it,” 

“My soulmate will not stop playing music from the dreaded musical Heathers, I swear if I have to hear it again I am going to find my soulmate and strangle him,” 

Roman’s expression went from intrigued to devious, the expression makes the difference between Remus and Roman almost indistinguishable, “Oh really?” He smirked, “Did it go something like…” Roman backed up a little bit, standing in the middle of the stage but facing Janus stage left, “ I've been through ten high schools, they start to get blurry, no point planting roots 'cause you're gone in a hurry. My dad keeps two suitcases packed in the den, so it's only a matter of when…” 

Janus' eyes widened to the size of saucers, as he completely forgot the reason they came to the theater was because the theater department was putting on a production of that “dreaded musical” Janus was entranced either way, the mesmerizing voice that has played in his head all his life was standing right in front of him. He looked behind him to gauge Remus and Virgil’s reaction, but the pair must have left the stage without him noticing. 

Roman walked around the stage, still singing, following some choreography he is sure, but another part of him says it cannot be, because it looks so natural, like Roman is the singer, like this was real life and the world is his musical.

The band didn’t need to play, because Janus remembered every beat and every flourish from the countless times it has played in his head. And yet, he is not annoyed this time. It would be impossible to be, when Roman on stage is the most glorious and breathtaking thing. Like a shooting star or fireworks or a tasteful nude- you just cannot look away, even if you wanted to. 

“Just freeze your brain, freeze your brain, go on and freeze your brain…” Roman stopped right in front of him, “Try it,” He spoke, lightly stroking Janus’ cheek with the back of his hand, and God did he want to kiss Roman right there. To taste the faux cherry slush that he imagined was on his lips and tongue… But he didn’t, because he could barely move under Roman’s touch. 

“I-” Janus opened his mouth to speak after a while, “That was- uh- that was alright,” Janus stuttered, fiddling with the ends of his glove. Roman threw his head back, laughing, “I am not one to typically enjoy the, er, modern day musical but you seemed to carry that incredibly well,” 

Roman shrugged, “I was born for this,” He retracted his hand and did a purrete, a soft smile present on his lips. 

“Would you want to go to the cafe with Remus, Virgil, and I? I would understand if you say no, Remus has been kicked out of that cafe too many times to count on one- no- to count on six hands,” 

Roman ran a hand through his hair, “Yes, that seems incredibly on brand for my brother. That pugnacious peasant has no idea how to control his inhibitions,” 

Janus squinted his eyes, smirking slightly, “Do you ever stop with the word play?” 

Roman smiled, real and genuine this time, “No. I suppose that would be something you have to get used to, huh?”

Taking Roman’s hand, he laced their fingers together, “Stop playing show tunes 24/7, and I think I will be able to manage,” 

“Play a song from the 21st century once and while and I think we have a deal,” 

Janus crossed his fingers behind his back, a devious smirk on his lips, “Oh, of course, my Prince,” 

[inosuketingz]

the sheets are stained with blood [p.2]

( gif source rafikecoyote )

PART ONE [ PART TWO ] PART THREE PART FOUR Victor Zsasz x fem!Reader Warning: swearing, mentions of sex, violence, blood, spoilers for Birds of Prey Word Count: 1980 A/N: I promise I am not dead I just disappeared. I do plan on extended this fic to like far off places so if you want me to tag you in upcoming parts, feel free to ask!

 Victor’s knife digs deeper into your neck and you groan. His face isn’t an inch away from yours, his breath able to tickle your nose. 

 “I’ve got a special place on my back for you, Night Hex,” Zsasz insists. You roll your eyes. People only started to call Night Hex after your first few encounters with Wonder Woman. It just so happened that they all occurred during the night, and now you’re stuck with that shit hole of a super villain name. 

 You grab onto his arm and he instinctively tries to jerk it away, but your grip is tight as you chant “Mutanter et nos, mutanter et nos, mutanter et nos.” One of the first spells you ever learned- it allows you to swap positions with whoever is in your grasp.

 In the blink of an eye, you are standing where Zsasz stood, holding his knife into his neck. For a second a look of shock and confusion crosses his face until that shit-eating grin returns. 

“Spooky,” he mocks you.

 “I hate to rain on your parade, Mr. Zsasz, but I’m not in the mood to be another one of your slaughter animals.” You pull back, making sure to keep the weapon on you. “Maybe next time, though.”

  He doesn’t move from the wall and you watch him watch you, waiting for him to say something. You two share a moment of silence, VIctor staring you down with hooded eyes.

 You aren’t sure if you should get nervous right now. You could easily overpower him with one one of the plethora of spells you know. But, it’s not like you’re immortal or anything. All it takes is for him to grab the nearest sharp object to gut you- and you’re a goner. 

 “Why the hell are you here?” You question and quickly add “And how the hell did you get into my apartment?” 

 Again, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, you watch him reach into the back pockets of his dress pants and you immediately slam his knife into his shoulder before he can pull anything out. A small, but joyful smile forms on your lips as you stare down at him. Your strength is in your witchcraft, not weapons. When your instinct led you to shove the knife into Zsasz’s skin, you were only about 50% sure you were strong enough to actually hurt him. 

 He looks  up at you as he pulls the object out of him. “You didn’t even let me answer, bitch.” And then he tries to lunge at you. Again- you are a witch. Not a weapons-master nor a body builder. From what you’ve heard about Zsasz, his strength is impressive for a normal human. One punch from him could knock you out. 

 Since you started practicing your witchcraft after turning 18, you found out there were a lot of pros and cons that came with it. Pros are; with the right spell, potion, ritual, or object- you are capable of doing practically anything. Cons are; these things take time. So in cases where a psycho is attacking you with a knife, and you don’t have time to say a three-line spell, you have to act from the top of your head. Usually not the best idea.

 And, in this scenario, as Zsasz’s hand’s only a little a couple of inches away from your face, your brain tells you to raise your leg and slam your foot on his groin as hard as you can. The chunky platform heels you’re wearing help with the effort. 

 Victor stumbles back, dropping the knife to cup his crotch in pain. You lurch for the weapon the second it slips out of his hand and shove Zsasz to the ground, straddling chest as his back hits the floor to keep him from moving. 

 Maybe dealing with Wonder Woman these past few years has its perks.

 Holding the knife up in warning, you repeat yourself “What do you want, Victor?”

 Again, he smiles. “So, you really don’t remember me, huh?” He, again, changed the subject. 

 “What?” You lowered your arm in confusion. “The fuck are you talking about?” A man like VIctor Zsasz is not one you could forget. But, he doesn’t let it go.

 “I mean, sure, it was a couple of years ago, but c’mon. I wasn’t that bad, was I?” He’s amused as he speaks. He knows the more ambiguity he says, the deeper he gets under your skin.

 You watch him chuckle and narrow your eyes in thought. Admittedly, your history is a long and fanatical one. Maybe you did come across Zsasz one time or another.

It's when he continues his monologue that the bulb in your brain finally lights up. “What was the name they gave you? Cosima or some shit?” 

 You struggle to come up with a reply. Cosima? In the least cliche way; you haven’t heard that name in years. Victor laughs at the shocked look on your face. “You do remember!” He feigns appreciation.

 Your parents never took too great of a liking to you. As they raised you and your twin sister, with the knowledge that only offspring becomes a witch, it was clear that they wanted that witch to be the latter, Talia. You couldn’t blame them, of course. You were a little shit, constantly hanging with the wrong crowds and causing chaos around the city. And then, you inherited the powers. They were angry about it. A month later Talia went missing. They became angrier.

 Their favoritism never really bothered you, and you and your sister were actually quite close. You didn’t take your sister’s disappearance well. What started as you stealing a few things from the corner store as a kid turned into sex, drugs, high theft, and more. 

 So, they kicked you out. For the first few months, you couch hopped from friend’s house to friend’s house. At this time, you had almost no experience with magic, so scamming your way through life using witchcraft wasn’t an option. Then, one of your friends proposed a job offer. She worked as a dancer at a gentlemen's club where there happened to be an opening. 

 Workers also got free housing, so you took the friend on her offer. You never imagined that you’d work as a stripper, but at that point- you were desperate for anything. 

 Rich men from all over the world came to the club, one of them being the rich Gotham entrepreneur Vikram Zsasz. He was well into his 40’s and brought with him a couple of employees for his company- as well as his 25 year old son, Victor Zsasz. 

 It was so hard to draw a connection to the Victor who lays cackling on your hardwood floor to the fresh-faced young man who visited that day. He was a completely different person, you wouldn’t have ever remembered it was him had he not mentioned it. 

 The younger Zsasz moved with energy and pride, like some arrogant frat boy. He was attractive, as he still is, with clear skin that lacked the tally marks that plague him now. When your boss escorted you and a few other girls to host the group of men, he was chugging a glass of scotch like juice, his platinum blonde hair styled in a messy side part. 

 You remember his attention always being on you as you sat with the party. You never thought much of it since there was always men and women lusting over you while you danced. His eyes watched you with adoration, unlike the disturbing leers he gives you now.

 You would have declined his offer when he asked you to spend the night with him had he been anyone else. But, he was hot and you were horny so you accepted.

 He was equally as cocky in bed as he was at the gentlemen’s club. He kept telling you to “lay back and let him do all the work”, something you didn’t have a problem with since it wasn’t like you planned on doing shit anyway. He attacked your pussy like he hadn’t eaten in days. The feeling of his tongue swirling against your clit and his fingers deep inside of you had you pulling at his hair. 

 When he inserted himself inside of you, you remember that he was rough. He took you from behind first and held you by your neck as he continuously ordered you to call him “Daddy” and praise his work on you. 

 For about two hours, all that filled the hotel room were your moans, his groans and the sound of your skin slapping against each other. 

 Your face warms and you feel yourself growing wet from the thought. You don’t even notice when he placed his hands on your thighs. 

 “Guess I wasn’t so bad after all, witch.” His voice pulls you out of your thoughts and you’re reminded that the Victor you’re straddling isn’t the boy from your memories. 

 He’s an insane serial killer whose body count of corpses ascends over the Wayne Tower . A devil who lurks the streets of Gotham. One ready to take the lives of any that come too close to him, including you.

 You push yourself off of him. “Don’t call me that, dickhead.” 

 “What else should I call you? My little slut?” He sits up on his elbows and smiles when you roll your eyes. “Or maybe a fucking cocksucker? That’s what you are anyway-”

 “If you’re not here to kill me, stop wasting my time,” you cut him off. He’s trying to get into your head, with his twisted teasing and reminders. You’re not in the mood for any of it. 

  He glances at the stab wound on his shoulder. It wasn’t too deep, but his printed Versace dress shirt is stained with blood. “What, you’re not gonna help with Daddy’s wounds?” He taunts you.

~ ~ ~

 Zsasz moans in comfort as he slips into the bath. His arm was stiff since you actually did wrap his gash on his shoulder. You made sure you tied it too tight, so much so that it almost cut the circulation off his arms. But that didn’t matter. It’s the fact that you did it which he cares so much about it.

 He picks his phone from the pockets of his pants which he tossed on the bathroom floor while getting undressed. He opens the photo app and taps on an untitled folder. In it are images of you, ranging from low quality helicopter shots of your encounters with Wonder Woman to pictures he snapped of you from your apartment window without you knowing.

 When he saw you that day at the club, he was immediately fascinated with your looks. When he returned to Gotham, you were all that took up his mind. He was obsessed, but he lost you. You were hours away, in the dangerous parts of Boston without anyone to watch over you. 

 His parents died a few months after his encounter with you. After that, his depression led him to the gambling addiction where he lost it all to Oswald Cobblepot. He was ready to end it all when he met Roman. By then, he almost forgot about you until your face showed up on nationwide news one day as everyone dubbed you Wonder Woman’s new foe.

 He zooms in on a photo he had taken of you in the shower. Your breasts were nearly in full view, if it wasn’t for the stupid fucking plant you had in there that blocked much of the window. Zsasz smiles.

 He’s lost everything. He lost his parents in the car accident. He lost his fortune in the Gotham casino. He lost Roman to that bitch, Harley Quinn. He’s lost everything. Everything except you.

[darkrootking]

Hungry shadows

Cronan felt a familiar chill at his back as he made his way through the castle halls. He paused, the shadows around him growing denser and more ambiguous. Most people would blame a draft stoking the torches, causing the green flames to wildly gutter and flare. Cronan knew better.

"Feeeed usss..." The otherworldly voice of his waking nightmare rasped beside his ear.

"I just fed you last week!" Cronan clenched his fists, a shiver passing through him despite the familiarity of the situation. "You are getting greedy. Be patient. When I open the portal, you and all your kind can gorge yourselves sick on Earth. Hold your gluttony in check until then, won't you?" He started to walk again.

The shadow loomed up in front of him suddenly, blocking his path. "We cannot feed on empty promisssesss. Feed usss now..."

"How much of my kingdom am I supposed to sacrifice to your insatiable appetite?!" Cronan covered his fear with irritation. "I thought we had a deal! How exactly have you helped me, lately? The amulet is no closer to being in my grasp, and all you can think about is food!"

The shadow dissolved, and for a moment Cronan thought he had won the argument. Until he felt the chill behind him again, much closer than before. A thin tentacle of darkness brushed against his cheek, stinging as it drained Cronan's life force with even that tiny touch.

Cronan yelped and jumped away, the shadow spreading out to hem him in, cornering him against the stone wall. He stared up at the blue swirl that marked the creature's head, met its wicked glowing eyes, gulped as he fought to maintain his composure.

"Feed usss. Before we feed oursselvesss..." The creature melted back into Cronan's own shadow, but he could still feel its cold, hungry gaze on him.

Cronan panted for air, terror in his eyes and ice in his veins. The threat wasn't a new one. It was just one he tried to forget. He liked to tell himself the creature served him, that he could control it. He could banish it whenever he chose.

But could he banish it before it struck him, before it stole away his life? That was a question he didn't want to answer.

And besides, he needed all the power he could muster to bring his mother back. His alliance with the shadow creature, their deal... they were vital to his quest. His mother had bargained with their kind, and what was good for her must be good for him, too.

******

The tree was huge, many centuries old. Green and bright and beautiful, a source of hope and life at the edge of the tainted forest.

Cronan pressed his hand to the bark, gripped his amulet, and shut his eyes.

Cracks spread slowly from his hand upwards, the tree shrinking and splintering as its life force flowed down into the amulet. Into him.

The shadow creature manifested and slipped into the cracks, drinking in the energy. They would share, roughly 50/50. That was part of their arrangement.

The leaves shriveled and dried and fell to the ground, while the bark turned ashen grey.

Cronan staggered back from the rush of power, his eyes glowing green as dark feelings swarmed inside of him from the evil magic. He touched the tree again, and the bark turned a sickly blue/purple, the remaining leaves following suit. The tree was alive, but it was only a twisted mockery of its former self. It was part of his kingdom, now.

The creature emerged from the tree and merged back into Cronan's shadow, satisfied for the moment.

"...We have so much work to do." Cronan, his eyes still glowing faintly, cast a spiteful look at the untouched trees in the distance. "Count your blessings, Rosalyn. Someday, your whole forest will meet this fate."

Cackling madly, Cronan turned back towards the castle, unaware that his heart was growing as black and twisted as the dark trees lining his route.

[those70scomics]

“Jackie, I checked. No one can see us doing it from the parking lot.” -- Kelso in “Till the Next Goodbye” (7x25).

Can not will.

Can not could.

The line is purposely ambiguous. It might mean Kelso and Jackie have already had sex and she wanted him to makes sure no saw them. Or that she planned on having sex with Kelso and wanted him to make sure no one would see them.

Either way, it’s the line that led to Jackie and Hyde’s end on-screen.

I sometimes think about what I would’ve done had I been hired as the showrunner for season 8. How I would salvage write Jackie and Hyde’s relationship out of the situation season 7 left them from. I’ve come up with different scenarios in fanfic, but I recently thought how I would handle the material if I were a TV show writer, not an author of prose.

Here’s what I came up with.

Season 8, Episode 1

We’re at the Formans’ house. Not only has Hyde been gone for two weeks but Jackie, too. Kelso has remained mum on what happened.

Whenever Kitty, Red, Donna, and Fez try to get Kelso to tell them where Hyde and Jackie are. Kelso just mumbles, “I don’t know,” and changes the subject or leaves.

But with Kitty missing Eric terribly, Red is done letting the kettlehead hide info about the one person who might be able to cheer Kitty up: Hyde. In a callback to “Cat Fight Club” (2x25), Red traps Kelso in the garage, makes him sit on a stool, and interrogates/threatens him in his humorous, veiled fashion.

Kelso, scared for his life, says, “Hyde caught me!”

Red: Caught you doing what?

Kelso: Caught me naked in the motel parking lot! He punched me until I told him me and Jackie weren’t doing it--

Red [growing more annoyed by the breath]: Doing what?

Kelso [panicking]: It! You know, sex.

Red: For Pete’s sake, Kelso! Why the hell would Steven think you and his girlfriend were ... doing that?

Kelso: It. And they were broken up!

Red [threateningly]: Kelso ...

Kelso: Okay, okay! I might’ve been wrapped in only a towel when I went into Jackie’s motel room and said no one could see us doing it from the parking lot, and Hyde might’ve been there when I said it. And he might’ve grabbed my towel and chased me across that parking lot while I was nude. And he kicked my ass really hard, Red! My butt still has bruises.

Red: If you don’t get to the point, I’m gonna shove my foot so hard up your ass until those bruises cry blood.

Kelso: I told Hyde Jackie kept shooting me down. But she was single, and I was naked, and we had a room, so I figured, “Why not keep trying?” I also figured making sure no one could see us doing it from the parking lot would sweeten the deal, but Hyde was there, and--

Red: Where is he now?

Kelso: I keep telling you, I don’t know! He went back to Jackie’s room and locked me out. I had to drive back to Point Place in the nude! I was pulled over and arrested, but the officer took pity on a fellow cop, gave me some pants and a shirt, and I was able to come home.

Red: You ... jeez. What am I gonna tell Kitty?

Kelso: That I’m a hero? I drove across state lines in the nude!

Red: Go home, Kelso.

In the Formans’ living room, Kitty and Donna sit on the couch. They’re making a tape-recording for Eric, who’s in Africa. Donna says into the mic that Hyde’s still missing, and Kitty stops the tape.

Kitty: You can’t tell him that. You’ll only worry him.

Donna: But he already knows Hyde’s missing. I told him in the tape we sent last week.

Kitty: Oh, sweetie, I recorded over that part.

Donna [annoyed]: You listened to my private tape to Eric? You censored it?!

Kitty: A mother does what she must to protect her children. Eric has enough to deal with, adjusting to a new country and food he probably can’t digest. You know how sensitive his stomach is. God knows what they use for toilet paper over there.

Donna: Mrs. Forman, Hyde is Eric’s best friend. He needs to know.

Kitty: And I am Eric’s mother, and I say we tell him nothing about Steven until--

They hear the faint sound of a door slamming. It’s the basement door. Kitty and Donna stare at each other.

Kitty: Do you think?

Familiar laughter reaches them from the basement.

Donna: That’s Jackie’s cackle!

Kitty and Donna rush downstairs. Hyde and Jackie are in the basement, holding hands and being generally lovey-dovey.

Kitty: Oh, my God -- Steven’s come home!

Kitty shoves Jackie aside and thrusts herself into Hyde’s arms. Jackie stumbles but catches herself on the couch. Kitty holds onto Hyde for dear life, like she did Eric in the season 7 finale, but Donna focuses on Jackie.

Donna: Where the hell have you been? I called your number in Chicago two weeks ago, and the motel clerk told me you’d checked out! I even looked up the TV studio where you got that job and called that up, and they said you declined the job.

Jackie: I’m sorry, Donna. I’m sorry. Steven and I--

Hyde [who’s being choked by Kitty’s love]: Jackie -- little help here?

Jackie tries to prise Mrs. Forman’s arm off Hyde but fails. Donna doesn’t act right away, thinking Hyde deserves a little mangling for making them all worry so long. But she eventually helps free him.

Kitty: Where have you two been?

Hyde: Vegas.

Kitty and Donna: Vegas?

Jackie: Steven, give them their gifts.

From his backpack, Hyde hands both Kitty and Donna a mini slot machine. Kitty is momentarily enamored by the gift, but Donna is pissed.

Donna: They don’t have phones in Vegas?

Jackie: We were a little busy, okay?

Donna: Doing what?

Hyde and Jackie look at each other and burst out laughing. Kitty laughs, too, but ...

Kitty: Wait, what’s so funny? What am I missing?

Jackie and Hyde: Nothing.

Hyde: Say, uh ... me and Jackie are kind of tired from the drive. Do you think we could take a nap before we continue the interrogation?

Donna: No! You and Jackie owe us an explanation!

Jackie: We’re fine! See? [She waves her hand over herself and Hyde.] There’s nothing to worry about.

Kitty: They’re fine, Donna. And Steven’s never leaving this house again.

Jackie and Hyde both appear uncomfortable at this statement. Donna catches it. Kitty doesn’t.

Donna: All right, but once you’re up from snooze-land, expect one hell of a questioning.

Kitty: And delicious food. What would you two like for your welcome-home feast?

Hyde: Anything you cook is fine with me, Mrs. Forman. Always has been.

Kitty [touched]: Oh, you are such a sweetheart! And a good eater. [To Donna]: You know, when Mr. Forman was out of a job, the cheapest meat I could find was cow tongue, and Steven ate that as happily as he would filet mignon.

Jackie [to Hyde]: You ate tongue?

Hyde: Yeah. And so have you--

Jackie: I have not!

Hyde quirks up an eyebrow, and Jackie gets his double-meaning; She swats his chest.

Jackie: Okay, whatever. I’m really tired, and I’m taking a nap.

She heads for Hyde’s room, and Hyde hands Mrs. Forman a Vegas-themed beer stein.

Hyde: That’s for Red. Could you tell him I’m back? Not exactly ready for my beating.

Kitty [laughing uncomfortably]: He won’t won’t beat you up. He’s already scared one son off to Africa. I won’t let him scare our other to a different continent.

Hyde: Thanks.

He follows Jackie into his room.

Inside Hyde’s room.

Jackie: Steven, I was so close to telling!

Hyde: But you didn’t. I’m proud of you, grasshopper. [Note: Yes, we’d finally learn Hyde’s pet name for Jackie here.]

Jackie removes a necklace from around her neck. Attached to the chain is an engagement ring and wedding ring. She frees both rings from the chain and puts them on her finger.

Hyde: You sure wearin’ those now is such a good idea?

Jackie: Every second I can’t wear them feels like a year.

Hyde pulls his own wedding ring from under the collar of his shirt. It’s also attached to a chain.

Hyde: I get that. [He grasps Jackie’s left hand.] But at least we’re hitched, right? 

He sits on his cot, and Jackie plunks down on his lap.

Jackie: And we had an amazing honeymoon.

They kiss.

Jackie: How long are we gonna keep our marriage a secret?

Hyde: As long as it takes to save up for the wedding you want. Gettin’ married by an Elvis impersonator in the Hunk of Burning Love Chapel wasn’t exactly your dream.

Jackie: No, but marrying you is.

She caresses his hair, and he gazes at her the way he does during their first scene in “Magic Bus” (6x03). This is a happy man in love.

Hyde: I got an idea. Red’s gonna wanna kill me, right? So how’s about when everyone’s upstairs -- him, Mrs. Forman, Donna, probably Fez; maybe even freakin’ Kelso -- I propose to you like it’s the first time. I’ll make it all story-book and sickening, and that’ll diffuse most of the tension. Red’ll still be pissed, but Mrs. Forman’ll be so damn ecstatic he won’t get a chance to shove his foot up my ass.

Jackie: I love it! [She kisses him again.] And I love you! Oh, Steven, I didn’t think I’d ever be happy.

Hyde: Don’t you mean this happy?

Jackie: No. Happy. Losing you ... it was awful.

Hyde: It was no picnic for me, either.

Jackie: Are you happy?

Hyde [smiling]: Yeah. I am.

They make out. Then, in a slight panic, Jackie pulls away.

Jackie: How are we gonna tell Mrs. Forman we’re gonna move into our own apartment?

Hyde: One problem at a time, baby. One problem at a time.

They continue to make out. The scene fades to black.

The first half of the season follows Jackie and Hyde’s attempts to keep their marriage a secret. To save money, they end up becoming Fez’s roommate. Fez thinks this is great, at first, until he grows more and more suspicious of Jackie and Hyde’s engagement.

As I’ve written about previously, Eric should’ve been kept part of the show, despite Topher Grace’s absence. Episode storylines could involve Kitty, Donna, and others narrating letters Eric sent while we see Eric from the neck down acting out his adventures in Africa. Another story could involve Red, Kitty, Donna, Hyde, Jackie, and Fez figuring out how to celebrate Eric’s birthday in his absence and what gifts to send him.

Donna and Jackie commute to a university in Kenosha. Doesn’t matter that it doesn’t exist in real life. Neither does Point Place.

Fez enters culinary school to become a dessert and candy maker. His and Donna’s friendship develops in ways it never got to in the previous seasons. Fez evolves back to pre-”Everybody Loves Casey” (4x26) Fez, in large part due to his friendship with Donna. He might even become a feminist, having realized the error of his ways. This allows him to find a fulfilling romantic relationship of his own -- with a new character introduced early on at the culinary school.

Hyde continues to work at Grooves and on his relationship with W.B.

Kelso moved to Chicago, as he does in the season 8 we got, since Ashton Kutcher left the show.

The first half of the season concludes with Fez discovering Jackie and Hyde’s wedding rings. He steals borrows them and brings them to Donna, who freaks out with him.

Fez: We have to tell Miss Kitty!

Donna: No, Fez. If Hyde and Jackie got secretly married while they were in Vegas, then we better damn well make sure they did. Mr. and Mrs. Forman were maniacs when they found out about Eric’s and my secret engagement. Hyde being married? And Mrs. Forman not being part of the wedding -- oh, it’s gonna kill her.

Fez: Ai. You’re right. We’ll confront Hyde and Jackie. And if they won’t talk, I’ll threaten to stop making that chocolate souffle they’ve both fallen in love with.

Donna: That souffle really is good.

Fez: Thank you. I add a little coffee powder to give it a mocha kick.

Donna: Wow, you’re really learning a lot in culinary school.

Fez: Yes. Oh! I have an even better idea.

Fez holds up Jackie and Hyde’s wedding rings, nods at them, and laughs.

At Jackie, Hyde, and Fez’s apartment, meanwhile, Jackie is panicking. She can’t find her wedding ring. Hyde tells her to relax. That she probably just left it under a shirt. But he can’t find his either, and he starts to panic.

Jackie: Do you think we’ve been robbed?

Hyde: Nothin’ else seems to have been swiped.

Jackie: Who would take our wedding rings?

Hyde: Who do you think, man? Remember when Forman couldn’t find that man-ring Donna gave him? Fez had it.

Jackie: That little thief! Do you think he’s doing something perverted with them?

Hyde: Considering he’s been dragging Donna to feminist rallies, I doubt it. But whatever he’s doing with ‘em, it can’t be good.

The front door opens then, and Fez and Donna walk in, each carrying a metal cloche.

Fez: Hello.

Jackie rushes him and grasps his shirt collar.

Jackie: Where are they?

Fez: Where are what?

Jackie: You know what!

Donna: Jackie, back off. Fez and I are carrying something very delicate for his culinary school.

Hyde: For? Not from?

Jackie backs off. Fez and Donna pull off the covers of their cloches, revealing two chocolate souffles.

Fez and Donna: Tah-dah!

Hyde: Are those...?

Fez: Yes, your new favorite dessert. And inside is a surprise you and Jackie might not want to eat.

Jackie [catching on]: You didn’t...

Donna [goading]: Like you and Hyde didn’t?

Hyde [trying to be aloof]: Didn’t what?

Donna: You know what you did.

Fez: And I know what I did.

Jackie: Screw this!

She grabs Fez’s cloche, puts it on the coffee table, and she digs through the souffle with her hands, a callback to “The Promise Ring” (3x25). She pulls out her wedding ring.

Jackie: You baked my wedding ring in a souffle?

Donna: Ah-hah! So you and Hyde did get married!

Hyde: All that proves is she bought herself a wedding ring.

Jackie [who’s started licking souffle off her fingers]: Damn , that’s good.

Donna: Nice try, Hyde.

She moves her souffle under his nose. He can’t help himself and grabs it. He tears into it like Jackie did hers, licks his fingers in the process, and finds his wedding ring. Knowing the jig is up, he and Jackie put their chocolate-coated rings on their fingers.

Jackie: Fine. So you know. What do you want?

Donna: To know why!

Fez: Yes! I was supposed to be a best man or maid of honor -- your pick!

Hyde [continuing to eat the souffle]: Look, me and Jackie had a hell of a rough time before Forman left. We just needed to pull the trigger and get hitched so we could quit worrying about that crap.

Jackie: Yes. Now Steven and I can live our lives without all the drama.

Fez: Without drama? [To Donna, hurt, and gesturing to the souffles] Was this not dramatic?

Donna: It was, Fez. Very dramatic [To Hyde and Jackie.] But you’re in for a Shakespearean tragedy when Mrs. Forman finds out you got married without her.

Jackie: No, we’re not because she’s not going to find out. As far as she and Mr. Forman and the rest of the world are concerned, Steven and I are engaged and saving money for our wedding. Which isn’t completely untrue.

Hyde: Yup. We’re savin’ up for wedding number two, where everyone’s invited and Jackie gets her doves.

Donna: Where did you two get married anyway?

Hyde: The--

Jackie: Steven, don’t.

Donna and Fez: “Steven,” do. 

Hyde: How’s about I just show ‘em the picture?

Jackie: Oh, God. It’s a Polaroid!

Donna: This I have to see.

Jackie [to Hyde]: Wash your hands first!

Hyde heads to the kitchen sink as the scene fades to black.

Next scene essentially continues where the last one left off. Fez and Donna are studying the framed Polaroid of Jackie and Hyde kissing after being pronounced husband and wife.

Donna [laughing]: The Hunk of Burning Love Chapel?

Fez [angry]: Elvis married you, and I wasn’t’ invited?

Jackie: Fez, I didn’t even get to wear a wedding dress.

Hyde: I wanted Zeppelin, but "Elvis” sang freakin’ “Love Me Tender”.

Jackie: It was either that or “Jailhouse Rock,” and that wasn’t gonna happen.

Donna: Okay, so you had a cheesy wedding. ... Man, I wish someone had video taped it. [Refocusing.] Anyway, so you’re gonna have a big second wedding, right?

Jackie: My dream wedding. Steven promised.

Hyde: And our first dance is gonna be to one of the mushier Zeppelin songs. That’s our compromise.

Fez: And I will be your best man ... [looks at Jackie] or your maid of honor.

Jackie: Actually, I wanted Donna to be my maid of honor.

Donna [touched]: Me?

Jackie: Who else? You’re my best friend. Plus, I’ll look even more stunning standing next to a giant lumberjack wearing a bright purple taffeta gown.

Donna: I won’t wear that.

Jackie: Then you’ll be naked.

Hyde: As naked as Kelso was driving home from Chicago.

Donna and Fez: What?!

Hyde: That’s a story for another time. Fez, it’d be cool if you’d be one of my groomsmen, man. Forman’s the best man ‘cause he’s my best bud.

Donna: So you’re going to wait until Eric comes home from Africa?

Hyde: He’s only got eight months left to go. We can wait.

Fez: Well, I can’t. Every time Miss Kitty looks at me, your secret will knock on my teeth, and I’m afraid I’ll answer.

Jackie: Then avoid Mrs. Forman the next eight months.

Fez: But Miss Kitty and I have become very close.

Jackie: Okay, how about this. If you keep your big mouth shut, I’ll let you be a bride’s man. That means you can help me with wedding stuff and help Donna plan the wedding shower.

Fez: I can? Okay, maybe I can keep this secret.

Jackie: Good. Now ... if you ever bake Steven’s and my wedding rings into a dessert again,  [smiles threateningly] I’ll bake your ‘nads into a pie. Understand?

Fez [voice squeaky]: Understood, understood.

The second half of season 8 finds Jackie, Hyde, Donna, Fez, and Kitty planning Jackie and Hyde’s second wedding -- which Kitty thinks is the first wedding. Both Fez and Donna make slip-ups they have to cover, but Kitty doesn’t catch on.

All this wedding planning, though, makes Donna miss Eric even more. Kitty shares all of this with Eric via the cassette tapes she records for him.

Fez’s relationship with his culinary school sweetheart develops.

Kitty, inspired by Jackie and Hyde’s wedding plans, suggests to Red they renew their vows. He vetoes this, reminding him how “well” that worked out for Bob and Midge. But he’s been saving up money for a second honeymoon, which he will reveal later in the season.

Eric writes Hyde a letter, telling him that he��s coming home for a New Year’s Eve visit. He can’t stand being away from Donna any longer. He asks Hyde to keep this a secret, but Hyde tells Jackie their wedding date has just moved up by a few months.

The hour-long season finale consists of Jackie and Hyde’s second wedding. Eric comes home in time to be Hyde’s best man, and the wedding is as romantic and funny as it should be. W.B. and Angie are there, of course, too.

But as Jackie and Hyde kiss as in, “You may now kiss the bride,” Eric says beside Red, “Wow, I bet this wedding was a whole lot nicer than than their first.”

Red: Their first?

Eric: Yeah, when they got married at the Hunk of Burning Love Chapel in Vegas.

Red [shouting as Steven and Jackie pass him by, stopping Hyde by the arm]: You got married in Las Vegas?

Kitty: What? [She grabs Jackie’s arm.] You two were married already? For almost a year?

Jackie: Kind of?

Hyde [pissed]: Nice job, Forman! The one time I ask you to keep a secret.

Jackie [to Hyde]: You told Eric? How could you?

Hyde: I wrote him a letter. Hey, it was hard keepin’ this to myself. I figured he was in Africa. Who the hell was he gonna tell?

Jackie: Apparently everyone!

Red: Well, it doesn’t matter now. Either way, you’re both married, and you had a nice wedding. Let’s go have a nice reception.

Kitty: Wait just one minute. What I’m about to say goes not just to Steven and Jackie but to you, Eric, and you, Donna, and you, Fez. When any of you get pregnant, you’re not to keep the baby a secret until she’s already graduating from college. You will tell me the second you know. Do you hear me?

Hyde, Jackie, Donna, and Fez: Yes, ma’am.

Eric: Technically, men can’t get pregnant, so this doesn’t apply--

Kitty: The second you’re with child, Eric!

Eric: Yes, ma’am.

Jackie and Hyde laugh and kiss. Donna kisses Eric. Red and Kitty also kiss. Fez and his girlfriend are kissing, too. It’s a kiss-party before everyone heads to the reception.

The series ends, but the characters’ adventures in life continue.

[mrjoelgarcia9]

Let’s Talk #Disney’s #TheLionKing 2: Simba’s Pride

In 1998, four years after The Lion King became one of Disney’s most successful films, the studio produced a direct-to-video sequel. It went on to become one of the most successful direct-to-video films ever released.

Also, it is one of Disney’s rare good direct-to-video sequels.

For a review of Disney’s The Lion King 2: Simba’s Pride, feel free to keep reading. There will be spoilers.

Before I begin, I should note I am aware this film was originally released in theaters outside of the United States. I am also aware of Disney Junior’s The Lion Guard and that some of the film’s characters appear in the series. 

This is only a review of the sequel, so I will not be pointing out any continuity issues relating to the show. With that noted, here is my review.

The film briefly starts with Rafiki introducing Simba and Nala’s daughter Kiara. As a cub, she meets Kovu, another cub from an outcast pack of lions formerly loyal to Scar. Simba refuses to let her see Kovu ever again. Kovu’s mother Zira sees their friendship as an opportunity to avenge Scar’s death. She proceeds to brainwash him for years to be the one to kill Simba and take back Pride Rock. Will Kovu listen to his mother or his heart?

This sequel is one of Disney’s rare good Direct-to-Video sequels. However, like Aladdin and the King of Thieves, it has several issues preventing it from being as great as the original film.

Multiple characters were introduced in this film: the aforementioned Kiara and outcast lions Zira, Kovu, Nuka, and Vitani.

Kiara is technically a returning character by her brief appearance at the end of the first film, which was recreated for this sequel’s cold open. As Nala briefly tells Simba, Kiara is a lot like him by how she acts out and winds up in trouble. She also struggles to be independent, due to Simba regularly ordering Timon and Pumbaa to keep her safe despite her objections.

The only explanation given about the outcast lions is they were heavily loyal to Scar and then banished by Simba. It inadvertently creates a plot hole involving Kovu. A throwaway line states he is not Scar’s biological son, avoiding any fears of incest, but chosen by him to be his heir. It seems unlikely the two ever met unless Kovu was chosen before being born or is actually older than Kiara.

Kovu is somewhat of a tragic character. He was brainwashed to be the new Scar by his mother, raised to believe he was right, and to avenge his death by killing Simba. He doubts what his mother told him when Simba tells him what actually happened. He falls in love with Kiara, making it impossible to fulfill his mission. When he fails, he is considered an outcast by both his family and Simba.

Zira serves as this film’s main antagonist, being written and visually presented as a female Scar. She is far more memorable than most Disney sequel villains due to Suzanne Pleshette’s great performance. Even though the film shows her favoring Kovu over her other children, she does cares for them by her reaction to Nuka’s death being the only time she is shown to be remorseful.

Nuka, the lion voiced by comedian Andy Dick, is strangely sympathetic. He is shown to be jealous of how Kovu is treated by their mother and treated as a joke by his sister Vitani. When finally given the chance to impress his mother, it leads to his death indirectly caused by both Simba and Kovu.

Of the film’s returning characters, the only ones who play major roles in the plot are Simba, Rafiki, and strangely Mufasa.

Simba is shown to be a cliche overprotective dad. He sees Kovu as a reminder of Scar and worries history will repeat itself. This is shown by a nightmare he has of seeing his father die, Scar transforming into Kovu, and being thrown down by him into the wildebeests. He is also shown to be just as strong as Mufasa by surviving an ambush and barely able to get away.

Even though he died in the first film, Mufasa plays somewhat of a major role by Rafiki. The film implies he wants Kiara to be with Kovu, with Rafiki helping him out by setting up the two to be together. A bonus feature on the Blu-ray had an unused take of James Earl Jones as Mufasa commenting about the Circle of Life coming to an end, likely meaning he would have played a bigger role with their relationship. Outside of Rafiki’s brief moments, Mufasa only appears in the cold open, Simba’s nightmare, and vocally during the ending.

Other characters were very superfluous to the film. Zazu’s only major contributions were sending out alerts and reminding Simba about his father’s laws. Vitani only served to mock her older brother and randomly confront Nala. Some might say that Timon and Pumbaa waste too much time onscreen, but they provide some of the film’s few funny moments.

The sequel’s music is better than most Disney’s direct-to-video sequels, primarily consisting of callbacks to the original film’s songs alongside new music.

“He Lives In You” does a great job replicating the tone of "Circle of Life” and is the sequel’s best song. It was originally written for a concept album, then brought over to the Broadway musical, and finally this sequel. The song was also played during the end credits of the live action remake.

“We Are One”, on the other hand, is the film’s worst song. It sounded like it was explaining the Circle of Life to a younger audience in far more simpler terms than Mufasa’s explanation in the first film. It comes off as corny and something which would be far more appropriate for a Disney Junior show.

“My Lullaby” is this film’s equivalent to “Be Prepared”, with Zira bragging about her future plans to her pack. It is a good song but has mediocre singing from Suzanne Pleshette that makes Andy Dick’s line sound great by comparison. 

This song was notably co-written by Joss Whedon, creator of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and director of the first two Avengers films.

“Upendi” was clearly written to give Robert Guillaume an opportunity to sing. It is good and one of the film’s major highlights, with visuals reminiscent of “I Just Can’t Wait To Be King” and a fun catchy beat.

“One of Us” is the only song not performed by any of the main characters, instead sung by the normally silent animals. While its dramatic tone stands out from the other songs, the singers' performance sounds more irritated than angry.

“Love Will Find a Way” is reminiscent of “Can You Feel The Love Tonight” but sounds generic. While not as bad as “We Are One”, it sounds like the first draft of what could be a great song.

The climax appears to have been sloppily edited to make Zira’s death ambiguous. Kiara tries to save her only for the next scene to be of Zira falling to her death. She is heard yelling but the animation shows her grinning.

While villains falling to their death is nothing new for Disney, it is always either caused by accident or an act of God. It appears the film originally had Zira committing suicide rather than be saved, which would have her made the first Disney villain to intentionally end her life.

Despite these flaws, there are several positives.

The main plot is really good. Basing it upon Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet similar to how the first was based on Hamlet, and Kimba The White Lion, works to present consistency between the films. Since the first film underplayed Simba and Nala’s romance, this sequel makes up for it with Kiara and Kovu’s relationship. The division among the lions may have been underdeveloped, but it is interesting seeing a pack of lions who are against Simba.

Kiara’s clashing with her father may be the cliche father/daughter conflict, but Simba is justified by how he tries everything to make sure she doesn’t make the same mistakes he made as a cub. Her declaration to Simba that he will never be Mufasa serves as a wake-up call for him.

The climax may not be as intense as the original’s, but is far more dramatic than those in some of Disney’s other direct-to-video sequels (such as Mulan II).

Most of the original film’s voice cast reprise their roles and they all give great performances. Rowan Anderson is one of only two missing actors, with Zazu now being voiced by Edward Hibbert, who would also play him in the following sequel The Lion King 1 1/2. Jeremy Irons does not reprise Scar. Jim Cummings, who sang part of “Be Prepared”, instead voices Scar’s cackling.

The animation is, to an extent, great. Compared to the two Aladdin sequels, which looked like slightly better episodes of its eponymous TV series, this film almost looks theatrical. It has muted colors like some of the studio’s other direct-to-video sequels, the main characters have a new car shine, and certain background characters looked like sticker cutouts. 

Since the sequel was theatrically released outside of the United States, it was originally produced for the widescreen aspect ratio and looks great in HD.

The Lion King 2: Simba’s Pride is a good sequel to the original animated film. It has a good story, great new characters, memorable songs, and near-theatrical animation for a direct-to-video film. All of these elements make up for some plot holes, lackluster singing, and many superfluous characters.

If Disney ever decides to make a sequel to The Lion King live action remake, it would be great to see a live action remake of this film with a few improvements. It already set up the possibility by introducing Kiara in the very last minute.

If you only want to see or own one other The Lion King production besides the original animated film, this sequel comes Highly Recommended.

The Lion King 2: Simba’s Pride is available to own on Blu-ray and Digital.

Until next time, thank you for reading!