#I do wish there had been a full sweep because every single human on this show deserves awards

[novelconcepts]

Genuinely, if there was going to be one nom, it had to be this one. The casting is off the charts. (Shout out to Lynskey and the show as a whole also being nominated, but like. This casting. I will never be over it.)

[thatone-brightstar]

The Bear & The Fox (Carmy Berzatto x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 3: Pin a Fox skin to the wall, call it decoration

Words: 4.9k

Summary: With a few drinks in, you both confess your feelings. But there's always something getting in the way.

a/n: I am the gift that keeps on giving! So here's the next chapter cuz I feel shitty just leaving it in my documents and you all have been so nice! Enjoy! xx

P.S. Reader is Latina in this, so there's gonna be melanin for daysss.

“How much longer do you think you're gonna be?!” Syd yelled at her phone through the noisy bar.

Everyone was on a different wave of conversation, ranging from sports to food to whatever new show they were hooked on. The buzz of chatter around them combined with the pulsing music and lack of food in his system was enough to create a growing migraine in Carmy’s head. He gladly took a swig of the beer in front of him to dumb out the increasing sensation as he waited for Syd to hang up on you. He thought their reaction to joining them would be one of distaste or discomfort but his first drink had been on Sweeps, who was glad to finally see him outside the perimeters of The Beef. 

“I like what you’ve done to the place.” He said after finishing the second beer. “But you gotta lighten up, man. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Also you could use a tan. Try going out in the sun every once in a while!” He joked and a genuine laugh had left Carmy’s lips for the first time in forever.

“She’s on her way!” Sydney yelled to the table and everyone acknowledged it before returning to their conversations.

“Does she know I’m here?” He asked her over the noise, a bit concerned whether he wanted to know the answer or not.

“Yeah! I told her we’re all here!” She answered and of course she would tell you, because as far as they were concerned, nothing out of the ordinary had happened between you two.

His hand began to grow clammy and he took another hefty swig of the amber liquid to try and calm the nerves down. At least the music was loud enough to drown out the sound of his thoughts, he'd have to make due with that for now. The chatter transitioned into anecdotes about the stupidest things they had done as teens and they spent the next ten minutes debating whether Angel stealing single batteries from the family packs at Walmart counted as kleptomania or not. By his third beer, he felt his shoulders lose a bit of the perpetual weight that had been sitting on them since he had arrived back in Chicago; the music felt more bearable, his laughs lighter and his nerves almost down to a hum. 

They had been lucky enough to get a booth table by the windows, the sight of River North’s night life was in full bloom behind the old stained glass and his eyes wandered to the new perspective he had been granted of the old neighborhood. Between neon signs and moving cars he saw you from afar. Standing patiently for the little human to move on the crosswalk light. You looked like a radiant ray of moonlight, with loose curls framing your face like a dark halo and even though he had found you absolutely beautiful with your paint splattered overalls, this was something entirely different, something that would have him losing his balance if he wasn’t already sitting down.

He watched you move your boot-covered feet closer towards the bar, and with each stride on the long skirt, the slit up your thigh revealed a glimpse of lovely tan skin with swirling designs he had known no existence of until then, but now wanted to discover more of. Golden rings contrasted against the black jacket covering your arms as you raked your fingers through your hair and turned towards the window where he had shamelessly been gawking at you. A small smile covered your previous serious features and you waved nervously before disappearing through the entrance.

He shuffled in his seat and wished he would have at least run some water through his hair before leaving, but looking around at everyone’s post work attire, he figured he’d be fine. A cheer of ‘Hey's was heard through the group as you approached the table and you made a little dance once you reached them. You scooted into the booth beside the edge by Carmy and threw a nervous smile in his direction.

“Sorry I’m late! Two fuckin Ubers canceled on my last minute. I swear I was about to start walking!” You yelled exasperated.

“Well you’re already two drinks behind so start catchin’ up!” Marcus said, calling the waiter over and ordering another round of beers and a double  shot of tequila for each one.

“Oh it’s gonna be like that then, huh?!” You asked him with raised brows and a smile.

“Uhh, yeah!” He mimicked you in a pitched valley girl accent and the table roared in laughter.

They went around talking about their day and how Richie, as he does, had death threatened Fak for suggesting he should go to anger management classes. Your shoulder rubbed alongside Carmy’s in the small booth as you laughed at their stories and the friction along with your delicate perfume was making it hard to concentrate on anything at all. He took a couple of fries from the dish at the center of the table to keep his mouth occupied as he listened to Syd and you argue about the best contestant in a new baking show you were both watching. 

The shots came with cheers, and as everyone took the small glass in one hand and a lemon wedge in the other, they went around the table to say something they cheered for,

“I’m thankful that I got tomorrow off so I can get as hammered as I want!” Cheered Sweeps and it was followed by a choir of Boo’s from everyone.

“I guess I'm thankful that I got a job that I actually like.” Marcus continued and the Boo’s turned to Aw’s.

“And I’m very thankful for you, bunch of idiots.” You finished shily and only Marcus, who was sitting across from you, noticed your eyes linger a little too long on Carmy.

Their little glasses clinged against one another and everyone downed the transparent liquid with a scrunched face. 

The conversations broke into groups again, and he took his shot at catching your attention before anyone else. He gently bumped his shoulder against yours while he took a sip of alcohol for courage. From his side view he saw you had turned up to look at him and noticed you swallow hard scanning his features. When he turned to you, a soft smile covered your face and it was hard not to smile back.

“Hey” You whispered, bumping your shoulder back to his softly.

“You..um, you look really nice.” He said leaning towards you so you could hear him better above the music, and also so no one else would  notice his words. 

His breath ghosted over the skin of your ear and you were thankful for the jacket covering your already bumpy skin.  

“Thank you.” You whispered, cheeks warm.

“Look, I’m sor-“ 

“I’m sorry for-“

You interrupted each other, then laughed waiting for the other to continue. 

“You go.” You insisted.

He breathed in deep and turned his torso towards you to give himself a false sense of privacy in the crowded space. “I’m really sorry If I made you feel uncomfortable… back at the office.” He started and his eyes jumped between yours trying to decipher your thoughts through your expressions. “That was not cool and kinda creepy and I don’t want you to go because of me-”

“Wait-”

“You’re a great addition to the team, honestly one of the best, you’re good at calming Richie when he gets stressed and you're fast and precise, and you're good for me too-” He kept rambling, his gaze now focused in his hands.

“Carmy-” You tried to interrupt again with no avail.

“And I’d hate for you to leave cause I’m an impulsive jackass and I wouldn’t know what to do if I.. couldn’t see you.. anymore.” He finished swallowing hard, his eyes dragged slowly from his hands to your features and he grew scared of the confession that had left his mouth under the rambling.

All his words separately meant something different, they meant a thank you, a praise, a gentle pat on the back. But not like this, not all together, jumbled and tied with a string of revelation that there might be something more than what he was saying. He saw your chest raise with the motion of a heavy breath and your eyebrows were scrunched in concentration over his face. The background noise had been covered over by the thumping of blood rushing to his head and for a second his heart stopped at the idea that he had dug himself a deeper grave than he had wished for. He stared back at your eyes unable to look away, the ‘Fuck it’ from a couple hours ago now sour on his tongue.

“Do you wanna talk outside?” You whispered leaning forward so he could hear you, brows still knotted together.

You didn’t wait for his answer as you reached down to his tightly clasped hands and wedged your fingers carefully to get them to separate. You held on tightly then began to slip out the booth telling everyone you were gonna get more drinks for the table, before getting lost in the sea of bodies standing around. He let you guide him through the free spaces between the swaying crowd of drunks as he did his best to calm the growing anxiety in his chest. All he could concentrate on were your delicate fingers brushing softly around his hand.

This is what he wanted, right? This is why he had come knowing you would be here, to tell you how he felt, to clear things up, and since the cat’s head was already out the bag, might as well let the rest of the body out. 

‘Let it rip’ his brother’s words danced in his mind and he smiled humorlessly at how they teased him with how easy it sounded to do so.

**********

Fuuuck. You had not planned this far ahead. At least not this early into the night. You expected to do this with maybe another three drinks in your system, when you could still hold a serious conversation without crying for getting rejected cause the voice in your head would slur that it was his loss and that you were still a bad bitch. It also didn’t help that you had smoked a bit while getting ready and the cloudy haze around your brain had not subsided. You were coherent, yes, which was important, however you were not very good with your self control and with the way your throat had closed up at the sight of his profile while he simply took a drink, god you knew this was gonna be hard. 

His confession still swam in the swampy waters of your foggy brain as you pulled both of you through the crowded space. Your hand was tightly wrapped around what you could hold of his and when you finally spotted an exit, your heart leaped in your chest at the idea of how the conversation would go. The emergency door stood tall between the bathroom entrances, an inaudible creek vibrated through the metal as you pushed yourself against it and a cold breeze of air welcomed your face when you both stepped out into the alley. You expected a few smokers to linger around, but then again many who did choose to smoke did it in front of the place, not the side alley like rats; so you were alone. Great.

You finally let go of his hand, a cold absence replacing it, then leaned against the wall in front of the metal exit, staring at him. He took a cigarette from the packet inside his jacket and lit it, mimicking your actions by the door. He took a couple calming drags while both of you thought about what you were gonna say next. 

You could play this two ways: One. Pretend like you hadn’t understood what he said at the booth and say the whole office thing had been a misunderstanding. A little gaslighting wouldn’t hurt, right? It was for your own good anyway, the both of you. The pessimist in you was sure Carmen didn’t know what he was getting into and he already had enough problems trying to get the restaurant off the ground to add yours to the mix. 

And two, Tell him how you felt, fuck the rule. You had known him long enough to know he wasn’t the type of guy you established the rule for in the first place. He was nothing similar to the mutherfuckers you had met in your other jobs, he was nice and patient and cared more about others than he liked to admit; and for fuck’s sake if the bar was already on the floor, finding someone like that and also have him be hot, was not a common occurrence. 

You took your eyes off your boots scraping the pavement to look at him. ‘Why is he so hot and so miserable?!’ you thought as you watched him with his cigarette, the gloss in your eyes making any source of light into twinkling stars. His eyes met yours and normally you would avert your gaze. Normally, however, you would not be in this situation and normally you would not be feeling this angry all of a sudden. 

“You thought I was gonna leave?” You asked. ‘Solid start’.

“I thought I freaked you out.” He shrugged. “You walked out on me.”

“Yeah, and how did you expect me to react?” You respond a little more defensive than you intended. 

“Look, I know it was fucked and I’m sorry, okay? I just-” He took another drag to calm himself down then looked back at you, ocean eyes harboring a storm. “I don’t know what happens to me… when you're around. You make my chest not hurt as much and I- It feels easier to breathe with you.” 

You stayed silent, staring at him through hooded eyes and heavy breaths, trying to keep your mind clear because how could you concentrate on anything when he spoke so sweetly about you? You had to keep reminding yourself that this was for the best. Around you, the low rumble of the music vibrating past the walls could still be heard, like a distant world existing outside your current bubble of angst.

“Wh-what did you mean?” He asked after a long silence and he noticed the confusion in your blank stare. “When you said you needed to get me out your system, what was that?” 

Carmy noticed the subtle change in your expression, how your shoulders tensed and you diverted your gaze to anything else but him. You wanted to shout that it meant exactly that, he was so deep in your thoughts that some days you had caught yourself shamelessly daydreaming about the two of you together, in any way possible. But the last rational part in your brain held your tongue from speaking, you couldn’t say it, there was too much at risk to do so and he was not helping with the way his words were making your chest swell. You were getting angry because this would be so much easier if he was just another asshole. 

You shrugged looking at him. “Nothing, i-it just came out.” ‘Gaslighting it is.’ 

He exhaled a humorless laugh, his eyes still trained on you. “You’re a shitty liar, you know that?” He said with a last drag of his cig before flicking it to the ground and stomping on it.

He raked a hand through his hair and shameful observation had taught you that this meant Carmy was getting stressed.

“Okay, fine! You wanna know?!” You finally spat with anger, “Because I fuckin’ like you, Carmen!” You raised your arms in exasperation. “Because you have no fuckin’ idea what it does to me when you look at me like-like that!” His gaze was fixated on you, head slightly tilted down and to the right, jaw tensed. His brows dropped lower in a scowl and a jolt of lightning traveled down your back at his expression.

“And why didn’t you say anything!” He yelled back.

“Oh, seriously?! What did you want me to say? I need two roast beef sandwiches, hold the peppers and FYI Carmy, I got a crush on you?!”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know then?!” He said in frustration, taking a step closer to you and the height difference was significantly more noticeable when he wasn’t shrinking into himself.

“You weren’t supposed to, that’s the fuckin’ point!” His shoulders fell slightly and the strength in your voice lowered. “I just... needed to get over you and you’d never know. Get you out my system with someone else and never have to mention it.”

Carmy tried to ignore the flashes of your rosy cheeks and short breaths, panting under someone else. ‘This is not the time.’ he reminded himself.

“So, what? You were just gonna leave me believing I did somethin’ wrong to you when you actually liked me?”

“I wasn’t gonna leave.” You whispered. The words get caught on your tongue and you take a deep breath before continuing.

“But the last time I liked someone at my job it… It didn’t turn out right.” You struggle to calm your racing thoughts, his eyes a distracting lighthouse guiding you back in. His brows knitted together. “I don’t wanna go through that again, Carmy” You said defeated.

“You don’t know if it’s gonna be the same.” His voice pleaded just above a whisper, lower than you were used to when it came to him or his cousin.

“I don’t think I can risk it.” You whispered back, doing your best to keep the tears under control.

You were both silent for a while, until Carmy began to shake his head slowly.

“No, no, no you don’t get to do that, okay? You don’t get to tell me you like me then immediately blow me off cause some asshole in the past hurt you.” He took the last two strides in your direction, his chest now so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body.

You pushed yourself against the wall from the sudden proximity. Your breath seized in your lungs as you felt both his hands cup the sides of your face and tilt it up to stare deep into the pits of your eyes. You swallowed hard at all the scenarios flashing through your head, the turn of events giving you whiplash. He lowered his forehead slowly to yours, your eyelashes fluttered trying to close, but your eyes were fixed on his. Carmy’s face was so close, you could feel the heat off his breath. The smell of tobacco that lingered around you and mixed with the smokey wood scent that seemed to cling to him after a long workday, had your head grasping onto the last threads of self control left in  you.

“Tell me to stop. Tell me to stop and I’ll do it, I’ll never touch you again or mention it, I promise.” He rambled, a soft desperation clear in his voice. “I won’t even look in your direction but please, please don’t ever think for a second that I would do anything to hurt you.” He whispered.

Even in the darkness of the alley, you could tell his irises had swallowed the last drop of blue, now so dark and glossy you could see your own despair reflected back to you. You swallowed hard to get rid of the cottonmouth and his eyes flickered towards your lips for less than a second. ‘God, why couldn’t you just say yes?!’ Your head screamed at you through the dissipating smog of weed and untampered emotions.

He had not only given you his heart on a golden platter, but had plated it himself and set the table for you, too. Now it was solely your decision if you wanted to take it or not, if you wanted to guard his heart next to yours for safekeeping or let it finish crumbling on the grime covered pavement. You stared at his features in contemplation and scanned your brain for all the ways it told you this could go wrong. And yet, even after a thousand scenarios came up, you held in protective arms the few ones that bloomed a warm excitement in your chest. You wanted to, even if it was just this once, to be fearless, jump into the unknown regardless of the outcome. You truly did.

“It’s not that easy.” You whispered, shutting your eyes to avoid the look of hurt haunting over his. His hands faltered their grip on your face and soon a cold rush of air replaced the warm contact.

You reopened your gaze to see him standing with his hands now resting on the brick beside your head, defeated. His stare was glued to his tattooed skin, not even daring to look directly at you anymore and you knew, he was withdrawing back to the depths of his mind where one goes when you’ve been completely shattered. You could see his jaw tense up, probably in anger and he was well in his right to be so. He had bared his feelings to you and you had massacred them all over the walls in less than five words. ‘It’s better like this.’ You tried to convince yourself.

“I’m so sorry Carmy, but I-I can’t-”

He cleared his throat then pushed himself back with enough force that it almost felt like he had pulled on an invisible string against your chest.

“No- uh, no I get it.” he sniffled “You’re right, it’s better this way.” He did his best to avoid your gaze, settling it on anything around the empty alley. “I’m gonna go buy the drinks and then head home.”  He said walking back to the door.

You watched still from your position by the wall how he reached for the handle pulling the metal open. An immediate rumble of bass surrounded the once empty area as Carmy walked halfway in then stopped. He slightly turned his head in your direction, eyeing you over his shoulder.

“Don’t-uh.. don’t worry about.. this.” He said to you over the music. “I meant what I said about not sayin’ anythin’.” He rose his head to the sky for a couple seconds then back down. “So, don’t worry about it.” The gravel under his feet groaned as he turned to look at you one last time, “See you at work, chef.”

He was gone with a slam of the door. You stayed motionless, fixated on the space his body had occupied only seconds before. The ghost of his touch still tingled on your face and it took you an unspeakable amount of strength to not break down for the second time that day. It was already atrocious enough that you had committed what was probably the second worst mistake of your life by letting him go, but if you let yourself fall apart in a dingy unlit back alley of some bar, you have truly found a point lower than you thought possible. So with a very, very shaky breath and with the vast expertise as a teen with an overprotective mother, you pulled yourself together, sniffled back the tears and made your way inside ready to pretend like the last fifteen minutes had never happened.

When you reached the booth with your friends, a tray of five shots sat untouched on the table and a sour taste invaded your mouth to see the sixth had been downed and turned upside down at the end of the tray. 

“Carmy said your mom called, is everything okay?” Sydney asked as soon as you were in earshot, the pit in your stomach grew again  because even after hurting him, he still considerate enough to cover for your absence.

“Uh… yeah she’s fine. Just wanted to know when I’d be back.” You lied as you slid back into the booth.

With no hesitation, you reached for one of the glasses and downed it straight, no lemon. Syd gave a confused look to your expressionless face and even reached for one of the glasses to prove it was actually alcohol when you were laughing at Angel and Macus’ arm wrestling.

The liquid burned a distracting path down your throat and kept your attention diverted enough from the emotions you knew you’d have to figure out when the fog had lifted. For now, at least you would allow yourself to play with the idea that everything was fine and that your chest wasn’t shattering with every whiff of his lingering scent that permeated on your jacket.

The rest of the night was a blur of strawberry daiquiris, tequila shots, terrible karaoke and the guys competing over who could throw the furthest a traffic cone they found off the side of the road while walking you and Syd home, at almost four in the morning. They had dropped you off with a chorus of slurred ‘bye byess’ and kept walking in the direction of “Adventure” as Sweeps had called it. On your way up, the usual still stairs had become a workout to climb and Syd had almost landed on her ass on the second and third floor, before tripping on the forth and sliding belly first down half the flight of stairs. You did your best to contain the laughter after seeing her reaction to finally landing with nothing but a bruised chin and ego, but her surprised face was enough to have you slumping on the last step and heaving with tears in your eyes. After you both caught your breath, you reached towards her and held her hand until you were in the safety of your room.

You giggled drunk while changing into your pajamas and turned to Sydney, telling her about your foolproof plan of going home with a stranger to get Carmy out of your head.

“I don’t get it.. why not jus’ like, bang Carmy, right? And get it over with?” She said between hiccups as you both climbed into your bed.

“It’s jus’ not the same!” You whined, turning off the light. “He’s too good for that.” You heard Syd groan beside you and you’re glad the lights were off so she couldn’t see you rolling your eyes at her. “He is!”

You shimmied under the covers and stared at the glow in the dark stickers on your ceiling, the alcohol making them swim around the blank canvas like shooting stars.

“He’s sweet and kind and… funny in like a fucked up, kinda tragic way..” you giggle “and he’s so fuckin’ hot, Sydney! So hot! Every time he looks at me with those eyes I want him to bend me over the expo an-“ you feel a soft smack against your face and the plushness of the pillow drowns out your laughs. 

Syd groaned in disgust at the image you planted in her head “Dude gross! Why would I ever need to know that?!” She said taking the pillow back from you. 

You giggled again and turned to Syd’s silhouette, softly combing back the braids that rested on her shoulder to distract yourself. “I think I really fucked up tonight, Syddy.” You finally admitted in the darkness of your safe space and heavily intoxicated. 

Sydney hummed in question and you knew you only had a few moments of clarity before falling unconscious. You took the end of one of her braids and used it to tickle under her nose to keep her awake a little longer while you failed to understand the many emotions in your head.

“I think he hates me now.” You said softly, a small tear sliding out your eye and quickly disappearing into the soft fabric of your pillow.

She scratched at her nose in frustration then slightly slapped her palm against your forehead. You laughed softly but continued to bug her.

“He could never hate you, he loves you too much.” She mumbled carelessly, readjusting herself and swinging a leg up on your hip under the duvet.

Your cheeks felt warm at the idea of love and even though you knew it was too soon to call it that, you couldn’t avoid the fuzzy feeling the word brought to your insides. ‘Oh to be loved’ you thought ‘and by Carmy of all people’. 

“You can’t know that.” You said with a sniffle, caressing the tip of her braid now on your own nose. You liked how it tickled.

Syd sighed before lifting her head as best she could in her drunk and half asleep state and slurred your name “Please, that man has been tripping-over-his-feet in love with you since day one.” She paused to pull her hair from your hands and adjust the pillow under her. “You two are the only idiots who haven’t noticed.” Then laid her head back down with a soft smack.

A new sensation filled your chest, one you hadn’t really given a name to before because there hadn’t been a reason to. It was a warmth that spread from the crown of your head down to the tips of all your extremities as your friend’s words floated in your head. A slow smile extended across your face and with the last waves of consciousness you decided to put an end to all the doubt and talk to him tomorrow, the stupid rule be damned. 

Capter 4.

Taglist: @pearlstiare and that’s it lmao

[missfay49]

We Chinese women

A speech at the reception in honor of Madame Chiang Kai-shek by the All-India Women's Conference at the Lady Irwin College, New Delhi, on February 12, 1942. Mme. Chiang spoke in reply to an address of welcome by Mrs. Ranjit Pandit, president of the Conference and sister of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru.

Words are inadequate to express my hearty appreciation of the kindness that has prompted you to hold this meeting of welcome in my honor. The opportunity of meeting so many representative women of India is alone sufficient reason for me to join my husband in coming to this great country. Mrs. Pandit some time ago invited me to visit India, but owing to my work I did not feel that I ought to leave China just then. The inward urge that I should come has been, however, latent for a long time. Therefore, when the Generalissimo decided to take this trip, this urge became crystallized into action. Now that I am here and stand in the midst of the women leaders of India, who like their Chinese sisters are making immense contributions to their beloved hand in this hour of trials and tribulations, I am happy.

Your chairman has referred tot he long and traditional relationship between our two countries, and to a renewal of those ancient bonds of culture. I wish to reciprocate this sentiment in full measure. The Chinese have always regarded the people of India as their brothers. Our two countries have had long religious associations. Indeed, China and India are two pillars which today are supporting the economic and industrial edifice of Asia. We are proud of the important part which we are playing together in helping to make the word safe for democracy.

Mrs. Pandit has paid me a tribute for my share in the war of resistance to aggression. While appreciating this, may I have your permission to share the tribute with my fellow countrywomen. In the past four years and a half, every section of Chinese life has been called upon to give its utmost for the nation; and among those who have responded nobly to the needs of the crisis have been the women. The war, with its

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multitude of problems, has brought forth a large number of new organizations concerned with refugee aid, war relief, increase of production enterprises and care of ware orphans.

Our Chinese women are doing their tasks willingly and cheerfully because one cannot live in China and feel and think without being moved to action. The fact that a Japanese bombing raid kills 4,000 people in a single day mean nothing to peoples living in a great distance away from the scene but when one sees flames roar, hears bombs thud, and witnesses the horrid outcome of the meeting if human flesh and steel shrapnel, then the realities of war become very real. Chinese women were the first to face such suffering and misery, and also they have been in the forefront in carrying out measures for their relief.

The desperation of the enemy - now also your enemy - caused by the failure to make military advances at will has led him to pursue a policy of slaughter of innocent people, men and women, of violence, of destruction of property, and of indiscriminate bombing in the hope of terrorizing those lining in the interior of China. Such Japanese barbarism has not only failed to terrorize our Chinese but has impelled them to work all the harder for the rescue of the injured, the safeguarding of homeless children and refugees, and their evacuation to safer localities.

Under the auspices of our Women's Advisory Council, women have been encouraged to work on the farms in place of their men who have joined the army. For those women who are unsuited for farm work, factories have been established to give them employment. The Women's Advisory Council also sees to it that, while their mothers are working either on the farms or in the factories, the older children are cared for in homes and the younger ones sent to day nurseries. In the broad sweep of the war work carried on by the women of China, devotion and accomplishment have become commonplaces.

The poet Holmes once said: ""It is the province of knowledge to speak, and the privilege of wisdom to listen." I would much prefer to hear what my Indian sisters have to tell me about their aspirations, their problems and their achievements, because of all this they possess an abundance of knowledge.. While listening to what you are going to tell me, I have no claim to wisdom, but I am deeply interested in your problems and have come here to learn.

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Madame Chairman, in concluding, I wish to thank you and the members of the Conference once more for the sincere and moving welcome that you one and all have been showing me during my short stay in India.

After the formal reply Madame Chiang delivered the following extemporaneous address to the gathering of Indian women.

First of all, I want to tell you what you are up against, and I think you would want to know. I believe you are realists, for in spite of thousands of years of our common heritage enriched by the development of the most profound systems of philosophy yet evolved by any people in the world, the people of China and India are realists. You may have to fight against a foe full of treachery. During the last five years I have repeatedly pointed out what sort of people the Japanese are and what they have been doing to China, but because the Western world was too engrossed in other affairs, they branded my admonitions as propaganda. Now that the word has had a taste of Japanese methods at Singapore and Manila, they are realizing that what I said was not a figment of war-torn imagination but bare facts.

In 1932 at Shanghai, when the Chinese and Japanese had agreed in principle on certain conditions and were on the eve of signing an agreement, that very night the Japanese bombed and set fire to the sleeping suburb of Chapei and tens of thousands of people were killed and wounded. Just before the outbreak of the present Pacific hostilities, while the Japanese Ambassador in America and Kurusu were carrying on conversations with Mr. Hull, the Japanese similarly without warning struck at Pearl Harbor.

A nation which has treachery as its chosen policy in international dealings can never be trusted. The Japanese are already at your door. They have already struck at China and Burma. Who knows what will happen when they strike India? They will say to you: "We come to liberate you." But that is a lie.

Do you know what happened in Nanking? After our troops had withdrawn, the Japanese rounded up every able-bodied man they could find there, tied them wrist to writs, made them walk out of the town, beat them and bayoneted them. Later on the Japanese did not even take the

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trouble to bayonet or shoot them but made them dig their own graves and buried them alive.

What did they do to our children? They captured them and took their blood for the purpose of blood transfusion. They also sent boatloads of our children to be trained as traitors to their own country. We have found many little spies who told us that they had been trained by the Japanese to work against us. This happened especially after the Japanese occupation of Manchuria in 1932, when these children were carried off in thousands and specially drilled to work against their fatherland.

When the Japanese occupy and seize a city they are not only out to loot everything but they try to kill the very soul of the people, they do everything to deaden the body and soul. In cases when some of the surviving population were employed as laborers by the Japanese they received as part payment injections of opium and heroin. The Japanese are an incredibly cruel and inhumanely callous enemy.

We did everything we could at first to stave off the Japanese because we needed time in which to prepare ourselves. But when at last we knew the ruthlessness of the enemy we had to take up arms, ill-prepared as we were, for we realized that however terrible suffering and death may be, there was a worse thing - slavery of body and slavery of soul.

China today is an acknowledged ally of the Democracies, but we have only earned this name by fighting mostly with bare flesh and inferior arms, and by destroying everything of value which might fall into the hands of the enemy as we withdrew into the interior. We have burnt our fields; we have destroyed our houses and property in order to prevent the enemy from gaining them. We have had this courage because we know that in order to save our national life we must have the fortitude to sacrifice our individual life.

As soon as the war started, we women of China formed ourselves into a Women's council, a national body. In each province we formed a provincial committee and in each district a smaller branch. We followed a definite program to help win the war. We trained, and are continuing to train, thousands of young women to go to every part of the country to tell the people what the war is about. In India today there must be many people who still do not understand what the war is about, and who must be told. Many women from schools and colleges ran away

4

to join our war effort because they said they could not study while their nation was in jeopardy. I have trained such women personally. Among other lines of work after their training, they go behind the army and do liaison work between the army and the people.

At first the authorities asked how could girls go and work in the large hospitals where the men are so rough? Who would protect them? Do you know that when the girls went there the men called them army officers and saluted them as such! Now we receive hundreds of telegrams asking for more and more women nurses and workers for the hospitals. For not only are the girls appreciated for their nursing ability but also for the fact that they provide wholesome and inspiriting entertainment for the soldiers during their stay in the hospitals. As in India, there are many illiterate people in China, and our women are also working against illiteracy. The soldiers are learning to read and write while convalescing.

Many of our factories and industries have been destroyed. So we have had to return to hand industries. These are organized in production centers and we can show you the success of these by mentioning that not only has the standard of the people's livelihood gone up in districts where these centers exist, but also by the fact that by the employment of women in the centers, their men have been able to join the army. You cannot expect a man to fight in the trenches and leave his family unless he knows that his wife is self-supporting and can look after their children.

The spirit of the new China is one for all and all for one. We are united by suffering, and victory will crown our efforts. In every worthwhile enterprise there must be people who are willing to sacrifice everything they have for what they hold most dead if that is to be a success. We in China have those people. I do not mean the Generalissimo. I do not mean myself. I mean the people of China, the unsung heroes.

Like India, China's roots are deep. In our fertile soil which is now soaked in the blood of our partriots, both soldiers and civilians, we shall grow fruit for the future. Thus runs a Chinese proverb: "Think only of sowing; think not of reaping." We of this generation shall not reap the full benefits of what we have sown, but the generations to come will reap the fruits of our sacrifice. And as we today are reaping the fruits of labor of our ancestors, so must we be willing to sow for our children and our children's children.

5

(third installment)(fifth installment)

[thecitythatdoesntsleep]

I’m the same anon who requested that collar whump and 🙌 it was so good!!!! if you want to go more whumpy I encourage it!!! The only limit I have is please no explicit smut. I’m fine with implied/referenced just not explicit. Otherwise you can go wild!!! I’d totally love to see it!!! thank you so much!! 💞💞💞

Awwh! I'm so super happy that you liked it, that pleases me greatly to know that it was enjoyable! I insist, for your kind words let me treat you to something extra whumpy!

Limits understood! Let's crank up the whump button and keep that 'too familiar' with Whumpee going. Mind if I add a pinch of obsession into that intimate whumper? You know, as a treat because you deserve it anon! Rewinding time a bit, this is before the first post.

(Tags/TW: Collar whump, Intimate Male Whumper, Female Whumpee, Kidnapping, Stalking, Obsession whump, Choking, Hanging, Swinging by neck, Neck whump, Broken bones, Noncon touching, referenced/implied noncon, Hot/Cold Whumper, Hair pulling, Drugging, Cursing/strong language, Vampire whump. )

"You were too naive, you know that?" Whumper stated, hand gripping a flawless face and watching pretty, gemstone eyes roll in their sockets. "You never saw me, all this time, watching you from afar."

"I hoped you'd notice, I really did. I was so messy a couple of times, I ran right into you and somehow you never even saw me." It almost sounded pained, the way Whumper said it. Thick with emotion as his grip on her jaw became more violent and drew her out of the haze.

"I don't know if I should be insulted... Or happy you're so oblivious to the world around you."

As soon as Whumpee made it through the fog, her features pinched in a grimace and the sight before her wasn't one she'd expected. She recognized him but couldn't place him anywhere, her mind telling her she'd definitely seen him before.

"But you're here now... and you're going to be my pet now. No one will ever know I didn't buy you, I made sure of it." The more he rambled, the more infatuated he became with touching her. First her shoulder, now he was holding her hand, bringing it to his lips for a clammy, tacky kiss.

"Y-You're all mine," He was frantic, panicked as if he was both excited and terrified for what he was actually doing. Having kidnapped and tranquilized her thus far.

"Like.. hell I am.." She rasped, watching him fight off a chuckle and lose almost instantly.

"Hah- You're not going to have a choice. I'm your Master and pets obey their masters." Whumper insisted, reaching for a collar that had been already chained up to a pipe in the basement ceiling. "I'm going to teach you how to behave down here first, then w-wh-when you're broken in, yeah? Then.. Then I'll let you upstairs like a real pet."

He grabbed her up by the hair and she flew into fight or flight as soon as she was lifted off the ground. He was big, she'd give him that. Tall, probably 6'4 and he definitely worked out and enjoyed his carbs at the same time.

She was on the shorter side, but she knew how to use her weight and no matter the tension on her hair; she wormed her whole body to wrench away from him. The force was messy, her system still getting used to the hazy, limpness in her limbs.

"Bad!" He growled in resonating anger, using the grip on her scalp to slam her head into the wall. The first obviously dazed her and the second left her stilling. "You're gonna wear your fucking collar! L-Like a good pet!"

She looked at him with stars in her vision and pain seeping from the back of her head, features cracking with lines of hatred. She could smell it, her skin had split open on the poorly constructed brick wall and it stung when it started fusing back together from her healing speed.

She couldn't let him know just how her body worked or she feared the worst of his wrath. He really seemed like a horror movie villain at this point, the way he stuttered and looked at her with such blatant, scrutinizing attention.

"T-Thats too high, take it down and I'll wear it." She tried to reason, feeling one of his hands grab around the front of her neck while the other repositioned in her hair.

"It's not training if it's not painful.. what would you learn from just wearing a collar?" He questioned, tone acidic like she was a moron for even thinking of suggesting such a thing.

Those damned drugs did her in, if only she'd been at full strength when he tried again to wrestle her over and up to the collar he had waiting on her. She could have thrown him across the room, easily, if he hadn't somehow managed to subdue her. Now it was a struggle to keep herself on the ground as the muscular human kept taking her footing away from her.

She kicked and kicked and even when she landed contact with his legs, she knew it wasn't strong enough to even pull a reaction from him. He eventually won, hoisting her up and latching the thick, chain collar around her neck to entrap her with her own weight. It was just in distance to let the tips of her outstretched toes barely brush the ground.

"There, now you can squirm all you want, you'll just go swinging." He mused, giving her a push by her hips and watching her uselessly grip above her in the swing.

She felt like at any moment, her neck would snap, a grinding sound in her bones giving a warning creak when she reached the highest point. Her vocal chords were ruthlessly crushed against the curvature of the chain and she couldn't stop the faux spasms she felt in long-deadened lungs. It felt like she was a human again, drowning or being smothered, only she hadn't needed real air in decades.

Choking gurgles of begging barely registered past how hard he'd started laughing. She was like a chandelier in a living room that a mischievous housemate knocked into. Swinging in whatever pattern or direction gravity took her until she learned that she'd only stop if she went still.

Finally whumper stopped her and grabbed her backside to lift her up against him, holding her face to face with a devious smile across his face. "You're l-like a piñata. It's kind of cute."

Her hands flew up and in a sound clap, cupped his ears in a deafening impact. Immediately his head started to ring and he dropped her with such force she nearly slammed into him again on the downswing.

Whumper covered his ears and shoved fingers in them, anxiously feeling for blood and unable to hear anything but an ambient whine. He was furious and the stunning pain left him staggering back a few paces to let her endure the remaining momentum. The faintest of garbled blubbering could be heard and it was his only hope that he hadn't been completely deafened.

"You stupid bitch.." He roared, louder than he'd realized in his current state. "Y-You just lost your fucking hands!"

A vicious latch onto one of her arms and his opposite hand grabbed her wrist, twisting and wrenching it beyond it's natural pivot. She grabbed onto his wrists, nails dug in but couldn't stop the force he'd held her with.

The crack was agonizing, it popped so many times and she would have vomited if not for the noose around her neck. The limb instantly radiated pain and fell limp, unable to hold upright on the destroyed joint. Muffled cries were distant to him and even though he was looking her in the face, she sounded soft.

She'd stopped swinging when he grabbed her second arm and gave the faintest of tugs back from his menacing grip. Begging, pleading without shaking her head or making a single noise.

He ignored it. Snapping the second joint in a long twist and the satisfaction that he had with the feeling of breaking a bone was maddening. He savored it, giving an extra roll this time and really feeling the damage he'd done inside her skin.

"I bet you'll behave for me now, wont you?" He picked her up once more, this time leaving space between their upper halves in hesitation. When she left her hands at her sides, he was pleased with the progress they'd already made.

"God, even when you're in pain and have spit all down your face, you're still pretty." Whumper praised, taking his hold on her a bit easier now, lifting her up by the backs of her thighs and encouraging them to wrap around his waist for reprieve.

They did, as disgusting as it felt it relieved the tension on her neck and she was almost grateful in just that short time alone.

He pet her head fondly now, pushing down the strands he'd frizzed and upset and he pulled his sleeve over his hand to wipe her mouth. Her lips hung open like she was panting but no breath escaped her, throat desperately trying to clear with small growls and hacks.

"I've never seen you blush until now, I feel special." Whumper pushed her bangs back and returned down her face with a loving sweep while holding her; thumb tracing her lower lip.

"I can't believe you're finally all mine. I get to keep you forever and ever and... You can't escape me anymore." As if his mind was looping through all the times he'd thought about her or thought about kidnapping her, he stared into her eyes blankly.

Even if she didn't remember, he certainly did. Every encounter, every time he'd sent her a drink at the bar and been to shy to say something. When she flat out rejected him for a dance. The time she'd gotten in a taxi with him and he didn't say anything to her. The week he'd paid for her coffee in the drive thru, strategically, every day getting ahead of her in line.

It had all been worth it.

"You can't reject me anymore. You can't hide.. or brush me off or ignore the gifts I get you." The more he rambled, he less he was looking at her and the more he was looking through her. He framed her body, wrapped along her curves with a curious hand. He abandoned the hold and let her support herself when he couldn't handle not touching her with both of them.

"Now.. I can finally love you how you deserve.."

-

Sorry it took me so long to get to this anon! I hope this is respectful of your wishes and not too much towards the descriptive side. I also tried to go with the same tropes you'd requested but just make it more miserable. ; ^ ;

I know there is a very thin border to intimate whump and it can transition beyond the boundaries very easily. So if you have any critiquing or things to avoid that could help in the future, I'd love to know so I can gain some more versatility. I would (ideally) love to be able to cater to all requests in all forms and insight will only help me with that goal.

Another apology for the wait. Had some personal life stuff come up and wasn't in the feelings to write much. But I'm back on the rise and I'm hoping to get to everyone's messages and requests within the next few days.

I will not be doing first come first serve, I'm just doing whatever inspires me with this batch. Sorry if anyone thinks that's unfair, it's just how it is for me as a writer. This is 1 out of 7 asks and I don't even remember which ones came first because I immediately convert them into drafts. : ( But thank you so much for the req! Hope you enjoyed. <3

[refinedbuffoonery]

Looking Through A Window (2)

macriley married undercover au

masterlist.

Oh man. My dudes. I received so much love and support and excited feedback on the first chapter that I thought my heart was going to explode. Y’all are so wonderful. Keep it up. <3

*****

Luckily, Matty lets them take the Phoenix jet to Houston. Flying commercial would make today even more tortuous than it already promises to be, albeit for a different reason. 

No matter how hard he tries to distract himself, Mac cannot stop staring at the diamond ring on Riley’s finger. The princess cut gem is stunning and ridiculously large, but it suits her cover as a lucrative arms dealer. A white gold wedding band sits below it. Riley left her usual assortment of rings at home, and Mac can’t help but think her long, delicate fingers look bare without them. 

He tears his eyes away from the rings again and again, both on the plane and while driving to the safe house. Riley drives with just her left hand, her right elbow resting on the center console. Mac likes driving, but there’s something relaxing about riding shotgun while Riley drives instead. He’s never been able to put a finger on it, but the sense of ease washes over him all the same. Admiring the way sunlight illuminates her engagement ring is simply a bonus. 

He doesn’t let himself imagine what he might give her, in an alternate future where she reciprocates his feelings and one day wants to marry him. 

Harley obediently lays in the backseat, staring out the windshield. She's been on her best behavior the entire twenty four hours Mac's known her, ever the professional. 

Which puts her completely at odds with Mac and Riley's shenanigans—cracking jokes, dancing on the plane and in the car, doing purposefully bad impersonations of Russ. These are the best parts of going on ops alone with Riley. They can let loose in a way they just couldn’t when anyone else other than Bozer was around. Everyone else is professional all the time; Mac and Riley are only professional when they have to be. 

Riley taps the steering wheel in time to the classic rock song on the radio. “What do you want for dinner?” 

“Dinner? We haven’t even had lunch yet!” 

“True.” Riley chuckles. “Can you tell I’m hungry?” 

Mac gives her a sly look. “Not at all.” 

They settle on Texas barbecue for lunch on their way to the safe house, because that’s what Jack would choose if he was here. If only the old man could see them now, all grown up and getting sent to take down terrorists unsupervised. 

Seated in a booth in the far corner of the restaurant, Mac raises his brisket sandwich in a toast to Jack, in whatever afterlife he found himself in. Hopefully it’s the one with an endless supply of good barbecue. 

“Oh man, Jack would’ve loved this,” Riley says through a mouthful of food. She sneaks Harley a piece of brisket. 

Mac smiles. “Yeah, he would’ve.” 

It’s easier, now, to talk about him. At first, Mac hadn’t been sure he could ever get to a point where talking about Jack didn’t make him want to hit something or just curl up and sob. 

But here he is, on the other side. Him and Riley both. 

Their safe house is another twenty minutes away from the restaurant, in a nice neighborhood full of trees and children playing on the sidewalks. It’s so much greener than a California neighborhood could ever dream of being. There’s even a park across the street from their apartment complex. It’s exactly the sort of place a young, affluent couple would want to live. 

Riley parks in their designated space, and the pair ascend the stairs to apartment number 202. Outside of the car, they don’t dare use each other’s real names until they’re sure the apartment is free of bugs. The place was furnished earlier that week by other Phoenix agents, but Mac and Riley do a thorough sweep of every room just in case. 

It’s a nice apartment. Wood flooring, granite countertops, matching cabinets throughout. There are pictures on the walls, but Mac doesn’t bother to stop and check what they are. 

Riley clears the space from back to front, so Mac does the opposite. He clears the kitchen first, frowning at the absence of any sort of food, before moving on to the living room. 

Mac stops dead in his tracks when he enters the bedroom. The singular bedroom. With a singular, queen-sized bed. 

Oh no. This is not happening. 

Mac shakes his head and rubs his eyes, hoping his mind is just playing tricks on him and that there’s actually two beds. Or a whole other room he missed before. 

The one and only bed seems to mock him. 

He walks back out, finding Riley already sitting at the kitchen table, turning on her laptop. “Uhh, Riles? There’s only—”

“One bed,” she finishes, not bothering to look up. “I know.” 

Oh god. He can’t do this. He can’t. Not with his dignity still intact. Mac stammers, “I’ll, uhh, sleep on the couch. You can have it.”

That gets Riley’s attention. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re going to be here for weeks. You’ll hurt your back sleeping on the couch that long. Just sleep with me.” Riley’s eyes widen as she realizes what she just said. “In the bed,” she quickly adds. 

Mac ducks his head to hide his blush. 

“What are you working on?” he asks in a feeble attempt to distract himself from their sleeping situation. Because it will definitely be a situation if Mac’s not careful. 

“Connecting to the Wi-Fi,” Riley says in a slow, “What else would I be doing?” sort of way. 

“Right.” Mac silently curses himself. Of course that’s what she’s doing. “Anyway, I’m assuming you already know this, since you probably opened the fridge too, but we have no food.” 

“I saw.” She’s multitasking again, manicured fingers flying faster across her keyboard than Mac can keep track of. “Why don’t you unload our bags while I finish this, and then we can go.” 

Unable to help feeling like he’s been dismissed, Mac complies without protest. 

Soon they’re back in the car, headed to the grocery store, and the whole thing feels ridiculously domestic. Mac’s never been a fan of grocery shopping, but Riley makes it almost...fun. For starters, she’s not methodical about it the way Bozer and Desi are. But more than that, getting to spend time with her doing mundane, non-work stuff is a nice reminder that their relationship is more than just the job. They’re friends too. 

Mac wishes there is a way to tell her all that without it sounding weird. 

They come home, unload the groceries, and take Harley for a long walk, and that feels easy too. It feels normal, even though literally nothing about this situation is normal, and Mac already knows he’ll miss this when the op is over. 

But normalcy ends when Riley beckons Mac to sit beside her at the kitchen table, and together they write an advertisement for their arms dealing business. Once they’re satisfied with it, Riley sends it off into the dark web, and there’s nothing to do but wait, like a spider after spinning her web. 

The waiting is the worst part. 

Mac is contemplating taking Harley for a second walk when Riley asks, “Want to help me make dinner?” He takes one look at her hands on her hips and the “you don’t actually have a choice” look on her face and knows he’ll be left to fend for himself if he doesn’t help now. Mac learned that the hard way back when he and Riley lived together. 

“Sure.” 

They work in comfortable silence. Mac chops vegetables and grates cheese for their quesadillas while Riley does the actual cooking part. Even though they are doing separate tasks, Mac is acutely aware of every move Riley makes, no matter how insignificant. Flexing her long, thin fingers around a knife. Itching the back of her calf with her foot. Dancing in place, spatula in hand, while she waits to flip the quesadillas sizzling in the pan. 

Mac smiles softly. Her random little dances are cute. He’s noticed them more and more since realizing he has feelings for her, but if Mac is being honest, he’s always thought the dances are cute. 

Riley hisses as she peeks under the tortilla, checking to see if it’s browned yet. 

“You good?” Mac asks, frowning. 

“Yeah, I touched the pan by accident.” Riley runs her thumb under cold water. 

Her laptop dings while they eat. Wide-eyed, Mac glances at Riley. That was fast. She grimaces before sliding the laptop closer and checking the notification. 

“Is it them?” he asks tentatively. That’s the hard part about this; in order for their business to look more legit, they had to just put an ad out and hope for a response, rather than target the terrorist organization directly. 

Riley exhales. “No, it’s not them. It’s someone else.” 

Swallowing another bite of quesadilla, Mac says, “I don’t know whether I’m relieved or if that’s worse.” 

“Same.” 

There are no more responses that night.

*****

Mac wakes up in the same position he fell asleep in—on his side, facing outward, with as much space between him and Riley as possible. When they crawled into bed the night before, Riley did the same. 

Harley spent the night on the couch. 

She’s a very guarded dog, Mac is slowly realizing. Tolerating, but not trusting. Mac supposes he would be like that too if he was a dog and he got stuck with a bunch of strangers after his human suddenly disappeared one day. 

He makes coffee, feeds Harley breakfast, and takes a shower, all before Riley loses her battle with the snooze button and finally gets out of bed. While she showers, Mac takes Harley for a walk in hopes that the cool, spring air will ease the anxiety that took root the moment Riley released their ad into the void. 

It doesn’t. 

Dark, puffy clouds loom on the horizon, and the few birds Mac hears shriek at each other in warning. It looks like a storm is coming. 

When Mac returns, he’s met with a grim expression, one he understands without Riley uttering a single word. “They answered,” she confirms. 

“What did they say?” Unclipping Harley’s leash, Mac moves to stand behind Riley, resting his hands on the back of her chair. The scent of her shampoo tickles his nose, and he forces himself to ignore it and focus on what Riley’s saying. 

“They want to meet. Today.” 

“Time or place?” 

Riley points at a small box on her screen. “Just an address.” 

“What’s there?” 

“A warehouse,” Riley says. “Owned by the same shell corporation other Phoenix techs already tied to the organization.” 

“Not very clandestine, are they?” 

“No, they’re not.” Riley looks up at him, her head bumping his sternum, and butterflies ricochet inside Mac’s rib cage. There’s something soft in Riley’s expression that makes Mac want to kiss her. “Are you ready for this?” 

Mac sighs. “As ready as I ever am. Are you?” 

“Yeah,” she says, but her confidence falters. Without thinking, Mac squeezes her shoulders in reassurance before walking away to change.

*****

The warehouse is located on the edge of the city, in an industrial area that has certainly seen better days. Even from a distance, Mac can see cobwebs decorating the warehouse windows and rust creeping up the roller doors. Aside from Riley, there’s not another soul in sight. 

As per the directions the organization sent after Riley confirmed the meeting, Mac parks on the south side of the building, near the only functional-looking door. He doesn’t look at Riley as they get out of the car, instead desperately trying not to cringe at the cold, heavy weight of the gun holstered at his side, hidden beneath his jacket. 

High-end arms dealers couldn’t walk around unarmed, unfortunately. 

Although her hands are occupied with holding Harley’s leash, there’s a gun hidden beneath Riley’s suit jacket as well. Mac’s stomach churns. The second Riley emerged from their bedroom earlier wearing that jet black suit, she was a different person. She was wholly Genevieve Turner, and no matter how hard Mac tried, he couldn’t find even a single trace of his best friend beneath the icy exterior. 

Locking their SUV, Mac smooths the lapels of his own black suit and slips into character as well. 

The dark clouds Mac noticed earlier are directly overhead now. Mac has never believed in omens the way Jack did, but he can’t help hearing Jack’s voice in his head, warning him that black clouds are a sign of certain doom. Or something like that. 

There’s no one inside the warehouse, at least as far as Mac can see. “Hello?” he calls, the word echoing slightly in the open space. Aside from a few random wooden crates, the room is empty. 

A door slams, and then an older man comes into view. He’s probably in his late fifties, with graying hair and a beer belly his shirt doesn’t quite cover. The man swaggers like he owns the place, although Mac doubts the leader of a terrorist cell would deign to play tour guide. 

No doubt there’s a quip on the edge of Riley’s tongue about entitled white men, but she doesn’t share it. 

The man extends a hand to Mac in introduction. “Conrad.” His sneer doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Mac frowns, keeping his hands at his sides. “Last name?” 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

What he’s about to say might screw everything up before it even starts, but Mac says it anyway. In his gut, he knows it’s the right call. “If it doesn’t matter, then we’re done here. My wife and I have no interest in entering a business relationship with someone too inexperienced to understand that trust is integral to any transaction.” Mac spins on his heel and strides toward the door, Riley falling into step beside him. 

“Wait!” the man calls. They pause, turning around slowly. “Deacon. Conrad Deacon.” The man seems to know he’s already lost. Good. “Welcome to the cause.” He gestures for Mac and Riley to follow him. 

Mac stands his ground. In his peripheral, Riley stands utterly still, the perfect mask of cool, collected neutrality. Almost bored, even. It’s scary how easily she becomes her cover. 

“Come on now,” Conrad says, taking a single step forward. “We have much to discuss.” 

That’s enough of the power play, Mac thinks, but just as he’s about to give in and follow Conrad, Riley utters a single, sharp command that rings through the room. “Sit.” 

Harley obeys. 

Riley’s lips curve in a cruel, taunting smile. “Then enlighten us.” Mac suppresses a shiver; he’s seen this side of Riley plenty of times before, watched her hone it over the years, but it’s still unnerving. Admittedly, it’s also kind of hot. 

Conrad ignores her entirely. He croons, “Why don’t we start with your names?” It’s phrased like a question. It sounds like a question, but Mac sees the demand for what it really is. 

Mac gestures to Riley. “This is my wife, Genevieve Turner. And my name is James.” His father’s name tastes like ash on Mac’s tongue. 

“And the dog?” 

“Killer,” Riley sneers. Mac isn’t sure if she’s kidding or not. 

Again, Conrad doesn’t acknowledge her. “James, why don’t I give you the tour and explain what we do here.” 

“We’ll go on the tour, but we are not here to join your cause.” It takes every ounce of Mac’s willpower to maintain his neutral tone. “All we care about is what you’d like us to provide and how much you’ll pay for it.” 

Conrad doesn’t hide his displeasure. “Fine. Follow me.” 

Mac and Riley are led through the open warehouse. The layout is straightforward and nearly impossible to get lost in. But after Conrad shows them a room full of rifles—countless hung on the walls, floor to ceiling, the rest in half-open crates—Mac finds himself counting the number of wooden shipping crates scattered around the building. 

He doesn’t like his final number. 

Arming terrorists doesn’t sit well with Mac, even if it serves a purpose. It makes him sick, knowing he will likely be indirectly responsible for their next attack. 

Especially because those crates are no doubt full of the kind of rifles designed to kill people most effectively. The ones hanging on the wall are military grade, probably cutting-edge. Desi would know exactly what they are and how they work. 

Trusting Riley is paying close attention, Mac only half listens to Conrad babble about the cause. But then the older man says something that stops Mac in his tracks. “Our country is being run into the ground by whiny do-nothings,” Conrad asserts, “who waste our money and spew garbage that some people matter more than others. Well, you know what? Hardworking, everyday Americans matter. But no,” he scoffs, “those damn liberals don’t like it when we remind them of the truth. Once we’re rid of them and the insufferables who elected them, this country will be better off.” 

The ground sways under Mac’s feet. He knows these people believe this, read it in Matty’s extensive briefing notes. But it’s another thing entirely to hear someone say it to his face. 

He can only imagine what Riley must be thinking. 

Clearing his throat, Mac tries to redirect the conversation. “Like I said, we don’t care about your cause. Just tell us what you’re looking for, and we’ll be on our way.” 

Conrad eyes him suspiciously, but complies. “We’re looking for something a little more than what you can get at the store, you know?” 

Mac doesn’t, not exactly. He’ll have to ask Desi later. “I do,” he lies. 

“Good. Here’s what we’re willing to pay for it.” He hands Mac a folded piece of paper, and Mac does a double take when he reads the number. There are a lot of zeroes. “And as a show of good faith, we’d like it delivered tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” Riley splutters. Mac feels it then, the broiling rage slipping through a crack in her persona. He needs to get her out of there. Now. Not just to preserve the op, but for Riley’s wellbeing. Some audacity Matty has making Riley play nice with men like this. 

Mac slides his hands into his pockets, using the movement as a cover to brush his knuckles against Riley’s fist. I know. I’m here. I’m sorry. 

For the first time, Conrad addresses Riley directly. “Yes. Tomorrow. Unless that’s something you can’t do?” 

“We can do that,” she replies calmly, and the difference between her reactions is like night and day. As quickly as that crack appeared, it was gone. 

“Excellent.” Conrad takes another step toward Riley, offering to shake hands, but Harley’s low, menacing growl keeps him at bay. Rewarding the dog with a quick scratch on the head, Riley closes the gap and shakes Conrad’s still-outstretched hand. 

“It’s a deal,” she says. Following suit, Mac shakes Conrad’s hand as well and follows Riley out the door, neither of them uttering another word. 

Mac drives. One look at Riley’s trembling fist decides for him. 

By the time the warehouse disappears from the rearview mirror, he can’t take the silence anymore. “Hey,” Mac starts, but Riley cuts him off with a hand. 

“Not until we’re inside.” 

They hit every single red light between the warehouse and the apartment, and Mac anxiously taps the steering wheel. Raindrops land on the windshield. They’re small at first, but soon the drops are large and numerous enough to refract the streetlights, and Mac struggles to see where he’s going. He adjusts the windshield wipers over and over, never landing on the right speed. 

Too slow. Too fast. Too slow. Too fast. 

Mac settles on a setting that’s slightly too fast, and the squeak of rubber on glass nearly matches his heart thudding in his chest. 

Riley stares straight ahead, unmoving, unblinking. Mac wants to reach out, to let a gentle touch say what he verbally can’t, but the road is slick enough to make him keep two hands on the wheel. We’re almost there, he reassures himself. 

By the time he parks, it’s pouring hard enough that the ten second walk from the car to the door soaks them to the bone. Riley’s hands shake as she unlocks the apartment door. 

Once they’re inside and Mac unclips Harley’s leash, Riley turns to him with pained, pleading eyes. His heart breaking all over again, Mac draws her in for a long, tight hug. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. 

Mac just cradles the back of her head and sways gently, wishing he could fix the world for her. 

Neither pulls away, even when Riley suddenly says, “If Conrad was smart, he would’ve had someone bug our car while he paraded us around the warehouse. I don’t think he’s actually smart enough to do that, but we should check first, just in case.” 

Mac curses himself for not thinking of that. “Good call.” He rubs Riley’s back, hoping the gesture is soothing. “I hate the way he treated you,” he snarls. “Like you weren’t even worth acknowledging.” 

“Welcome to being a woman.” 

It was more than that. They both know it. But neither say it.

*****

“You need what?” Matty shrieks over the phone. 

Mac winces. “Sorry.” He’d called Desi first, to ask what kind of guns Conrad meant with his innuendo, and received a verbal lashing for not asking any follow-up questions. But she made her best guess anyway. Now on the phone with Matty, it doesn’t take even a single brain cell to know that her reaction will be much, much worse. 

“He wants us to prove ourselves,” Riley adds. “As a show of good faith.” The words come out dripping in venom, but their boss doesn’t comment. Mac takes a second to study her; Riley changed into leggings and an oversized flannel shirt, and there are still remnants of dark makeup smudges under her eyes. Now, she’s sitting on the kitchen counter with her knees tucked into her chest. It’s weird to see her take up so little space. 

Matty sighs, deeply and loudly in a way conveys her annoyance more than words ever could. “Fine. A few weeks ago, Border Control confiscated a huge shipment of smuggled guns near El Paso, so I’ll see if we can borrow those. But next time, Blondie, don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He doesn’t correct Matty in that it was Riley who made the deal. That would only add fuel to the fire. 

“Thank you,” he says, and Matty hangs up. Mac runs a hand through his damp hair. “That went well.” Riley’s lips twitch, but it’s not the amused reaction he hopes for. He’s at a complete loss regarding what to say to her, so Mac gently asks, “What can I do?” 

Riley slides off the counter, and Mac reaches for her automatically, although he doesn’t actually touch her; his hand hovers just beside Riley’s elbow. She doesn’t shrink away, but she makes no move to touch him either. 

“Help me put him and everyone like him in a deep, dark hole where they can’t hurt anybody. And then just…” she trails off, taking a deep breath. “Keep being you.” 

With that, she walks away, leaving Mac alone in the kitchen, racking his brain to figure out what that last part means.

*****

Later that night, Mac tosses and turns, replaying Conrad’s words. Once we’re rid of them and the insufferables who elected them, this country will be better off. They seem off-kilter, like what the man said and what he really meant are misaligned. Mac sighs, rubbing his face. 

Another bolt of lightning illuminates the bedroom, and Mac automatically counts the seconds until he hears thunder rumbling in the distance. The storm is moving closer. 

Beside him, Riley lies on her back with her eyes closed, although her breathing is too light for her to be asleep. Mac wonders if her mind is just as loud and chaotic as his. 

For Riley’s sake, he hopes it’s not.

*****

Sleep never finds Mac. 

The storm rages all through the night, but by the time dawn arrives, the thunder and wind dissipate, leaving just the steady downpour. The clouds are dark enough that Mac can hardly tell the sun even bothered to rise this morning. 

When Riley’s alarm goes off, it’s like the shrill tone is mocking Mac for being awake. Riley groans as she shuts it off. 

“Morning,” he mumbles. His throat hurts. He needs water. “Did you sleep well?”

Another groan. “No.” 

“At least you slept,” Mac mutters.

Riley rolls onto her side, drawing one of the extra pillows into her chest. “Do you always toss and turn that much?”

It was his fault, he realizes, that she didn’t sleep. Mac suddenly feels guilty. “Sorry. And no.” 

He expects Riley to be upset at being kept awake, but she isn’t. With a look that just might be understanding, she softly asks, “What were you thinking about?” 

Mac can’t say that his thoughts whip around his mind like raindrops in last night’s storm. Not without sounding crazy, at least. So instead he says, “I don’t even know. I just have a bad feeling about this.” 

“Me too,” Riley admits. “It feels off.” Her eyes are heavy, and Mac’s had enough early mornings with Riley to know it’s not just the lack of sleep weighing her down. 

“Go back to sleep. I can handle the delivery.” 

Riley rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not letting you do that by yourself.” 

He doesn’t argue. “Okay.” 

A moment passes between them. It’s been happening more and more lately—holding eye contact a little too long, sharing smirks when no one else is looking, stealing moments where it’s just the two of them and nothing else matters. Each one gives him hope that there’s not a wall between them, but instead, a door. Someone just has to be brave enough to open it. 

Sitting up, Riley quipps, “Just don’t make me regret letting you sleep in the bed with me.” Mac snorts. 

“No promises.”

.

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[shihalyfie]

Adventure, 02, and the “secret double life”

Adventure’s concept of “Chosen Children” prophesized save-the-world heroes is hardly unique to it, and given that it ostensibly follows so many fantasy tropes, it’s easy to see it as having a textbook pattern of the “secret identity”/”secret double life” tropes, in which adventure-faring kids keep everything from their parents and society under the idea that if people found out about their adventures, they’d be kept from action or be experimented on.

But as much as it’s easy to see it that way, in fact, Adventure and 02 had a somewhat different view of the matter. Although 02 in particular, with its concept of “wake up, go to school, save the world,” probably gives off the strongest “double life” aura, in actuality, Adventure and 02 both had an underlying sentiment that the concept of keeping Digimon from one’s parents -- and, eventually, the public -- was practically impossible.

(Unless otherwise stated, translations for Adventure/02/Kizuna are from Ryuu-Rogue/PositronCannon/L Subs, respectively.)

The Hikarigaoka incident

The aftermath of the Hikarigaoka incident in 1995 (or, in other words, the Greymon and Parrotmon incident depicted in the first movie) was depicted in Adventure episode 29, in which, as it turned out, was passed off as a “terrorist bombing incident” -- and that kids like Takeru who attempted to explain the situation to their parents were dismissed for imagining things.

The Adventure novels add a bit of extra addition that there might have been some external finagling to make sure things were cleaned up, but even then, things weren’t all that clean-cut. For one, the Hikarigaoka incident was a rather short one that was cleaned up in quick order -- there was a minimal amount of destruction compared to what later events would bring (only a single localized area in terms of collateral damage, especially since Parrotmon wasn’t there to cause wanton destruction), the full brunt of the incident may not have even spanned so much of an hour, and both Digimon involved vanished almost as quickly as they came. It really is just enough that you could sweep it under the normalcy filter of wanting to throw out any supernatural explanations, especially since the kids themselves eventually succumbed to the adults’ explanations.

And yet, even despite that, Takaishi Natsuko still found the Hikarigaoka incident a topic of interest to the point she started doing independent research on it -- especially when a certain incident four years later pushed things far beyond the range of plausible deniability. The novels make this pretty explicit:

Among her normal jobs, a side project that she was working on involved investigating the “Hikarigaoka terrorist bombing incident” four years ago. It was an incident that occured in the very place where they had lived. Not only did it capture her interest, but as she kept investigating it, she found many aspects about it that weren’t acceptable explanations to her. It still wasn’t enough information for her to put into an article or a book, but someone, somehow, had managed to find out that she was working on it and had contacted her wanting to talk. But when the time of their appointment came, the man she was supposed to meet didn’t appear. What was that man’s name? Oikawa? I think? Well, I’m never going to set up a meeting with him again. 

So in other words, the fact that she had spotted a rat was somewhat public enough for someone to figure out that she was on the case. Not to mention that said someone had also spotted a rat -- someone who was not possessed by any Digimon vampires at this point, and was merely just an enthusiast trying to reconnect with a mysterious phenomenon from his childhood and dealing with grief for his recently deceased friend. It probably would not have been long before the truth would have been fully spilled even by itself -- but later events that would confirm everyone’s suspicious pretty firmly were already on the horizon.

Menoa Bellucci and the advent of Chosen Children

In a bit of “hidden” Adventure lore, the number of Chosen Children thus started to double every year -- something cited by Two-and-a-Half Year Break (Koushirou’s track) and confirmed by directorial statement. (Kizuna’s To Sora is consistent with this principle, and the 02 epilogue being set in 2027-2028 also tracks with the global population being partnered to Digimon with that precise number.) Either way, Adventure episode 53 confirmed that the eight “Tokyo Chosen Children” from 1999 (or, in other words, the Adventure main cast and their partners) were hardly isolated singularities -- there was a group of Chosen Children before them that placed an incomplete seal on Apocalymon prior, and, according to the Adventure novels, four of their partners evolved over a long period of time to become the Holy Beasts. The fact that there had to be at least four gives only a very narrow period of time said Chosen could be from, most likely between 1997 (4 Chosen) to early 1999 (16 Chosen), with the very short real-world time in between likely correlating to enough time in the Digital World for their names to be lost to their history.

(Note that Oikawa Yukio doesn’t count here; although he and Hiroki made contact with the Digital World through video games in the 80s, there is no indication that Oikawa was fundamentally partnered to Pipimon at this time, in the same way that it was only after the Tokyo Chosen Children witnessed the Hikarigaoka incident that “the one who wishes for stability” -- Homeostasis -- came up with the idea for creating a system to tie Digimon evolution to human partners.)

Kizuna confirms it further by introducing Menoa Bellucci, who says that she met Morphomon (and, presumably, did become a Chosen Child) at the age of nine, meaning presumably 1997 -- making her one of the small handful of people who became Chosen Children before the Tokyo eight.

The little snippets we get of Menoa and Morphomon’s life are interesting, but also telling. For one, their life together is depicted through a bunch of photos with both of them there, through events such as birthdays and travel...and given that someone had to have taken all of those photos, this means that it is extremely likely Menoa’s parents were fully aware of Morphomon’s presence and existence as her partner. In other words, Morphomon was not a secret to them in the first place.

Another interesting thing here is that it’s never said that Menoa went on any incredible world-saving adventure during her time with Morphomon, so it’s ambiguous whether she did or not. It’s entirely possible that she did but doesn’t want to bring it up to Taichi and the others because of how much baggage would be associated with it compared to, well, the rest of her early childhood life with Morphomon; given the time dilation that was in play prior to 1999, it’s very likely any adventure she could have gone on would have been lost to Digital World history. (That said, given that Morphomon doesn’t seem to have any ties to Holy Beast lines, a group of 4+ Chosen distinct from her and the other Tokyo Chosen Children by necessity would have to be from 1998 or early 1999.) She does, at the very least, seem to have evolved Morphomon at least once, given that she cites “loss of the ability to evolve” as part of the process of partnership dissolution when explaining it to the others (and it’s implied very heavily she only has her own personal experience to work with). But if Menoa’s parents were sufficiently supportive, it’s possible they might have had no problem with Menoa having a large and very cute butterfly friend -- especially if Menoa didn’t go on some grand adventure and wasn’t even in danger anyway.

We also learn a bit more about the Yagami siblings in Adventure episode 21, which takes place on August 1, 1999, and that Hikari has been witnessing the increased Digimon contact with the human world (part of a long, ongoing process of the Digital World slowly coming into more concrete contact with the human world) for quite a while now, but because it isn’t very “clear” contact yet, she’s the only one who can see them. She’s been trying to tell people for a long time, but nobody believed her -- and that’s the only reason she kept quiet about it.

There’s also another interesting line in this episode, when Taichi considers never returning to the Digital World and staying home with Koromon -- it seems that he intends to be straightforward with Koromon’s presence and not hide him from his parents! At worst, he simply thinks his mom might think Koromon to be a nuisance -- but not something he has to entirely keep a secret, meaning he also trusts his parents to be open-minded about a weird pink talking creature.

The Odaiba fog incident

The “Odaiba fog” incident refers to the events of August 3, 1999, spanning Adventure episodes 35 to 54, when Vamdemon covered Odaiba in fog and launched a bunch of mass kidnappings in the search for the eighth Tokyo Chosen Child, put a large amount of adults to sleep, was defeated by the Chosen Children, and eventually was followed by a projection of the Digital World in the sky, resulting in the surrounding witnesses observing the eight Tokyo Chosen Children and their partners rising into the sky, returning to the Digital World, and defeating the Dark Masters and Apocalymon.

Unlike the Hikarigaoka incident, this was not something that could be easily ignored. People in Odaiba saw, in vivid daylight, a bunch of strange monsters kidnapping them and stuffing them in Tokyo Big Sight. The Digital World appearing in the sky, Digimon falling out of them, and freezing anything they touched happened all over the world. Ultimately, this was not the kind of thing you could just sweep under the rug!

Daisuke, Iori, and Michael recount their experiences with this in 02 episode 14, and Spring 2003 and the Adventure novels depict this as a formative experience for Daisuke wanting to become someone strong enough to protect others. The kids’ parents in Tokyo saw their kids fighting in the sky (in fact, it’s likely everyone did, but only the parents were aware of the actual identities of the kids up there, considering it wasn’t like the sky gives you much of a close-up view). And, of course, we had our “intrepid reporter” Ishida Hiroaki, who was insistent on covering these incidents in Adventure episode 35 before he even knew his sons were involved, and Takaishi Natsuko, who, as per 02 episode 38, ended up tacking this on her list of Digimon incidents to investigate.

So by the conclusion of this incident, it is pretty safe to say the populace knows that Digimon are a thing. Of course, they still haven’t made sense of all of it, and everyone (including Hiroaki and Natsuko themselves) is missing some key details, but the fact that these monsters are A Thing That Exist is hardly a secret. In fact, this is made pretty explicit in 02 episode 39:

The governments of every country most certainly did not just see that whole incident and decide “well, that’s nothing to worry about” -- they immediately went ahead and started doing military research on the Digimon! But Gennai and his fellow Agents figured out pretty quickly that very bad things would happen if the Digimon became public knowledge and government militaries started exploiting them, so they secretly wiped away data regarding Digimon in order to hide their existence.

Note that this does not mean they wiped everyone’s memories -- they’re not that all-powerful -- but merely made it so that anytime anyone tried to do organized research on Digimon, poof! -- the info would just magically vanish. Of course, that doesn’t stop pen-and-paper work, and, again, it also did not stop reporters like Takaishi Natsuko or Ishida Hiroaki from doing investigations into everything from a journalistic perspective, nor humanities scholars like Takenouchi Haruhiko or Kido Shuu from taking an interest in Digimon. And, of course, it’s not like you can just wipe human memory that saw all of that happening! But it sure does put a major slowdown on attempted organized research of Digimon to the extent of being easily able to do the kinds of things Gennai and the Agents feared, because it makes it significantly harder to exchange info or collect anything.

Which of course leads to...

The events of 02

The Tokyo Chosen Children got a “break” of sorts after the events of Adventure, and for the most part they didn’t have to think too hard about how to deal with their Digimon in regards to society, especially since they were separated from them. Then, in April 2002, Daisuke, Miyako, and Iori get their partners, and they, Takeru, and Hikari become lucky enough to be able to bring their partners back and forth between the real world and Digital World. With their partners small enough to be passed off as plushes, and no Digimon battles taking place in the real world at this time, the kids choose to keep their Digimon activities a secret from their parents.

At this point, it should be pointed out that this was not actually strictly necessary in terms of keeping the Digimon from society -- especially on the part of the Adventure kids, whose parents already know they exist and certainly have not forgotten! In fact, this is made into a prominent scene in 02 episode 18, when Koushirou’s mother is surprised Tentomon is not there (even though there’s no indication a conflict is going on at the time), in contrast to Koushirou having just been worried about opening a gate in her presence.

In fact, Kizuna adds an important detail by showing us a newspaper clip from around 2002 (when Menoa was accepted into university), indicating that apparently the concept of a “Digimon partner” was well-recognized enough that Morphomon was openly in the newspaper clipping, accompanied by a caption identifying her as Menoa’s Digimon partner. (Kizuna having so much attention to detail with background lore that it even complies with the doubling-every-year principle, it’s not something you can easily pass off as a writer mistake.) Doing the math, 16 Chosen Children in 1999 means around 128 by 2002 (which also tracks with the approximate amount we see around the world in 02 episodes 40-42 and 50). That’s still a drop in the pond in terms of how much the global population truly understands this, but considering that there were reporters like Takaishi Natsuko and Ishida Hiroaki already on the case, it’s not too much of a stretch to think that the press and informational publications would have an idea.

So why did the kids still try so hard to keep the Digimon from their parents and society? A lot of it has to do with the way the kids make their plan to infiltrate the Kaiser’s base in 02 episode 18.

Prior to this point in the series, their fight in the Digital World had been an after-school affair, one that they were capable of hiding instead of having the truth presented up-front to their parents, whether they liked it or not. Starting in April 2002, the kids voluntarily chose to enter a territory war after school. Think about how they’d have to explain this to their parents -- “oh yeah, by the way, I befriended a mysterious monster and will now be going to another world after school to fight a territory war with even bigger monsters on a near-weekly basis” -- of course, most parents would start being obstructive and immediately put an end to that, and there would be so much they’d have to explain to them. In fact, the way the kids parade their Digimon around and try to use the “plushes” excuse instead of really making any decent attempts to hide them indicates they’re not really trying that hard to maintain a facade, just enough to not get awkward questions and people intervening with their actions. After all, if even incidents like the ones in 02 episode 9 can be safely passed off as “being over late at a friend’s place,” why not use that excuse?

So when they first start a real trip into the Digital World that may span multiple days (with Miyako being visibly out of place with this, a sharp contrast to her seniors being used to the idea of being “trapped” there for days on end), Iori says very explicitly that he doesn’t want to worry his family, and the discussion immediately shifts to how they’ll keep this from their families. Interestingly, when Daisuke suggests just lying about it, Hikari scolds him for doing so -- implying that it’s not like she (or the others) is even comfortable with that kind of lie, hence why they ultimately resort to having the seniors stage a camping trip so that the lie can at least be a bit less far-fetched.

But the fact that they can do this in the first place ultimately ends up being a luxury, because they can get away with this as long as the conflict is still in the Digital World. Eventually, we arrive at...

The Christmas 2002 incident

A lot happened on Christmas 2002, especially given the timezone stretch and the number of episodes it spanned, but this effectively sparked the point of no return where Digimon incidents were unavoidable and staring everyone in the face -- especially since it spanned multiple days. Dark Towers started appearing all over the world, wandering Digimon started appearing everywhere, Chosen Children around the world mobilized to round them back into the Digital World, Demon and his army invaded Tokyo, Oikawa kidnapped a large number of children, and eventually the battle with BelialVamdemon on New Year’s Eve ended up bleeding into the real world, with Chosen Children appearing en masse to help them defeat him.

During the course of the international Chosen arc, we do see that quite a few other kids have been hiding their Digimon from their parents -- indeed, not everyone is like Menoa, and especially if they’ve been involved in dangerous incidents or are very small children! Even Mimi tries to hide her involvement from her parents in 02 episode 10, despite them already knowing about the Digimon from the Odaiba fog incident, because -- as they say in the episode -- moving to the US was partially motivated by them wanting to get away from all of this, so, naturally, they’d prefer Mimi have nothing to do with it. But Takeru is comfortable enough to call his grandfather in to help, presumably deciding that he was trustworthy enough about it.

And, indeed, the first major break we see in the facade with the core cast’s parents is with Takeru’s mother Natsuko, who correctly deduces that something is going on and confronts Takeru about it -- to which he immediately does not attempt to cover up or deny, and admits without hesitation. Natsuko, in turn, decides to accept it without grilling him too much, deciding that she’ll trust in Takeru to handle this (presumably, especially after seeing him handle quite a lot even at the young age of eight). At the end of 02 episode 45, Ken -- whose parents have seen so many horrors going on with him that the explanation of him engaging in dangerous monster battles would be more of a comfort to them, because at least they’d be aware of what’s going on -- ultimately chooses to confide in his parents, leading to them and the rest of the Adventure kids’ parents actively choosing to support their kids in their fight over the course of episodes 46-48. Naturally, as much as they’d probably rather their kids not get engaged in dangerous things, they understand what this is and that it’s important, and at the very least want to support them as much as they can -- Koushirou’s mother laments in 02 episode 48 that she wishes she could do more besides just bring food!

02 episode 46 has a moment where Oikawa and Archnemon watch a TV program with people trying (very badly) to blame the recent incidents on a mass delusion -- the TV show itself is portrayed as a sort of trash gossip kind of special -- and Oikawa provides an explanation for the impasse of acknowledgment where people seem to be increasingly aware of Digimon but also not quite aware: things are undeniably happening, but people still aren’t quite ready to accept an explanation that borders on the supernatural. The entire concept of Digimon is a massive shake to the status quo, after all, so while certain investigative and curious people like Natsuko or Haruhiko are naturally more open-minded, and many parents are likely to pay closer attention when kids are involved, only slightly over a hundred Chosen Children (many of whom are still erring on the side of keeping it a secret) and a few reporters aren’t enough to really help people understand...

...but all things considered, it seems to be enough that the Chosen are now functionally giving up on hiding it at all!

By the time of episode 50, the situation has now escalated to the point where any member of the families of the Tokyo Chosen Children who wasn’t already aware of what was going on is now definitely aware, as they await their children’s return from the Digital World. Considering that Jun was already witnessing the return of dangerous things as early as 02 episode 38, and Iori’s grandfather Chikara discovers Armadimon’s existence in episode 47, it becomes rather important to point out that Daisuke, Miyako, and Iori failed to hide their partners’ existence and involvement in Digimon battles for any longer than eight months (April to December 2002). That is how flimsy the facade was. Again, they weren’t even doing that spectacular a job keeping their partners under wraps, Chikara discovered Armadimon by sheer accident just from Armadimon being too big and being unable to control his hunger, and, ultimately, it really is pretty hard to conceal the existence of a living creature constantly accompanying you everywhere.

The aftermath of 02

Well, firstly, there were definitely other things that happened right after the events of 02 that would be pretty hard for people to deny. For instance:

The Internet being the Internet, the incident in Our War Game! could have potentially been passed off as some kind of graphics stunt. But the 2003 Diablomon/Armagemon incident? Nah. People saw that one, and even actively participated in that one! In real life!

With that, as much as Oikawa claims that people are too stubborn to accept changes to the status quo and thus accept Digimon, ultimately, Spring 2003 makes it clear that the Christmas 2002 incident made enough of a fuss that the involved parties all got put on the spot by the public and media. This got to the point where the kids had a risk of their privacy being invaded, and had to be covered by their parents.

My mother, who followed the Hikarigaoka incident as a non-fiction writer, along with Sora-san’s father, are known today as “Digimon critics.” Although the two weren’t sure whether they appreciated their new titles or not, they accepted it and went from investigators to people who were most sought after... ...Thanks to [Hiroaki], we were saved from publicity. It’s sort of like… we’d like to keep our identities and the Digimon a secret. I don’t mean forever, when I say that, but the relationship between us and our partner Digimon is unique and other people probably wouldn’t understand that. For example, we can’t have people thinking that Digimon are slightly strange pets. If they do, then they won’t take us seriously either, and of course, the Digimon wouldn’t like that perception themselves. That’s why, until we get the general public to acknowledge Digimon and the Digital World for what they really are, we’d like to lay low. But in order for that to happen, someone must go out there to explain about the Digimon to others. It was both my mother and Sora-san’s father who accepted that role wholeheartedly. We told the two everything we knew, and they spoke for us to the TV, newspapers, and magazines.

Being people directly connected to the children and understanding of their position, but also in media and publicity positions, Natsuko, Hiroaki, and Haruhiko took on the jobs of advocating for Digimon and explaining their part to the world, while also deliberately acting as go-betweens so that the kids could maintain their privacy. But nevertheless, at this point, the incident in 2002 was such a major thing that it basically was a turning point for people realizing that Digimon exist and are a major presence, and starting to grill informed parties about the details (and, technically, getting those details from the kids themselves, speaking through said media outlets). Hikari also starts working on a “surprisingly useful” informational video for new Chosen Children confused about having a partner -- encouraging them to contact them for help -- and it is also revealed that Shuu, Miyako’s sisters, and Jun had all just gotten partners, meaning that the issue was now starting to become significantly more relevant to their families.

Kizuna also drops an interesting detail about what happened right after 02, or, rather, right after 2002:

The articles describing Menoa’s Digimon research team have titles that indicate that this is one of the first major Digmon scientific research efforts in the world, indicating that, shortly after Menoa’s admission into university and establishing herself there, she began to open up the field of Digimon academic research (her declared major beforehand had been “biology”, presumably the closest she could get to studying Digimon when such a topic didn’t formally exist yet). This is significant because it means that Gennai and the Agents had finally dropped the embargo on Digimon organized research, since it presumably would have been bad for Menoa’s data to vanish without warning -- and, indeed, it makes sense that they would allow for Menoa’s research team to proceed, since Menoa is a Chosen Child herself who has a vested interest in studying Digimon for the greater good and advocating for them in the same way Haruhiko is.

It also provides potential context as to why Menoa may not have been involved much in Digimon fighting and battles in the past but was chosen as a Chosen Child anyway -- Koushirou describes the definition of a “Chosen Child” as such in Two-and-a-Half Year Break:

Having a partner Digimon isn’t really that special. Being a “Chosen Child” means… to cease the hostilities that break out and inconvenience the Digital World. In order to do so, that child gains a partner Digimon faster than another.

While it’s not necessarily in terms of aggressive fighting, a bright and intelligent child like Menoa being chosen to “fight” in the sense of using her intellect to study more about Digimon and help advocate for them seems like a fitting way to fulfill this role in her own way. But, alas, as Gennai and Homeostasis and the Holy Beasts couldn’t necessarily predict what happened to Ichijouji Ken and his fall into becoming the Kaiser, they didn’t seem to be able to predict Menoa’s unfortunate fate and downfall...

Kizuna and 2010

Again, To Sora citing the number of Digimon partners to be over 30,000 by 2010 correctly tracks with the “doubling every year” principle, so it’s probably prudent to assume it’s still been applying over the years. 30,000 is certainly a lot, but it’s not exactly a huge chunk of the global population -- especially since said 30,000 are spread out all over the world, and it’s hard to say how many of them would even live in Japan, let alone Tokyo. It’s a big enough number that Koushirou and Miyako now need to maintain a whole network of Chosen Children (Hikari’s video presumably helped with that), but there are still a lot of unknowns, like the still uncharted territory of the partnership dissolution phenomenon.

Nevertheless, what we see in Kizuna is what you’d probably expect from a society that has now had eight more years to properly digest the existence of Digimon and Digimon incidents. This is most starkly demonstrated in the opening, when a waitress comes by to berate Agumon and Gabumon for making too much noise -- and that’s it, with no weirdness or being taken aback by their presence or existence, just telling them to calm down. The characters in the movie carry around and parade their Digimon quite openly in almost all walks of life, and others interact with them in a very normal manner. One of the credits scenes even shows Daisuke’s higher-up at vocational school being more annoyed at Daisuke’s fight with V-mon than he is at the fact V-mon is there. A newspaper article from early in the movie also correctly identifies Parrotmon and Greymon as Digimon (even if not their specific species), and it is merely treated as an incident rather than paying any particular attention to the fact that Digimon exist. The drama CD also indicates that Daisuke and co. are at the point of sneaking their Digimon into a karaoke bar because said bar has enough awareness of Digimon to charge them admissions fees!

There’s another interesting minor detail in that Palmon, Tailmon, and Patamon are depicted on digital cameras without any static interference. In Adventure and 02, it was impossible to catch them on digital camera in the real world, because, as per Adventure episode 39 and 02 episode 33 (among others), trying to do so would cause nasty static interference and ruin the attempted photo/recording. (This is presumably why Menoa’s photos with Morphomon seem to be film photos.) But for a society where the presence of Digimon is becoming more and more expected, and digital cameras are naturally becoming more commonplace, it would be very bad if this continued to be a problem -- so it makes sense that, by 2010, technological research would have figured out a way around that.

Obviously, not everyone has a Digimon yet, and it’s not like everything in the world has accounted for the assumption people will be walking around with partners -- after all, Taichi’s thesis still involves having to help advocate for Digimon partners and the fact that many people are still skeptical about them. But nevertheless, people are not surprised or perturbed by them anymore, and when something does happen with them, they’re relatively accepting of them. Again, 30,000+ is not exactly a lot to the extent that the entire population has a partner, but with the doubling-every-year principle in play, it seems like society is already well on its way to adjusting to their increasing presence and the eventual point in 2027-2028 when everyone will be expected to have one.

[writeblrfantasy]

i am thrilled to present to you another short from acogs: khyris mi'hail, or khyris the beloved in my conlang!

i'm especially happy with this one, but i say that about all of them, don't I? this one is inspired by the story behind the hanging gardens of babylon, how the king had them built for his homesick wife.

like most of my shorts, you don't need to know acogs to understand this <3 enjoy!! word count about 5k

~

“Everybody wake up, c’mon, everybody up!” The sound of pans banging together accompanies Major Malika’s shouts.

Khyris has been awake for an hour already, but he still groans at the thought of leaving his warm cot. The other corporals in the tent with him grumble and swear at the major with more colorful language than Khyris would dare risk.

Khyris sticks his head out of his blankets, bracing against the freezing winter air and squinting into the bright morning light of the tent. A few bastards who wake with the sun are sitting on the floor drinking coffee, the smell of which finally draws Khyris out of his warm cave.

“We were afraid you were dead,” says Eric, mumbling like he’s half dead himself. “You don’t move at all.”

“Nice to know you’re watching me sleep,” Khyris retorts, pulling on his three extra layers to fight back the biting chill. “Give me some of that.” Coffee in his system makes him feel a little more human, enough to make him realize there’s a group huddled around the morning campfire just outside.

Khyris joins them, coffee in hand, and finds them all staring at a map. “What’s going on?”

“Big news today,” Aeron says, grinning, full of energy no matter the time. “The queen’s visiting.”

Khyris almost spills his coffee. “What? Why? That man couldn’t lift a sword to save his life, what does he want with us?”

“Stow your hatred for a moment, my dear Khyris. He’s here to pick a spouse.”

Khyris stares, then laughs. “For a moment I thought you were serious.”

The other’s smiles slowly fade. Delia stares into her coffee like it holds the answers of the world—or more accurately, an escape from Khyris.

“You are serious. Sweet Cai.” Khyris buries his head in his hands. “Explain.”

“He’s here exactly because he can’t lift a sword to save his life. He wants someone who can. Solid strategy, I think.”

Khyris shakes his head. “He has hundreds of willing options back at court, the experienced soldiers paid too well to be out on the field. Why doesn’t he pick from them and leave us alone?”

“He doesn’t want a lazy court soldier. He wants a fieldman. Someone he knows he can trust with his life.”

“So he wants a bodyguard for a spouse, is what you’re saying. I thought he already had a team of those.” Khyris looks around. “Do you think Major Malika would notice if I disappeared for a week or two? Tell her I was indisposed. I was longing for home. Let me be a deserter, anything but having to see that bastard’s face.”

“Why are you so against him?” Aeron asks.

“Because he doesn’t give a damn about any of us. He just throws money at us, gives us more orders to build more cities, and every year checks in to see how we’re doing. He’d rather entertain the fools and artists of his court than pay mind to us.”

“So you don’t want to see him, but you’re mad he hasn’t come yet? Make up your mind, man!”

Khyris sighs. “I just don’t think you all should be kissing his ass, is all. He should be appreciating what we do for him. We just finished building him al-Hasa, he should be grateful.”

“We’re not kissing—” Aeron breaks off into a devious grin Khyris has seen before, and it’s never ended anywhere good. “You like him, and you’re mad he doesn’t like you back?”

Whistles and laughter go around the fire. “What?” Khyris sputters. “This is the queen we’re talking about, not some barmaid. You lot are ridiculous.”

Apparently happy with being labeled ridiculous, what Khyris thought were friends begin singing, “Khyris the Angrily Smitten” in an off key parody of a song he can’t remember.

“You sound like you’re drunk and it’s only sunrise,” he says in disgust, burying himself in coffee, his only friend this morning.

Later that day, he’s in the middle of a group training session and managed to forget about the queen’s newest joke. The stress of the major’s shouts during exercises in the middle of winter doesn’t leave much room for Khyris to think about anything else, though Aeron finds a way around it as always. Aeron’s only here to support his family’s farm—cooperation doesn’t matter much to him as long as he still gets paid.

In the middle of another round of hot yet cold push-ups, Major Malika calls for a sudden stop. “His Majesty is here,” she snaps. “I want to see some salutes, hear some respect. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Major,” they chorus, lining up to watch His Majesty Amoun’s brown and gold carriage pull up to the campsite. Khyris’ left hand goes to the side of his head like all the others, trying to keep his eyes in line as the carriage stops in a cloud of dust. The door opens with a click, and out steps a shadow cloaked in black, unusual for Kadar. Khyris’ eyes drift despite himself.

Khyris forgot how young the queen is, and how attractive, despite his own dissenting opinions. A dark, neat sheaf of hair and mustache frame a smiling face. His long winter cloak shows hints of Kadar yellow in ribbons and pins, but otherwise everything from the fur to his shoes is black.

“Welcome, Your Majesty,” Malika says with a deep bow.

“Thank you, Major. I’m delighted to be here.” Queen Amoun approaches the line of soldiers with his coat sweeping out behind him, just short enough not to get dirty on the sand. The soldiers drop their salutes as Amoun slowly walks in front of them like he’s inspecting them. Khyris fights not to close his eyes and disappear into a safer, less ridiculous world. He has many choice words for the queen, but keeps them all wisely to himself.

Amount is just passing Aeron and Delia, about to pass a stiff Khyris, when he stops and looks him up and down. “What’s your name?” Amoun asks.

Khyris swallows, cursing Cai in every way. He can feel Aeron’s traitorous, poorly smothered grin on his profile. “Khyris, Your Majesty.”

“Khyris,” Amoun repeats, slowly, like the sly tongue of a snake. He grins. “What a beautiful name.”

What to say to that?

Amoun solves the problem for him. “I look forward to seeing your face during my trials, Khyris.”

Khyris’ mind races, thinking of the Cairic Trials of Taru. They are Kadars, dammit, not Cairic. But, if the queen wanted to find a spouse who could defend him, there is not a much better way than that. “Trials, Your Majesty?”

Amoun laughs, a gentle, warm sound. “Wipe that fear off your face. I am not referring to the Trials of Taru, as thrilling and testing as they are. The trials I have created are much simpler, and will be much more to your taste, if that quiver on your back means anything.” He takes a step back so more soldiers can hear him.

“I wish we had a forest to do this, but alas, we are not in the north or in Tel Cairis. As you can see, there are three targets there.” Amoun gestures grandly to the three red targets being set up several hundred paces away, in the middle of the desert. “Whoever can perfectly hit the three targets”—he pauses for effect— “will get a private dinner with me.”

Khyris struggles not to laugh.

“The trials begin immediately, for all of you,” Amoun says. “You are soldiers, I’m sure you’re used to quick thinking and quicker requests. Come on, now.”

Khyris shuffles into a single file line with the others, Aeron at his back. “Not a word,” he hisses.

“Not a word,” Aeron echoes, but Khyris can hear his grin. Worst of all, he begins humming that awful song, Khyris the Angrily Smitten. He actively wishes for death even as he’s pulling his bow off his back and nocking an arrow into it.

Fail Amoun’s stupid target challenge. The easiest task in the world. He’ll be officially taken out of consideration, free to go back to the idiots at the campfire in the morning.

His focus drifts in and out while waiting for the other soldiers to shoot, even if they’ve never touched a bow before. Evidently Amoun believes miracles are possible. He seems like the type.

Amoun stands to the side of the line drawn in the sand where the archers must stay and shoot, his presence undoubtedly helping no one. Ever since he was a child, Khyris couldn’t stand people watching him practice or hunt. He savored the quiet of the northern forests where he grew up, savored the peace and focus in his heart while he hunted his family’s dinner. To have anyone else watching him, waiting, judging if he shot wrong, would ruin that sacred peace.

He sighs and shifts his weight impatiently.

“Relax, would you? You’re the best archer here, I have more reason for nerves than you do,” Delia says from somewhere behind him.

“That’s exactly the problem,” Khyris says. “I’m afraid I’ll do well.”

Someone scoffs ahead of him. He doesn’t keep his dislike of the queen private, but the way Amoun looks back toward the sound makes Khyris flush. Please don’t notice me, don’t notice me, look away.

“Then miss and make a fool of yourself,” Delia says. “You’ll be known as the army’s best worst archer, but not the queen’s spouse, a title I wouldn’t mind having. It’ll be a steady source of income for my family, at least.”

Khyris smiles. He and Delia became friends because of their similar situation. Aeron barged his way into their lives with no possibility of leaving. “I’ll be in the front row at your wedding.”

“I’d prefer your blessing on my bow.”

Khyris watches sorry swordsman after swordsman point their bows at the targets only for their arrows to land somewhere far off in another direction. Major Malika barks at them that they’ve failed, which is not an unusual thing for her to say, but they’ve never had to perform in front of the queen before.

People who have never touched a bow in their life still stutter and apologize for wildly missing. That’s the effect the queen’s presence has—not that it affects Khyris, of course. He glances sympathetically at the losers and thinks, I’ll be joining you in a minute.

At last, it’s his turn. Major Malika orders him forward with her usual grit, but Amoun is smiling with his big brown eyes and it’s every bit as unnerving as Khyris predicted.

“Let’s see what you got,” he says quietly, where only Khyris can hear. Khyris grits his teeth, mentally ordering him to shut up and let him focus.

Why is he trying?

Because it’d kill him to miss, he decides. He hasn’t missed since he was eleven, and he won’t start now. He has too much pride in his finest skill to be a laughingstock. Major Malika would know he wasn’t trying and would make him try again. He’s too good an archer for his own good.

He closes his eyes, trying to ignore Amoun’s presence, and lets the bow do the work.

The first arrow hits. He doesn’t stop to check. His focus is on the second target, and a minute shift of his position readies him for the next shot. Khyris disregards all other sound but the grip of his fingers adjusting on the bow, the whoosh as the arrow flies free. He can’t quite block out the gasp Amoun makes, but shaking it off is easy.

The wind begins picking up just slightly, hardly noticeable to anyone else, but Khyris knows the song of the bow like his own skin, and it’s not what he needs.

You’ve done well, says the voice in his head. No one will believe you purposefully failed if you miss. You will be free, and your dignity will be intact.

The other archers shot in quick succession, too eager or humiliated to wait. Khyris knows he’s already taken longer than anyone else, but he waits another few seconds before nocking another arrow and letting it fly.

Khyris opens his eyes to find his arrows in the center of all three red targets. He sighs in relief.

Relief for what?

All is deadly quiet, and then some idiot begins cheering. Khyris shuts his eyes again.

Aeron. Of course it’s Aeron.

Soon, everyone is cheering or clapping, Amoun loudest of all. Khyris flushes hot, looking around for him, who’s grinning like someone just handed him all the wealth of Kadar.

Khyris goes over to him and wraps him a hug, drawing laughter and ‘aw’s from the onlookers. It’s just an excuse to whisper, “I hate you to the skin of your bones,” in Aeron’s ear, who just laughs louder.

#

Khyris stands in front of a little pond where some fool spilled water outside Amoun’s tent, turning left and right to inspect his outfit. It’s the only fine thing he has, provided by the army, meant for rare banquets at the palace.

It’s a velvet jacket in Kadar yellow decorated with the few gold medals he has to his name, one for exceptional scouting, another for bringing down the largest hog anyone had ever seen, large enough to feed the whole camp for an evening.

The yellow tent flap opens and Khyris quickly snaps to a stiff position, relaxing when Amoun gestures for him to. “Khyris,” he says with a warm smile. “Thank you for joining me.”

You didn’t leave me much of a choice, Khyris thinks, though even he’s not bold enough to say that to the queen’s face. He’s wearing a thin golden circlet with soft brown gems embedded, the crown of Kadar. Khyris has never been close enough to see it; it sparkles in the evening sunlight.

He’s never been close enough to see the queen’s face like this—the kindness deep within earthy eyes, his short, well-trimmed beard and mustache, the single lock of black hair hanging down on his forehead. His black cloak doesn’t have a smattering of dust, and the long fur hairs poking out of the collar make Khyris ache for the crude fur coat he made himself the last time he was home—these velvet jackets don’t do much in the way of warmth.

Amoun even smells like the forests of the north, Khyris’ home, with a hint of soft incense.

“Please, come in.” Amoun steps aside to let Khyris slip past him. He takes a quick look around. Amoun’s tent is nicer than any camp tent he’s ever been in, a colorful carpet covering the sand, a table of golden wood with two chairs set up in the middle, a white curtain hiding what’s presumably a bed in the corner. Even the lanterns, burning with blessed warmth, are polished and new compared to the grimy ones in the tent Khyris shares with five others.

“Sit,” Amoun says softly, latching the tent flap closed to keep out the abhorrent wind. Khyris sits, happy to be out of the cold with a plate of hot food in front of him, if nothing else. The faster he can fail this and get it over with, the better.

Amoun sits opposite him and unclasps his cloak, revealing a finely woven black waistcoat over a long sleeved yellow shirt.

“Ah, so His Majesty is capable of wearing color,” Khyris says before he can think about it. He refuses to go back on it, even as Amoun looks at him in surprise. Khyris won’t be the timid little soldier afraid to even look at his queen. He respects himself more than that.

“I admit my dress is rather unconventional for Kadar,” Amoun says, slipping into a relieving smile. He picks up a white teapot and pours them both steaming cups. From the smell, it’s coffee—in the evening? Another oddity. “It’s one of many reasons for people to distrust me—or worse, dislike me.” He smiles again over the rim of his cup.

Khyris is holding his for warmth until he remembers that he’s not in the tent waking up to Aeron jabbering in his ear, he has manners. He quickly puts it back on the table. All the manners he learned from his father and his one visit to court suddenly leave him. Hopefully his country boy ignorance doesn’t show too much.

No, he wants it to show, doesn’t he? He wants Amoun to be disgusted with his choice and let him go.

Khyris grips the handle of the coffee cup again but after a few seconds of indecision, leaves it on the table.

“I do hope you’ll enjoy this meal,” Amoun says, oblivious to Khyris’ inner turmoil and the fact that this is the best meal Khyris will ever have in the field in the middle of winter. “Have you ever been to a palace banquet? Forgive me for not remembering your face—you all look the same in those jackets.” He shovels a forkful of something into his mouth—wait, what are they eating?

Khyris gathers himself and picks up his knife, reminding himself to breathe. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he says after what’s probably too long of a pause. “I have been to a palace banquet once, shortly after I joined your army.” He focuses on cutting what he now discerns to be lamb, a delicacy they don’t get out here at the building sites, laying on a bed but of golden rice. It’s hot and warms him to the bone, but it’s not as spicy as the kind his father used to make.

Amoun laughs, speaking with a full mouth. “Let’s not pretend it’s my army. Cai knows I don’t pay enough attention to it. Oh, forgive me”—he smiles sheepishly— “when I’m alone with someone, especially here instead of the palace, I forget my manners. My upbringing is coming back to haunt me. Perhaps that’s another reason people detest me.”

Khyris pauses. Suddenly the food is vastly less interesting than Amoun. “You grew up humble, Majesty?”

“Please, call me Amoun. I am here to court you.”

The reminder makes Khyris bring his eyes back to his plate. Make him throw you out.

“Yes,” Amoun continues, “I came from the forests of the north. My parents were well off, and I have no siblings, but it was not a glamorous childhood by any means. Not compared to what I’m used to now.”

Khyris chews slowly, hyperaware of everything. “I also came from the forests of the north, M—Amoun.”

“Really?” Amoun’s silver clatters against his plate. “I knew I chose well. Where exactly were you raised?”

Khyris tells him about the cabin his mother built, four young siblings and a father too crippled to hunt, a mother too overworked to cook, the privilege Khyris considered hunting.

He loses track of time as Amoun talks about those same forests, hiding from great imaginary beasts that were only the howls of the wind in the trees as a child, the warmth of the curry Amoun’s mother made—the same one Khyris’ mother made for his birthday.

Khyris has never met someone who grew up in the north forests before, and he soon finds he can’t keep the smile off his face.

Before Khyris knows it, they’ve both finished their meals and wine has replaced the coffee. No attendants come in to bring them dessert, Amoun only gets up and accepts plates from them through the tent flap.

Khyris doesn’t have to leave his chair the whole time—he feels like the queen here, dipping a spoon into the bowl of warmth honey cake soaked through with cream. Amoun asks him about his friends, his family, laughs at every story of his siblings, goes somber when Khyris tells him why he joined the army.

Amoun makes him feel like everything he has to say is worth something to him, that his nods aren’t the polite, diplomatic ones he’s no doubt used to putting on. Khyris is only too happy to return the favor and admire the reflection of the lamplight in Amoun’s eyes.

And then it’s ending. The wine has faded from Khyris’ system, and the warmth of Amoun’s hand as he helps Khyris to his feet is bittersweet. He doesn’t know when he stopped trying to make Amoun dislike him, if he was ever trying at all, but now he’s foolishly praying that Amoun will ask him back.

“Thank you for such a wonderful evening, Khyris,” Amoun says, smiling like the witches of legend are said to do—so strong, so beautiful, they make it impossible to look away. Khyris’ limbs seem to draw closer of their own accord before he realizes and quickly puts distance between them.

“Thank you,” Khyris says, a shadow clouding over his heart as he turns toward the tent flap that Amoun holds open.

“Would you like to go out with me again?” Amoun asks as Khyris is about to leave. He stares in hopeful disbelief. “It’s perfectly alright if you don’t. I would never force you into anything you would not want—I have heard the stories your companions tell. Khyris the Angrily Smitten.” Amoun’s lips curve into a smile with an unescapable hint of pain. “I think the angry part is more prevalent. You are one of the ones who would detest me at court.”

Khyris is again mad at Aeron, for an entirely different reason. Has this whole magical evening gone to shit?

“Majesty—Amoun”—he takes a deep breath— “I—I was wrong about you. I would like to go out with you again. It is possible for minds to change.” He laces his own fingers behind his back, arms held taught in the stiff jacket.

Amoun’s answering grin is brighter than the sun.

#

Amoun has to go back to Ramia, of course, and Khyris back to the city building corporal’s lifestyle, but they spend every chance they could get together, alone, in a welcome relief from life for both of them. Aeron and Delia have been nothing but evil about it, but it’s no less than Khyris would expect.

His and Amoun’s second outing comes mere weeks after their first, when Khyris thought he might go mad from anticipation. Would their next meeting be just as perfect as their first? He frets, despite Aeron’s relentless teasing about the fact that so recently, he’d despise himself for fretting about this.

He made the mistake of addressing the queen as Amoun in Delia and Aeron’s presence. At the risk of his own sanity, he’s been careful to censor himself since, though Aeron probably sees right through it.

Their second date is every bit as good as the first and more. Amoun invites Khyris to the camp where he’s staying, visiting another battalion of soldiers in the north. Khyris was happy to go just to escape Aeron’s teasing, but the smile Amoun gives him upon arrival did things to him he didn’t know were possible. After a few days together and the blistering kiss Amoun gives him when they part, Khyris knows his mind is made up.

It should not come as a surprise when Amoun proposes only a few months later. The whole purpose of Amoun’s visit, after all, was to find a spouse to court.

He’s not just falling for the queen of Kadar for all the perks of being his lover. when Amoun first announced this challenge, Khyris thought the steady income for his family would be the only reason he’d ever agree if miraculously chosen.

As soppy and awful as it sounds, as much as he’s becoming the very lovestruck fool he loved to hate, he enjoys Amoun for him, not for his money or his power or his safety. His company. His smile. His mix of ease and nerves, how he both seems to know exactly what he’s doing and has no clue at all.

Now, he’s in Ramia again for the first time in four years in the part of it he never thought he’d get to visit in his lifetime: the queen’s private palace apartments. Amoun is looking at him the warmth of the sun in those eyes and asking if Khyris will be his forever. What can Khyris say but yes?

Khyris might hang around court more often than he ever thought he would, but he still can’t bear to leave the army. He sees past the humor in Aeron’s voice when he asks, “Don’t forget about your fellow corporals when you’re the queen’s husband, alright?” Khyris spends half of the days leading up to wedding with the soldiers, working hard and crashing harder just like he did before, and the other half in some kind of paradise of luxury with Amoun.

He invites Aeron and Delia to the palace when he visits—he’s learned, as the queen’s betrothed, there’s little he can’t get away with, including sudden leave for any soldier he likes. Seeing the raw awe on Aeron’s face makes his own adjustment a little easier to bear.

He and Amoun decline to get tattoos of betrothal—that’s a Cairic tradition at heart, and the queen of Kadar couldn’t be seen with that, especially since they’re trying to move away from Tel Cairis’ traditions.

Being suddenly waited on and served food even better than the stuff in Amoun’s tent on their first date is nice, but jarring. He’s so used to the humble life, getting everything himself, being independent. The army only enforced that, even when he gained friends.

Now the clothes he wears puts his yellow dinner jacket to shame, and every bit of building has been made by hundreds of men compared to a few. He can only wonder how Amoun adjusted.

Amoun is a sweetheart, empathetic and sensitive. Unfortunately, this means Khyris can’t keep a secret around him, and he quickly notices Khyris’ discomfort.

“Mi’hail, please,” he implores one night, because of course he’d be the type to use old fashioned terms of endearment like that. “Tell me what I can do to make this place feel as much as your home as it is mine. All I desire is to make you happy.”

Khyris sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. His cheek is pillows on the silk nightshirt covering his arm, so light and soft and decadent you can hardly call it a shirt. His feet are made warm by the sheets of Amoun’s bed, the warm orange glow of candlelight turning Amoun’s skin the most beautiful gold.

This is not the first time Amoun has asked, but Khyris always tells him not to bother, he’s busy enough, he’s done enough already. “If we are to be married,” Amoun tries, “it cannot be on unequal footing. I will not have you be a sacrifice to be with me. You grew up with so little—let me repay you now.”

“Oh, and you grew up in luxury?” Khyris counters.

“Stop trying to switch the subject.” Amoun sits up against the cushioned headboard. “Tell me, or I will not leave it alone.”

Khyris knows how capable he is of that. He manages a small smile.

“A garden,” he settles on at last, thinking of the northern forests, how he loved the trees but always wished for a more glamorous, well-tended grove. “Remind me of the north, where we are from. Give me a version of our forests that’s neater, that shows the nicest parts without all the ugly ones.” He sighs, already picturing it, almost able to smell the richness of the tree sap if he concentrates. “With a fountain,” he adds. “Is that too much?”

Amoun’s eyes are shining. “Not at all. I will do it, mi’hail.”

Amoun builds him a garden. He commissions a fountain. He brings the forests of the north to Ramia.

Khyris underestimates him once again.

It takes so long and takes up so much space, Khyris is eventually banned entirely from the west side of the palace in case he catches a glimpse of Amoun’s hard work. All he knows is that Amoun is always beaming and giddy with excitement and anticipation of Khyris’ reaction.

The damn thing takes so long to build, Khyris doesn’t get to see it till three weeks after their wedding, when they get back from their trip alone to the forests of the north.

When everything is finally done to Amoun’s liking, Amoun can’t let go of his hand as he leads him out to see it. He even makes Khyris close his eyes, an incredible trust exercise. When Khyris is allowed to open them, his jaw falls open.

He’d been prepared by the sound of flowing water, but nothing could truly brace him for this. From the top of the steps leading inside where they stand, Khyris can see the whole thing: the fountain of himself holding his bow, quiver at his back, free hand reaching up to fix his hair. “Wh—how did you get a statue of me commissioned without needing me there?”

Amount just grins.

None of the trees are old enough to provide shade yet, but stone beds with soil inside house several young, green trees that will grow up to be the great sprawling ones of the north. The floor is stone, not dirt, and it’s much nicer and cleaner to look at than the leafy forest floor. The smell of the trees is absent, but it’s more than made up for with the greenery tucked into every spot, the rare pops of pink flowers from the east. Everything is well tended and trimmed, from the hedges to the plants to the shape of the trees.

Each layer up to the palace entrance is covered in some of potted plant, and an artificial river runs around every bit of it to feed them, the channel carved into the stone.

Khyris can’t fathom how he imported everything and how it’s stayed so fresh—the wont of a queen, he supposes.

“The gardens of Khyris,” Amoun says quietly at his back, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to pull him closer.

After another minute of silence, he laughs nervously. “Speechless, mi’hail?”

“Uh, yes.” Khyris turns his head to kiss him. “I don’t know how to thank you. it’s absolutely gorgeous. I—seriously, all of this is for me?”

“I would be happy to ban the public if you asked,” Amoun confirms. “Does it take you back to the north forests as it does for me?”

“You know it does. It’s perfect in every way.”

Amoun walks him down the steps to the garden itself, showing him every carefully chosen detail. Khyris is happy to stand with him near the fountain, enough for the sound of the rushing water to lull him into a sense of calm. He wonders how he could’ve ever hated Amoun.

“Khyris the Angrily Smitten, they called you all those months ago,” Amoun murmurs. Khyris’ ears burn hot.

“I find it endearing,” Amoun confesses, “but I know you find it rather—embarrassing. I’d like to call you something else.” His fingers curl around Khyris’ neck, soft and warm. “Khyris mi’hail? Khyris the Beloved?”

Khyris fights the smile threatening to break out and fails. “Better than Khyris the Great, or something awful like that.”

Amoun laughs. “I am great enough for both of us,” he says, and pulls Khyris to the sound of the water mingling with the wind. An earthly heaven without Cai.

shorts taglist (lmk to be added/removed) @magic-is-something-we-create @lunarmoment @missingpeace

acogs taglist (lmk to be added/removed) @magic-is-something-we-create @inkflight @spencer-nyx @writing-is-a-martial-art @ashen-crest @wisteria-eventide @nikkywrites @denkis-phone-charger @myhusbandsasemni @lynolord @ettawritesnstudies @golden-apple-s-blog @chazzawrites @pen-of-roses @47crayons @wickerring

[cybernaght]

Lost Tomb Reboot aka Reunion: The Sound of Providence Season 2

I swear I wasn’t actually planning to write this thing, instead just opting for random picture spams of the season, starting with every time this show got Zhu Yilong’s Wu Xie wet, because that was a trend I had not expected and kind of lived for.

All that will still happen eventually, but here’s also my five cents on the season, because it is very very important for you to know just how worthy of love it is. 

You see, Season 1 was silly and fun, and definitely, undeniably, enjoyable. 

Then Season 2 swooped in, and completely won my heart. I cannot even express how much I adored it. Everything about this show is extremely extra in the best possible way; it is likely to have been the most charmingly over the top thing I have ever seen.

(Vague spoilers for : specific monsters, narratively significant moments, fate of the certain characters, including the protagonist.)

Some of it comes from the pace, which speeds up dramatically early in the season, and only slows down marginally to allow characters some breathing room. It’s not just gripping because it makes you want to hit play on the next episode, it also keeps you engaged because you can’t wait to see how the next wild set of events may be resolved and then topped. At about episode ten I was questioning how they could possibly produce a sense of further escalation. At episode twenty, I was wondering if anything can top dramatic impact of whatever was occurring only two thirds of the way through the season. 

I need not have worried: every single incredible character moment, every mind-boggling turn of the plot, every single bizarre threat would be blown out of water by the next one. 

Partly, this seemingly has to do with the writers attempts to ground the material. I am not sure what the novel contained, but I can discern that it was something along the lines of ghosts, ghouls and various supernatural circumstance. But when you are told  “this is a curse”, your reaction is naturally to go, “ah okay, so curses are a thing, and this is one of them, gotcha”. When you are told, “this is a heavy metal poisoning combined with a neurotoxin affecting the victim’s central nervous system and making them violently hallucinate”, your reaction is to question whether this is how metals, toxins, poisons, or, indeed, central nervous systems work in any version of reality. 

The show does this a lot. From human shaped swarms of killer moths, to flying brain-penetrating eels, to probably my favourite monster of the moment: the murder clams.

Seriously, I cannot stress enough that this show has murder clams. They move with their clam mussels. They jump with their clam shells. They will murder you in cold blood. 

There are ancient “laser corridor” style set-ups, there are shapes made out of fog recording its memory, there are group hallucinations generated by the sound of thunder, there are Mission Impossible style full face masks. There is a character who walked off a gun wound and sarin gas poisoning in order to die in the arms of his lover who looks like his dead sister. And by “looks like” I mean, “played by the same actress”. 

There is a whole character of Doctor Churros, who saves our hero from imminent death by washing his lungs with oil. 

This, I suppose, ultimately, is how The Lost Tomb Reboot (Season 2 in particular) lures you in. It turns what I saw as the show’s fault in season 1 into its biggest strength by establishing the world in which nothing is too outlandish and everything is possible. It so thoroughly breaks your expectations barometer, you grow to willingly accept whatever is thrown at you. 

The most beautiful thing about all of it, is that the fun and games and moments of barely controlled hysteria do not lower the stakes whatsoever. Moreover, somehow this show makes me believe that it could just about do something as irrevocable as, perhaps, killing off the protagonist 

You know how you can watch, say, a super hero film, and then the “all is lost” moment happens, and you kind of have to struggle to care because you know that they will pull through. It’s curious to see how that happens, but you don’t doubt for even second that it will. Well, when that moment arrived here, I found myself between ugly sobbing, and going into speculation overdrive to try and figure out how the Reboot would deal with that. By then I have seen that show be an high octave action movie, a supernatural mystery, a horror thriller, a buddy comedy and a spy flick: it was not a massive stretch to imagine it turning into a revenge tragedy.

Wu Xie dying had been building up since episode one, so you had hours and hours and oh-so-many hours to brace for it, and when the tragedy does not strike, the relief is visceral. 

Despite all the moments of hilarity (whether intended or otherwise), despite the chaotic turns of the plot, despite how utterly off the charts this show is tonally, when it matters, the narrative is pulled together in a way which not only makes complete sense within the world of the series, but is meticulously set-up, satisfying resolved, and delivers lovely emotional impact. Considering that the moral of the story is a very common “live in the moment”, paired up with “greed is bad”, it was surprising how much resonance its delivery actually created. 

Ultimately, however, this show is about found family, and, more specifically, about Wu Xie’s ability to create this family for himself and for every single member of it. He starts as one of the trio, and ends as one of a large group of old allies, new friends, and people he has graced with so much kindness that they follow him until the bitter end. 

Lost Tomb Reboot ensures that you get to know them all, and it’s pretty damn hard to not love this misfit group of adventurers in its entirety. 

(The only thing I could say is that I wish the series spent more time making sure the viewer knows and likes Zhang Qiling, but it seemingly had little purpose for him apart form sweeping in as an avenging angel every now and then. I get that he is a well established character in the series, and that his whole thing is being deadly and enigmatic, but considering that you got to know the other two legs of the famous Triangle so well, it’s a shame that this one was reserved to mostly being Xiao Ge Ex Machina. It would have been nice to know what he was about apart from “really damn cool”.)

Bai Haotian remained my favourite character. She is cute, sweet, romantic, and, for the lack of a better word, “girly”. She is not shy about her crush on Wu Xie, and is prepared to do a lot of reckless, dangerous things for him. None of the above undermine her intelligence, cunningness and authority. Xiao Bai is a young woman in a position of power, and she absolutely knows how to handle herself; for every time she is a damsel in distress, she gets to be the rescuer. For every time she puts herself in needless danger, she learns to collect herself and plan ahead. For every time she is bossed around, she turns and takes charge. Her journey is not the centred around getting the guy, but around discovering her self-assertion; she finds her place within his team not by being a romantic interest, but through her personal strengths. 

My absolutely favourite moment for her came when an antagonist used her affection for Wu Xie to get an upper hand on her, and she gets restrained, knife to her throat. Xiao Bai swivels away, knocks the attacker out and goes to town kicking him, to a great astonishment of this team, as she states that liking someone does not make her weak. 

And it doesn’t. Being in love has nothing to do with weakness or strength. Being a young, and excitable, and a woman does not equate to weakness either.

I’m not saying that this show is a feminist manifesto, because it is definitely not that. Every other prominent female character suffers a pitiful fate in service of creating motivation for the men of the story. But it does spend a lot of time making sure you, the viewer, know its heroes well enough to mentally befriend them. And if this means giving the female lead complexity, I cannot possibly be mad at that. 

So, this was it. This was the Lost Tomb Reboot. It brought me a ridiculous amount of joy and I will miss it a lot. 

And yes, the picture spams will be 100% an excuse to rewatch at least some of it. 

PS. Said spams miiiiight be gif based if I figure out a way to colour correct the damn things. 

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (87) || atz

Hongjoong stares, eyes wide and lips parted. Kill the... kill the sea goddess?

“Kill a god?” Yeosang repeats, so incredulously that his voice wavers. “Did I just hear that right? You want to kill the sea goddess?”

“Do the gods even exist?” Wooyoung mumbles under his breath, trying to put two and two together. The expression on his face is doubtful, suspicious. “That’s it. This voodoo stuff is a bunch of bull. San’s sorcery hands are the most I can deal with.”

His father doesn’t reply, merely staring straight at Hongjoong with his head held high. Eyes unrelenting, burning with determination, he almost feels the urge to take a step back in response. “You’re going to kill the sea goddess. How?”

His father’s hand reaches down in response, beginning to pull something from his belt. At the sight of a metallic gleam, Wooyoung and Yeosang react instantly, the gunner yanking his shotgun from his back to aim it squarely at the man while Yeosang ducks behind him for protection.

“Don’t shoot!” Hongjoong’s voice is harsh, and Wooyoung’s finger stills on the trigger. He’s trembling for reasons he himself doesn’t understand, hands barely able to grip and hold the gun steady. Everything about the man before them throws him off, from how normal he appears to the way he can declare such outrageous things without the slightest change in expression. Does he really believe that he can kill a god?

“Don’t worry. This blade can’t hurt you.” Hongjoong’s father unsheathes the blde at his belt fully to reveal a shining black dagger, the handle curved and carved with elaborately twisting designs reminiscent of surging waves and the ebbing tides. “It’s a sacred relic I tracked down, crafted by witches in the ancient times. I don’t know what their purpose was in making this,” he holds it up, and even in the blinding afternoon sun the black metal seems to swallow the very light that glances off it, “but it’s worked on all mythical creatures I’ve encountered.”

“You’re not,” Wooyoung snarls, teeth practically bared, “getting that anywhere near Chin Hae! What are you, some kind of monster?” The thought of you even being hurt, by that terrifying blade no less, scares him worse than if the blade were to be used on him instead. He won’t let anything happen to you, he can’t-

“Call me all the names you wish.” The commander lifts a shoulder in dismissal, mismatched eyes clear, not wavering in the least. “I knew what I was getting myself into the second I set this plan into motion. And I can assure you,” his gaze narrows as he looks down at the gun in Wooyoung’s hands, “that your weapons will do nothing against me.”

An icy cold sensation trickles down the back of Wooyoung’s nexk, and he finds himself swallowing involuntarily as he tightens his grip on his shotgun. “So what?” He retorts, as harshly as he can muster. “That isn’t going to stop me from trying.”

“Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung’s mouth clamps shut the second Hongjoong speaks, voice hard and eyes lost in thought. Hongjoong can’t help but feel like there’s something that his father has not yet revealed, something that would connect all the dots to reveal his father’s true intentions. Something so large that he just can’t see it yet. He’s still looking at individual stars, but he needs to see the entire constellations to read the night skies, just like his father had taught him to navigate the seas.

“One more thing.” Hongjoong says slowly, fingers curling around the handle of his blade. This question will link everything together, from his father’s intentions to the very reason he’s standing here right now, facing down his own parent with a sword in hand. He thinks he knows the answer already, but he wants to hear it spoken out loud in confirmation. “Tell me. What does any of this have to do with Chin Hae?”

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of the sea winds sweeping over the sandy beach. His father takes a deep breath, exhales and speaks.

“The being you call Chin Hae...” he says softly, words carried over by the wind, “It is the essence of the sea that people call the sea goddess.”

Wooyoung stills completely, so shocked by the man’s words he can’t seem to move except to utter a single ‘what?’ from his lips. Yeosang, too, seems similarly stunned, eyes wide with surprise. Only Hongjoong swallows at the confirmation from his own father’s mouth, jaw clenched.

“What you call Chin Hae is nothing more than the essence of the sea in a vessel of clay.” His father says calmly, and every word resounds in his ears like a gunshot. “All the memories, every kind word it has said, every warmth and every embrace it has ever shared with you: it is most likely fake. The sea goddess has some sort of agenda in mind, I know it. The gods do not extend compassion to human beings - it simply isn’t their nature.”

You had come to his ship without memories, and they had found out that you were a a living, breathing, walking body of clay. The way all of the people they had encountered in the attempt to discover your identity had spoken of you as if you were something not quite of this world, something special, it all points to what his father is saying: you’re the sea goddess, and the very same one who had saved him all those years ago on the beach his father had marooned him on.

The sea is a cruel mistress, it does not discriminate, he remembers his father telling him that all those years ago. It is unfeeling and merciless, and cares nothing for humans. You must learn to overcome it yourself, son.

Hongjoong remembers the way your eyes had flashed stormy grey last night, the colour of a raging sea ready to pull him under, the knife in your hand an inch from ending his life. What if... but no...

The silence is broken by a snort, before it suddenly turns into full blown laughter. Hongjoong turns to see Wooyoung wiping away the tears at the corners of his eyes, laughing so hard that he can barely keep himself upright if it weren’t for his shotgun supporting him.

“Sea goddess!” Wooyoung wheezes. Hongjoong presses his lips together, and Yeosang inhales slightly. Is their gunner alright in the head? “Chin Hae, a sea goddess?”

Hongjoong’s father does not reply, simply watches as Wooyoung regains his bearings. The gunner shakes his head, determinedly raising his gun once again to point it at his target.

“You thought just telling us that she was a sea goddess was going to be enough to get us to give her up to you?” Wooyoung says sharply, teeth gritted. “Let me tell you something. You’ve never felt the warmth of her hug or the softness of her hand in yours. You’ve never seen the way she cries because she’s worried for you.” Wooyoung’s hands tighten on the gun, shaking near imperceptibly with his anger. “But we have.”

At those words, the air suddenly drops in temperature. Thunder rumbles somewhere off in the distance, lightning faintly crackling overhead, and Hongjoong shivers ever so slightly. Unease begins to pool in his gut, rising with each passing second as the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. What is happening?

“You’re talking about things that you do not understand.” Hongjoong’s father’s voice turns cold, and for the first time in his life, Hongjoong senses anger in his father’s words and his heart plummets in his chest. “Do you know just what the sea is capable of? Have you ever been on board of a ship in the middle of a hurricane as the waves and storm rips your hope to shreds right before your eyes?”

Wooyoung falls silent at his question, unable to say a word. His father presses on, voice growing more and more quiet until there’s another voice speaking with his, distorted and mangled like an echo overlapping with his words. “Have you ever stood at the helm, watching your crew members get swept overboard by waves as you try to steer the ship out of the storm? Look on as their friends scream and cry for them before they too, in the next second, are lost to the sea? If you have, tell me if you think that anything capable of doing that could ever be kind and loving?”

Hongjoong bites his lip so hard he tastes iron in his mouth. The Treasure has had some rough experiences before, and he’s watched a few of his men fall prey to the sea with his own eyes, seen the way the survivors had grieved and mourned and cursed the seas. But still, you weren’t like that. You were different. You had to be-

All of a sudden, his father stumbles back a step, one hand pressed tight to his eye and face drawn in pain. Instinctively, Hongjoong steps forward, concern hanging from the tip of his tongue before he catches himself: his father might not be the villain he had made him out to be, but he certainly is not someone to be trusted just yet.

“Sorry, give me a moment.” His father says slowly, voice strained with pain. “The human body wasn’t meant to contain this sort of power, it’s been getting more and more unstable recently.” He coughs, and an unnatural mixture of both blood and clear water trickles from the corner of his mouth. Hongjoong swallows at the sight - it reminds him far too much of you and your disintegrating body. “I don’t have much time left to find the sea goddess. Hongjoong, please.”

His father is dying too? A weight lodges itself painfully in his belly, one that he didn’t even know was there. Hongjoong had never thought that he would feel sadness or even care about his father after his betrayal, but when being confronted with the thought of the one person he had cared about when he was a child really dying and leaving him forever...

He doesn’t want to admit this feeling.

The thought of it scares him.

He forces it down, gritting his teeth, burying his fingers in the soft red fur of his coat. Remember, he chants to himself desperately. Remember who you’re doing this for.

“Whether you live or die doesn’t matter to me now.” Hongjoong says, with as much harshness as he can muster, and watches raw pain flicker across his father’s face. “You’re not touching my crew. So take your armada with you and get lost before I decide to kill you where you stand.”

His father stares at him for a moment, before he sighs, head bowed forward in disappointment. For a moment, Hongjoong wonders if he might actually listen to his words and relent, but then when his father raises his head once more, Hongjoong is horrified to see both of his father’s eyes have gone dim. Instead of the green shade that perfectly mirrors his, all he sees now is the depths of some terrifying, unknown darkness.

“Then I have no choice but to resolve this my way.” His father’s voice drops to a harsh, low whisper, and in that instant the winds tear through the beach in an instant, so strong that he has to raise his hands to shield his face from the flying sand. The gales stir up the water near the beach, the waves crashing back and forth unnaturally as if moved by some invisible force, and Hongjoong turns to stare in horror at his father. The man who he once loved so much as a child steps forward with merciless eyes, and Hongjoong realises that he can’t move a single step as his father approaches him. “I apologize, Hongjoong. As a captain, I hope you understand.”

Is his father going to kill him? For getting in the way of his plans?

An icy cold feeling washes over his body, and his limbs feel like there are leaden weights holding him down, preventing him from moving. Run! His body’s instinct is to flee before the thing that is walking towards him right now, but his legs won’t seem to obey. His father steps closer and closer, until Hongjoong can feel the pure power radiating off him, and bites down on his lip so hard he tastes blood.

Move, run, lash out, anything!

But his father steps past him, and in that second the immense pressure is lifted off him, Hongjoong collapses to the ground, panting and trembling, while Wooyoung and Yeosang run to him to help him up. Wheezing, Hongjoong grits his teeth and shouts after the man he had once called his father.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?”

His father stills for a moment, almost hesitant, before he speaks once more.

“You may not believe this, Hongjoong.” He says, so quietly that the winds scream over it and the sound of falling rain near drown it out, but Hongjoong knows just exactly what he’s saying. “But I told you earlier, you are my son, whom I love. That, no matter which sides we’re on,” his father turns back to give him one last, final smile. “Is something that will never change. That is why I will never hurt you.”

Suddenly, the waves swirl and surge once again, water from the both the sky and sea clashing in the middle and sending water arcing through the air. Lightning flashing and tears the sky itself in half, the cry of the wind rising to a fevered scream, and Hongjoong feels some part of him deep within his soul twisting at the presence of something it has not felt since that day he was a child.

Just like that day from his memory so many years ago, the sea itself parts, whipping up in massive waves to make way for its only master, and Hongjoong can only stare as a being walks over the surface of the sea even as it writhes and churns beneath its feet.

It’s just like he remembers.

The wind tears his eyepatch away from his face, and his fingers come up to grip his blinded eye tightly as the storms roar overhead. That figure walking out of the storm overlaps with his memory, stained red with blood in his mind, wearing the face of the woman he’s come to know and love over all this time.

It’s you.

“Chin Hae.” The name falls from his lips without thought, and it feels like the first time he’s saying those words all over again, from the very first time he’d named you and taken you in as one of his own. Then he’s scrambling to his feet, trying to reach you while Wooyoung and Yeosang simply stare at you in sheer shock. “Chin Hae! What are you doing? It’s dangerous!”

As if you’ve heard his words somehow over the howling of the gale and storm, you look directly into his eyes - Hongjoong just knows. Then you smile slightly at him, but it’s a sad, resigned smile, and Hongjoong’s heart plunges into his chest.

No. You’re supposed to wait for him. You aren’t supposed to come out to meet him before he returns, in this manner.

“Chin Hae is here.” You say aloud, and the thunder echoes your words like a chant, a prayer. Your eyes burn with unearthly light, and for a moment, Hongjoong almost can’t recognise you at all. “What is it that you want with me, Commander Kim?”

Hongjoong can only watch as his father smiles, stone cold, and raises the dagger to point it straight at your chest.

“Finally, we meet again, sea goddess.”

[itslifethroughmyeyes]

3 Seeds of Wisdom that changed my life!

I was bullied, mocked, and humiliated both in private and in public by people that I had trusted the most in my life, and I didn’t know how to put an end to the constant torture and torment.

The truth is I was never conditioned to stand up for myself but to always surrender in the name of courtesy; nor did I have any self-awareness about my rights.

But life doesn’t always work that way!

My life took a turn when I was accepted for a full-bright scholarship in a prestigious UK University. Little did I know that my life was about to change forever, for the better…

It was on my third day on campus that I met her. She would turn out to be my Academic Advisor for two years.

She was like Master Oogway to me! Yeah, the one that the plump panda had in the “Kung Fu Panda” movie: so full of sagacity, splattering out wisdom in a cascade; pure, profound, and always composed and calm.

I had an emotional breakdown during our first meeting; sinking in the quicksand of embarrassment, I rushed to apologize to her. To my utter surprise, this is how she responded:

She: “Gul, why are you sorry? For breaking down in front of your academic advisor or for showing the human side of your personality?” I watched her gracefully rising to her feet and grabbing a napkin.

Me: “I didn’t mean to be vulnerable.”

While offering the napkin to me, she continued;

“Our vulnerabilities are what make us human. Never feel sorry for expressing your emotions. It takes a lot of strength to put your emotions out there for people to see. You are rather stronger than others.”

She then picked three sunflower seeds from the intricately ornate Iznik pottery bowl (one she had probably bought from a holiday to Turkey) and placed them on the table between us.

She: “Consider these as seeds of wisdom, plant them down in your mind and soul, feed them with daily practice and commitment, let them grow in your personality.”

I still remember the spell that her undulated voice and unprecedented words cast on me that day.

Her first piece of wisdom was:

Be fierce, focused, and fearless, and let it translates through your work:

Have you ever heard about human kleptoparasites?

There is a village in the Central African Republic where locals steal prey from predators for their own survival. A lion pride is tolerated in the surrounding area because when they hunt the villagers take away the lions’ prey.

For a split second, imagine yourself looting food from a starving lion, even from a tame one. Could you do that? The answer would most probably be ‘No.’

Animals can sense our fear. The moment you get scared the famished lion would pounce on you and knock you down. Then suffocate you to death by clamping his jaws on your throat.

Without sweeping generalizations, I believe humans as social animals are more or less the same as wild lions. We can sense feelings and emotions, fragility and firmness, aversions and inclinations, love and hate!

It takes a lot of courage to be that fearless.

Looking straight into the eyes of adversity: overpower it instead of being overwhelmed; remain focused than become its fugitive; be fierce rather than feeble in your words and actions- that’s how we overcome our demons.

Holding on to the first seed of wisdom, I entered the lecture hall the next day without any sign of trepidation, but rather with a new sense of self-confidence and so aced a presentation I had to give.

2- First thing to do in the morning: decide how you will spend the rest of the day.

While I was in Jordan for my Arabic Language Immersion Program, I got into a scuffle with my roommate and a classmate over a petty issue. Our trivial scuffle turned into a massive brawl that ultimately started taking a toll on my mental and emotional health.

I am sure we all have been in situations where our emotions take control over us, and we lose our cool.

Here I would like to drop the second seed of wisdom that helped me through this difficult time:

“Every morning, the moment you wake up, you have the chance to set the tone for the rest of your day, be it positive or negative, you should be the one deciding it. Don’t let people decide it for you.”

According to scientists, the first 20 minutes of our day holds a decisive role in our success in life as our brains and bodies are in an alpha state.

During alpha state, your subconscious mind is highly active. It is your time for the power play.

Use it wisely!

Always remember what Napoleon Hill-the author of Think and Grow Rich (1937) said:

You are the master of your own destiny!

So, own it! Be the master!

Unconsciously, we often fall prey to the whirlpool of others’ emotional and mental traps that do more harm than any good.

Don’t fall prey to such nonsense. If it’s not your circus, it shouldn’t be your monkey!

Train your subconscious mind to direct your vim and vigour on constructive and productive activities, and you can plan out a prudent to-do-list within the first 20 minutes of your day:

· Try jotting down your short-term goals or make a to-do-list.

· Watching a TED-talk every morning before turning in for work is also highly effective: at least it worked for me!

· Many people start a skill or activity with great enthusiasm, but their zeal soon peters out. Persistence is the key to unlock the door of success and anything that we wish to achieve in life.

3- Make connections: the more diverse, the better!

I lived in a small village in the central part of Pakistan. A place where it seemed everyone knew everything and everyone’s business around them. Denizens were cosily dwelling in their safe bubble that nobody ever tried to look outside the village or even bother to visit the adjacent town.

In the UK, I was exposed to a whole new world of multicultural and multinational identities. I didn’t know what to do or how to respond to it.

I just tried to wind my way through it all without connecting to even a single soul.

But I kept observing, gauging, and analysing people around me.

It made me understand people in a more nuanced way.

The most riveting thing I observed in humans is that we long for similarities, likenesses, and mirror images of our thoughts and identities.

We lean towards national, cultural, ethnic, or even linguistic clusters aligned to our hues of personality. We find serenity and felicity in these cocoons because sameness seems easier to handle.

What we often overlook is the power of diversity and pluralism within society. We can learn more from people who are different from us as they challenge our pre-established notions.

A pluralist, cosmopolitan society is a society which not only accepts difference but actively seeks to understand it and to learn from it. In this perspective, diversity is not a burden to be endured but an opportunity to be welcomed.

(An excerpt from the lecture of Aga Khan at Harvard University Cambridge)

Let’s make the most out of this opportunity.

Fortunately, we live in a very fluid world where globalization and technology have made it easier for humans to connect and create collaborations.

Keeping in view the chaos the global pandemic has brought in the world, sisterhood, brotherhood, partnerships, and associations across borders are needed more now than ever before.

Reach out to people in need!

Be kind, where kindness is needed.

Be forgiving, where forgiveness is needed.

Be a source of hope, where hope is needed.

Make this world a better place for humankind- a world of opportunities and happiness.

That’s what she (my Master Oogway) taught me, and I have internalized for good.

What I shared was the odyssey of just three seeds.

But the story doesn’t end here. Remember, she had an intricately ornate Iznik pottery bowl full of seeds!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Eccentricity [Chapter 11: You Don’t Come Around No More]

A/N: I apologize profusely for the long wait. Thank you all so, so, so much for your support. Every single reblog, message, comment, emotional rant, and/or screech of despair makes my day, and I couldn’t do this without you. 💜 Only THREE more chapters left!!!

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. Potentially a better love story than Twilight.

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “More To Life Than Baseball” by Petey. 

Chapter Warnings: Language, angsttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt.

Word Count: 7.5k. 

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​​​​ @bramblesforbreakfast​​​​​​​ @maggieroseevans​​​​​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​​​​​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​​​​​ @escabell​​​​​ @im-an-adult-ish​​​​​​ @queenlover05​​​​​ @someforeigntragedy​​​​​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​​​​​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee​​​​​ @deacyblues​​​​​ ​ @tensecondvacation​​​​ @brianssixpence​​​​​ @some-major-ishues​​​​ @haileymorelikestupid​​​​ @youngpastafanmug​​​​ @simonedk​

The Rain

I wish I felt empty.

I’m supposed to feel empty, right? I’m supposed to feel steeped in grey, oceanic misery; I’m supposed to dip in and out of depressive naps all day and sob delicately over creased photos and fading, wistful memories. I always envisioned heartbreak as a soft and inherently feminine sort of affliction: the hems of nightgowns and bathrobes sweeping along hardwood floors, Kleenex boxes and concave couch cushions, weepy phone calls to friends and aunts and mothers, Queen Victoria wearing black for the rest of her life after Prince Albert’s death, Mary Todd Lincoln sinking into dark and hushed obscurity. Women, hollowed out by despair, cross the history of the earth like lines of latitude.

I don’t feel empty at all. I don’t even feel sad. I feel razored by sharp, red, ceaseless anxiety. I am consumed by thoughts of what I did wrong, what I said that started the wheels of doubt spinning in his mind, if he had known how it would end from the start. I dream of white, clawed hands dragging me down through cold waves. I hear words scream to me as I toss at night in my suddenly too-spacious bed, words that now hit me like knuckles to the gut: Shhh, hey, it’s just me, don’t get up, as Joe slipped beneath the Arizonan blankets, wrapped an arm around my waist, kissed my collarbone as I tumbled back into sleep; I love you to death, as his Subaru idled in Charlie’s driveway; Baby Swan, listen to me, nothing is supposed to hurt, okay, so if anything hurts, ever, at all, you tell me and we stop, deal? as we stood in the doorway of our hotel room at the Four Seasons in Chicago. And now...and now...

And now everything fucking hurts.

It doesn’t make any sense; and yet it does. Look at him. Look at me.

The Polaroid photo from Homecoming was still taped to the top of my full-length mirror. I peeled it free like a layer of translucent, friable reptilian skin, tore it straight down the center, burned both halves over a brand new three-wicked, lemon-scented Bath And Body Works candle—a gift from Renee and Paul—and closed my eyes like a child casting a wish over her birthday cake like a spell. I wished for my memories to vanish with the photograph. I wished to get hit by a truck and wake up in the hospital with no recollection of the past two and a half months. I wanted the Lees to dissolve into distant, enigmatic mystery; I wanted to join the rest of Forks in believing that they were nothing more than bewildering and yet harmless freaks, barely worth noticing, one of those glitches of the matrix that were better off ignored like liminal seconds of déjà vu. I wished to carve out every part of myself that they had ever touched.

And Joe’s voice came rushing back from where we stood by that star-lit fountain outside the Church of Saint Lawrence, accompanied by falling raindrops and a crooked grin: I can make wishes come true.

The three tiny flames flickered in the breeze that sighed through my open window. The bright, citrusy scent of the candle reminded me of Lucy. I couldn’t fucking win. What else is new?

I turned back to the mirror. I flinched when my gaze snagged on my reflection: bloodshot-eyed, swollen-faced, utterly unbeautiful, restless like a caged animal. Look at him. Look at me.

I ripped the last memento off the mirror—Official Citation!! No More Sad Spaghetti!!—and watched the yellow square of paper catch fire, curl up around the edges, become unrecognizable, turn to ash. And I wished over and over again, like a poem, like a prayer: Let me forget, oh god please let me forget.

Charlie keeps asking if I’m okay. The answer, of course, is no; but I can’t tell him that. So I wear a serene smile like clip-on fangs, a cheap polyester cloak, crimson smudges of lipstick like trails of spilled blood down the side of my neck. Every day is Halloween for me now. I dress up as someone who isn’t haunted, who hasn’t become a ghost.

And when Charlie turns up the World Series or I’d Do Anything For Love on his geriatric, staticky kitchen radio—the same radio he’s had since my mother was the one joining him for daybreak coffee and Pop-Tarts—I choke back tears like dragonfire.

Missing In Action (Revisited)

Joe wasn’t here. Neither was Ben.

Lucy, Rami, and Scarlett were sipping cups of tea at the Lees’ usual table, their eyes downcast, their voices low and murmuring, their pristine lunches neglected. Lucy and Rami were dressed in matching charcoal grey turtleneck sweaters; Scarlett had come from Fencing Club and was wearing royal purple yoga pants and a black tank top, her duffle bag of gear on the floor by her sneakered feet. Her hair was in a long fishtail braid. Archer hadn’t mentioned her since Joe broke up with me. That either meant that it was going blissfully and he didn’t want to injure me further, or that Scarlett had ended things as well.

Since Joe broke up with me. That sounds so fucking pedestrian.

I stared at the three present Lees, almost leered, commanding them to see me, to acknowledge me, to admit that I had once meant something to them, that this hadn’t all been some transitory delusion to fill the cavernous void of losing my home, my life as I knew it in Arizona. They took no notice whatsoever.

Jess kicked me beneath the lunch table. My attention snapped back to her.

“Sorry, what?”

“You want to go shopping with me and Angela tonight?” Jessica’s hands were folded just beneath her chin, her voice gentle, her eyes large and sympathetic and watery. This was her version of being supportive. I appreciated it...in a perpetually tormented and preoccupied sort of way.

“No thanks.” I forked my cold, sauceless spaghetti listlessly. I’d forgotten to pack a lunch. I didn’t have an appetite anyway. I had deleted the GrubHub app from my iPhone and had no intention of using it ever again in my comparatively short and calamitous human life.

“You could come to temple this weekend,” Jessica pressed.

“Uh.” Mingling with a churchful of sociable, wholesome, marriage-obsessed adolescent Mormons sounded like the absolute last thing I’d want to spend my evening doing. “That’s a really generous offer, but I’ll pass.”

“Well you have to do something,” Angela said. “You can’t just sit in your bedroom alone all weekend and stare at the wall and wallow in self-pity.”

We’ll see about that. I turned to Jess. “How’s Vodka Boy from your Indigenous Peoples of the Arctic class? Did he ever reappear? What’s his name again, Elmo? Ellington? El Chapo?”

“Ellsworth.” She frowned as she slurped her patron-drink-of-Mormons Sprite. “And no, he definitely failed out or overdosed or something, because he never came back.”

“Tragic,” I noted.

“But I’m pretty sure Mike’s coming over this weekend, so we’ll see if I can get some Netflix and chill action going.”

“Jess,” Angela chastised, widening her eyes and nodding to me subtly (but not quite subtly enough). No talking about getting lucky in front of the heartbroken single loser, that look said.

“I think I can be emotionally supportive without taking a goddamn vow of chastity, Angela!” Jessica hurled back.

“I gotta go.” I stood, threw on my backpack, discarded my nearly untouched lunch.

“You’ve barely eaten anything!” Angela protested. “You’ve barely eaten for a week!”

“I’ll live.” I picked my umbrella up off the slippery tile floor—peppered with muddy shoeprints and pearlescent drops of water fallen from coats and limp, sopping locks of hair—and headed out into the pouring rain. I hated the rain. I hated it. Maybe I had forgotten that for a while, but it all came hurtling back now like a hurricane, like a hand cracking across my face. I ached for the desert, for blatant and unapologetic heat, for palm trees and cacti and naked stars in the night sky. I had been researching marine biology graduate programs in the Southwest. There were good ones at UC San Diego, UC Santa Barbara, Texas A&M, the University of Southern California, UCLA. I would miss Charlie and Archer—and maybe Jessica and Angela on occasion—and absolutely nothing else about Forks. At least, that’s what I promised myself.

This is a no-giving-a-fuck-about-Lee-boys zone, I thought morosely.

Ben was brooding at our table in Professor Belvin’s classroom. It was the first time he’d shown up to Chemistry since that day Joe met me on the beach at La Push, since the place I’d once occupied in his universe had closed like a wound. I took my seat beside Ben. The window was shut today, the downpour outside torrential. Ben recoiled, just enough for me to notice; he was wearing his oversized black hoodie and practicing his Welsh, his handwriting messy and unbalanced.

“You could have warned me,” I said.

Ben didn’t glance up from his notebook. “Would that have made it any easier?”

“No,” I realized in defeat. I guess it wouldn’t have. I pulled my own notebook, my favorite pen, and a can of Diet Coke out of my backpack.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ben said. “You really need to know that. It had nothing to do with you. And none of us are happy with the current situation. None of us.”

None of them. That included Joe. “Interestingly, that didn’t stop him from creating it.”

Ben was thoughtful, debating his next words. “We’re probably going to be moving soon.”

“What?” I startled; my turquoise blue pen dropped out of my grasp and rolled across the table. Ben snatched it up and returned it to me. “Really?”    

“Yeah.”

“And what, just redo this whole college thing?”

Ben shrugged. “We’ll probably start our junior years over again. Gwil will say there was some horrible family tragedy and we needed a few semesters off. I could use the extra time to figure out Calc anyway. Parametric equations make me want to kill myself.”

I just stared at him. It didn’t make any sense. “But...why would the whole family leave Forks? Because of me? One pathetic, aggrieved human? Do you all pack up and relocate every time Joe fucks and dumps someone? That must be exhausting.”

“It’s better for everyone if we get some distance. Put more space between our world and yours.”

“But...” I tried to imagine never seeing any of them again: no Mercy humming merrily as she tossed handfuls of homegrown carrots to the alpacas, no Dr. Lee dabbing away my blood with an ageless sort of patience, no Scarlett or Lucy or Rami, no brief glimpses of Joe as he avoided me in the campus library. It’s exactly what I wanted; and yet it wasn’t. It so, so, so, so wasn’t. It keeps getting worse. How is that possible? My voice was flimsy and quivering, absolutely pitiful. Disgustingly pitiful. “Who will be my lab partner?”

Ben peered over at me with wide, confused green eyes. And then—gingerly, awkwardly, like holding an acquaintance’s baby for the first time—he laid his hand over mine. “I’ll miss you too.”

Professor Belvin lectured about coordinate covalent bonds. I didn’t absorb a word. I conjugated Italian verbs with my turquoise blue pen, sketched disordered whirlpools of ink, tried not to think about whether this was my last-ever Chemistry class with Ben, whether it was my last-ever weekend sharing Forks with the Lees. Those rageful, frantic thoughts were back. What did I do wrong? What didn’t I do right? Why did he have to leave?

My nomadic gaze caught on a flier on the wall next to our misted window. I had assumed it was a leaflet for some club or protest or seasonal dance that I would definitely not attend, but it wasn’t. It was a missing poster.

Have you seen this student? the flier asked in bold, businesslike black font. It was urgent, but not quite despairing; not yet, anyway. I could hear a Dean of Student Affairs cajoling some affluent, strings-of-pearls-adorned mother over the phone: Yes ma’am, you have my full attention and I can assure you that we’re very concerned, but I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding...he’s probably gone backpacking or sailing with some friends and forgotten to call home. You know how college students can be. Beneath a large photo of a grinning blond kid—pink polo, flushed cheeks, clever crop job to nix a can of Natty Light clutched in one fist—was a name: Ellsworth Jonathan Griffin.

Ellsworth, I thought, my stomach plummeting. The guy from Jessica’s Indigenous Peoples of the Arctic class. He hadn’t failed out. He was missing. Missing like a 20/20 episode or a true crime podcast, missing like the pregnant stillness before a murder is confessed in some glaringly florescent-lit interrogation room, before a distended and bloodless corpse washes up on shore.

I turned to Ben. He noticed me eventually, crinkled his brow, shrugged in that way that seemed so petulant if you didn’t know him well enough to not be offended.

I pointed to the flier and raised my eyebrows. Ben twisted around in his chair to look. Then he sighed, scribbled a sentence in the corner of a piece of notebook paper, tore it free, and slid it across the table.

Ben’s note read, in atrocious penmanship: Are you seriously asking me if I ate that guy?

Maybe, I wrote back after a moment’s hesitation. Maybe that wasn’t exactly what I was asking; maybe I just wondered if he knew anything about it.

In either case, Ben’s reply was swift and resounding, and underlined three times: No.

Sorry, I wrote, abruptly remorseful. I am a jerk. And I added a frowny face for good measure. Ben chuckled when he saw it, shook his head, gave me a drawn little smirk. His words tiptoed around in my skull, leaving searing imprints like footprints in the sand. I’ll miss you too.

I have to forget about them. I drummed my turquoise blue pen against my notebook as Professor Belvin drew families of molecules on the whiteboard with squealing dry erase markers. I have to find a way to make myself forget.

Jessica was waiting for me in the hallway after class. It was part of her convince-Baby-Swan-not-to-jump-off-a-cliff initiative. “Hey.”

“Okay,” I told her with steely resolve. “I’m ready for you to set me up with one of those guys from your church or temple or whatever. I’m ready to be a nice wholesome wife, pop out like six kids, learn how to scrapbook, give up caffeine and horror movies, do the whole white picket fence thing. Sign me up.”

Jessica blinked at me. There were flecks of fallen mascara on her cheekbones like ashes. “What?”

“You’re a Mormon, right?”

“Girl, I’m not a Mormon,” Jessica said, puzzled. “I’m a witch.”

Lucille

I found Joe where he usually was these days: sprawled on the sofa, engulfed in the same blue Snuggie he’d been wearing for thirty-six uninterrupted hours, gazing catatonically at the big-screen tv. A 90 Day Fiancé marathon was on. Some rodentish guy named Colt was apologizing to his gorgeous, aspiring-green-card-holding Brazilian love interest for calling the cops on her during their last screaming match. He was also apologizing for the fact that they lived in a two-bedroom apartment with his mother. I didn’t need clairvoyance to see where their future was headed.

“Hey,” Ben said when he spotted me. He was sitting next to Joe and occasionally tried to shove pieces of popcorn into his mouth, which Joe accepted passively like coins plinked into a gumball machine. Ben had been his shadow for the past week; he was perhaps the best equipped of us to understand this degree of melancholy, of hopelessness.  

“Ciao.” And then, to Joe: “How are you?”

“Terrible,” he replied, not tearing his eyes from the tv.

“I figured.” I squeezed between them on the couch, curled up next to Joe, rested my chin on his shoulder. He ignored me completely. I could hear Mercy tapping at her laptop keyboard out in the dining room; she was browsing through Zillow listings in Portland, Buffalo, Pittsburgh, Cleveland. Dear god, please don’t let us end up in fucking Cleveland. “Guess what.”

Joe stared at the tv for a long time before he answered. “What.”

“I had a vision of you. Just now, as I was doing laundry. Crystal clear and very scenic too, I might add.”

“Fascinating,” Joe said flatly.

“What happened in this vision?” Ben asked, far more invested, which I was thankful for.

“It was pretty far away, maybe a year from now. I saw you in the desert at night, under a full moon. There were cacti everywhere. The shadow of the Milky Way was threaded through the sky, and the stars were very bright. I could make out the constellations Pegasus and Cassiopeia. You were filling up a tiny glass bottle with dirt.”

“That’s remarkably helpful,” Joe said.

“It is, a little bit,” I insisted. “It means you get through this. That you have a future. I get nervous when I go too long without a vision of someone in the family. But now I know you’re going to be okay.”

The reflections of the feuding 90 Day Fiancé couples danced in his glassy eyes. “Being alive doesn’t mean you’re okay.”

“That’s dark,” Ben said. “Even I think that’s too dark.” He pushed a handful of popcorn into Joe’s mouth. “Are you gonna hunt at some point or what?”

“No.”

“You’re just gonna sit on this couch and waste away?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to bring you anything? Grizzly bear? Brown bear? Fuck it, I’ll get you a polar bear if that’s what you want. There’s probably some on the black market. Rami would know.”

“He what?” Mercy called from the kitchen. Her typing had stopped.

“Nothing, Mom!” I shot back.

“I don’t want anything,” Joe said. That was a lie, of course. We all knew what he wanted. Rami couldn’t stand to be around him; the thoughts were relentless, smothering.

I linked my arms around Joe’s neck, laid my head against his chest, sighed deeply and mournfully. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I know that doesn’t fix anything. But I’m so, so sorry. And I’ll help however I can. We all will.”

And I had accepted that Joe wasn’t going to respond at all when he finally whispered: “I just wish I could forget.”

Cato

My rolling suitcase snagged on the cobblestone driveway. The tiny spinning wheels bashed against concrete as I scaled the front steps. As the taxi pulled away, I dug around in my suit pocket for my keys, found them, unlocked the enormous front door, stepped inside the palace as my suitcase trolled along the marble floor.

“Cato’s back!” Charity announced as she breezed down the nearest staircase, beaming and embracing me. She was a lovely, innately warm woman from Pointe-Noire, Congo; she still wore the silver cross necklace her mother had once given her around her neck. “Did you have a nice flight? Wait, let me check.” She pressed the fingertips of her right hand to my cheek. I felt the memories rush up like blood to a flushed face: the bite of sipped champagne against my tongue, the thin semi-transparent newspaper pages gliding between my fingers, the husky voice of the bearded, bearish naval officer who sat in the seat beside me, the misted silhouette of Vladivostok as it rose up out of the Pacific Ocean. “Uneventful, but pleasant enough. You flew commercial?”

“The jets were otherwise occupied, apparently.” Charity could see things with the predictability and precision that Lucy so often lacked, but only the past. I pushed her hand away. “Was that really necessary?”

“You’re not mad,” Charity declared, confident, impish, helping me shed my suit jacket and draping it over her arm. “You’re never mad.”

She was very nearly correct. “Where are the rest of the kids?”

“In the kitchen. Go say hello, they’ve missed you dreadfully.”

“I know the feeling.” I kicked off my Berlutis, ran a palm over the wiry fur of the Irish Wolfhounds that appeared to greet me before they resumed padding watchfully around the palace, and went to the kitchen, my black socks slipping a bit on the marble floors.

I could hear their voices before I reached the door: laughter, teasing, complaints, requests. The scents of pancakes and cold butter and maple syrup were thick in the air. Charity was one of our four newest recruits, and they all still had that energetic lightness of being human, a youthful enthusiasm, a relative normalness. I spent quite a lot of time with them. It was my job—to help with the transition, to keep them happy, to facilitate the welding of their individual parts into the beastly machine that was the Draghi—but oftentimes it felt more like a reprieve. Some would stay close to me as they matured, others would grow in different directions, like ambitious vines climbing the skeleton of a garden trellis. I usually missed them when they ‘grew up,’ so to speak...although there were exceptions. I had never liked Liesl. I had always liked Ben. I opened the door.

“Ah, you are home!” Ksenia cried from where she stood over the stove, a spatula in her right hand, bouncing excitedly in place on her small bare feet.

“Hey!” Max and Austin called together. They were both sitting with their shoes propped up on the unglamorous kitchen table. There was a massive formal dining room that could accommodate up to twenty-five guests, but we rarely used it.

“Good morning,” I said, aware that I was smiling for the first time in days.

Max groaned as he scrolled through his Google search results on a burner phone. “What the fuck. My name is one of the top five dog names again. I think I’m gonna have to change it.”

I ruffled his long blond hair, stealing a piece of bacon from his plate. Max had grown up a trust fund kid in Perth, Australia. His mother was old money; his father was a professional surfer. “Your name is fine.”

“Really, Kato Kaelin? Is it really? How am I supposed to intimidate people when I have a fucking dog name?”

“So make them call you Maximilian,” offered Ksenia in a heavy Ukrainian accent. She’d only been with us for eight months, but her English was coming along swimmingly. She flipped a massive A-shaped pancake on the sizzling griddle. That one was for Austin.

“Seriously?” Max said. “That is just way too many syllables. They’ll be halfway down the block by the time I’m done introducing myself. ‘Hey, come back mate, I haven’t killed ya yet.’”

“At least you aren’t stuck with a basic-white-boy-circa-1992 name for all of eternity,” said Austin Tyler McInerny, originally of Sheboygan, Wisconsin. He was chomping on a multicolored Fruit Roll-Up, which swung from his mouth like a lizard’s tongue. He’d been working at an ailing skatepark when Larkin found him. He still enjoyed showing off his kickflips, and kept insisting that he was going to teach me how to ollie. I didn’t have the faintest idea what an ollie was.

“Do you want a pancake, Cato?” Ksenia asked, passing Austin his plate and wiping her hands on her pink apron. Her black hair was tied in a high ponytail with a matching rose-colored ribbon. She looked so young. She was so young, actually. Nineteen. And she would be forever.

“No, thank you dear. I’m alright.”

“I like Alaric,” Max decided. “First king of the Visigoths. Alaric is a name fit for a vampire. Creepy, yet dignified. Or maybe Silas. Or Draco.”

Austin shook his head as he swirled a river of viscous maple syrup over his A-shaped pancake. “Definitely not Draco.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the Harry Potter connection is unfortunate. People will hear Draco and think of that obnoxious white-haired kid from the evil snake-people house or whatever.”

“Oh, right,” Max sighed. “Like I said. Alaric would work.”

“So many A-shaped pancakes!” Ksenia poured a K on the griddle for herself.

“It’s good for you,” Austin replied, pointing at her with his fork. “We’re practicing English.”

“Alaric Luther,” Max mused, scrolling through his phone. I didn’t think he’d find that on any list of trendy dog names. “Alaric Lothaire...Alaric Lucian...”

“I like your name, Max,” Larkin said from the doorway. None of us had heard him arrive. He was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, wearing a deep maroon suit and a ring on every finger, grinning hugely. He was exactly as I remembered him: stunning, captivating, terrifying. The kitchen fell quiet. I could smell Ksenia’s pancake beginning to burn.

At last Max chuckled nervously, pushing soggy pancake hunks around on his plate with his fork, averting his gaze. “Guess I’ll keep it then.”

“I thought I heard you come in,” Larkin told me.

“It’s always a pleasure to be home.”

He nodded out towards the hallway. “Come. Regale me with the stories of your travels.” Then his eyes flicked down to my socks, and he grimaced—slightly, briefly—before turning away. “And find your shoes.”

I followed him through the hallway, the living room, the grand front foyer with the crystal chandelier, into the elevator. Larkin did not speak, but he hummed as we ascended: House Of The Rising Sun.

It hadn’t always been like this. It was difficult for me to pick out the details of what had changed—the tone of his voice, the proportion of wonder and gratitude I associated with him versus fear, the way this palace (or the one in Reykjavik, or Juneau, or Ivalo, or Murmansk, or any of the others) felt when I stepped inside it—but I knew something had. It had begun before Ben left. It was much worse now. Older vampires, in my fairly learned opinion, are something like the stars. They mellow as they age, temper their character flaws, grow wise and patient like Nikolai or Honora or Gwilym Lee; or they rage until they burn away every last atom of humanity, until they destroy themselves and take entire solar systems down with them. Increasingly, I harbored fears that Larkin was a vampire of the latter variety. And we were all his planets.

In his study, Larkin dropped into the chair behind his desk, brought a hand to his forehead, surveyed a disarrayed flurry of papers: letters, notices, deeds and titles, meticulously managed accounts of finances and disciplinary actions. Larkin had a laptop and burner phone, of course, as we all did; but he liked to work in paper as much as possible. That’s how he’d done things for centuries, since long before the name of the inventor of the internet (or harnessed electricity, for that matter) was a whisper on his parents’ lips. The sky outside was clouded and seeping soft rain.

“Things have been busy?” I ventured.

He frowned, gesturing to the cluttered desk. “I’m in purgatory.”

“I’m terribly sorry to hear that. Can I help?”

“The Lancaster coven says they’ll need an extension for their dues. That’s the second year in a row, now it’s not just an exception, it’s a precedent. If you let one coven bend the rules, others will follow. So something will have to be done. Then there’s Stockholm. Anders’ coven has eaten a few too many locals—including the mayor’s favorite niece—and now the city is launching an investigation. Fucking idiots. They’ll probably all have to relocate. There’s some new territory dispute in Lima between Alejandro’s coven and a group of strangers that just came out of the Andes. We’ll have to make their acquaintance, of course. And as if all that weren’t enough, Rigel accidentally fed on a heroin addict and he’s currently detoxing in a cell in the basement. Would you check on him for me? I’m sure your presence will be a...” He waved his hand distractedly, almost dismissively, searching for the words. “A comfort to him.”

“Of course.”

“How are the Lees?”

“Fine. Typical. Gwil’s putting in a lot of hours at the hospital. Rami’s planning to get another law degree. Ben is, uh, adjusting. Slowly, very slowly. He’s not particularly content. But he hasn’t murdered anyone that I’m aware of.”

“How nice.” Now his eyes darted up to catch mine: focused, luminous, unreadable. “Nothing new at all?”

And instantly, I wanted to tell him everything. I forgot why I had ever planned to blunt the girl’s existence, to conceal her talent entirely; I felt her name rising in my throat. And then I remembered again. I’m doing this for Gwil, for Ben.

I pretended to ponder Larkin’s question, as if it was so difficult to remember, as if there was nothing left to sift through but a trunkful of mundane details from the trip like a grandfather’s tattered correspondence and tarnished war relics. That was something an average family might have squirreled away in their attic, I assumed; I’d never met my own grandfather, and he sure as hell wouldn’t have had anything to leave me if I had. “Joe’s got some new girlfriend, but I don’t think it’s serious. I doubt she’ll be around long. You know how Joe is. Scarlett’s seeing someone too, actually. A Quileute kid.”

“Poor boy.” And Larkin grinned like a shark beneath burning eyes. “He’s in for a lifetime of disappointment. Who will ever be able to hold a candle to those memories?”

Larkin had a moderate preoccupation with Scarlett’s beauty, her...tenacity. Her lack of talent was a great disappointment to him, a somehow more egregious fault than Joe or Gwil or Mercy’s. What a shame, Larkin often said. And I believed I knew what came after in his mind, although never aloud: What a partner she could have been.

He was still grinning at me. His expression was hollow, vacuous. A shiver clawed down my spine. He was waiting for something. No, he was searching. I stared back, and I willed for that intangible, contagious harmony I carried around like a wedding ring to hit him like carbon monoxide or bromine: undetected and yet inexorable, knocking him off his path of inquisition.

What does he suspect? What does he already know?

“Anyway,” Larkin continued abruptly, turning his attention back to his paperwork. “I’m glad there’s nothing to worry about in Forks. Liesl will be back in the next few days, Rigel will be ready to work again, I’ll come up with a plan to handle all this and my mood will improve tremendously.”

And where has Liesl been? I almost asked; and then I didn’t. It was a good sign that she was coming home. I had looked for her once while I was in Forks. When I made up my mind to find someone—when that switch flipped in my skull or in the tangle of nerves of my solar plexus or wherever it lived—it wasn’t like poking around on Google Earth: zooming in here, scrolling over there. A goldish trail lit up on the floor, a ‘Yellow Brick Road’ Honora and I sometimes joked, and I followed it. And I had no way of knowing how far that trail might lead. A route heading dead east from the palace might stop in the next town over or continue across the Pacific Ocean; my search might last one day or a hundred. In Forks—as I perched in a soaring western hemlock tree in the forest outside the Lee residence on a cool October evening—Liesl’s trail had led north. North to Vancouver, to Victoria, to Dawson, to Alaska? Who the fuck knew. I was just relieved it hadn’t led to the tree next to mine.

“Well, as always, I’m happy to assist however I can,” I told Larkin. “Just let me know and I’ll be on the next flight out of Vladivostok.”

“I appreciate that, Cato.” He smiled, paternally this time. And then he spun his chair around to peer out the window into the episodic flares of lightning that illuminated great dark clouds like neurons in a celestial brain. I hate thunderstorms. They remind me of South Carolina. “But I think you’ve earned a rest.”

After checking in on Rigel—irritable, frenetic, pacing, and yet predictably pacified somewhat by my visit—I trotted up the main staircase to the second floor of the palace. I found her in our bedroom: sitting at her easel, a paintbrush held in one graceful hand, an image like a photograph on the canvas. I promptly pried off my Berlutis for the second time today and tossed them into the closet.

“Ciao, amore,” I said.

“Ciao!” Honora replied, beaming. Her curly brunette hair was pinned up and away from her face; wayward tendrils spiraled down to brush her bare shoulder blades, the back of her neck. “Just give me five minutes...I have to finish the shadow of this tree...”

There weren’t many in the Draghi who survived the transition from Nikolai’s leadership to Larkin’s, but Honora had. She was gentle to a fault, a hopeless warrior, turned into an immortal on her forty-fourth birthday when Rome was still an empire; and she was without any talents whatsoever, except for one which was useless in combat. Her paintings, drawings, and sculptures adorned every palace the Draghi owned. Each year, Larkin would ask her to paint all of us together, incorporating any new faces, erasing the memories of those who had proven themselves unworthy. One such portrait, I knew, hung in Gwilym Lee’s home office.

I went to the woman I called my wife, laid my palms on her shoulders, leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “Take your time, love.”

“Everything’s alright?” Honora asked, looking hopefully up at me with large, wide-set jade eyes. No, not just hopefully. Trustingly.

“Everything’s alright,” I agreed, not knowing if I believed it.

Shadows And Spells

“He just...just...disappeared?!” Jessica sputtered, scandalized, gaping at me as she held a Styrofoam cup of spiked apple cider in her clasped hands.

We were on a quilt near the outskirts of the sea of beach towels and blankets that circled the bonfire. Women—wearing flowing dresses or robes or tunics or not very much at all—flounced around the flames banging tambourines and reciting chants that I didn’t know the words to. Some carried torches, beacons of heat and light in the darkness. Jessica was wearing a short black shirt, fishnet tights, and a black crop-top turtleneck sweater; I had opted for a bohemian blue dress patterned with stars, an old thrift shop find and the closest thing I owned to Wiccan festivities apparel. I had a cup of hot apple cider as well, enhanced with a generous splash of Captain Morgan, but hadn’t quite conjured up the rebelliousness to drink it yet.

I suddenly recalled Mercy bringing me an endless supply of virgin autumnal sangrias as Joe and I swam in the hot tub on the Lees’ back porch. As soon as you turn twenty-one, you can have the real thing. I frowned, shuddered, took a bitter and burning sip.

“Yeah,” I replied. “He told his roommate he was going to a frat party or something and never showed up and never made it back home either. The parents are blaming the university, the university is insisting he must be off with a girlfriend or on some hipster soul-searching nature adventure or whatever, it’s a mess.”

“Jesus,” she murmured. “What does your dad say?”

“He’s been helping the state police with the investigation. There’s really no evidence of anything. No witnesses, no footprints, no surveillance footage, no handy anonymous tips...”

“No body,” Jessica finished.

“That’s morbid.” I downed the rest of my cider. Was the world already beginning to list like a ship on choppy waves, or was that just my imagination? I guess it would be possible. I’d barely eaten all day.

“You were thinking it.”

“Well, one’s mind does tend to wander towards homicide under such circumstances.”

“It is the season of the dead.” She grinned wickedly, then took my empty cup. “He’s probably fine. I bet he wants to drop out to become a weed farmer and hasn’t worked up the guts to tell his parents yet. You want another?”

“Sure.”

“Cool. I’ll be right back.” Jess rose to balance on black boots with five-inch heels and staggered off to the foldable table piled high with cans and bottles and snacks. I was getting the impression that her Wiccanism was more of a novelty than a spiritual commitment.

The season of the dead. Now that’s VERY morbid.

There were some guys laughing, smoking home-rolled cigarettes, and toasting glasses of red wine on a nearby mandala blanket, bespectacled intellectual types who were probably getting PhDs in Anthropology or Medieval Studies at the University of Washington. One of them—curly-haired, pale-eyed, wearing a sweater vest and a cautious smile—raised his wine glass in my direction. I waved back without much enthusiasm.

“He’s cute, right?” Jessica asked, plopping back down onto our quilt and shoving a full cup of spiked cider into my grasp. She motioned for me to drink. I did. “That’s Sebastian, but he likes to be called Bash. He’s twenty-three and speaks fluent German.”

“Charming.”

“He’s very...uh...gifted. I’m not saying I know from personal experience, but I’ve heard it from a very reliable source. And his parents own a beach house in Monterey. You could go skinny-dipping.”  

“In the ocean?” The world was definitely wobbling now. I was warm all over, numbed, fuzzy; it was becoming difficult to picture Joe’s face, to hear his voice. This was good. I kept drinking. “No thanks. Too many sharks. They have great whites down there.”

Jess tossed her long, loose hair and sighed impatiently. “I’m just saying that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. So you should pursue that.”

“I’ll totally consider it.” I lied. I would not consider it.

She smiled, sympathetically, fondly. “I can’t believe you thought I was a Mormon.”

“I can’t believe I’m out in the Washington wilderness commemorating the Gaelic festival of Samhain, but here we all are.”

Jess glanced over my shoulder. “Oh my god. He’s coming over here.”

“Ugh.” I craned my neck to see. Sebastian—whoops, my mistake, Bash—was approaching. “Please distract him. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Also I’m pretty sure I’m getting drunk and I don’t want to do anything humiliating, like sob uncontrollably about how much I miss my ex-boyfriend.”

“Don’t worry. I gotchu, Baby Swan.”

“Hey Jess,” Bash said, but he was looking at me. He pitched his cigarette off into the trees. What the fuck, who does that?

“Only you can prevent forest fires,” I told him in a woozy, mock-Smokey Bear voice.

“What?” he asked, baffled.

“Ignore her, she’s drunk,” Jess said quickly. “So what’s up? Come on, sit with me. Keep me toasty. Teach me some German...”

As they chatted and giggled and snuggled closer together—I’m starting to think that Jessica might have been her own reliable source—I studied the forest, watching to make sure the cigarette didn’t begin to smolder in the damp brush. The voices and crackling of the bonfire and sharp ringing of the tambourines faded into one muted, uniform drone. The trees reeled in the haze of the spiked cider; the cool wind moaned through them. And then, for only a second: a glimpse of something impossibly quick, something silvery and reedy and sunless.

What was that?

I blinked. It was gone. I blinked again, staring penetratingly. The swarming heat from the cider evaporated from my skin, my blood. There were goosebumps rising all over me.

What the hell was that?

I remembered how Calawah University students sometimes reacted to Ben: flinching, withdrawing, autonomically fearing him on some primal, evolutionary level. They knew he was a predator. They knew they were prey. It was chillingly similar to what I was feeling now.

I have to get out of here. I have to go home.

I shot to my feet. Oh, wrong move, that was too quick. I swayed, and Jessica reached up to steady me. “Are you—?!”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I gotta go home now.”

“What?! We just got here! Look, chill out, let me get you some vegan samosas or something—”

“No, seriously, I have to go.”

“Okay, okay,” Jessica conceded. “I’ll finish my drink and we’ll call an Uber, alright?”

“Really?” Bash asked, crestfallen.

“I’ll call an Uber,” I told Jess. “You stay, I’ll go.” Maybe she shouldn’t stay, I thought foggily, irrationally. Maybe it’s not safe.

“I can’t let you go alone. I got you drunk and now you’re a mess and if you end up murdered it would be my fault. There are unsolved mysteries going around, you know.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Girl, there’s no way I’m gonna—”

“I’ll call you as soon as I get in the Uber and I’ll stay on until I’m physically inside my house, okay?”

Jessica considered this. Bash leaned in to nibble her ear. I could smell the red wine and nicotine and animalistic lust sweating out of his pores. And unexpectedly, agonizingly: a biting flare, a muscle memory, Joe’s fingertips skimming down the small of my back and his scent like winter nights saturating the capillary beds of my lungs. Stop, stop, stop. “Okay,” Jess agreed at last.

“Awesome.” I was already opening the Uber app on my iPhone.

My driver was a Pacific Northwestern version of Santa Claus: wild grey beard, red flannel, L.L.Bean boots, rambling about his upcoming trip to hunt caribou in British Columbia. I honored my promise to Jessica and kept her on speakerphone for the duration of the twenty-minute drive. I rested my whirling head against the seat, let my eyes dip closed, watched the intermittent streetlights appear and disappear through my eyelids. I let myself into Charlie’s house when I arrived, wished Jessica goodnight (and reminded her not to get pregnant), and meandered clumsily into the kitchen for a glass of water and a cookie dough Pop-Tart to ward off a possible hangover. Charlie was snoring quietly on the living room couch. I watched him for a while, smiling and achingly grateful, before heading upstairs to my bedroom.

My window was wide open; that’s the first thing I noticed. I didn’t remember leaving it that way. I was always neglecting to lock the window, sure—I kept forgetting that there was no one to leave it unlocked for anymore—but I hadn’t left it open when I went to meet Jessica this evening. Icy night air flooded in. The stars were bright and furious in an uncommonly clear sky.

“You trying to give me pneumonia, old man?” I muttered, thinking of Charlie. I tossed my iPhone down onto my bed and crossed the room to close the window. And as it creaked and collided with the sill, I heard my closet door open behind me.

Someone’s here. Someone’s in this room with me.

I turned, very slowly; it felt like it took a lifetime. She was standing in the doorway of my closet, sinuous and white-haired, wearing black leather pants and stiletto heels and a long-sleeved lace blouse the color of blood, the color of her eyes. And she was harrowingly beautiful; not like Lucy or Mercy, not like Scarlett. She was beautiful like a prehistoric jawbone, like a serrated crescent moon, like a blade.

The owl. The goddamn albino owl.

I recognized her immediately. I heard Joe’s words as he introduced each vampire in the immense painting hanging in Dr. Lee’s upstairs office to me, though I desperately didn’t want to: She’s literally Satan, only blonder.

Her name tumbled from my trembling lips. “Liesl.”

“Wonderful, we can skip the introductions.” Her voice was like windchimes, cutting and brisk, with a hint of an Austrian accent like a shadow. Now she was at my bedside and picking up my phone, scrolling through it with lightning-quick and dexterous thumbs. “Hm. No texts from any of the Lees in the past week. So we don’t have to worry about them dropping by, I suppose. Joe got bored with you already, huh?”

“Evidently.” My own voice was brittle, anemic, weak; just like my ineffectual human body.

“That’s quick, even for him. How sad.” She sighed, tucking my iPhone into her red Chanel purse. “There’s a private jet waiting at the Forks Airport. Pack a bag. You have five minutes.”

“Please don’t hurt my dad,” I whispered, scalding tears brimming in my eyes.

“Of course not,” Liesl replied with a savage, saccharine smile. “Not yet, anyway.”

[3pirouette]

Fic: The Honey Trap (8/?)

Title: The Honey Trap

By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :) 

Story Summary: Peggy’d lost count. She wasn’t sure if she was a double or triple agent at this point, and in the end, it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting out of this alive.

A/N: Still chugging away at this. It looks like I won't be able to stick to a rigid posting schedule due to RL commitments, so updates will come when I can. I promise, there is an end, and it's not abandoned. Please hang in there with me.

Chapter 8: Love Letters

February, 1945

It was ludicrously simple to feed Wallace information. As far as he was concerned, Peggy and Steve were having face to face meetings and she was bringing him back tiny tidbits of verbal information. At least, that had been what she told him.

What she hadn’t told Wallace about were the letters.

They’d settled on letters, because Steve could get her those even when he wasn’t in London, and it was brilliant. He slipped them in her purse and down her cleavage when they were together and in full view of their Hydra tails, and sent them by courier to “avoid” the censoring of the government when he was away.

Peggy swore up and down Steve was giving her very little, and fed the man only the tiniest bits of information that he pretended was very helpful. Wallace, knowing very well from her Hydra tail that she was getting letters, was only too happy to go through her desk and start reading them. She kept the stack in her desk drawer, and always gave Wallace time to read them while she wasn’t in the room- finding excuses to pop to the loo or hide in her bedroom for a moment. He was good, but he wasn’t good enough to notice she’d set a piece of chalk on the bottom edge of the back of the drawer where she kept her letters, so she knew each time he opened it and read them.

He thought he was getting highly detailed information about the Allied troops and feeding it to Hydra.

Instead, he was being fed exactly what Phillips wanted him to know, and after a couple of planned “successes” for Hydra, it led to three ambushes of Hydra teams and the capturing of two very high-profile Hydra operatives.

Steve’s letters made him sound like a lovelorn simpleton, detailing troop movements so she’d supposedly know where he was and what he was doing, fully of sappy language and grand declarations of love.

For Peggy, the letters contained highly coded messages. First, she had to decode them with the cipher in her compact, and then decode that with the numerical Commando cipher she already knew. Peggy knew the real operations, the real troop movements, Steve’s real assignments, and whatever information they needed her to feed Wallace.

It was working like a charm.

For her part, Peggy had been able to supply Steve a steady stream of intel from Wallace using Howard’s pen camera and the cigarette case telegraph. It wasn’t that he was sloppy, but now that she was lying to him, he seemed to trust her more.

It was something she’d seen over and over- when the target thought they were getting just want they wanted, they turned a blind eye to the things that should have been giant, waving red flags. He left paperwork out. He took phone calls where she could hear him. He took her to dinner parties where Hydra operatives talked in German about missions and inventions, assuming she didn’t know the language while she pretended to be engrossed in small talk with the wives.

What she didn’t have yet, what she needed, was access to the new research. She needed to get closer to Schmidt, closer to what made Hydra tick, so she could figure out how to take them down, not just stop troop movements here and there.

February trudged on, long and cold with the Commandos stuck in the Rhineland and icy, pelting rain and slushy snow making London miserable. Peggy made her way through each day, typing away at transmissions and letters in the typing pool, decoding orders and “slipping” information to Wallace with a smile. Steve’s letters were the only connection she had to him as the weeks wore on and their last rendezvous seemed farther and farther away.

Late at night, Peggy re-read his letters when she was alone, trying to force sleep to come. They were sappy, and silly, and meant for other people to read, but every few sentences there would be a line, a few words, that she knew were his own. He’d told her, the last time he saw her, that he tried to put at least two true things into every letter, and it was always right after he’d written her name so she’d know it was true.

Peggy, I love you.

Peggy, I miss you so much sometimes it feels like I can’t breathe.

Peggy, I’m going to make good on all those promises to take you on real dates.

Peggy, the sunset over the mountains last night reminded me of you, and I wish you’d have been there with me to see it.

Peggy, I’m glad you’re not here, no one should be out here.

Peggy, when this is all over, I’m going to ask you to marry me.

She always saved that one for last, because it filled her with the most hope. One day, this war would be over and she’d never have to pretend to love another man. One day, they’d never have to pretend again.

~*~ March 1945

She found it odd, trying to play the double agent at this point, and an inexperienced one, at that. Peggy slipped her coat tighter around herself, sliding around the edge of the inn. She was supposed to be seen, but she was trying not to be, at the same time.

Sometimes keeping it all in order set her mind whirling and she had to go back to the basics, back to the cover story to keep it all straight. Playing everything so earnestly was hard, and she was starting to lose herself.

It had been so long since she’d said goodbye to the Allied camp that this reality seemed the only one.

She liked the women in the typing pool where she worked in London. Once they’d stopped speculating about her and actually spoke to her, she found most of them quite lovely.

Sometimes she lost herself and genuinely enjoyed the company of the people Richard brought her around, they all seemed so normal talking about lunches and rationing and longing for days before the war, until she watched them stand and perform the single and double armed salutes with purpose and she grew nauseous at the idea that she forgot they were the enemy.

Sometimes, when she started to see the humans and not the Nazi party, when she started to sympathize with the young mothers who passionately just wanted a better future for their children and didn’t understand the lengths the men at the front lines were going to, she didn’t know who she was.

Deep cover did that to people. It was doing it to her.

It had been too long since she’d seen Steve, and even though his letters came like clockwork, she was starting to feel unmoored, starting to feel adrift in the lies. Keeping track of what she had told Wallace, what she was supposed to think he knew, what he knew and what she really knew he knew was getting exhausting and confusing. She was tracking real and fake troop movements, letting slip false information and protecting real information while getting every bit of intel from him that she could.

It wasn’t much, but she was working on it. The dinner parties weren’t fun, but they were chock full of information and were increasing in frequency. And she’d finally, finally gotten a break that might just bring this all to an end if she could just hang on a little longer.  

Peggy kept to the shadows of the building, forcing herself to remember how this was going to work. Wallace had said they’d be able to hear, not see.

Crikey O’Rilley, she hated that, but she had to go along with it. Peggy’d lost count. She wasn’t sure if she was a double or triple agent at this point, and in the end, it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting out of this alive.

She stopped and knocked on the door, slipping one hand into her pocketbook. By the time Steve opened the door, she was rimming her lips with a fresh coat of red, the tiny light on the outside of the lipstick container blinking bright green at him, alerting him to the fact that she was wired.

He nodded, but the smile didn’t fade from his face, and his voice didn’t waiver when he said her name and stepped aside to let her enter. She slipped the lipstick away as she moved past him into the small rented room, Steve shutting and locking the door. She could feel her heart pounding.

“It’s been so long,” she whispered, looking up at him, tears in her eyes.

He didn’t let another second go by before sweeping her up into his arms. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She clutched at him, tears coming hard and fast, and they didn’t need to say anything for long minutes as they just held one another until she caught her breath. They both knew someone was listening, both knew they had a part to play that wasn’t planned, but for just a few moments, in silence, they could be themselves.

Peggy pulled away far enough to put a foot of space between then, dropped her bag on the floor and shrugged off her coat.

Steve watched as she started to unbutton her blouse, swallowing hard. “Peg…”

She shushed him with a silent finger to her lips, and stopped only halfway down her chest, opening her blouse to reveal the wires taped to her chest. “I’m afraid I can’t stay, Steve.”

His reaction was real. They’d been expecting for some time Wallace would bug them, or find a way to surveil them closer, but she knew Steve wasn’t prepared for this. Wide eyed and surprised, he looked her up and down. “What? Why?”

“I’ve come to stop this.” She shook her head and pointed at the wire, pleading with him to understand. “Things have changed quite suddenly and…”

“And what?” He asked, stepping closer, hands fidgeting, energy building up in him as he tried to figure out what to do with the situation.

“And I’m leaving with Richard.” She nodded, telling him this was true. “He’s offered me more than you can. Offered to take me away from this damned war.” Tears pooled in her eyes, but she pointed to her purse. Steve dropped down, rummaging through it quietly as she kept on. “What can you give me but eternal war? You know they’ll never let you stop, never let ‘Captain America’ retire, and I deserve more than that.”

Steve sat back on the floor, holding up a blank envelope. She nodded, but it didn’t change the devastation on his face. “I don’t understand, Peg.” He took a slow breath and added the next part for the wire’s benefit,  “I thought you loved me.”

She pressed her lips together and looked away, fighting the tears. “I do. I don’t think anything will ever change that.”

Steve scrambled to his feet, taking her into his arm. “Please don’t do this, Peg.”

She pulled back and kissed him, desperately at first then taking on a feeling of softness as the seconds ticked by before she pulled away. “You know why I’m doing this,” she whispered, eyes finding his.

He could only nod.

It’s all in there, Peggy mouthed, nodding her head towards the letter in his hand, Find me. She took a deep breath and stepped away, buttoning up her shirt. She bent, throwing her trench coat on quickly and shoving her bag over her shoulder. When she stood, she looked over her shoulder at him.

Without thinking, Steve dropped the letter and picked her up, pressing her against the door and kissing her with all the desperation and passion he felt. She wrapped her legs and arms around him, giving in and letting herself indulge. He pulled away far too quickly, but kept his eyes on her as he snaked a hand down her shirt and crushed the bug between his fingers.

Peggy shook her head, tears coming fast. “Now that you’ve done that I really must go,” she whispered.

“Tell me. Fast,” he begged, holding her tight and running a gentle hand over her cheek.  

“He’s gotten us an audience in Berlin, but we must leave tonight.” She searched his eyes, begging him to believe her as she nuzzled into his touch. “I think…” She took a deep breath, her face as serious as she could make it. “I think I can get to Schmidt.”

“Damn it.” He whispered, setting her down. “You have to go.”

She kissed him quickly. “I have to go.” She pulled away and set her skirt to rights. “Everything’s in the letter. Same ciphers.” She put her hand on the doorknob, reluctant even though she knew what she had to do. She clutched her shirt tight. “Come find me, Steve, and we can end this.”

Peggy pulled the door open and huffed out. “And you’ve broken a button, you brute!” she yelled behind her, stomping her foot and wiping at her tears. “I never want to see you again!” Peggy stooped down, picking up a rock and throwing it at Steve as he stood in the doorway. He closed the door just quick enough to avoid getting pelted, but Peggy didn’t miss that the curtain to his room moved as she moved quickly away, not even pretending to sneak as she set herself in the car in the back of the lot.

She sat heavily in the back seat. Wallace and his Hydra contact stared at her. Wallace’s eyes were dark but calmed somewhat, confused to see her crying, make-up irrevocably smudged. “What… what happened?” Wallace asked almost gently.

“Your wire stopped,” the agent accused sharply.

“He got fresh is what happened,” Peggy spat out, carefully pulling the crushed wire from under her shirt and presenting it to them. “I was able to hide it from him but it got crushed in the process.” She sniffed and tossed the wires into the front seat, looking away. “Thought he could give it a good go of getting me in bed to change my mind.” She huffed, leaning back. “Can we leave?”

Wallace seemed mollified, and waved his hand, letting the agent know to set the car in motion. “Don’t worry, Maggie. We’ll be in Berlin before you know it, then the Alps after that.”

~*~ The Next Day

“Jesus, she’s good,” Howard sat at his desk, scribbling down the decoded message as he went through the letter for the second time. He looked up at Phillips. “We’ve been searching for Hydra on the wrong side of the Alps.”

“What?” Phillips barked, setting his elbows on the table. “Sit down Rogers, you’re making me seasick.”

Steve stopped his pacing and set himself in the seat across from Phillips, but still fiddled with his hands on the edge of his shirt. “You didn’t see her, sir, she was—”

“You think I can’t tell that from how you’re walking around here?” Phillips shook his head at Steve, then turned back to Howard. “As soon as you have—”

“It’s done.” Howard slid the paper he’d been writing on across the table. “We’re about six-hundred miles off,” he shrugged. “She gave us exact coordinates and dates.” He smiled.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - “Angel’s Christmas Wish” (Rated NC17)

Summary: Crowley doesn't know what to get his angel for Christmas. It becomes such an issue, it creates a time-loop, forcing Crowley to re-live the day until he gets it right. (2263 words)

Notes: Written for @theantichristmaszine  2020 :)

Read on AO3.

“Oh, Aziraphale … darling …” A soft pause. A hard swallow. “Look at me, angel … please …”

Aziraphale’s eyelids flutter open - nerves and self-doubt fighting to keep them shut. And they almost win. It’s hard to be seen this way - vulnerable, open, full of this beautiful demon who’s doing his level best to please him, to fulfill his every desire.

And he’s succeeding.

Which is why opening his eyes is so hard.

Opening his eyes would mean letting Crowley see into him, expose the fact that he wants this, everything about it - the sacred connection between hearts and souls.

The carnal connection between skin and skin.

But Crowley’s pleas to him are so sweet, Aziraphale can’t deny him.

He stares up at his demon, eyes glistening with tears.

“There you are,” Crowley whispers. “I thought you might have disappeared on me.”

“Never, my dear. I’m right here. I’m with you. And I always will be.”

Crowley sweeps a thumb underneath Aziraphale’s eye and collects a single tear. He brings it to his lips and kisses it away. Then he leans in and kisses his angel again.

Aziraphale didn’t know he’d started crying but he can’t help himself. It’s not a habit of his. He’s not a ninny. But this moment, this one right here, with Crowley hovering over him, arms wrapped around him, moving with him in a slow rhythm, is the most magical moment of his entire existence.

From where this night began to where it ended up, this is nothing short of a miracle in Aziraphale’s eyes …

***

“Dearest? Why do you look so glum?” Aziraphale asks, handing Crowley a glass of champagne. “It’s Christmas!”

“Of course, it’s Christmas!” Crowley grumps, grabbing the glass from Aziraphale’s hands and knocking the alcohol back in one go. “It’s always Christmas!”

Aziraphale stutters a laugh, staring at Crowley as if his demon has suddenly gone bonkers. “What on earth do you mean it’s always Christmas? It isn’t always Christmas. Christmas only comes around once a year!”

“Not for us, it doesn’t,” Crowley mutters. “For some strange reason, we’ve been through this over a hundred times!”

“We as in the world? Or we as in you and me?”

“The world! And no matter what, I still get it wrong!”

Aziraphale watches Crowley rearrange his legs underneath him on the sofa. He gets up and paces, then sits down again. Aziraphale waits a moment longer before he comes up with a response. It’s not Crowley’s words that give him pause. It’s the tone of his voice, his body language. What he’s saying may sound ridiculous, but from the way he’s behaving - taking an anxious lap around the room with his shoulders tensed and his hands shoved into his pockets, as if waiting for a bomb to drop - Aziraphale can’t do much of anything other than believe him.

“You’re going to have to forgive me but I don’t understand,” he says, fishing for clarity. “This is the first Christmas we’ve spent together. Well, spent together as a couple. There was that one year …”

“No! No, it isn’t!” Crowley interrupts before Aziraphale can derail the conversation. “I don’t know what’s going on, Aziraphale, or how! I honestly don’t! But this is the 132nd Christmas we’ve spent together! We exchange gifts, have dinner, go to bed, wake up, and it’s Christmas all over again! And I can’t figure out why!” Crowley drops onto the sofa and buries his head in his hands.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, topping off his demon’s glass, then taking the seat beside him. “Well, that … that is a puzzler … isn’t it?”

***

“I love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley utters. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I …” He doesn’t necessarily have Aziraphale’s attention, but it’s like the words aren’t for him to hear. Just for Crowley to say. But in the quiet of the room, Aziraphale does hear them.

“You know, my dear,” he says into the crook of Crowley’s neck, “if you had told me a year ago that we would finally get to this point, I would have thought you’d gone mad.”

“I was going mad,” Crowley admits. “Every time I saw you, I dropped hints like they were breadcrumbs and you … well, you never seemed to notice.”

‘Hints?’ Aziraphale’s brow wrinkles, thinking back on their every interaction, every conversation, trying to discern when Crowley had dropped any hints of any kind. Aside from saving those books from that church bombing (which may have made up for any hints Aziraphale missed) he is pressed to remember a single one.

“They must have been subtle,” Aziraphale deduces out loud.

“I was trying not to be too forward. Demon, you know.”

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale says with a fond sigh for his ridiculous lover.

Crowley chuckles. Then his brow wrinkles as well. “Wait … did you say finally?”

“Yes. I did.”

“But that would mean you thought we would get to this point eventually.”

“You did, too. What with all your hint dropping.”

“No, I didn’t know,” Crowley argues. “I hoped.”

Aziraphale pushes lightly on Crowley’s shoulders, tilting his head to look into his eyes. “I knew,” he says softly. “Deep down inside, I have always known.”

***

“Do you have any leads?” Aziraphale asks, getting caught up in the excitement of this mystery, even as his poor demon wallows in the angst.

“I think …” Crowley begins, tapping his heel on the floor as he thinks “… it’s the present.”

“What about the past? And the future? If we’re repeating time …”

“No no no!” Crowley interrupts. “Not the present present! The present present!”

Aziraphale frowns. “What?”

“Present as in gift. My gift to you.”

“But I love my present!” Aziraphale gushes, putting a hand to his waistcoat pocket and retrieving the gift Crowley gave him. “This is a perfectly beautiful pocket watch! No little screens or beeping buttons. Just a simple, elegant piece of machinery.”

“That’s just it! It is a perfectly beautiful pocket watch! And it’s just the kind of thing you’d appreciate. But it’s obviously not the thing! Not the right thing! Yesterday, I gave you a perfectly beautiful book of poetry …”

“Oh! Who wrote it?” Aziraphale asks, eyes gleaming.

“Wat? Uh … Byron, I think.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale replies, slightly disappointed.

“Wat? Wat’s wrong with Byron?” Crowley asks, curious if this could be the reason why they’re here today. If he can find out what’s wrong with his presents, then he can get Aziraphale the right one and the two of them the Heaven out of this mess!

“Nothing’s wrong with Byron. It’s simply that … well, I like your writing better.”

Crowley scoffs in frustration.

Nope. That didn’t help him at all.

“And the day before that, it was a perfectly beautiful bottle of 1947 Cheval-Blanc. Every gift I’ve given you has been perfectly beautiful in your own words. But it’s not, because I wake up every morning and here we are again, celebrating Christmas! And I want to move on from here, Aziraphale! I want to go forward with you! How do I do that? How do I break the loop?”

***

Crowley’s body is exceptional.

Simply exquisite.

If Azirapahle didn’t know for a fact that Crowley had refined his corporation himself, he would say that Crowley’s body is the Almighty’s best work.

Aziraphale knows things like physical beauty aren’t supposed to be important, but the fact of the matter is Crowley has created a facade that is not only pleasing to the eye, but which fits his personality to a T.

If one wanted an accurate first impression of the demon Crowley, they would not want to look to his true form, but into the eyes and winning smile of this glorious creature.

Unlike Hastur. That rotting, maggot-ridden, gray-skinned ghoul with the soulless black eyes?

That’s who Duke Hastur truly is.

Aziraphale can’t stop looking at his demon’s body.

Not to mention the things he can do with it.

Aziraphale supposes that’s part and parcel with being a demon - knowing how to inspire lust.

But the things Crowley is doing to him, the way he makes him feel …

… Aziraphale, with his vast knowledge of human linguistics, can’t seem to find the words for.

There are no words powerful enough to describe the sensation of Crowley’s lips on his skin, or his hands feeling out erogenous zones Aziraphale never realized existed. These corporations they use to fit in on earth, they are so frail. So delicate from the standpoint of a supernatural entity. When he first got his, he had to take great care always not to harm the thing.

But that became easier the more he grew to love it.

Apparently God made up for the frailty of the human body by giving them this incredible gift of physical intimacy. And for humans especially, an intimacy with no purpose other than for two beings to simply enjoy one another.

And Aziraphale is grateful that he gets this opportunity to sample it.

***

“If you ask me, I would say that we’re stuck in a loop you’ve created, since you’re the only one who seems to know it exists,” Aziraphale says, sounding utterly nonplussed by the whole sticky affair. “Therefore, only you can break it.”

“But how!? What am I missing? What is the right thing? What do I need to give you that I haven’t given you already?”

Aziraphale looks down into his flute of bubbling alcohol and smiles a wistful little smile. “Oh, my dear, that’s just the thing.”

“Wat do you mean?” Crowley asks, poised on the brink of desperation. He may have created this loop, but he very much believes that angel holds the key to shattering it. “Wat’s the thing?”

“You don’t need to give me anything. Nothing you would purchase in a store, at least.”

“Wat … wat else is there?” Crowley asks, perplexed.

Aziraphale turns his body towards him, leans in a hair closer, and looks deep into his eyes. “Think,” he says. “A little harder.”

***

“I’m yours, you know …” Crowley whispers through a veil that sounds like tears..

“What’s that, dear?”

“I’m yours.” He sniffs. “Have been. For as long as we’ve known one another. No …” Crowley wipes his left cheekbone with the back of his hand. “No, since the moment I saw you standing on that blasted wall. It’s the most ludicrous, most inconceivable thing in the world for me to say. There were so many times I thought I was lying to myself. But it’s true. Ever since then, Aziraphale …” Crowley stops, looks at Aziraphale to make sure he hasn’t lost him in his confession.

The smile on his angel’s face tells him that’s not likely.

“I’m yours,” he repeats.

“How come you never told me?”

Crowley shrugs. “Would it have made any difference? You’re an angel. I’m a demon. We aren’t exactly a perfect match.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, my love,” Aziraphale says, putting a hand to his demon’s cheek. “We are a perfect match. And I know this because I’ve been yours as well … you foul fiend.”

***

Crowley shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, my dear …” Aziraphale clears his throat but tightens his jaw, what he’s about to say making him a bit uncomfortable “… at the end of any of these loops, have you made love to me?” He clears his throat again, his cheeks warming, glowing pink.

“Oh …” Crowley hadn’t expected that. He sits up, which moves him away from his angel - which wasn’t his intention “… uh … n---no. No, I haven’t.”

“Then you’re right.” Aziraphale dares to shimmy closer with his cheeks burning now. “You haven’t found the thing yet. Because, to be quite honest … that’s what I wanted. Th---that’s what I was hoping for.”

“You want me … to make love to you? For Christmas?”

“O---only if you want to. I would never assume … or imply … which is to say, I wouldn’t want to force you to …”

***

“Oh Gahhh …!”

“Don’t say it!” Aziraphale hushes, giggling. “The consequences of that could be disastrous!”

“I know, I know. It’s just … I think I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why humans call out her name … during sex, I mean. Making love … it’s kind of like praying, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale swallows hard, fear pooling in his stomach with the thought that now that Crowley has come to that realization, he’ll never want to do this again. “Do you hate it?”

“No. Not at all. Not so long as I’m with you.”

***

Aziraphale doesn’t finish his sentence.

Not because he falters.

But because Crowley’s mouth on his takes his breath away.

“I am … so stupid,” Crowley says against his angel’s lips, unwilling to leave his mouth. “I never realized. I should have told you,” he confesses between kisses - to Aziraphale’s mouth, to his cheeks, to the soft curls surrounding his face, “so many times. I should have told you how I felt. How much I loved you. And I tried. I tried so hard to think of something I could give you that would let you know …”

Aziraphale puts a hand to his demon's cheek, stares into amber eyes he has seen - and admired - hundreds of times. But now, he feels like he’s looking into them for the very first time. “You don’t need to give me anything. All I want for Christmas ... is you.”

[otonymous]

Afterglow (Jackson Wang - NSFW)

Description: Breakups lead to make-ups...and make-up sex in an alleyway Pairing: Jackson Wang x Reader Warnings: NSFW/18+:  Explicit/graphic language — reader discretion is advised.  Potential trigger warnings: public sex, angst, breakups Word Count: 2748 words (~ 14 mins of smut, angst and fluff-lite™️) AO3: read here Author’s Notes: This story is a BIG milestone for me, because it's the first time I've written about a man who exists outside the two-dimensional plane 😆 The thirst was undeniable ever since I saw Jackson’s Bottle Cap Challenge video, then he dropped the fly Kinjaz dance moves in his Titanic MV, and this story has been slowly brewing ever since.

I found it challenging to write about a living human being, and I strove to be as respectful as possible in the process of crafting this story.  That being said, happy reading and hope you all enjoy it! 🥰

Disclaimer: This is purely an exercise in creativity.  Unfortunate though it is, I do not know Jackson Wang in real life lol

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“What do you know about me?”

The slight tremble in his voice.  A hint of panic.

You squinted as the headlights of a passing car caught the diamonds in his wristwatch, dazzling and disorienting in the dark as light reflected in your vision, and then…over as soon as it began.  The magic of the moment so terribly brief.

And as neon street signs threw electric shadows in the alleyway where you found yourself unable to look Jackson in the eye, the heat of a Hong Kong summer had never felt more oppressive.

Brown eyes no longer crinkled at their corners as they so often did before the cameras, their depths set instead on scrutinizing your features, looking for cracks in the wall you swore would never fall.

Because falling for him never should have been an option.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out, right?  That I’m just another pretty face looking to play around?”

English bleeds seamlessly into Cantonese, Jackson’s voice rising in the deserted corridor where he had chased after you when you left him at the food stall on the corner — the place where you finally mustered up the courage to drive the blade into your heart even as you broke his with a single word:

“Goodbye.”

He hadn’t even finished his lo mein.

“Keep your voice down, Jackson.  You don’t want to attract attention—”

“DON’T TREAT ME LIKE A CHILD!”

The desperate echo of his outburst left him feeling like he’d been punched in the gut.  Eyes following your gaze as it dropped to the ground, Jackson Wang had never felt so small.

The sound of his breath fills your ears, shaky and shallow and accompanied by the drip of an air conditioner nearby — pace steady like a clock to mark the passage of time the two of you no longer had.

He covered his face, tapered fingers dragging from forehead to chin as his throat bobbed, choking on all the words he couldn’t afford to say aloud.

Because in that moment, Jackson hated it all — everything he had ever worked for.  The recognition.  The fame.  Schedules packed with recording, shoots and interviews that it wasn’t until the car ride home that he realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the sun.

And in the mire of those lost days, he despised himself.  Hated the way he wished your time would stop too, just so he could share in every missed moment:

Your breath on his skin as you blew out the candles on a cake, warmth gentle like extinguished flame.

The laughter that shook your body till you doubled over, the most beautiful music to his ears.

Tears that rolled down your cheeks to reflect silver moonlight, stealing in through half-drawn curtains while the world outside slept.

Jackson Wang wanted it all.  Selfish though it was, he couldn't help it.  Because all he ever wanted was to give you everything.  But now, in the tremble of capable hands, he felt you slip through his fingers like grains of sand, scattered by the winds of a fate he was powerless against.

Powerless.  Hadn’t he sworn he would never allow himself to feel this way again?  

His hands curl into tight fists.

“Jackson, we…we just…don’t belong together.”  The words felt foreign on your tongue.  Faint, as if you yourself didn’t care to hear them.

“You and I both know full well that’s bullshit,” he scoffs, pulling off his black cap to run a hand through hair dyed chestnut brown.

And you remember.

Remembered the way he did the same in a flustered apology when he first bumped into you that fated day, eyes wide to see your skewer of curried fish balls drop to roll away on the sloped pavement.

Remembered being simultaneously fascinated and frightened by a smile as bright as the sun.  And suddenly, the way he artlessly thrust an egg tart into your hand in exchange for your lost snack made you shy.

Recalled the silk of his hair, wound between your fingers as they anchored to tug and pull with every movement of his body within yours, each wave of ecstasy overwhelming and absolute.

And suddenly, you are nauseous at the thought of never again hearing him whisper your name -- deep voice laced with fatigue on the other end of the line, or husky with lust as he trailed kisses down your neck.  But you swallow hard and sweep the thoughts away, preparing to twist the knife in a bid to be kind.

“All the things I want, Jackson…you cannot give me."  

Liar.

The words wooden in your ear, you wondered if Jackson, too, picked up on the charade.  But the quiet shudder that leaves his lips tells you otherwise.   Strangely detached, as if your consciousness had transcended your body to hover over the scene of a crime, you continue, eyes on the ground as you pantomimed the lies rehearsed since the day you decided to let the love of your life go.

“I want someone whose hand I can hold in public without it becoming front page news.  Someone who can be there, who doesn’t need to hop on a plane when I need him to just…hold me.  Texting and FaceTime, it’s not enough for me anymore.  Being with you, Jackson, it’s…too hard…”

Hypnotized by the rise and fall of his chest, you trail off as he steps closer, the yellow Batman logo on his black tee looking more faded than the last time you saw him in it — one month and three days ago.  The last time he came home.  The last time he was close enough to touch.

The first time you really saw what was happening to Jackson Wang.

For the truth lay in the violet circles beneath gentle eyes, in the tired rasp of his voice.  All those times he fought exhaustion to hear you tell him about your day at the end of his.  The way he’d apologize profusely for falling asleep mid-conversation the morning after while drinking that awful chicken breast shake he still couldn’t quite get used to.  The red-eye flights taken to surprise you on a whim.  The guilt you knew he still carried for missing kisses under mistletoes and summers spent on tour.

“Time.  Just give me a bit more time and I’ll give you everything.  Please.  That’s all I’m asking for.”  

Jackson’s voice is quiet.  Pleading.  You would’ve given him the world had he wanted it, but it still wouldn’t change the fact that your lives never should have crossed.  Jackson burned bright, a shooting star meant to blaze new trails.  And exhilarating thought it was to have momentarily basked in the warmth of his fire, you knew he couldn’t afford to be weighed down by anything — or anyone — in the pursuit of his dreams.

Love shouldn’t be a burden.

So you remain silent, sorrow heavy on your tongue as you fight the sting in your eyes that threatens to give you away.

“Look at me?”

Jackson’s breath, warm and soft at the crown of your head, sets your pulse on fire.  And on reflex, your trembling hand flies to your chest, fingering the delicate chain of the necklace he himself had put on you so many months ago until you remembered that this, too, was to be returned.

Voice thick with emotion, Jackson whispers again: “Please, look at me.”

And when those large hands cradle your jaw to gently tilt, the angles of his handsome face finally come into view, blurred through tears spilling past lashes as your traitorous body revolts — every nerve, every inch of skin screaming out for the touch of his lips.

Those lips.  

Plush pink and soft satin, how often had they pressed against yours, hot and insistent to leave you breathless in the ardour of his kiss?  Even now, with your lies breaking your heart and his, they moved to caress the apples of your cheeks, infinitely tender as he tasted the salt of every bitter tear shed.

“I love you.  Please…please, don’t go.”

Confession laid at the corner of your lips, his hands wrap around your waist to pull you flush against his body, Jackson willing his embrace to express the depths of his sincerity in a rare moment where he found himself speechless.

And there, melting into the searing heat of his chest against yours, you curse your lack of resolve as it crumbles — the cracks in the wall you said would never fall deepening with every sweep of his tongue along the seam of your lips, begging for entry.  Begging for your reconsideration.

So you relent, and the ecstatic shudder that shakes him to taste your mouth at last makes you weak.  But before you can drop, the arms around you tighten — strong and supportive like Jackson himself, constant even as his kiss deepened, greedy for more, more, more.

For when it came to you, Jackson was insatiable.

“This is yours,”  he says, breathless when he finally pulls away, lips kiss-swollen and cheeks pink under fluorescent blue lights, his hand covering yours to pull it beneath his shirt, wandering the crests and dips of that defined torso and crossing the broad smoothness of his chest until finally coming to rest above his heart, beating steady just left of centre.

“No matter what happens, this will always belong to you.  Always.  Me and you…together…we’ll figure something out.  We can make it work.  So don’t give up on us, because I’ll never give up on you.  Okay?”

In the gravity of those big brown eyes, shining with determination and sharp with intent, you couldn’t help but concede, nodding as a wide smile transformed his face and you were once again bathed in light, heart warmed in the afterglow of his indomitable spirit even as your “Yes” is swallowed up by another kiss, hungrier than the last.

And suddenly, you are ravenous for the man, yielding to the honesty of your body as your tongue slides past open lips to explore that talented mouth, fingers gripping the muscles beneath his shirt — hard lines and solid planes all at once new and familiar and so exciting.

Exciting, like the way Jackson loved to take you - wherever and whenever desire struck, desperate to make the most of whatever time the two of you had together.  And when you felt the wall, cool and solid behind your back, the grind of his sturdy thigh between your legs left no question as to what you were in for.

So after a cursory glance down the alleyway confirmed you were still alone, Jackson trains that burning gaze onto you, lids heavy with lust as his eyes study yours before dropping to your mouth, and then…slowly…down to your chest, entranced to watch it heave beneath your top.  And when he sees the diamond pendant he chose for you adorning the skin above the swell of your breasts, his tongue sweeps out to wet that lower lip before it disappears behind the bite of perfect teeth.

Hands drag down your waist and hips, patiently tracing your curves even as the mouth on your neck burned kisses into skin — lips and teeth and tongue fervent as Jackson sought to mark you as his own for the world to see.

And when those long, tapered fingers linger at your knee to draw slow circles before wandering past the hem of your skirt, he angles his beautiful face, the register of his voice deep and low when he whispers in your ear, “Do you think of me when you wear that necklace?”

You nod, finding it altogether too difficult to speak with the way his hand caressed your thighs, fingertips following a gradient of heat as they moved along sensitive skin, inching closer and closer to silk that grew increasingly moist with each press of his muscular leg against your pussy.

“Good girl,” Jackson says as he sucks your lobe into his mouth - hot and wet — and you are further rewarded with a low hiss of pleasure when you reach to palm his cock through his pants, already impossibly hard and intimidatingly large.  The thought of him in you, sliding slick and thrusting fast to stretch you to the limits of your capacity, sent another surge of moisture to your core, Jackson smiling to feel the intensity of your response through drenched fabric.

“I think of you too…”

Your man continues, hand tracing the outline of your slit.

“…Wearing my necklace…”

Thumb hooks silk aside.

“…While touching yourself.”

You gasp.  Finally, fingers on bare skin.  Index and middle dragging from end to end to gather your arousal before skirting slick circles about your clit.  And when you feel two fingers, then three, penetrate to curl and press in torturous repetition, your head falls back as your legs shake, inviting the kiss of his lips on the notch of your neck.

Eyes blown wide with desire lock on your own as Jackson finally pulls his hand away — shiny with arousal even in the dimly lit passageway.  And as he brings it up to his face and yours in some obscene exhibition, your core twitches again to see him taste you, pink tongue running the length of each digit to catch every last drop before those lips wrap around his ring, sucking the remnants of your juices from a bed of diamonds.

“Delicious.  You always taste so sweet.  But right now - "

Your hands leave the bulge of his erection to unbutton his pants, trembling slightly in haste and excitement when you pull down his fly.  And when you finally release that cock — hot and hard — the movement of your fingers pumping slowly along its length steals the words from Jackson’s mouth.  

So you speak on both your behalves when you say,  

“I need you to fuck me.  Right now.”

Breath hitching in his throat at your command, the feral spark in Jackson's eye makes you bite your lip before it is promptly sucked into his mouth, your boyfriend kissing you deeply to silence every scream for discretion’s sake, the way he liked to do when fucking in public.

So you throw your arms around his neck, moaning against his lips as Jackson effortlessly lifts to slowly lower you onto his cock…stretching deeper and deeper until you swear you feel him at the pit of your stomach.  And when he begins to thrust in earnest — biceps bulging as he wraps your legs about his waist to dive hard and fast — the wet sounds of flesh hitting flesh add to the electric hum in the darkness.

Beads of sweat rolling from forehead to chin drip from Jackson's face to the skin of your chest, tracing between the swell of your breasts in the humid night to add to the primal urgency in the swing of his hips.  And when he shifts to hit that spot — smiling, as if proving that he had the totality of your body mapped in his mind — you lose your senses in yet another consuming release, convulsing in his arms until his own is drawn out, depositing hot and deep within you.

And when you finally descend from the clouds, the frantic rhythm in your chest slowing in time to his…you believe.  Believe in the honesty of your bodies and the attachment in your hearts.  Believe in Jackson’s words when he says that together, love will always find a way.  

So you bask in the afterglow of Jackson's affection...warm, bright and magical like the man himself.

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Thanks so much for reading!  Check out more of my work here! 📚

[kryptsune]

Till Death Do You Part {Part 1} (UF Frans)

🌼Hummm I wonder why this is getting reposted with fully new edits. Could there be a reason I wonder?~ 

It was common for a girl such as herself to be betrothed to another even if she didn't know of him truly. A frightening prospect to promise your life to someone you had never met. Someone she knew so little of. Tonight was the night that they would meet and speak weeks before they would pledge themselves to one another. Just thinking about it made her nervous, hands fiddling with the fabric of her dress gently. Any moment now. 

 She was made up to look the most beautiful she had ever before but even then she was anxious, a shy and timid thing. Her auburn hair was styled in ringlets by her face amongst the bright ruby of a satin dress. Why had her father arranged such a thing? Wasn’t love the most important feeling? What if that was a luxury should would never be able to afford?

The young Lord yawned as he adjusted his cufflinks, going through the motions as always. He figured she would be just another pretty face, no mind to stimulate him, "I give her a month..." he murmured to himself before setting out for his first meeting. She was pretty, of course, and he always played the handsome and charismatic young suitor, "You must be the oh so lovely Lady Frisk."

Frisk didn't know who or what to expect as she twirled slowly to see whose baritone voice was addressing her. Was this him? The young lady picked up her dress taking a little curtsey out of respect. It was the proper greeting for a lady, "Yes Sire, though such flattery is not necessary. Frisk will do just fine." She had beautiful sparkling blue eyes like dazzling sapphires and a smile warm like the first rays of the morning sun.

She watched as he took a sweeping bow, "I would be your betrothed, Lord Red Fontaine." His hand extended out to her desiring the feeling of her own, "My... your beauty is astounding, I do not flatter my dear, there's no necessity for it.” 

Well, he certainly was the charmer, “Forgive me, my Lord. I was uncertain and a lady should never assume. I thank you but I must confess my own thoughts on the matter, beauty only runs so deep. There are far more important qualities in a person.” She gingerly slipped her hand into his own. This was a gesture that most male suitors practiced at the time. The true test for her was his reaction to her confession. 

He lifted that dainty pale hand, brushing his lips over the skin. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth as he laid on his almost supernatural charm, "Quite right my dear. Beauty fades overtime, but the mind...oh the mind is wondrous in what it can do...It is a true rarity to find both qualities." She was different from the other pretty faces he had charmed over the centuries. Something told him this was going to be quite interesting. 

Most men she had conversed with wanted dull and shallow girls, all things which she was not. That gentle kiss he laid on her hand did cause her cheeks to warm in a sweet pink glow, “Such a refreshing perspective my Lord. I am used to dulling the mind in pursuit of shallow appeals. As you can see I do not hold my tongue.” It was better, to be honest about who she was then proclaim a temperament that she could not uphold.

He could not contain the smirk that twisted his mouth, perhaps she would prove to be a challenge nearly after 400 plus years, "Indeed, I too find your outlook refreshing. It's so rare to see a young lady of the times actually use the mind they possess." His voice was soft as he pulled her closer to him.

Cobalt eyes locked with his as she was brought close enough to feel the velvet of his suit. She considered him swoon-worthy, a gentleman, and he agreed with her view of intellectual stimulation. A rarity if she ever knew one. Her nerves fluttered away, “It is unfortunate. I hope that I do not disappoint. I must confess my nerves have been keeping my attention all day until this point."

One of her many distinguishing features were those eyes that held a vibrancy to them that he hadn’t seen in all his centuries, "As they should... After all, women are expected to bow and behave for their men." He gave a boisterous laugh and waved a hand dismissively, "Bah with that. I want my bride to be herself. Something I suspect you'll do, won't you?"

She seemed like such a sweet little thing. Usually, the ones he chose were vain or dim-witted. They jumped on him as soon as they saw his looks but not her, "A good mindset to have my dear, come let us take a walk and speak more." All he got was that sweet smile and those gemstone eyes filled with newfound curiosity and excitement, “I can only ever be true to myself, my Lord. Nothing more.”

He smiled at her agreement, endeavouring to know her fully and of course more playing to what she liked, but he found he had to lie less around her, "Truly, I've had a wonderful time my dear. I look forward to our wedding and future life."

Frisk was the happiest she had ever been because of his genuineness. She wasn’t quite sure if she loved him but he made her smile and treated her like a human being, not just some prize to be won or a doll to display, “As do I.” That genuine smile practically caused her face to glow.

He kissed her forehead chastely knowing full well he had to play his hand sweetly for now. The young bride to be couldn’t deny his sweet forehead kiss was enough to melt her as his hand slipped from hers. There was no doubt that she was smitten with him. His voice was that baritone that would cause one’s knees to weaken, "Wondrous my dear, I shall see you quite soon~"

As he always intended of course. He left her soon after dropping her off back at her home, slipping into the shadows as he returned to his own estate. His mind wandered as he strolled past the lamps posted at every street corner, their flames bright behind their glass cases. As with every game they played he would relay his findings to his two older brothers. They would exchange their progress and in turn joke about their victim’s coming demise.

His return home prompted a sit down by the roaring fire and a glass of wine as he let them speak. Carthus, the second eldest, reclined upon the ornate fainting couch that rested to the right of the main sitting area. The eldest, Gered, took a seat to his right.

The conversation left him at odds even as he barely processed to the words that slipped from his mouth. His two brothers on the other hand reveled in the drab game they had been toying with for more lifetimes than he cared to count.

Carthus smugly teased his younger brother with her potential thoughts of him as the moon rose to cast its silver light upon the land. The beams slipped through windows casting a somewhat eerie glow within the room. He of course had no such worries of the dark but what about her? He could just hear his brothers mockery about how hypnotized by him she probably was, "Honestly brother what do you think she will taste like?~" 

Despite his emotional confusion he placed a smirk on his face, leaning back, and taking a sip from the wine glass cradled in between his fingers, "She is rather spirited and I believe pure as well. A rarity. It did not take much to have her wrapped around my finger, brother, but you are well aware of what I am capable of." The smirk forced on his lips grew as he spoke, “I believe this time that the game shall be won by me. My bride to be will be easy to please~”

Gered chuckled from his place closest to the flames, "We shall certainly see. I cannot wait to see how this game will come to a close... of course, we shall see how our lovely ladies stack up when the time comes to evaluate."

Carthus was back to his teasing, leaning forward to make a point of it, "I cannot wait to see the look on her face when she finds out what you really are in her last moments of life." It caused him to pause. What would she think of him regardless of the outcome? No mortal had survived to tell others about the brothers. They usually lasted a few months once the wedding vows were finished.

He cleared his throat to respond to his brother’s rather sadistic humor, "Oh it will be quite sweet I assure you." The three laughed in unison as they toasted to their manipulative vice, “Their faces are always precious right before you devour them~" If he was honest he did not even remember most of them. They were a meal and nothing more. Those blue eyes, however, stuck with him even now.

The following day he would meet with her again though the visit was more of a surprise to her. He found her lounging beneath the shade of an old tree and drawing silently. A few sticks of charcoal were scattered about the lush grasses at her feet. 

He put on his best smile as he drew a single red rose from his coat pocket and dangled it in front of her sight, "Good morning my dear one."

She blinked in surprise, that soft flush painting her cheeks, "Good morning. You took me by surprise for a moment. I am overjoyed to see you again so soon." Truly she never felt so affectionate toward another before. Her smile only grew when he took a seat beside her, "As am I my dear, I simply could not wait to see you once more."

Though her joy was genuine she still retained doubts in her mind. The idea of an arranged union was not one that usually ended happily. She gently set her book aside as she smiled at him sadly, "Is such a thing true? I wish for you to be honest with me and I shall do the same.”

Red inclined his head for a moment before brushing his fingers over the soft, cool skin of her shoulder only to find a strand of long auburn hair to toy with, "I am being honest with you my dear, that certainly seems an odd request. Do you think I am only telling you sweet words that you expect to hear?" That was exactly what he was supposed to be doing. 

Frisk looked out over the water as her pink lips curled upward. A smile but one filled with sadness. He had rarely seen such an expression on such a pretty face before, “I apologize. I must keep a healthy skepticism. My heart flutters when you are near and yet it feels too good to be true.” Maybe that was because it was.

How to assuage her concerns? He truly did not know how to do so since he was the root of the deception, "Ahh I see." His back came to rest on the tree behind him as he made himself more comfortable, "I can see why... to potentially find one that we belong with. It's an amazing feeling I think. It truly feels as if nothing else matters."

The look still painted on her face gave off that aura of doubt. He could usually sweet-talk his way out of anything but she was far too sharp to fall too easily for his floral language and sweet promises. Her eyes now remained trained on the ground, “I fear I do not deserve something so wonderful.”

A comment like that shocked him. It was baffling, "why ever not my dear?" Curiosity swam within his eyes as he moved to tilt her chin up. What a sweet and pretty thing she was, so fragile and yet so strong at the same time.

“I am cursed for what runs in my blood is dark. A power unnatural and forbidden.”

A curious response, "Oh? What might that be my dear?" Forbidden? Dark? Unnatural? What could she possibly harbor that would lead her to believe that she deserved ill-fortune? The irony was that he was the worst omen she could have possibly received. 

Her lips parted as she kept her attention on her betrothed, letting the word linger on the soft breeze that lifted her hair, “magic.”

A mortal with access to magic? A mage? A witch? She was rare indeed in more ways than he originally anticipated. Perhaps that was why he had been drawn to her, "Magic?" His tone housed a sufficient amount of curiosity and he wondered if now he had to be more careful. If the power of the mages slept within her blood then even his own abilities may not work on her. 

She nodded softly, “Yes. It’s a part of me and it feels right and beautiful but... it’s known as something evil.” A lie she had been told nearly the entirety of her life.

As an immortal being infected by dark magic himself he knew that all too well. His past was far from joyous, "Magic.. is one of those things people will..." He sighed pulling her closer to him. How much would he be able to tell her without implicating his rather... bloodthirsty condition? She deserved some form of comfort, "The things that people do not fully understand become a threat. Even if such a thing is no more harmful than the smallest butterfly.”

He truly understood her even better than she could have hoped, “Something that they do not understand they seek to destroy or punish. Even something frightening does not mean it is evil or has ill intentions.” Her eyes fluttered open as her hands began to glow softly, when she opened them there was a small illuminated blue flower nestled in the center of her palm.

He smiled, letting a gentle finger stroke one of the magical petals, "Magic can be beautiful... It can be deadly. It is like a sword. It depends upon how you use it."

Her cheeks darkened further as he spoke, "That is what I believe as well. It is hard to try and hide who I truly am. I fear no one would understand or be afraid of me. It's why no one truly knows but when I am around you I feel as though I can speak my truth. Forgive me."

His hands reached for hers closing them around that luminescent blossom, "There is no need for forgiveness my dear. You need not hide anything of yourself from me. For I hide nothing from you." He smiled at her. Why did he care what she thought?

She scooted a little closer to him as his arm came to wrap around her as he held her closer to him. That gentle breeze soothed her as she enjoyed the afternoon. He would be able to feel how much joy she got from just being in his company, "I have been very lucky. Perhaps this is not a curse after all.”

He had a desire to say more but he kept his words simple, comforting, “Of course it is not. It is a natural part of you that should be nurtured not diminished. You shall never have to fear such judgment from me.” For I am something far worse.

Frisk rested her head gently against his shoulder feeling free from whatever chains kept her prisoner before, “I know. No one has ever looked at me the way you do it’s...” She toyed with the hands resting in her lap, “Nice to know you accept me for who I am.”

He smiled. "Of course I will Frisk. You are quite wonderful.”

She rested there in silence with him. It was so peaceful and all the following days were the same. They both began to know each other better just by speaking their minds. She even practiced some magic when they were alone so that she no longer lived in fear of it.

When the day of the wedding arrived everything seemed to go by smoothly. She had been nervous at first but the moment she said "I do" he could see it was one of the happiest moments of her life.

In the depths of his mind, he thought it was the dumbest choice she could ever have made, but his face remained with an overjoyed smile, exactly what was expected.

Even...perhaps...

When he pulled her toward him for the kiss that would seal their vows, he felt something. This was far more than just a childish game of superiority. She could be different and then this wretched cycle could end. 

Until death do us part

There was only one problem...

Death... had already parted them…

[icecoldflames]

Gold Star (Sanders Sides)

Human AU

Romantic Analogical

Background Romantic Royality

***

Virgil’s eyes flashed open. His alarm went off. The sun streamed in through his window. It’s going to be a good day today, he thought to himself as he heaved himself out of bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

He padded over to his closet and opened it, eyeing his clothes. Virgil didn’t often care about his outfit. Usually, he just wore his usual hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. Nothing too loud. But today he wanted to try something new.

Virgil’s eyes glanced over to his fancy clothes. He ran his hand over his purple tie but then immediately dropped it. No, that wasn’t the look he was going for.

He eventually settled on a purple plaid shirt with a black tee underneath along with a pair of jeans. Good, he thought to himself as he looked in the mirror. Something different but not too different.

Forty five minutes later, he climbed aboard the bus and sat down next to his friend, Roman, who looked him up and down appreciatively. “I see you’ve upped your style today. What’s new?”

Virgil shrugged, a grin creeping up on his face. “Oh, nothing.”

Realization dawned on Roman’s face. His eyes widened. “You’re getting your Math test and English essay back today, aren’t you?”

Virgil nodded in delight and his heart fluttered.

“I swear, Virgil,” Roman began, “if you get a higher mark than Logan, please don’t shove it in his face and if he gets the higher mark, don’t start a fight. I’m begging of you.”

“I can’t promise anything.” Virgil said, dropping the smile and putting on an annoyed expression. “Logan just gets on my nerves so much. Who does he think he is?!” He griped.

Roman sighed and crossed his arms. “Alright but I’m not going to pull you out from a fight again.”

The bus came to a halt and some other kids boarded the bus.

“Don’t worry, Ro. That was forever ago.” When I did hate Logan, he added in silently. “Besides, he started it.” That wasn’t true but Roman didn’t know that.

Roman huffed. “I think I know what it feels like to be an exasperated mom…”

When the bus finally arrived at the high school, Virgil told Roman he’d meet him at his locker in a bit.

Virgil’s locker was right next to Logan’s. Virgil knew Logan arrived at school at promptly 7:30 and stayed in the library until five minutes before the bell where he would head to his locker to pick up his books for first period.

As Virgil neared his locker, a pair of feet caught up to him and began to match his pace. “Virgil.” Logan said with a curt nod. He had a book under his arm: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.

Virgil’s heart fluttered. Logan was wearing his usual black-collared button up with a blue tie. Most of the other kids thought he was a bit excessive with his tie but Virgil really liked it. It suited him really well. Virgil put a disinterested look on his face along with his signature scowl. “Logan.” He was early—it was ten minutes before the bell, not five.

They both arrived at their lockers at the same time but Logan was the first to unlock it and swing his open.

Out of his peripheral view, Virgil watched as Logan carefully placed his book on the top shelf before methodically grabbing his Math textbook and binder. He put his pencil case and book on top of that.

Virgil began unpacking his bookbag which didn’t have much in it—just some random stuff like gum and his Chemistry homework. Logan took Biology.

Virgil, just slightly, wished he had chosen Biology even though he was terrible at remembering terms and parts of a cell. Just seeing Logan again for another hour would have made up for his cruddy mark in that class. Then again, if he took Bio, he would lose a lot more in their competition.

Their competition started last year when Virgil moved here. He and Logan were put in the same Math class and the teacher would give out a sticker to the top grade every test or assignment.

Roman told him that, last year, he had heard that Logan had received the gold star every single time. For the entire year.

Virgil had called the whole thing stupid when Roman explained. “What are we?” He had asked Roman with a scoff. “Kindergarteners? A gold sticker?” The whole thing had sounded absurd.

Virgil liked math. It was weird, but he found doing equations were therapeutic. That first unit, Logan had gotten the two gold stars. Virgil hadn’t minded. Again, gold stars were childish in his books.

But then the second math unit was trigonometry. And Virgil loved any type of math that had to do with shapes. And, that first assignment he had scored a 100% and gotten the gold sticker. He experienced great joy that class feeling Logan’s fiery stare boring holes into him.

Virgil had turned to Logan with triumph gleaming in his eyes. “Feeling glum there, Logan?” He had goaded. He hadn’t gotten an answer.

Virgil received the gold star on the trig test too. A 97% while Logan had gotten a 95%. He found that he enjoyed that golden star that the teacher had probably bought at a dollar store.

The next unit was algebra and Virgil was just half percent away from Logan’s 99% and gold star. Logan had looked so triumphant as he flashed the gold sticker in Virgil’s direction. He made a dramatic frown as Virgil scowled in the corner.

And so it went on like that for the rest of the year: Logan and Virgil trying to out-do each other and receive the gold star.

At one point, maybe during the quadratic unit, it had gotten so intense that Virgil almost started a physical fight with Logan after the tests came back and Logan had received the gold sticker. The teacher stopped giving them out after that.

But that didn’t stop anything. Both Logan and Virgil were far too gone to let that stop anything. While the gold sticker was no longer there, their percentage still was.

That summer, Virgil got a job at a LGBTQ+ youth camp with Roman as counsellors. And, lo and behold, Logan had gotten a job there too as a lifeguard.

That was when something changed between them. And not because Virgil often saw Logan shirtless up on that lifeguard chair or walking out of the shower.

It was nighttime when all of the campers were gone to sleep. Or, at least, they thought.

Logan and Virgil had been paired up to do one last sweep of the main campground. It was, understandably, tense until they heard a child’s whimpering off in the distance.

It was terrifying. It had been dark, the paths in the woods filled with tree roots, and the only flashlight they had had run out of batteries. So they were looking for a child in the woods using only the moonlight. Thank goodness it had been a full moon.

Once they found the child (he had gone off to pee in the woods because all of the other stalls had been filled and apparently he really had had to go. He had gotten lost once he had finished), Logan and Virgil had been inches away from each other outside of the boy’s bunkhouse. Virgil had been sure that they were about to kiss but then Patton, another counsellor, had poked his head out of the bunkhouse, asking if they were alright.

They didn’t bring that moment up again.

This year, Virgil shared two classes with Logan: Math and English. They didn’t have the gold star teacher. The competition was still there, maybe with even more vigor, but something else was behind their jabs at one another.

Virgil prayed that Logan felt it too because he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he found that Logan didn’t harbour the same feelings as he did.

He grabbed his math books and stuff and then left to go find Roman before the warning bell rang. “Good luck,” he sneered as he passed Logan.

“You’re going to need it,” Logan retorted, not even glancing up at Virgil.

“Please tell me you’re feeling calm,” Roman said as he saw Virgil.

Virgil took in a dramatic breath and breathed out loudly. “I’m fine.” He said with a roll of his eyes. “So, how was last night?” He asked, changing the subject. Patton and Roman had gotten together recently. They had met at camp last summer but that was when their friendship was formed. Their romantic relationship had started just a couple of days ago.

Roman didn’t seem to notice the subject change. “Oh, it was amazing. To be honest,” he said in a whisper, grinning, his face flushed pink, “I could hardly concentrate on the movie…we were holding hands and his laugh whenever there was a joke was just so cute. I can’t wait until you get a boyfriend and then we can all go on double dates!”

Virgil thought about Logan and just smiled. “That would be so fun.”

***

When Virgil made his way into Math after the bell rang, Logan was already sitting in his assigned seat. Virgil found his own, across from Logan and against the wall.

Logan didn’t even acknowledge Virgil as he sat down, just kept reading his book. Every so often he would push up his glasses when they slipped too far down his nose.

As soon the teacher walked in the two of them immediately straightened up and Logan put away his book with a bookmark filled with old gold stars. Probably just to spite Virgil.

But that was okay. Virgil had his phone case decorated with his gold stars.

When the last student trickled in and the bell rang again the teacher began passing back the tests they had done last week.

It hadn’t been a difficult test but it hadn't been necessarily easy either. The only thing Virgil was worried about was that last word problem where he wasn’t sure if he had plugged in the numbers right.

Logan’s test was passed back first. Virgil stretched his neck and straightened his spine even more. 99%. Logan grinned over at Virgil, his eyes twinkling. ‘Beat that,’ he mouthed.

Virgil pursed his lips. He had to get a 100 if he was going to win. Then again, he still had the English essay later on in the day so even if he didn’t get a 100% he might beat Logan with the essay.

The teacher walked over to Virgil and he held his breath as she placed the test on his desk. 100%. Yes.

He didn’t even bother waiting for Logan to crane his neck at an awkward angle. He pulled up the side of his test with the mark on it and gave him the middle finger with his free hand. Virgil grinned over at him.

Logan scowled.

“Got a little overconfident there, didn’t you Logan?” Virgil said, rubbing it in. His cheeks hurt from so much grinning.

Calm settled on Logan’s face. He pushed up his glasses, crossed his arms, and leaned back in his chair. “We still got one more today, Virgil. Don’t get too cocky. I do write a sublime essay.”

Virgil chuckled. “We’ll see about that.”

***

Their research essays counted for quite a bit of their English mark. It could be on anything they wanted but they had to take a side. Of course, it had to be appropriate for school. They had started preparing for it almost a month ago and now it was the moment of truth.

Virgil had decided to write his research essay on how cellphones have a positive impact on youths (maybe not always positive but they weren’t 100% bad). Logan must have seen Virgil’s topic somehow although he couldn’t figure out how because Logan’s topic was on how cellphones have a negative impact on youths.

Virgil wasn’t even sure that Logan believed that.

Their English teacher was known to be a hard marker so, when Virgil got his essay back and saw the 85 he mentally fistbumped the air. He was going to win this. He lifted his paper so Logan could see his mark behind him.

When the teacher gave back Logan’s essay Virgil spun in his chair and snapped his head down to look at Logan’s mark: 89. Logan smiled triumphantly up at Virgil. “Look who’s overconfident now.”

“Draw,” Virgil sniffed. He had won Math, Logan English. It would have been nice to win both but one was better than none.

Logan smiled as he put his test in his binder smugly. “Sure.”

Virgil rolled his eyes and turned back around to face the front.

***

When the last bell rang Virgil saw Logan already at his locker, piling in books into his blue bookbag.

Virgil pursed his lips as he neared his locker and Logan. He opened his locker and began packing his backpack as well. “Hey,” he finally said, swallowing his pride. “Can I read your essay?”

Logan glanced up at him with slightly narrowed eyes. Suspicious eyes. “Why?”

Virgil shrugged. “I just want to see what arguments you used. Do you even believe that cellphones have a negative effect on youths or did you just choose that because I was doing the opposite?”

Logan grinned but didn’t say anything. He just grabbed his essay and handed it over to him.

“Well?” Virgil prompted. He wanted to know how Logan figured out his topic. It wasn’t like they shared their topics before writing them.

“Oh, I’m pretty neutral on the debate on cell phones. I could have gone either way, to be honest. But I overheard you talking to Roman about your topic outside of the library and,” he shrugged and gave a toothy smile that made Virgil remember that night at camp, “I just thought it would be fun to do the opposite argument that you were doing.”

Virgil had no recollection of speaking to Roman about his topic but it sounded about right. But then a memory resurfaced and he scrunched up his nose. “Hey, no. I told Roman about my topic when we stayed behind to help Ms. Morrison organize her textbooks to get volunteer hours!”

Logan flushed a deep pink and Virgil’s stomach did a little flip.

“I don’t think so,” Logan said quickly, shaking his head. “I’m pretty sure I was in the library.”

But the memory was becoming clearer now. Virgil’s eyes widened in realization. “You were spying on us!” He breathed.

“No—”

“—Yes,” Virgil cut Logan off, nodding his head vigorously. “Or you overheard us…whatever. No difference.”

The crowds around the hallway were beginning to thin out. Logan sighed. “Okay, fine. I was just running back into school because I forgot my book and I overheard you in Ms. Morrison’s class.” His face was still pink as he rubbed the back of his neck.

Virgil grinned as he shut his locker. “Okay.”

“It’s true!” Logan exclaimed hotly, closing his own locker and swinging his backpack onto his back.

Virgil began to walk to the bus line. Roman was probably wondering where he was.

He knew Logan walked home so he was surprised to hear his footsteps trailing behind him. “Hey, listen. I got something for you.” Virgil was so used to their witty banter that he was caught off guard when he heard how genuine Logan’s voice was.

Virgil spun around in surprise and waited for Logan to catch up. “What? Really?” He raised his eyebrows.

“It’s-it’s nothing really,” Logan fumbled, digging around in his jean pocket. “It’s just a little trinket I saw at the store and thought…” he shrugged and pulled out a gold star keychain.

For a long moment, Virgil stared at it. “But I tallied it up last week, overall you’ve won!” He had gone through all of his old tests and assignments, curious to see who was in the lead. Logan had been ahead by two tests. “I mean,” Virgil amended, “thank you, but why?” Why would Logan give him a gold star keychain if he wasn’t winning?

Logan ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Because I think you’re intelligent.” He pushed up his glasses and coughed awkwardly. “And I really like you.”

Virgil froze but then hesitantly took the keychain from Logan’s hand. He looked at it closely before carefully clasping it onto his bookbag. “Truce?” He asked, holding out his hand.

Logan smiled and took Virgil’s hand. “Truce,” he repeated. He cocked his head to the side. “So does this mean you like me too?”

Virgil grinned. “What do you think?” He laughed and intertwined his fingers with Logan’s. By now, the entire hallway was empty and Virgil was sure that the busses had already left.

They walked down the hall hand in hand.